Philip Kerr 5 страница

‘Being a football manager is a bit like what those other guys do; it’s even a bit like being a detective – if what we’re doing here on the coach is looking at the already stinking corpse of that match, in search of an explanation for why we lost. Because it’s never as obvious as you think. Let me show you why we lost. We can forget about the own goal. Like I said before, that was just unlucky. So, instead, we’ll take a closer look at the first goal they scored; James Vardy’s goal. The guy’s always full of running and when he plays he takes a lot of the pressure off Nugent. Gary found Vardy a handful today; so did all of our back four. Vardy’s a striker but to me he looks more natural on the left, where the goal came from. Frankly, he was playing out of position, which is why you found it hard to mark him. It was a good goal and he struck it well, but he scored because none of you thought he had the room to shoot. We know different now. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: the longer you stand off a striker like that the more tempo he builds, and the more tempo he builds the more chance he has of scoring. Don’t try to match him turn for turn. You won’t, because he’s thinking faster than your body can move. There’s nothing faster than the speed of thought. So, keep your eye on the ball and commit to the tackle and, if necessary, a trip to an orthopaedic surgeon.

‘But if we reverse the action and go and look at what happens a whole minute or two before he scores Kenny rolls the ball out to Gary, who passes to Kwame, who can’t think of anything else to do with it but square it John – only there’s just not enough pace on the ball for that to happen safely, which means John is stretching for it, and his pass to Zé nobe isn’t going to get there in a month of Sky Super Sundays. Nugent intercepts the ball and chips to Vardy, who turns one way, and then the other, and then again, with everyone standing off him like he’s got the fucking plague, until the moment when you all think he hasn’t got room for a shot, and you relax a little; only it turns out he has got just enough room, and he scores.

‘Looked at again, before Vardy even had a sniff of the ball, what I’m saying is this: Kenny, before you rolled that ball out, did you not see that Prometheus had acres of space in midfield? You’ve got better eyesight than a Comanche Indian; you’re also one of the most accurate kickers in the game; you could easily have reached him, so why did you roll out? Rolling out like that only works when their striker has got concrete in his boots; this one was like a fucking whippet today. No, wait, let me finish.

‘And, Kwame, this isn’t pass the parcel we’re playing here. When you’re making a pass you have to think what the other guy is going to do with the ball when he gets it. That’s fine if you’re trying to create space, but here you don’t know what to do with the space you already have.

‘And John, you’re not expecting the ball – that much is obvious – but why not? Every one of you, at every moment of the game, should be expecting the ball. A – E – T – F – B. Always expect the fucking ball. But here, because neither of you is thinking on the ball, you’re just trying to get rid of it, so the pass to poor Zé nobe is nothing short of fucking desperate.

‘Remember what I said before the match, what I say before every match: creative thinking on the ball means knowing what you’re going to do with it before you even get it. And that means reading the other players around you like they’re chess pieces, seeing the space around them and what they can do with it better than they can. R – T – P and F – T – S. Read the players and find the space. ’

I waited another second before springing my surprise.

‘But here’s the real reason why we fucked up and Jamie Vardy scored. And for this we go right back to when Kenny rolls out to Kwame. A second before, he looks up and sees Prometheus in all that space and he’s clearly going to punt that ball up to him. He’s found the player in space. But then he changes his mind. Why? Because with his Comanche Indian eyesight he reads the player and sees that Prometheus has his back to him; when I freeze the action and move the picture you can see it for yourself; there’s Prometheus. See? There’s the back of his head, and it’s pointed at Kenny for how many seconds – let’s see now. Jesus Christ, it’s ten seconds.

‘A – E – T – F – B. Always expect the fucking ball. Always expect the fucking ball. But, Prometheus, you’re watching – I don’t know what the fuck you’re watching for ten seconds – but it isn’t the fucking ball. So what, asks Kenny, would be the point of firing the ball up the pitch to him? He’s enjoying the sunshine. Thinking about his pet hyena. That’s why Kenny rolls out. Because he doesn’t have a choice. And that, gentlemen, is the true story of Jamie Vardy’s fucking goal. ’

Prometheus stood up in his seat, arms flapping like an angry penguin. His face was quivering so much that one of the diamond studs in his ears was flashing like a little flashlight.

‘It’s my fault that he scored? ’ said Prometheus. ‘I was miles away from that geezer when he scored. ’

‘Maybe you weren’t listening to what I was saying. Maybe there’s something wrong with your ears as well as the muscles in your neck. ’

‘Why is it always me who fucks up in this team? ’

‘You tell me, sonny. ’

Prometheus shook his head.

‘It’s not fair, ’ he bleated.

‘You’re right. It’s not fair to the men on this team that you should let them down so badly. I don’t know what else to call it when you’re not even looking to see where the ball is going. A – E – T – F – B. Always expect the fucking ball. But maybe you’re different, kid. Maybe you’re the one person on this planet who has developed eyes in the back of your head. Maybe you can watch the ball while seeming to look the other way. That’s a good trick although I can’t see how that helps your team mates. Because that’s what this game is all about. ’

Prometheus sat down heavily and punched the seat in front of him which, fortunately, was unoccupied.

It’s a two‑ hour drive from Leicester City to east London. I waited until we were halfway down the M11, just north of Harlow, before I left my seat and went and sat down beside him. There was a strong smell of aftershave and liniment. On his iPad Air a game of Angry Birds was in progress. He was wearing in‑ ear Monster Beats and the bright red cables that trailed from them looked like blood streaming out of his skull and down his neck. Certainly the big bass punch seemed loud enough to have made anyone’s ears bleed.

Seeing me he sighed, plucked the in‑ ear buds from his lugs like a weary adolescent and waited silently for the one‑ on‑ one bollocking he assumed was coming.

‘You know, ’ I said, ‘life is full of conflict. That’s what keeps it interesting. People have bust‑ ups all the time and because football is a high‑ intensity game, the bust‑ ups are pretty intense, too. When I was playing at Arsenal I remember our team captain, Patrick Vieira – big guy – taking me by the scruff of the neck and telling me that if I didn’t shape up he was going to sort me out. He meant it, too. He was from Senegal and in Senegal you don’t make that kind of threat unless you mean it. Frankly, he was the best player in his position I ever met. I mean, he had so much talent – much more than I ever had. But I was scared of him, too, so I did sort myself out. It was just what I needed at that time. Someone like him, who was prepared to talk to me like my big brother and point out my defects.

‘But the important thing in life is that we learn from our mistakes and get on with each other afterwards. That’s what a team is all about. It’s like a big family, all brothers. Lots of testosterone and lots of fighting. Only we fight and then we forgive each other’s errors and mistakes. Because we’re brothers.

‘When we were back in Russia you said your mother never knew your father. You referred to yourself as a black bastard; I’m guessing that you actually believe that. I think that it’s your default position. You think you’re bad. Maybe you think you’ll be a better player if you’re even badder. But I’m here to tell you that this isn’t the best way. Not for a true professional. Now I’ve been lucky. My dad is still around. But Patrick wasn’t so lucky. His parents divorced when he was very young and Patrick never saw the guy again. But Patrick didn’t let it affect him. I tell you, I never met a guy with more discipline than Patrick. Hugely talented, like I said, but even more disciplined.

‘You’re one of the most naturally gifted young players I’ve ever seen. And I don’t think you’re nearly as bad as you seem to think you are. You can be a great player at any club you choose to go to. But talent isn’t enough. You’re going to need discipline to make the most of your talent, just like Patrick Vieira. Like we all do, frankly. ’

I nodded. ‘Here endeth the lesson. ’

‘Thanks, boss. ’

I held out my hand.

Prometheus grinned and shook it.

‘A – E – T – F – B, ’ he said.

I grinned back at him. ‘Always expect the fucking ball. Damn right. ’

On the following Monday morning the team flew to Athens where the temperature was as high as when I’d been there. Tempers were even higher: the teachers were on strike; the courts were on strike; even the local doctors were on strike. Fortunately we’d brought our new quack from London. His name was Chapman O’Hara and he’d stepped up from the ranks of City’s growing medical department to take charge of the team’s health issues. We’d also brought Denis Abayev, the team nutritionist, and our travel manager, Peter Scriven, had hired a special team of local chefs who were all Panathinaikos fans and therefore bitter rivals of Olympiacos, because I certainly hadn’t forgotten what had happened to Hertha at their team hotel in Glyfada. The last thing I wanted close to a Champions League match was a team brought down with food poisoning.

The hotel Astir Palace occupied a beautiful, pine‑ dotted peninsula in Vouliagmeni, the heart of the Athenian Riviera, about half an hour south of the city of Athens. Peter Scriven had chosen well: the only access was along a private road with a security barrier and constantly manned guardhouse which meant that any over‑ enthusiastic Olympiacos fans bent on driving by our hotel with car horns blaring couldn’t get near the place. The hotel itself had seen better days, perhaps. It lacked the class of the Grande Bretagne, not to mention the historic views; food was simple and the bar poorly stocked; and although numerous, the service staff were slow and indifferent. The facilities were, however, ideal for accommodating a bunch of grown‑ up adolescents: an individual bungalow for each player; a large and well‑ equipped Technogym; a nice swimming pool that overlooked the sea; several private beaches. There was even a five‑ a‑ side football pitch. In front of the hotel were a heliport and a small marina where Vik’s helicopter and yacht‑ tender were already in constant attendance of The Lady Ruslana which was anchored in the sea about a hundred metres offshore, and facing the hotel. It looked like a small pearly‑ white island.

Naturally the team were all banned from heading into Athens or Glyfada to explore the city’s night life. And I’d slipped the guys manning the hotel security barrier some cash to make sure that not one female was allowed to come and visit any of the team. But before dinner I took Bekim Develi and Gary Ferguson into Piraeus where a press conference had been arranged in the media centre at the Karaiskakis Stadium. At first most of the difficult questions came from the English press which was not so surprising after the 3–1 defeat at Leicester; then the Greeks chipped in with their own agenda and the situation became a little more complicated when someone asked why Germany seemed to have it in for Greece.

‘What do you mean? ’

‘Why do the Germans hate us? ’

Choosing to ignore the behaviour of the Greek football fans towards the lads in Hertha FC, I said that I didn’t think it was true that Germans hated Greeks.

‘On the contrary, ’ I added. ‘I have lots of German friends who love Greece. ’

‘Then why are the Germans so hell‑ bent on crucifying us for a loan from the European Central bank? We’re on our knees already. But now they seem to want us to crawl on our bellies for the central bank’s loan package. ’

I shook my head and said that I wasn’t in Piraeus to answer questions about politics and ducking an honest answer like that would probably have been fine. But then Bekim – Russian‑ bred, but born in Turkey, the ancient enemy of Greece – jumped in and things really deteriorated when he proceeded to make some less than diplomatic remarks about public spending and how perhaps Greece really didn’t need to have the largest army in Europe. The fact that he was speaking in fluent Greek only made things worse because we could hardly spin what he said and blame his answer on Ellie, our translator. Asked if Bekim was worried about a big demonstration planned for the night of the game outside the parliament, Bekim said it was about time some of the demonstrators put their energies into digging Greece out of the hole it was in; better still, they could start cleaning the city which, in his opinion, badly needed some TLC.

‘You’ve been living beyond your means for almost twenty years, ’ he added, in English, for the benefit of our newspapers. ‘It’s about time you paid your bill. ’

Several Greek reporters stood up and angrily denounced Bekim; and at this point Ellie advised that it might be best if we cut short the conference.

In the car back to the hotel I cursed myself for bringing Bekim to the press conference in the first place.

‘Once was unfortunate, ’ I said. ‘But twice looks like downright fucking carelessness on my part. ’

‘Sorry, boss, ’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to cause you any problems. ’

‘What devil possessed you? ’ I asked. ‘Christ, their fans are bad enough when it’s a friendly. You’ve made sure that tomorrow’s going to be extra rough. ’

‘It was going to be rough anyway, ’ he insisted. ‘You know that and I know that. Their supporters are bastards and nothing I said is going to make the way they behave any worse. And look, I didn’t tell them anything they don’t already know. ’

‘We’re a football team, ’ I said, ‘not a lobby group. Not content with pissing off the Russians when we were in Russia, you now seem to have managed to do the same with the Greeks. What is it with you? ’

‘I love this country, ’ he said. ‘I hate seeing what’s happening here. Greece is such a beautiful country, and it’s getting fucked in the ass by a bunch of anarchists and communists. ’

He shrugged and looked out of the window at the graffiti‑ covered walls of the streets we were driving through, the many abandoned shops and offices, the piles of uncollected rubbish, the potholed roads, the beggars and the squeegee guys at the traffic lights and on the grass verges at the roadsides. Greece might have been a beautiful country but Athens was ugly.

‘I love it, ’ he whispered. ‘I really do. ’

‘Fuckin’ beats me why, ’ said Gary. ‘Look at the state of it. Full of fuckin’ jakey bastards and spongers on the social. I’d never have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. Christ, I’ve seen some fucking squallies in my time. But Athens – Jesus, Bekim. Call this a capital city? I reckon Toxteth is in a better state than fucking Athens. ’

‘Hey, boss. ’ Bekim laughed. ‘I’ve got a good idea. After the match, why don’t you let Gary do the press conference, on his own. ’

The following morning, before breakfast and while the temperatures were still in the low twenties, we had a light training session. Apilion was located in Koropi, a twenty‑ minute drive north from the hotel, and on a wide expanse of very rural land at the foot of Mount Hymettus which towers over three thousand feet over the eastern boundary of the city of Athens. In antiquity there was a sanctuary to Zeus on the summit; these days there’s just a television transmitter, a military base and a view of Athens that’s only beaten by the one out of a passenger jet’s window.

A green flag with a white shamrock declared that Apilion was the training ground of Panathinaikos FC. Surrounded with olive and almond trees, fig‑ bearing cacti, wild orchids and flocks of ragged sheep and goats, the air was clear and clean after the congested atmosphere of Piraeus and downtown Athens. From time to time one of the local farmers fired a gun at some birds, scattering them to the wind like a handful of seeds and startling our more metropolitan‑ minded players. In spite of that and the presence of several journalists camped alongside the carefully screened perimeter fence, Apilion felt like an oasis of calm. Nothing was too much trouble for the people from Panathinaikos; as the other half of the city’s Old Firm all they cared about was that they might assist us in sticking it to their oldest rival, Olympiacos. Football is like that. Your enemy is my friend. It’s not enough that your own team succeeds; any victory is always enhanced by a rival’s failure, no matter who they’re playing. Panathinaikos would have supported a team of Waffen‑ SS if they beat the red and white of Olympiacos.

‘Fucking hell, ’ exclaimed Simon Page, staring up at the flag as we got off the bus. ‘Are we in bloody Ireland, or what? ’ He clapped his hands and shouted at the players. ‘Hurry up and get on that training ground, and watch where you’re putting your feet in case you tread on a four‑ leaf clover. I’ve a feeling we’re going to need all the luck we can get here. ’

I could hardly argue with him since our new team doctor, O’Hara, was returning to London after his wife had been taken ill. Antonis Venizelos, our liaison from Panathinaikos, was still trying to find us a replacement doctor in case of emergency.

‘The doctors’ strike doesn’t make this easy, ’ he explained a little later on. ‘Even doctors who don’t work in the public sector are reluctant to work today. Operations have been cancelled. Patients sent home. But don’t worry, Mr Manson. The Karaiskakis Stadium is right next to the Metropolitan private hospital. Even though it is in Piraeus this is a very good hospital. ’

He lit a menthol cigarette with the hairiest hands I’d ever seen and stared up at Mount Hymettus.

‘I have some other news that might have an important bearing on the game. ’

‘Oh? What’s that? ’

‘I just heard on the telephone, ’ he said. ‘The Olympiacos team were paid their wages today, and in full. This will put them in a very good mood. So tonight I think they will try very hard. ’

‘When do they normally get paid? ’

‘I mean that it might be two or three months since those American bastards last got their wages. ’

‘Bloody hell, ’ I said.

Antonis grinned and popped some seeds in his mouth that he chewed like gum and which sweetened his breath. He was a handsome man with an Alan Hansen‑ sized scar on his forehead that travelled across his left eyebrow like tiny tramlines, lending him a vaguely Cyclopean aspect.

‘Exactly. It’s hell for everyone right now. At least it is in Greece, my friend. Nothing that happens in this country is like anywhere else. Remember that. Your boys get paid at the end of the month, just like other people in England, yes? But in Greece, the end of the month and payday might be several more weeks in coming – perhaps longer – if you know what I mean. Our university teachers haven’t been paid in months. ’

‘I can’t see our lot going without their wages for very long, ’ I said as Simon and some of the City players returned to the team coach. ‘They’re coin‑ operated; like everyone else in the English game right now. ’

‘You got that right, ’ Simon grumbled.

‘Sometimes, ’ said Antonis, ‘the people in this country work for months without pay only to find out at the end of it that their employer has gone out of business and doesn’t have the money to pay them. In Greece getting paid what you’re supposed to be paid is like winning the lottery. ’

‘But why do you call Olympiacos American bastards? ’ I asked.

Antonis sneered. ‘Because American navy warships used to dock in the port of Piraeus. You see, when their sailors came ashore they used to sleep with the whores of Piraeus. Which is why we call them the sons of whores or American bastards, although quite frankly all of the women of Piraeus are whores. It’s not just us. Everybody in Greece hates Olympiacos. They’re a bunch of cheats and liars. ’ He shrugged. ‘Believe me, my friends, they say much worse things about us. ’

‘That’s a little hard to believe, ’ said Simon. ‘But what do they say? ’

Antonis shook his head as if what anyone from Olympiacos thought could be of no real account. ‘They think that because we’re Athenians we think we’re better than them. That we’re snobs. Which of course we are when it comes to Olympiacos. They call us lagoi – rabbits, because they think we run away from a fight. Which is just wishful thinking on their part. That is no surprise. They’re just a bunch of gavroi. ’ He smiled. ‘This a kind of very small fish you find in the harbour that eats the shit from all the ships docked there. ’

Simon and I exchanged a look of surprise at the level of enmity from a man who otherwise seemed perfectly civilised and urbane. I knew what the big, xenophobic Yorkshireman was thinking just by looking at his face. Since we’d arrived in Athens, he’d said it often enough: ‘Bloody Greeks. They’re their own worst enemies. I might feel sorry for the bastards if they weren’t so fucking bolshie. ’

‘Good footballers, though, ’ was what Simon actually said now. ‘How many times have they won the Greek League? Thirty‑ six times, is it? And the Greek Cup twenty‑ three times? And they’d have won the league this year again, if they hadn’t been docked all those points by the Hellenic Football Federation. Which is how we come to be playing them now, in the play‑ offs. ’

Antonis pulled a face and looked away. ‘You can teach anyone to play football, ’ he said simply. ‘Even a malakas from Piraeus. That is why they have to cheat. You might be the favourites for this match but don’t underestimate the capacity of the gavroi for low tricks. Tonight, it won’t just be eleven men you are playing. It will be sixteen, if you include the five match officials. And the crowd, of course; don’t forget the so‑ called Legend. They’re like another player, and a vicious one. There will be nothing friendly about the place you’re going tonight. And you can forget all your English ideas of the beautiful game. There’s no beautiful game in Greece. There’s no beautiful anything. There’s just – anger. ’ He nodded. ‘In Greece it’s the one thing of which we have an unlimited supply. ’

Whenever you see a football manager pacing up and down his technical area shouting encouragement and making signs at his team like a demented on‑ course bookmaker it makes for compelling television – the cameras love to see ‘the pressure written on the manager’s face’. In truth, the players shouldn’t even be looking at the manager but at the ball and, above the noise of the crowd, they seldom hear anything but the ref’s whistle, unless you’re Sam Allardyce. Most of the time you patrol your lonely ten yards of space only for the sake of appearances; your suffering shows that you care. Plus, it’s harder to sack a manager who is soaked to the skin, with mud on the knees of his Armani suit, not to mention some gob on his back.

Occupying a technical area in Piraeus is even more intimidating with thirty thousand baying Greeks at your back, and frankly it could be something more lethal than a bit of gob that’s coming your way. Just ask the Greek assistant referee who got hit with a flying chair during the Greek Cup in 2011. Venturing from the dugout at the Karaiskakis on a swelteringly hot night in August, it felt like I was leaving the safety of the walls of Troy to duel with Achilles; not recommended. But at Olympiacos it isn’t just crazy fans you have to watch out for: in 2010, despite winning the game 2–1 following some questionable refereeing decisions, the Olympiacos owner, Evangelos Marinakis, attacked Panathinaikos players Djibril Cissé and Georgios Karagounis at the end of the game.

So after just five minutes of the first half, when Bekim Develi scored from twenty‑ five yards with a shot that looked like a diagram from an artillery officer’s trajectory chart, I wasn’t that surprised that I should be hit on the shoulder with a banana as I threw off my linen jacket which was already damp with sweat and ran to the edge of my technical area to interrupt his thumb‑ sucking tribute to his new baby son, with a simple handshake.

It had all started so nicely, too, with both teams trooping calmly to the centre of the field, hand in hand with twenty‑ two local mascot children to the tune of Handel’s ‘Zadok the Priest’. What could be more calculated to create an inspiring image of UEFA’s family values and the honourable pursuit of victory in competitive sport? Even so, I sometimes wonder if any of these European football sides are aware that Handel’s music was composed especially for the anointing of an English king. This was followed by a minute’s near silence for the death of some Greek sportsman of whom I confess I’d never heard. But what the hell? A minute’s silence before a football game for anything strikes me as a good idea, especially in Greece – anything to stop those fucking drums and the warlike chants of the Gate 7 ultras. To listen that awful, masculine sound, brimful of aggression and testosterone, you would think yourself back at Rorke’s Drift in 1879, facing ten thousand Zulus.

I ignored the banana which – a later replay showed – must have come from the VIP seats. I guess VIPs are just as racist as anyone else. It didn’t hurt; not as much as a chair might have done. You can ignore almost anything when you’re a goal up after five minutes in the Champions League; the way I felt at that particular moment I could probably have ignored a spear between the shoulder blades. I turned back to the dugout and bicep‑ curled both arms, triumphantly.

The banana was almost immediately forgotten in the disaster that swiftly followed. Because no sooner had the game restarted than Bekim Develi missed a simple pass from Jimmy Ribbans, fell to his knees as if in penance for his mistake, and then collapsed face down in the centre circle, to the loud disdain of the Greeks. Seconds later, both Zé nobe Schuermans and Daryl Hemingway began waving frantically towards our dugout. The club physio, Gareth Haverfield, didn’t need prompting from me; he snatched up his bag of tricks and sprinted onto the pitch.

‘What’s up with him? ’ said a voice next to me. It was Simon. ‘Heat too much for him, do you think? ’

I nodded. ‘He’s fainted, yes. It is incredibly hot in here. ’

‘Twenty‑ nine degrees Celsius, ’ said Simon. ‘I don’t know about him but I feel like a fucking chicken vindaloo. I hope he hasn’t fainted. If he’s fainted he’ll have to come off. Perhaps he got hit with something. A coin, perhaps. ’

‘Could be. They’ve been throwing money away in this country for years. Makes a change from a banana. ’

Risking another banana perhaps, I walked anxiously to the edge of the technical area. I put my glasses on; I am just a little short‑ sighted – more so at night, when I’m feeling tired. But what I could see now made little sense; Bekim Develi appeared to be trying to head‑ butt the ground and Gareth was trying without success to turn him onto his back. I knew this wasn’t good when the referee ran to the Olympiacos dugout and said something that made their whole medical team sprint onto the pitch; instinctively, without waiting for the ref’s permission, I followed, slowly at first, as if not quite sure of what I was doing, and then a little more quickly as I began to realise just how serious things were.

By now Develi had stopped moving altogether, and one of the Greek medicos had cut off his shirt with a pair of scissors and was giving him chest compressions; Gareth, our own physio, was doing mouth‑ to‑ mouth as a paramedic frantically unrolled an oxygen airway tube. Even the crowd seemed to have realised what was happening and fell silent.

Seeing me, Gary Ferguson stood up from his team mate’s side and came towards me. His cheeks were wet, but not with sweat.

‘What is it? ’ I asked, already feeling sick to my stomach. ‘What’s wrong with him? ’

‘He’s dead, boss. That’s what’s fucking wrong with him. ’

‘What? He can’t be. How? ’

‘I dunno. One minute he’s running around like he’s the dog’s bollocks; the next he’s on the floor. The way he went down I thought he must have been shot. ’

The referee, an Italian called Merlini, came over and for a minute I thought he was going to tell me to leave the pitch; instead, he shook his head sadly.

‘I’m so sorry, ’ he said. ‘But it doesn’t look good, I’m afraid. They’re bringing a defibrillator to the pitch now. They would take him to the hospital across the road, but they’re worried about moving him. ’