Hand of God

2

From the very beginning things went badly for us in Russia.

First, there was the flight to St Petersburg aboard the team’s specially chartered Aeroflot jet which left London City airport after a three-hour wait on the stand without electricity, air conditioning and water. Soon after take-off the plane developed a serious fault, which had most of us thinking we might never walk alone again. It was like being aboard a fairground ride, but, in an Ilyushin IL96, it was nothing short of hell. We dropped through the air for several thousand feet before the pilots regained control of this Russian-made Portaloo with wings and announced that we were diverting to Oslo ‘to refuel’.

As we made our descent to Oslo Airport the plane was shuddering like an old caravan and had every one of us thinking about the Busby babes and the Munich air disaster of 1958 when twenty of the forty-four passengers died. That’s what every football team thinks about whenever there’s a problem on a plane with bad weather or turbulence.

Which makes you wonder why Aeroflot are the official air carrier sponsors of Manchester United.

All of this prompted Denis Abayev, the team’s nutritionist, to try and lead everyone in prayer, which did little for the confidence of all but the most religiously minded that any of us were going to survive. Denis had a fistful of degrees in sports science and prior to joining City he’d advised the British team at the London Olympics while working for the English Institute of Sport, but he knew nothing about human psychology and he scared as many people as those to whom he brought comfort. After the longest twenty minutes of my life the plane landed safely to the sound of cheers and loud applause, and my heart started again; but as soon as we were in the terminal at Oslo Airport I took Denis aside and told him never to do something like that again.

‘You mean pray for everyone, boss?’

‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘At least don’t do it out loud. Short of shouting “Allahu Akbar” and waving a Koran and a Stanley knife I can’t think of anything more likely to scare the shit out of people in a plane than you praying like that, Denis.’

‘Seriously, boss, I wouldn’t have done it unless they were already scared shitless,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid it just seemed like the right thing to do at the time.’

Denis was a tall, thin, intense-looking man in his late twenties with longish hair and the beginnings of a beard or, perhaps, just the end of a near-futile attempt to grow one; if you’d dribbled some milk on his stubble the cat could have licked it off. He was dark, with eyes like mahogany and a nose you could have hooked a boat with. If Zlatan had a nerdy little brother then he was probably the image of Denis Abayev.

‘I understand that, Denis. But if you must pray, then please do it silently. I think you’ll find that the airlines don’t much like it when people start thinking that God can do what the pilot can usually manage on his own. In fact, I’m quite sure they don’t; and neither do I. Don’t do anything religious near my players again. Understood? Not unless we’re a goal down at the Nou Camp. Got that?’

‘But it was the hand of God that saved us, boss. Surely you can see that.’

‘Bollocks.’ Bekim Develi, who was standing behind us, had overheard Denis.

‘It was the will of Allah,’ insisted Denis.

‘What?’ exclaimed Bekim. ‘I don’t believe it. He’s a fucking jihadi. A pie-head.’

‘Bekim,’ I said. ‘Shut the fuck up.’

But the Russian was still pumped full of adrenalin after our narrow escape — I know I was; he pushed past me and jabbed a forefinger on Denis’s shoulder.

‘Listen, friend,’ he said, ‘by the same token it was the will of your Allah that put us in fear of our lives in the first place. That’s the trouble with you people; you’re quite happy for your friend Allah to take the credit when things go right, but you don’t seem to want to blame him for anything when things go wrong.’

‘Please don’t blaspheme like that,’ Denis said quietly. ‘And I’m not a jihadi. But I am a Muslim. So what?’

‘I thought you were English,’ said Bekim. ‘Denis. What kind of name is that for a pie-head?’

‘I am English,’ Denis explained patiently. ‘But my parents are from the Republic of Ingushetia.’

‘Shit, that’s all we need,’ said Bekim. ‘He’s an arabskiy — a fucking LKN.’

I later learned that an LKN was an abbreviation and one of the derogatory terms that Russians used to describe anyone from their southern and probably Muslim republics.
‘Shut up, Bekim,’ I said.

‘You know, being a Muslim doesn’t make me a terrorist,’ said Denis.

‘That’s a matter of opinion. Listen, friend, I tell you now. I know you’re the team nutritionist. But don’t ever give me any of your halal meat. I love all animals. I don’t want to eat any animal that had its throat cut in the name of God. Fuck that. I only want meat from a humanely killed animal, okay?’

‘Why would I do that? I’m not a bloody fanatic.’

‘That’s what you say now. But it was your lot who killed all those kids in Beslan.’

‘Those were Ossetians,’ said Denis.

‘Fuck that.’

‘That’s enough, Bekim,’ I said. ‘If you say another fucking word I’ll send you back to London.’

‘You think I still want to go anywhere after that fucking flight?’ Bekim placed a big hand on his own chest and shook his head. ‘Jesus, I may never get on a plane again, boss. I used to think Denis Bergkamp was a pussy because he wouldn’t fly. Now I’m not so sure.’

I’d never believed very much in fining players; you have to do it, sometimes, but it always feels a bit wet, like you’re stopping a boy’s pocket money. It’s always better to work on the assumption that they want to play and to be part of the team and that if they don’t behave and treat other people with respect, you’ll take that away. Sending a man home from a training session or a match is usually a more effective punishment of last resort. That and the threat of a punch in the mouth.

I took a firm hold of the Russian’s shoulders and looked him in the eye. He was a big man, with a red beard like a shovel, and a temper to match, which was why he was nicknamed the red devil. I’d seen him nut players in the mouth for doing less than I was doing now; but then I was quite prepared to nut him back.

‘Just cool it, will you?’ I said. ‘You’re still up in the air with my fucking stomach. You need to shut your mouth and calm down, Bekim. We’ve all had a very frightening experience and none of us is thinking straight yet. But you know something? I’m glad we went through that. It’s only shit like this that makes us stronger, as a team. That means you, that means me and it means him. Yes, Denis, too. You understand me, Bekim?’

Bekim nodded.

‘Now, I think you owe this man an apology.’

Bekim nodded again and, looking a little tearful, perhaps as he recognised what he had come close to losing, he shook hands with Denis and embraced him; and then, still holding Denis in his arms, the big man started to cry.

Feeling pretty satisfied with this outcome I left them to it.