Hand of God

14

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.’