Short Story: My Peep At The Beautiful Game

My peep at the beautiful game... By Jack Quinn [email protected] I see it looming large overhead. Nothing could have prepared me for its size; San Siro Stadium is like the spaceship in that movie Independence Day- dark and doomful and forbidding. Past civilisations built cathedrals of wonder for the glory of God, today they build stadiums in praise of an English gentleman's game played by thugs. Speaking of which, we are suddenly swamped by supporters in tribal garb stomping towards the gates. I am left standing outside, a little bedazzled, when this beautiful blond comes up to me. She has a cute Dutch accent, 'I heard you speaking English. You look a little frightened.' I am pleasantly surprised, 'I'm not quite what you'd call a football hooligan.' 'You'll have to invite me out for a night at the opera then.' She smiles this seductive smile and walks off. I am about to run after her when Salvatore pulls me back, 'Don't let people to see you talk the enemy! Even if she is hot like the hell.' We queue up at the gate. I've only been to a couple of international rugby matches in Landsdowne Road. This place makes it seem like a doll's house. Rugby matches are always such spiffing middleclass affairs, but the heads on some of these Italians- Geeze! I wish I weren't so tipsy. I have to keep my wits about me. We are underneath it now- holy moley; it's unfathomably tall! How many people does it hold? What could possibly merit the construction of such a monster? What power festers in its belly? 'We ave to go to the top,' says Salvatore, 'I ope you're ready for some exercise.' On reaching the top, Salvatore points out the toilets saying, 'Don't forget which section we are. And don't speak English or they'll think you are Dutch and kill you.' 'Dutch? Oh, yes, that would explain the girl.' 'We are playing PSV Einhoven- cretino!' 'Oh, yeah, how silly of me. And who are we again, just in case someone asks, Inter or AC?' 'AC. You play with your life Party Jack.' We are shunted out into the stands and this surreal widescreen world opens up in front of me bright and vibrant. The haze of sound and tide of energy clubs me in the face. We are in a frenzied swell of delirium: flags flow and fists and applause. I am marvelled senseless. Salvatore pulls me out of my trance with a gruff hand, 'Come on Dorian!' We clamber across to our seats. I sit down. 'Don't sit down, ever! They will think you are a spy.' On my feet I try to take it all in; it's almost too much. It's stupefying; their mania. Down at the front at strategic points are men with megaphones rallying the crowd, they sound like crackling rabid dogs. Each section chants along with their leader. Beside them are lunatics hanging off the barrier, one foot over the balcony, waving giant flags almost gracefully. It looks like an enormous effort and incredibly dangerous. A greeting comes from behind, 'Jack, my friend!' 'Hey Jericho.' 'Very nice ah?' Jericho scares me, 'Yes, yes, very nice.' I am introduced to five or six guys. They all cheer and shout along with the megaphone. I lip-sinc along with them for fear of being taken for a traitor. We stand and wait. Salvatore's mother was right; it is freezing. I can just make out a sliver of orange way over in the far left section, which I assume is the Dutch- a little outnumbered, to say the least. Nothing happens for an inordinate amount of time and I am getting pretty bored. Finally, it looks like something is about to happen. Some deity starts announcing names over the loudspeakers. A 1

handful of players emerge from somewhere and start stretching and kicking balls about. Judging from the booing all around me, I figure these are the Dutch. I don't claim to know much about 'the beautiful game' but I have to ask, 'Salvatore, correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't there supposed to be eleven players on each team?' 'It is the substitute.' 'Oh right. Salvatore, when is the match actually going to start?' 'Soon, soon. Enjoy.' Then the voice of God reverberates round the grounds again. On hearing it everyone around me seems to take a spastic fit. It's clearly the Milan substitutes. I feign along with them. Twenty minutes later and the subs are still knocking balls around the pitch. God knows how long they've been there. The criers never let the mob's excitement quell, even for a moment. Each one berates them. There seems to be some sort of amusing competition going on as to how insulting these criers can be. Salvatore translates the odd one- very inventive: 'He say he gonna take out our colonne vertebral (I assume this to mean the spine) and play Shanghai if we don't start to shouting on the Dutch.' I am too cold to laugh, my legs hurt from standing and my back is so sore that a spot of Shanghai, what ever that is, might sort it out. 'Salvatore, I'm wrecked, can I sit down? And I'm freezin'; I think I've caught pneumonia.' 'Oh poor little bourgayzi boy! Your anticorps play ping pong!' 'Geeze, how can you get this stirred up about something so trivial when it's so cold?' 'It is the Italian way. We live our life alive. Not like you zombie, middle-class, plastic Paddies. You don't believe in nothing, that's the problem.' Geeze Louise! Salvatore can just floor me with a word, level me, define my petty existence in a sentence. I am a plastic Paddy: I don't support any of the country's teams, I don't speak Irish. I certainly don't know the national anthem- either of them. I never vote and I don't know who the minister for whatever is. I have embarrassingly scant knowledge of Irish history; I always call Daniel O'Connell Daniel O'Donnell when I'm relating the patches of it I pretend to know to foreign girls. It's like for the middle-classes geographic and national identity aren't important. I leave that kind of pointless crudeness to the louts, culchies and nordies who want to tear up O'Connell Street. It's like the exuberance of the economic boom passed over them, left them behind, so they need to cling to the tattered shallow identity Sinn Fein sells to them in an idiot's guide package, much like the Front Nationale and the BNP. Perhaps I'm better off being a plastic Paddy than a caricature of a real one. How proud we all are of this new, 'anational', off-stage Irishman? Are we in a fleeting, post-poverty, reactionary period? I am totally a stage Irishman though. But what's so especially Irish about being a booze hound these days? I have more in common with Californians really. I even sound Americanwell that's what people say. In fairness, there isn't a great difference between middle-class twentysomethings in any country in the developed world. I've become part of this greater mass that has less to do with boundaries and citizenship and everything to do with a common popular culture. For all this nihilism, because it's not west-Britishness or anti-Irishness, I'm supposed to be part of the ascendant wealthy classes born out of The Celtic Tiger. What does it mean to be Irish anymore? I look around at these possessed fans. What if their energy were channelled into something meaningful? Surely then they could topple this Berlusconi regime that no one seems to admit to voting for. I wish I were something, anything tangible. The 'playing' players file out. It's as if someone has moved the entire stadium up a gear and hit the throttle. The ritual is coming to a climax. I perk up. Perhaps this will be entertaining after all. Forty minutes later I'm sorely disappointed. How spectacularly anti-climactic! It's not a 'beautiful game'; it's an intensely boring one, like most soccer matches I've flicked through on the TV. No score, few near-misses. Every time they get even close to the goal, I'm gripped quite painfully on 2

either shoulder by Salvatore and Jericho, who curse most violently when the ball is cleared away. Naturally, I clap when appropriate. 'Stop to clap like you are at a theatre!' chides Salvatore. 'Sorry!' The criers and flag wavers are utterly tireless in their endeavour. No one is going crazier than them. And the funny thing is that they aren't even facing the pitch; they can't see what's going on at all. I ask Salvatore if they are paid by the clubs. 'No,' he replies, 'it is a fanatic.' 'No- really?' I spout sarcastically. Half time. I want to go home or out or something. The novelty has worn off, not to mention my tipsiness. I have spent more time watching the crowd and pretty Mexican waves and pretty football ladies than watching the match. The second half starts up and it's beginning to feel like some kinda weird penance. Nothing happens- nothing. The match is over. The lads seem to be happy with a draw and disappointed there weren't any fights. Down the ramps we go. We are walking out of the gate and Salvatore is explaining to his friends the location of this factory where they are to rendezvous for a reggae night. Oh, there she is, and she's alone, and she's coming this way! 'Hi Mr Hooligan!' 'So, did you enjoy the match?' I ask. 'Yes, I think we did okay.' 'So, what are you doing after this? We're going to some underground reggae night in an abandoned factory.' 'Sounds ghetto.' 'I know. I came here to get ghetto. I can't wait. I feel so gangsta.' 'Well, I have to see what my boyfriend is doing- sorry, I'm Annica by the way.' 'Oh, right…Jack,' I'm disappointed. 'Well, ghetto Jack, your underground club sounds cool. I want you to meet my sister too; she loves reggae.' 'Sister eah? Hang on; I'll just go ask the guys for the address so you can grab a cab. Wait right here.' I prance back to the lads. SALVATORE style="mso-spacerun: yes" to has gone the scooter. Jericho gives me the address. I hurry back over to where Annica is standing. There's a big guy talking to her. With all the noise around them I can't hear that they are arguing. I'm just worried that someone else will snaffle up the sister. I arrive over. They ignore me for a minute. Now I know I should run away. But by the time my head has convinced my body to make a retreat, the guy notices me and starts shouting at me in Dutch. What a confused little language. I try to explain that I just wanted to give them the address of a club and that I only want to meet Annica's sister, but the boyfriend decks me. I don't know what's going on; I'm on the ground and my jaw really hurts. Then I see Jericho storming up, he does a flying kick into the chap's stomach! Where the heck did he learn how to do that? These ghetto boys; no messing around. Next the others arrive. I'm still on the ground; unable to move. Jericho picks the Dutchman up then holding him by his shoulders proceeds to knee him in the head over and over, hopping forwards while his friends punch the guy in the back and sides. Of course the Dutchman's mates arrive over and full-scale mill gets underway. More Italians join in and then Dutch dudes start appearing from nowhere. It's a mini-riot! I'm completely paralysed. People are stepping on me. I think I'm crying. Next police and guards step in. I'm lifted up from behind. It's Salvatore and Jericho. They pull me to the trees, stick a helmet on me and tell me to get on the back of the scooter. We're gone. I don't look back.

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