Hand of God

55

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.’

Blackard finished talking to his officials and now waved Jimmy Ribbans onto the pitch and for the first time that evening I smiled, although mostly I was smiling at how anyone could have mistaken a fly-whisk for a feather duster.

‘Thank Christ for that,’ said Simon. ‘It seems like the Irish cunt has seen sense. Now maybe we can get on with the fucking game.’

I glanced behind us up into the stand and met the faces of several thousand hostile Greeks who proceeded to tell me that I was a malakas and other interesting epithets to do with the colour of my skin. I wondered if any of them could even read the many Respect and No To Racism slogans that appeared in Greek and English on the perimeter advertising hoardings.

A minute or two later, the referee checked his watch and, fifteen minutes later than scheduled, he blew his whistle for the game to start.