Hand of God (37 page)

‘I’m sure we will. Just give me a little time to get used to the idea, okay?’

‘Sure, anything you say.’

Kojo’s big gold Rolex caught the light as he flicked the air with his fly-whisk. He was wearing a light brown linen Safari suit and open-toed sandals; all he needed was a leopard skin
karakul
hat and he’d have looked like a minor African dictator.

‘It’s pretty hot out there,’ he said. ‘Almost sub-Saharan. And probably just as unpredictable.’ He paused for a moment and then added, ‘You should make sure the players are all properly hydrated, don’t you think?’

I bit my tongue and nodded. ‘Thanks for the useful advice, Kojo. I wouldn’t ever have thought of that myself. Not in a million years. But then what do I know? I’m just the fucking manager.’

But Kojo didn’t hear this; he was already glad-handing both of his King Shark players: Prometheus, of course; and then Séraphim Ntsimi who was the other, only he was playing for Olympiacos. Kojo also shook hands with another Olympiacos player, their saturninely handsome full back, Roman Boerescu.

I don’t know why but in spite of the animosity I was feeling towards him I was impressed to hear Kojo speaking Greek, and with some fluency too. Which was probably why, briefly, I pictured him and Séraphim with Valentina and Nataliya at Roman’s place in Glyfada. Who had been with who? Kojo with Valentina? Or Kojo with Nataliya? Or both? The dirty bastard, I thought, at least until I remembered that, according to Valentina at any rate, Kojo hadn’t actually fucked either of the girls; which wasn’t something I could say myself.

For a minute both sides waited impatiently in the tunnel; and then a minute longer. It was so warm that Kenny Traynor was fanning his face with one of his gloves. The twenty-two child mascots holding hands with the players already looked almost as warm as him and thoroughly overawed by the whole occasion. I could hardly blame them for that. I hate the players’ tunnel before a match. Most of the time you have no idea who half of the people are or what they’re even doing there.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Kojo speaking to the handsome-looking woman who a minute before I’d seen kissing the Romanian on the cheek, which struck me as odd: WAGs weren’t normally allowed in the tunnel. Then I saw that she was in charge of the child mascots, all of whom were now looking up to her for their cue, as if she’d been their mother. And perhaps in a way she was; from what I gathered she’d just given the kids their tea, or whatever Greek kids have when they’re in a Champions League football match. As I watched she smiled and reached across a small head and gently placed the hand of a shy little girl in one of Kenny Traynor’s enormous paws.

Kenny leaned towards me. ‘I wouldn’t mind, boss,’ he said, ‘but her little hand is so sticky.’

‘Put your gloves on,’ I said.

‘It’s so hot in here,’ he said.

‘I’ve heard everything now,’ said Simon. ‘A goalkeeper complaining his hands are too sticky. Find out what the kid had for tea, son, and then rub some more on your gloves. Sticky fingers will make a change from your usual buttery ones.’

Kenny thought that was very funny. And so did Gary; but for just a moment my sense of humour seemed to have deserted me.

‘What are we waiting for?’ I heard myself say, impatiently.

Kojo repeated my question to the woman who answered him in Greek.

‘According to Mrs Boerescu they can’t find the CD with the classical music for the PA system,’ said Kojo.

‘That’s his wife?’

Kojo nodded. ‘Beethoven, or whatever it is.’

I looked at Boerescu and then his wife. For a fleeting moment I considered going over to Roman Boerescu and saying, in earshot of his wife, ‘Valentina says hello.’ I guess if I’d been Greek I would have done it.

‘It’s not Beethoven,’ I told Kojo. ‘It’s Handel’s
Zadok the Priest
.’

‘That doesn’t sound like it’s got much to do with sport,’ said Kojo.

‘I think it’s just meant to be awe-inspiring,’ I said. ‘The kind of music you’d want for the anointing of a king or a priest. Or the best team in Europe, I suppose.’

‘What kind of priest was he? This Zadok.’

I shrugged and shook my head. ‘Haven’t a clue.’

‘I think maybe he was the first high priest of the new temple at Jerusalem,’ said Soltani Boumediene who, despite being an Arab, had once played for Haifa in Israel and knew about stuff like that. ‘The one built by King Solomon back in the day, before the Romans turned up and sacked the place.’

‘You surely don’t mean that this Zadok guy was a Jew?’ said Kojo.

‘I suppose he must have been,’ answered Soltani, ‘if he was in the Old Testament.’ He laughed. ‘I mean, I doubt he was a bloody Scientologist.’

Kojo pulled a face. ‘Better not tell the Muslims the guy was a Jew.’

‘In which case,’ I said to him, quietly, ‘better just shut the fuck up about it, eh?’

‘If they had any idea that they were walking out onto that pitch to a piece of music about a Jewish rabbi,’ said Kojo, ‘they’d have a fit. Seriously. Who knows what these guys are offended by these days.’

‘So shut the fuck up,’ I told him again.

‘I’m a Muslim,’ replied Soltani, ‘and really, I don’t have any problem with it at all. It’s just a piece of music.’

Mohamed Hachani, one of the Olympiacos players, said something to Soltani in Arabic but Soltani just shook his head and stared down at his own boots; so Hachani addressed what I assumed must be the same question, in Greek, to Kojo, who answered him just as the music finally started and the referee waved us forward. The players and the children started to shuffle towards the end of the tunnel. But Hachani stood still and spoke to Soltani in Arabic again; and again Soltani just shook his head as if he preferred not to answer which now drew an angry response from the other man. Hachani took hold of Soltani Boumediene’s shirtsleeve and shouted, this time in English.

‘What kind of a Muslim are you, anyway?’ he demanded. ‘This bloody music is an insult to all Arabs. And you are a disgrace to Islam, my friend. If I had known that the Champions League music was really about a fucking Jew I would never have agreed to play in this competition. And you should feel the same way about it.’

‘Get over it,’ said Soltani. ‘And please, don’t swear or use racist language like that in front of the children.’

Tugging Hachani’s hand from his sleeve, Soltani smiled kindly at the mascot whose hand he was still holding, and started towards the end of the tunnel again.

But Hachani was not so easily brushed off and, irritated that Soltani seemed to be making light of something he himself regarded as very serious, he started to shout in Arabic; but still ignored by our long-suffering player, it seemed that he could think of no other way to make his anger felt than to throw a water bottle at him. To my relief Soltani continued to ignore Hachani and, for a while, things between them seemed to simmer down; but in retrospect I should have anticipated that there might be more trouble between them and substituted Soltani right then and there.

I followed the players out of the tunnel and onto the pitch where the air was so thick and warm it felt like soup, but because of the many green and red flares burning in the stands it smelt and tasted like something else; civil disorder, most likely. There were so many flares my first thoughts were of another Bradford City disaster, when fifty-six fans were killed after the rubbish underneath a stand in what was probably better condition than the one at Apostolis Nikolaidis was set alight by a carelessly discarded cigarette end. That was another major difference between English stadia and those in Greece. Smoking was not permitted anywhere at Silvertown Dock – or for that matter at any other stadia in the English league – but in Greece, where everyone smokes, everyone smokes at football, too. And frankly it’s better when they do smoke; when they’re pulling on a fag they can’t shout racist abuse.

The players lined up patiently, and then trooped past each other, shaking hands like we were all gentlemen on the playing fields at Eton College. I myself made a point of shaking hands with Hristos Trikoupis, who even managed an apology for his previous behaviour when I told him that his secret was safe with me; but all of that was lost when it kicked off between Mohamed Hachani and Soltani Boumediene again.

Simon Page told me later on that when Soltani lifted his own hand to shake Hachani’s hand, the Olympiacos player spat on it. But I didn’t actually see what happened and unfortunately neither did anyone on TV or the dozy Irish referee. All he saw was Soltani’s fist make its probably well-deserved connection with Hachani’s hooked nose.

The referee didn’t hesitate. First he showed Soltani a yellow card; and then he showed him a red.

Mohamed Hachani was making a three-course meal of it with wine and coffee. He was still lying on the pitch with his hands pressed to his face as if he might never again get up, which might have been a more satisfactory outcome. Even his own team mates were smiling awkwardly as if they knew the play-acting was going on for too long; perhaps they were embarrassed and if not they ought to have been. After all, everyone but Hachani knew that the last time we’d seen a player prone for so long, he died. What he was doing now seemed disrespectful to the tragedy of what had happened to Bekim Develi.

The Irish referee, Blackard, was, of course, well within his rights to send Soltani Boumediene off, and all the protests in the world – that the boy had merely retaliated after being spat on – weren’t going to change his decision. Referees in the modern game take a dim view of retaliation as anyone who saw what happened to Beckham after he kicked that bloody Argie in the 1998 World Cup will no doubt remember; Diego Simeone went down from that tap on the calf as if he’d been shot with a rifle. Hard to believe he’s now the manager of Atletico Madrid. Besides, I agreed with the sending off. If players retaliated to every foul no one would ever kick a ball.

But that was one thing; what happened next was something else altogether. When we brought on Jimmy Ribbans as a substitute, Blackard ordered him to leave the pitch and then, when I asked why, he informed me that City could not substitute another player for the man he had sent off. The actual laws of the game, however, say differently and things quickly descended into farce as I ran after the referee like a blue-arsed fly as he moved towards the centre spot, trying to explain to him the meaning of rule five, and all of this under a storm of whistles and jeers from at least half the spectators in the ground.

‘You can’t do this,’ I yelled at him.

‘I’ve sent the player off the field,’ he said, ‘and that’s the end of the matter, Mr Manson.’

‘I’m not disputing that, you idiot.’

‘And I shall be reporting you to UEFA for your abusive language and behaviour.’

‘And I shall be reporting you for not knowing the laws of the game. Take the pig shit out of your ears and listen to me. I’m trying to stop you from looking like a complete idiot in tomorrow’s newspapers. Which you will do unless you pay attention now. Since you hadn’t actually blown the whistle to start the game, the normal rule that applies to sendings off just doesn’t apply. Whether you like it or not, those are the rules of football. All your decision to send off Soltani Boumediene means is that we’re down to two substitutes instead of three. And that he can’t take any part in this game, or – if by some miracle we should qualify – the next one.’

‘Well, that makes absolutely no sense at all. Look here, I would hardly have sent the player off if I thought he was just going to be subbed by you, now would I?’

‘That’s for you to say, referee. Nevertheless, the law is the law. And there’s no room for interpretation. Consult your own officials. Go and find the UEFA guy and ask him if you like. But if you ever want to referee a game outside a potato field in Galway again I should pay attention to what I’m saying now. What you’re doing is not within the rules of the game. And if you’re not careful your name will be a byword for stupidity before the end of the week.’

After much heated argument, during which time I was ordered to sit in the stands not once but three times, I finally managed to persuade him to read the rules now displayed on my iPad. Mr Blackard then went to consult with his five match officials and I walked back to our dugout to the usual shrill Greek chorus.

‘What’s he say?’ asked Simon.

‘He’s still standing on his dignity.’

‘What did I tell you?’ said Simon. ‘I told you that bastard Backward, or whatever his fucking name is, was bent.’

‘I don’t think he’s bent,’ I said. ‘I think he’s just stupid. And ignorant. And pig-headed. And scared of looking like a twat.’

‘It’s a bit late for that, I’d say. Why did Mohamed Hachani gob on Soltani’s hand anyway?’

I explained about the Champions League music and how Hachani seemed to have taken offence to its subject.

‘People as sensitive as that lad have got no business playing football,’ observed Simon. ‘Next thing we’ll have Hindus refusing to throw in the ball because it’s made of cow leather. Or Muslims refusing to run onto a pitch because the fucking grass is fertilised with pig shit. Christ, when I was playing for Rotherham we used to leave a turd in someone’s fucking shoe. For a laugh, like. I’d like to have seen Hachani’s face then.’

‘This confirms what I’ve always suspected. That Yorkshire men have a sophisticated sense of humour.’

‘Happen that’s true, aye.’

‘But technically this is all Kojo’s fault. If only he’d kept his fucking mouth shut, then none of this would have happened and Soltani would still be on that pitch. It was him who kept on pointing out that Zadok was a Jew.’

‘That’s why he’s the Technical Director, I suppose,’ observed Simon. ‘Because technically he’s a cunt. We both agree about that, boss. But now he’s in place at this club it’s going to be very hard to get rid of the bastard. Anything you say to Vik about him is going to look like sour grapes.’

‘I’d like to stick that fucking fly-whisk up his arse.’

‘Is that what it is? I was wondering why he was walking around with that thing. I thought it was a sort of feather duster. You know? Like Ken Dodd.’