Hand of God

4

In Moscow — the next leg of our tour — things went from bad to worse. And this time neither racists nor Russia’s autocratic president had anything to do with it.

By now it was strongly suspected by almost everyone who knew anything about football that Christoph Bündchen, our young German striker, was probably gay. And in no way could Russia be described as tolerant of homosexuality, as the lead-up to the Sochi Olympics confirmed; it was not uncommon for Russian men to be beaten up on the streets of Moscow merely because they were suspected of being fond of flowers. All of which meant that as soon as Christoph touched the ball in the Arena Khimki, where Dynamo Moscow currently play their home games as they await the construction of the new VTB Arena, the crowd would wolf-whistle, make kissing noises and not a few even bared their pale, spotty backsides.

It was ugly and intimidating and while Christoph did his best to ignore it, scoring a peach of a goal that left Dynamo’s otherwise brilliant keeper, Anton Shunin, looking about as agile as a Douglas fir that someone had planted in the goalmouth, I could see from the way he didn’t even celebrate his goal that the crowd was getting to him. At the team captain Gary Ferguson’s suggestion I took Christoph off at half time and told Bekim Develi to go and shut the crowd up with another goal; he did, twice, in the space of ten minutes.

Normally, when Bekim scored a goal at Silvertown Dock, he adopted a sort of spear-chucker stance that put me in mind of Achilles or the Spartan King Leonidas in the film 300; sometimes he even pretended to hurl an invisible javelin at the away fans; but lately he had started biting his thumb, which left me puzzled.

‘Is that some sort of Russian insult?’ I asked our assistant manager, Simon Page.

‘What?’

‘Bekim biting his thumb like that. That’s the second time he’s done it today.’

Simon, who was from Yorkshire, and as blunt as a muddy tractor tyre, shook his head.

‘I haven’t a bloody clue,’ he confessed. ‘But there are so many fucking foreigners in our side that you’d have to be Desmond fucking Morris to know what the hell’s going on out there sometimes, what with all these quenelles and fucking R4bias and cuckold horns. And giving people the bird, is it? In my day you flicked some bastard a V-sign when he tackled you off the ball and most referees were clever enough to look the other way. But nothing’s missed these days; fucking telly sees everything. BBC’s the worst for that. They love to stir the PC shit-bowl when they get a chance.’

‘Thank you, Professor Laurie Taylor,’ I said. ‘I certainly wouldn’t have missed that explanation.’

‘Bekim doesn’t bite his thumb when he scores,’ said Ayrton Taylor, who was still recovering from his broken metatarsal and the disappointment of England’s World Cup. ‘He sucks it. Like Jack Wilshire.’

I hadn’t seen Jack Wilshire score that many goals — certainly not for England — so I was still puzzled.

‘What the fuck for?’ asked Simon.

‘Because of his new baby boy. It’s his way of dedicating the goal to his son.’

‘Fucking hell,’ muttered Simon. ‘You’d think a tattoo would be enough. I think I preferred the spear chucker he used to do. That looked a bit more becoming for a man. Sucking your thumb like that just makes you look like a twat.’

‘I think I preferred the spear chucker, as well,’ I said.

‘He’s stopped doing that because Prometheus said he didn’t like it,’ explained Ayrton. ‘He said he thought it was insulting to Africans.’

‘He said what?’ Simon was appalled.

‘Prometheus asked him to stop doing the spear chucker. He was very polite about it, to be fair.’

‘Fuck him,’ said Simon. ‘Who’s he? Just some Johnny-come-lately who’s yet to prove he can hack it in English football. Bekim’s the real deal.’

But the serious trouble began not on the pitch but in the dressing room after the match; and it wasn’t the Dynamo supporters who caused it but one of our own players.

‘Those Russkies blowing kisses, and showing us their bare arses,’ said Prometheus. ‘Do they think we’re queer or something?’

‘Forget it, son,’ said Gary. ‘They were just trying to needle you. To piss you off.’

‘Makes a pleasant change from a banana, I’d have thought,’ said Jimmy Ribbans.

‘I’m not so sure about that,’ said Prometheus. ‘People want to call me a black bastard then that’s okay. As anyone can see, I am black. And as it happens I’m a bastard, too. At least according to my mother. What’s more I like bananas. But what I don’t like, man, are batty boys. In my country you call someone a batty boy, that’s enough to get you killed. Is it because we’re an English side that they think we’re queer?’

‘Something like that, probably,’ said Gary.

‘And you’re okay with that?’

‘So who gives a fuck if they do think that?’ said Bekim.

‘I do,’ said Prometheus. ‘I give a very big fuck about that. In Nigeria there is a new law that says you can go to prison for fourteen years if you are married to a man.’

‘My wife’s married to a man,’ said Ayrton Taylor. ‘Last time I looked.’

‘I mean one man marrying another man,’ said Prometheus. ‘Batty boys. Sharia law means gay people are whipped on the streets for having gay sex.’

‘And you’re okay with that?’ asked Bekim.

‘Sure I am. It’s about the one thing that Muslims and Christians in my country can both agree on. But as it happens there are very few black Africans who are shirtlifters and bum bandits. Really, it only seems to be a problem in white countries.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t use these words,’ said Gary. ‘Live and let live, that’s what I say. So why don’t you zip it, sunshine, and get showered.’

‘I’m just saying that it’s only in big cities where this problem with batty boys seems to arise. In Africa it’s not really a problem at all.’

During this exchange nobody was looking at Christoph Bündchen who was trying his best to pretend that the conversation wasn’t happening, but clearly Bekim felt his acute discomfort almost as much as the young German did himself. The Russian glanced anxiously at Christoph before looking back at Prometheus.

‘Where do you get your fucking ideas from?’ said Bekim. ‘That’s the biggest load of crap I’ve ever heard. No gay people in Africa? Of course there are gay people in Africa.’

‘Put a sock in it,’ I said. ‘All of you. I don’t want to hear any more talk about gays in this dressing room. D’you hear?’

‘I’d have thought the dressing room is where the matter needs to be discussed most of all,’ said Prometheus. ‘I don’t want to share a bath with some homo who might touch me up or give me Aids.’

‘Shut your mouth, Prometheus,’ I said. ‘And if you ever showboat in a match like that again I’ll take you off and fine you a week’s wages.’

Towards the end of the match he’d played keepy-uppy for several seconds, making an obvious chump of the defender before passing it to Bekim who’d scored. It wasn’t such an egregious error in the light of the final outcome but I was desperately trying to change the subject.

‘I think you’re fucked up, sonny,’ Bekim told Prometheus. ‘You might have joined an English football team. But clearly you’ve yet to join civilisation.’

‘That goes for you, too, Bekim,’ I said. ‘Put a sock in it.’

‘And I think maybe you’re standing up for batty boys because you’re one yourself,’ Prometheus told Bekim. ‘Not to mention a racist. Me, uncivilised? Fuck you, Ivan.’

Bekim stood up. ‘What did you say?’

‘That’s enough,’ I said.

Prometheus stood up and faced him. ‘You heard me, batty man.’

‘Ya toboi sit po gor loi,’ said Bekim, speaking Russian now. He always started speaking Russian when he got angry; he wasn’t called the red devil for nothing. ‘Ti menya zayebal. Dazhe ney du mai, chto mozhesh, menjya khui nye stavit. Don’t even think you can dis me like that, you fucking animal.’

‘Will you two bastards behave yourselves?’ shouted Simon.

By now I was standing in front of Bekim gripping his wrists, and Gary Ferguson was blocking Prometheus, but it wasn’t going to stop these two powerfully built men from taking a pop at each other. Sometimes the dressing room is like that. There’s too much energy, too much testosterone, too much frustration, too much mouth, too much attitude. You can’t explain it except to say that shit happens. One minute they were shouting insults at each other, the next they were trying to punch each other in the face. I did my best to keep hold of Bekim’s wrists but he was too strong for me, and there was a loud smack as the Russian’s forearm connected with the side of the Nigerian’s face and Prometheus collapsed like an overloaded coat stand. He was up again almost immediately, grabbing at the Russian’s red beard and taking a swing himself. He missed and hit Jimmy Ribbans, who reeled away with blood pouring from his mouth before turning and flicking a hard jab square into the face of Prometheus.

I have to admit that there was a small part of me that was hoping some of this might knock some sense into the young Nigerian’s head, but I have to admit it seemed unlikely that Prometheus was going to stop being a homophobe just because someone had punched him.

‘You fucking hit me?’ Prometheus yelled at Bekim as he was restrained for a second time. ‘You fucking hit me?’

‘You only got what’s been coming for a long time, sonny,’ said Bekim.

‘I’ll put the hex on you, batty man. You see if I don’t. I know a witch doctor who’ll fix your faggot arse good. I’ll have you killed. I’ll burn your fucking car. I’ll rape your fucking wife and make her suck my cock.’

‘Fuck you, chyernozhopii. Fuck you and the chimp that gave birth to you.’

This second exchange of insults initiated another flurry of fists and kicks.

‘Cool it,’ I yelled again as the rest of the team and playing staff pulled the three combatants apart. ‘The next person who throws a punch is suspended. The next person who insults someone else is suspended. I mean it. I’ll suspend you both without pay and then I’ll fine you a week’s wages; and when I’m good and ready and you’ve sat on the subs bench for the whole season I’ll fucking sack you both. I’ll make sure that every club in Europe knows what a pair of twats you are so no one will buy you. I’ll make sure you never work in football again. Is that clear?’

‘And if that’s not enough I’ll beat the living shit out of you both,’ said Simon. ‘And I’m not talking about the handbags we just had in here.’ There were few who would have doubted he could have done it, too. There was nothing bluff about the big Yorkshireman’s threat. When he took his glasses off and removed his upper plate he was one of the most frightening men in the game. ‘It’d be worth the sack just to beat some sense into your fucking heads. I’ve never heard the like. Call yourself team mates? I’ve seen Old Firm matches that were more cordial than what just happened in here. What a pair of cunts.’