Hooligan

  Then the BBQ was over, and the coals faded, and my grandpa wanted Dad to hand him his beer so he could put it out, but Dad didn’t want to give up his beer and Uncle Axel groaned and soaked the coals with his own. Grandma came out of the kitchen with a tray. There were six little glasses on the tray and just as many long-necked bottles, and all of the adults could choose what kind of shot they wanted to drink. Most took Grandma’s home-distilled schnapps, which she saved for days like these. They made toasts, and Grandpa smiled and said he’d come right over, and I kicked the ball into the garden and said I’d start warming up.

  I kicked the ball back and forth and tried to juggle it with my knees, but I never got more than three before it dropped to the ground, out of range for my short legs. I yelled for my grandpa, saying I was getting bored and asking when could we finally play again, and then he would comment, but there’s no answer. So I stuck my ball between my arm and body and snuck up to the patio from behind the coop. I think I wanted to kick the ball over the grown-ups. But I’d certainly get into trouble with Grandma. Especially if something got broken. I crouched behind the coop and scanned the situation. Uncle Axel and my father were standing at the edge of the patio. My father with a bottle in hand. Both of them wearing wifebeaters, and Uncle Axel’s skin glowed in the sun like the charcoal on the grill earlier. They were snarling at each other. Uncle Axel’s voice rolled over the lawn like thunder: “I’m the eldest. Just get in line behind me, Hans!”

  And my father answered, but much more quietly than my uncle. This fit the size difference, because Dad was a whole head smaller than his big brother. Behind them, the women were silently carrying the dishes back into the kitchen. Manuela popped out of the patio door, but Mom grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back inside. Uncle Axel and Dad started getting up in each other’s faces and yelling, and Dad said stuff like, “Oh yeah, you think so?” and “That’s sure what I think!” Grandma and Grandpa sat on the bench like spectators and watched their sons give each other hell. I slowly crept out from behind the coop, and Grandma must have seen me and she made a waving motion for me to go away, but I just stood there. Let her try to come and shoo me off. I was much more agile than her. And then Uncle Axel and Dad got even louder and tossed words at each other that I wasn’t allowed to say or didn’t even know, or knew and used though I didn’t exactly know what they meant, and got in trouble for. But they didn’t get in trouble. And then they started to push each other. I think Dad was the one who started it, and then Uncle Axel’s face got as long as a fiddle and he pushed back. I thought my father would fly backward onto the grill, but he managed to catch himself. He threw his beer in the grass and ran at Uncle Axel and shoved his chest with both hands. He didn’t even budge. But his face got even redder, as if it was about to explode, and then he pulled back. My father didn’t see it coming. And bam! Uncle Axel smacked him one. The punch had such force that my father fell down and held his face.

  That was probably plenty for my grandparents, and they yelled, “That’ll be enough now!”

  And then my grandpa pointed toward the street and said, “Axel, you leave right now,” and his fleshy toad’s throat wobbled under his chin, and Axel spat on the ground and went past them and called for Sabine. They drove off, and we didn’t see them for a long time, and there was no more playing football with Grandpa that day, but he turned on the television for Manuela and me in the sitting room, and he and Grandma and Mom and my father sat in the kitchen for a long time that day and we kids weren’t allowed to get anything to drink and had to keep on watching television even when there wasn’t anything on that would interest kids.

  ———

  The only thing I took along from home was the pair of shoes that I have on now. Everything else seemed like unnecessary ballast or things I could buy new. Either way. I’ll never set another foot on Arnim’s farm.

  The rain started up again as I drove through Wunstorf’s industrial area. By now it’s turned into hail that pounds on the hood of the hatchback and rolls down or collects in long piles along the wipers. It’s already dark. There’s no light on at my parents’ place. There’s no car in the driveway. Everyone’s gone. I hope that’s also true for the pigeons. I leave the car there without locking it. It’ll only take a couple minutes. I open the trunk and remove the canister I bought on the way to the gas station and filled with super at the pump. In long strides, I push through the overgrown path along the shed. Stomp down on stinging nettles and thistles. My feet have become blocks of ice. I should have put on fresh socks too. My pants are soaked and covered with mud, and I ruined the fresh pair of shoes with the dirty socks. With swinging steps, I wade through the tall grass that bends heavily under the weight of the weather. A fine sleet pounding down stings my face like needle tips. I bet I’ll be knocked out of commission with a fucking cold next week. But that’s okay. When tomorrow’s come and gone, I think I’ll want to sleep a month anyway. After that, in the new year, life can go on. Refreshed and cleansed.

  The pigeon coop stands before the garden like a dark, musty mausoleum out of a horror flick. I grab the handle of the canister tighter and reach into my jacket pocket with my free hand. I briefly put the canister down and bang against the coop. I managed to get here in time, before the pigeons have returned. I open the door. Inside it’s relatively dry and almost cozily warm, so I feel an overwhelming urge to just lie down in the middle of the coop on the hay. I grab the bright orange gas canister and unscrew the cap. It dangles down the side on a plastic string. I grab the cap, rip it off, and toss it behind me in the grass. Then I place one foot inside the coop and shake out the gas vigorously, so it goes everywhere. Till the canister is three-quarters empty. I don’t know if it’ll do any good, but I pour the last quarter over the steel roof and let it run down the side walls. I toss the canister back behind me. It produces a whistling noise as it flies through the air, then lands with a thump, softened by the grass. I bend over again. The gas fumes smell fucking great. I take a deep breath. They make my head very light and give my stomach a pleasant nausea that I need right now for some reason. As long as something changes. To notice again that a body exists around myself that reacts to the outside environment. I pull my Zippo out of my jacket pocket and light it. I hold it in front of my eyes for a moment and expect a flame to shoot up, followed by an explosion coming toward me out of the gas-drenched coop and catapulting me into the air. I’m forced to note with disappointment that nothing like that happens. I fling the Zippo into the middle of the coop and watch as the floor immediately catches fire. It looks like the almost transparent flames are floating over the gas. As if it wasn’t the gas itself that burns. Within a couple seconds, the circle of fire spreads in all directions and reaches the walls, the shit-covered perches. The straw spread everywhere does its part. At some point, it’s so hot my body reacts by itself. My head jerks back. I close the door to the coop and sit down on the patio. It crackles. Reminds me of fires the five of us always used to light in the field behind the Seidels’ property. While Jojo, Kai, Ulf, and I fell asleep between our empty cans, Joel preferred to go inside and sleep in his bed. Then he woke us the next morning and brought us a thermos of coffee that Mrs. Seidel had brewed for us. I want to light a cig and pat down my pockets till I realize my lighter is in the middle of the flames. This makes me laugh and I can’t stop. I sit there a couple minutes, watch the gigantic torch that used to be the pigeon coop as its blaze successfully fends off the sleet, and laugh my head off like a fucking psycho. Till I tell myself, That’s enough! Then I flip the cig into the fire. The steel roof is already drooping and falling away. I leave the garden the way I came. Before I climb into my hatchback, I listen out into the night. Still no sirens to be heard. And I slip away before that changes. I drive to Wotan Gym. Maybe I can find some sleeping pills somewhere there. Not too many. Just enough to knock me out till tomorrow morning and I’m fit. ’Cause tomorrow’s a big day.

  ———

  My eyes literally pop open. I frant
ically search for my phone and look at the time and date, firmly believing I’ve dozed for days and slept through everything. It’s December 18th. Ten after nine. I’ve got such a dry mouth, as if I’d dissolved a fizzy tablet in my oral cavity. I undress and take a shower, motionless. Use one hand against the tiled wall to support myself and let the stream of water wash down from my head over my body. The previous day seems unreal and more like a dream the tranquilizer made me imagine. But the sight of my wrecked clothes is enough confirmation that yesterday really happened. I wad them together, throw them into the trash can, and pull my athletic clothes out of my locker: T-shirt, jogging pants, and tracksuit top. The knees on the pants are grass green. Old, brownish blood stains on the T-shirt. The stuff I was wearing a couple of months ago against Cologne. I take a stroll down the street to the nearest bakery and choke down a Coke and two rolls with meat spread on them. No idea when the last time was I really felt hungry.

  An hour and a half later, Axel comes into the gym. He’s clean-shaven and smells freshly showered, making his boxy jaw and asshole chin stick out even more.

  “Ready?” he asks. “Want to see a straight-A performance from you today.” Then he places his hand on my shoulder and turns me like a water faucet, so I have to look at him. “Once everything’s gone down to my satisfaction, we’ll sit down together, okay?”

  “Hmm,” I mumble and stare straight through him.

  Deep inside, I feel the urge to swat away his hand and slam the heel of mine under his nose. He presses his lips together and makes a fatherly sound. Then he pats me on the cheek and goes into his office.

  The others slowly dribble in during the next few hours. All of them are talkative. Like kids before a field trip. Can’t keep their traps shut anymore. Töller comes through the door and immediately starts to loudly proclaim that the central train station is full as fuck with police in riot gear. Fences and barriers everywhere, and you could see cops with binoculars and walkie-talkies on the towers across from the station. After he’s finished his monologue and joined the other rowdies who were chattering away like the worst gossip girls, I slip back into the locker-room, stick the earbuds of my MP3 player into my ears, and crank up Grime to the max till the battery quits and it stops. The inner circle of fifteen men divides up into the cars. My uncle says the rest of them will join us at the Ihme complex. People from the fringes of our “operation,” friends and acquaintances, former members who wanted to prove their mettle again on this occasion, a couple from the security scene at Steintor, and a handful of guys from Hannover’s Angels chapter. As we climb in, Axel says there won’t be a dress code today, that “everyone has to make sure he doesn’t go off on one of our own.” Then we drive off, staggered a couple minutes apart.

  I’m standing on the fire escape of one of the residential towers in the Ihme complex. I can hear a helicopter circling in the distance. I guess they’re flying over the city center but can’t make out anything because of the foggy conditions. The view is just enough to see a hundred yards down the River Ihme. I have a hand in my pants pocket and I’m kneading my mouth guard. I left my phone in the car. I had to switch it to vibrate during the ride because Kai had called me four times in a row. Under me, in the middle of the meandering concrete paths and corridors, I can see the gang around Axel, standing around him like toy soldiers. It reminds me of the first Grand Theft Auto video game we used to play till we passed out at Ulf’s. As a change of pace between the hard-fought FIFA matches, where we more or less insulted each other to the max. With GTA you always saw the people and cars from above. As if you were looking down on them from a helicopter. I hold my hands in my field of vision in front of the play figures down there and act as if I could steer them from up here with a twitch of my fingers. Then all at once, something catches my attention on the fringes of my field of vision. I’m just barely able to see a group of some twenty to thirty men turning into the Ihme complex from the street. Then they disappear under the various levels and paths of the complex. I shove my fingers in my mouth and send a piercing whistle down the concrete walls. The figure I recognize as my uncle looks up at me and waves. I start to climb down the fire escape. It groans and squeaks under each of my steps. I swallow the mouth guard. Only in that moment do I notice something’s missing. What’s wrong about this situation? There’s nothing floating inside me. No helium feeling in the stomach area. No adrenaline shooting through my veins and nerves, or wherever it flows. Head, arms, legs, fists. All of these are objects attached to me as if repaired and screwed on, and they function automatically. I should actually be feeling something like joyful anticipation right now, but there’s simply nothing. The only thing in my head is what my eyes give my brain. My feet, which move down the grated rungs of the fire ladder, and the gray and sand-colored concrete that comes ever closer below.

  Axel claps his hands and rubs them together. He smiles and calls out to the pack of mean, joint-cracking piles of flesh with eyes popping, “Get it done, men! History will be written today. They’ll be talking about this in twenty years. So we’d better win this thing.”

  I remain standing where I came down from the ladder. Don’t make the effort to reposition myself. I know my target. A single shout rises and resonates through the loose rows of men. Braunschweig must be coming around the corner in a second. All the muscles in my body go tense, relax, and tighten again. The first shoulder shows from around the corner. Then another. Skinheads. Clenched fists. A slow-motion of legs in billowing jogging suits. They call out: “BTSV! BTSV!“ We respond. A deep thundering that carries the name of our city over the asphalt becomes a yell. The echo reflects off hundreds of concrete walls, making the names of the cities mix in the air. Braunschweig turns onto a straightaway, directly toward us. I roll on the soles of my feet, back and forth. I look at my uncle’s neck, shaved clean. Give the sign! Come on! He waves us forward. The group stomps forward as one. I search through the opponents. The faces on the bodies that seem to merge into one in front of my eyes. A thirty-headed monster. One kisser uglier than the next. Where’s the wart? The blond side part? Where’s the fucking son of a bitch? The air between us becomes thin. Becomes completely used up and drawn into the countless nostrils and comes back out of us, in huffs. I move to the side within the ground. Don’t step on anyone’s heel or bump into anyone. We’ve become an organic unit. Then I see the blond hair. The dirty smile and the red, blinking wart next to it. The tunnel vision sets in. I see only that one face in front of me. Everything around me disappears into a black cloud. Then there’s Axel’s voice again. He’s calling out something to us. But I only hear a dull rumble. I push off the ground. The sprinting heads in front of me rock back and forth, but I keep my eyes on the wart. Run around the others like trees. I think I’m yelling because air is streaming into my mouth. I don’t know. Nothing else matters. I run at the Braunschweig gang. My fingernails dig into my palms. I lock down fists with my thumbs. Before I get to him, I see Ulf’s and Jojo’s faces flash in the corner of my eye. I see them yelling and running forward at my side. Feel Kai’s hands on my back and how he screams in my ear, euphoric, “Go, go, go!” I close my eyes for a second and tell him it’s not necessary and we’ll get him. I open my eyes again and the wart is in front of me, dancing excitedly back and forth. I pull back. Way back and put everything into that first punch. From that moment on, when my fist reaches his dirty face and I feel bones and teeth give way beneath my bones, everything blurs into a jumble of sounds and images. The taste of blood under my tongue and how it sprays when I scream. The shiny, wounded, open skin of my finger bones that don’t stop slamming into that face. Axel’s voice from far away, in my head. Or is it penetrating my head from outside? He’s yelling something I can’t understand. A muffled explosion under my chest that steals my breath. The rough feeling of hair between my fingers and how I slam a head on the concrete. The useless flailing of the blocked arms under me. Blood-encrusted, throaty choking and the red-rooted teeth that are coughed out. Countless warm hands tha
t reach for me and pull me away. The movements of my eyeballs that I feel underneath my palms. And underneath flickers all this rage. But also the satisfaction that shouldn’t be there, and despite the voices that rain down on me, but don’t reach me, and the feeling lets me know that everything else doesn’t matter.

  ———

  I still remember how my father called me into his bedroom. How he took his treasured vest from the coat hook and slipped it on, looking perfectly happy and content. Then he bent down and held me tight and tapped a finger against one of the many patches sewn onto it. The big black 96. And he said, “That sure is something, you know. 96. Yep, Heiko. Sure is something.”

  I nodded and looked at the patch under his yellow finger. We bid good-bye to Mama and Manuela, and I still remember how I hoped they’d be so jealous of me because I was a man now and going to the stadium, but they kept on watching television and weren’t even interested, and I was sure they were just pretending. Because what I was doing was something only grown-ups did, and only the men.

  Uncle Axel picked us up. I’d hoped we would drive in his big car with the great seats the color of vanilla ice cream, but he picked us up on foot.