CHAPTER 1
Mid-August 2017 - pre-season
- "God is round, my friend. It's sixty atmospheres of pressure held together by 27 strips of calfskin and 279 stitches of love. Yet this ball of air comprises all our hopes, our aspirations. It brings us together. It bounces, it swerves. Its path is destiny. Then we clash, and fight. But the ball reunites us. We cannot do it by ourselves. We need our opponent as we need the ball. We need our players, our staff. We need our fans - like you! - with your passion and boundless loyalty. We all are stakeholders in this game!"
Stavros paused, gauging his audience, taking in a gulp of air as would a singer before the finale of his song. The boy looking up at him was around thirteen. Plucks of his blond hair were fluttering in the wind. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. His eyes, peeking up the 20 odd inches up to the man, were piercing the moment's silence between them. His left hand, holding something resembling a brochure and a thick black marker, slowly moved in actionable position, then suddenly dropped. The man behind him, by age, if not by looks, a younger uncle of his, tapped him on his shoulder.
- "C'mon, Harry. Let's go. Don't wanna miss the bus, do we? I'm sure the gentleman is busy. Busy saving the club and all."
The uncle gave Stavros a nod that didn't quite cover up an inadvertent eyeroll, stretched a chunky arm around the boy's shoulders as he tugged the yellow and green scarf around his neck in male affection with his available hand. They walked off to catch the bus.
Stavros peered after them. "The fans," he thought. "My only, actual constituency. Never a bad time to do some bonding." Ever since he had purchased the Hogs - or, to be more precise, had secured 50.01 % of the shares of Hogshead United LLC - he had sought to interact with the fans wherever he could. It was different from dealing with the pompous gatekeeping slimeballs at the F.F. Or at the I.F.F., those power worshippers and sheik fuckers. As if his money wasn't good enough! Scraps to scraps and dust to dust. He still was the owner of the world's biggest stock of steel. Let them try to build without him!" As he turned around his dark trench coat caught a gust and some streaks of grey hair lifted off his shoulders in the wind. He approached the back door of the office building. Some ninety years before it had been constructed as the Hogs clubhouse, and despite the multi-million-pound enterprise it had since become the center of, no one had yet thought of replacing the sagging hinges on the heavy doors. Or even of giving the entrance a fresh coat of paint in a color that looked less obsolete than the minty green greeting the visitors now. "They all say the capital should be on the pitch, winning matches for you," he mused, "but that's not why you don't want a crew redecorating your premises. Not at all. What you want is the place to look old! That's what the people want, the fans, anyway. It's like looking at an old photograph. And saying: hey, look! That's my grandfather. Little has changed, eh? We're still here."
Ten minutes later he was sitting behind his desk. Chloe was standing ready, waiting for the sign, exactly four feet behind the desk in a perfect diagonal from top left to bottom right corner. She was holding the usual print-out on A3, folded over twice - the only way he would accept his agenda for the day. She had been his personal assistant for close to two decades now, and while he seemed liked the least meticulous boss one could hope for in many respects, these were not details she could mess up and avoid paying for in some archaic way. Sometimes literally, when he deducted her otherwise generous wages for the day for "making an unforgiveable, basic mistake." As mysterious as he could be about his approach to business, he had never hidden his reasons for hiring her back then. Stavros was a tall man himself, but when she had entered the room for the job interview, he had stared at her and her six feet and three inches with grim satisfaction and told her she was hired - on condition she would wear high heels and high heels alone during employment. Months later he had taken her aside after a meeting, and told her with his thick, rolling voice, his powerful S's peppering his speech with hissing, curt explosions, that she should have understood by that time his intentions had only been honorable and true to business. "But whoever gets past you, and obtains any sort of meeting with me, will feel like having climbed a mountain just to see me. When they do, they will throw themselves at my feet and drink up my words like cool spring water from the well they found at the refuge. You are perfect for the job! Just remember, no blue ink. Never!"
Chloe handed him the agenda, folded over twice, and started to rattle off item after item as Stavros scanned the sheet with his eyes along her rhythm, smoothly flipping the sheet over his wrist at the folds - open, over, back, over, and closed.
- "And what does Billy want to talk about?"
- "He said he found a solution for a left winger. It's a bargain, he says."
- "Hmm." Stavros peered at some point beyond the sheet. "Put him on."
A moment later the speaker of the phone on the desk signaled the ringing on the team manager's mobile phone. After three rings, Billy answered.
- "'llo! That you, Chloe?"
- "No, it's me, William! You said you wanted to talk, about a left winger."
- "Ah, 'xcuse me, Mr. Palapolos, it's you who's calling, so-"
- "Call me Stavros, William. I will let you know when you have permission to rape my name."
- "Eh, it's Billy, Mr. ..."
- "Stavros."
- "Eh, Mr. Stavros, yes."
- "Your player?"
- "Ah, yes, my player. The winger. So you have to understand that at the moment-"
- "No mercenaries, William. I've told you before. I don't want any mercenaries."
- "I know, I know. No mercenaries. You have to understand that this guy's been over in Romania, because after his mum died, and his manager had taken a cut on the training compensation, but he didn't know. And so when he signed for those people, what happened-"
- "No mercenaries. Do you have a tape?"
- "Yes, I've got a video. I'll drop it off this afternoon."
- "Bye, William. See you later."
Stavros looked over his shoulder at Chloe, who had already disconnected the team manager. "What else?" he said. "Did he call again?"
- "Yes. Hektor did call. A few times."
- "If you say a few, it must have been a dozen times."
- "Let's say: somewhere between a few and a dozen times. He insisted he did not want to leave a message, but made it clear it had nothing to do with money. The call, that is."
Stavros' eyebrows soared, even as the corners of his mouth took a grim dive. He stared into space. "What did he say, Chloe? I didn't hire you to play games." Chloe blushed.
- "He said that it seemed to be his lot as the mogul's son to need to call his father in the office to discuss his love life. That he wasn't going to spell it out for me, for the secretary. And something about drowning his tears in Chardonnay. But I'm not sure. He made that sound like a lot of fun. In any case-"
- "Enough, enough. I know my son. Put him on."
Again the speaker on the desk rang. Within a ring and a half, the call was answered.
- "Yes, daddy? Is that you?"
- "Yes it is, Hektor, I heard you called."
- "Daddy, you remember Soufian, right?"
Stavros sighed so deep he seemed to suck in all sounds.
- "The guy I met in Marrakech, daddy. You remember him?"
- "Yes, Hektor."
- "Is it okay if I take him to Miami? You wanted us all to meet up at the end of the month, right? But Eleni made a fuss the last time. Really. And Rajiv: I really thought we were going to get married. But we had such terrible fights after. So I'm asking you, daddy. Because Eleni-"
- "Stop! Just stop. And stop calling your mother by her name. Leave Eleni out of it. Bring your... Bring your friend. And ask your mother politely. But I have a club to run. So if this is all you needed to ask..?"
- "Ooh thank you, daddy. You know how mommy gets. No, that's it. So if I give you his details can we pick up his ticket, when I go for mine?"
- "No, Hektor. I'm sure Suleyman can get a ticket of his own."
- "But daddy, we can't travel separately, can we?"
- "Yes, you can! Goodbye, son. See you in ten days." Stavros raised his finger in the air, and on cue, Chloe had cut the line.
Stavros growled. For a minute he sat nodding in his chair. He cursed. "Devil take me. If only the Good Lord had dumped me in Italy, not in Greece, and he'd have given me some fashionable fascist for a son, not a fag." He looked over his shoulder, where he knew he would see Chloe in her best-studied pose of focus on the nearest object she could find at such time. She stared at her file folder with a furrowed brow, energetically adding words, figures, or whatever she was jotting on her pages of arranged distraction.
- "Chloe, you can leave the report until later. What else do we have to take care of?"
Chloe squeezed her lips in the most neutral smile.
- "FEF. I still haven't managed to reach them. The deadline for inspection is the seventeenth, but they won't even put me through to planning. The secretary told me it's useless at this stage. He wouldn't put me through. He said they're still working on the transitional provisions. As soon as they are adopted, they can start the inspection procedure. But we cannot send the documents any sooner."
Stavros sat there, silently vibrating, the color on his face inching ever upward to a more intense shade of lobster red, making his abundant black and white locks look like smoldering straw, a smokestack. At last he exploded.
- "Put him on, that son-of-a-bitch! That Müllberger, that son-of-a-dog! Let me talk to him! Put him on!"
Stavros grabbed the receiver of the phone on his desk, shaking it in the air, his hand soon approaching the fiery color on his cheeks. Then, as the speaker on his desk started ringing, he seemed to remember in a shock, slammed the receiver down on the desk, grabbed the edges with both hands, ready to pounce on the first sign of an opponent on the other side of the line.
- "FEF, President Müllberger's office. This is his assistant Petra Weiterhofer speaking, how can I help you?" The cloy, purring voice seemed to distract Stavros just a second. The gorillaesque curve on his back evened out.
- "Ah. Yes. Petra. This is Stavros Polympalapoulos. OFM Thess- erm Hogshead United! I need to speak with Müllberger. Put him on."
- "Mr. Polympalapoulos, Herr Müllberger is not available. Do you have a calling engagement?"
- "An engagement? I have a deadline! A deadline that Mr. Müllberger knows all about. We qualified, as you all know. And we got your information about the inspection of the facilities. And we understand. You have not seen our wonderful stadium. You have not met our wonderful supporters. You have not taken a walk along the old quay where we have served the very best tea for hundreds of years. You have not looked a true Hogger in the eyes. We know all that. We are well aware. However: our feet are still as firmly planted in the clay, the clay for which our region is famous around the world. It's what makes our grass the sleekest and smoothest on this side of the Mersey. So tell your Mr. Müllberger to get on the phone! We've got a deadline to meet!"
A dense silence wafted out of the speaker.
- "Herr Polympalapoulos, Mr. Müllberger is not available. I thought I explained everything to your assistant. We first have to clear up the matter of your qualification. Your supposed qualification. After we-"
- "We qualified! What on earth are you saying?"
- "Well, normally, on the face of it, maybe it seems you did qualify. But then there's the matter of a second division club, well... Sometimes, courageous leadership has to act in the spirit of the law, not to the letter! I'm sure you understand."
- "Understand what?! And what second division? We got THIS close to winning the cup! Nobody's telling them to wait before they can play in the Golden League, are they? We are just asking what we played for. There are no rules that say we can't."
- "Well, but that's where the transitional provisions come in."
- "What transitional provisions? We went through all the articles of association! There are no transitional provisions."
- "We are busy formulating them now, Herr Polympalapoulos. The Fair Play Committee is convening tomorrow."
- "Tomorrow! The Fair Play Committee is convening tomorrow! But we qualified last season!"
- "That is exactly what we are trying to establish tomorrow. If you did, we will be happy to welcome you to the Cup Winners League." Petra giggled. "Or maybe we should call it the "Cup Losers League", just for your sake, Mr. Polympalapoulos? Would that make you happy? We will let you know. Well in time for the inspection procedure, and the deadline, and all the rest. Good day, Mr. Polympalapoulos."
The occupied signal reverberated through the office. A sound resembling that of a power drill rose from Stavros' abdomen, reaching out through his clenched teeth.
- "Stop it, Chloe! Hang up, already! Müllberger! That son of a bitch! All those bald-headed fags there in Switzerland!"
Stavros froze, sat still and carefully straightened his back. Stavros peered over his shoulder, mildly eyeing Chloe.
- "I'm just saying that, Chloe. I mean: those people. Did you know I actually welcome those people in my home, in Miami?"
Chloe dropped her jaw, holding her mouth in a perfect O of coquettish surprise.
- "You didn't know that, did you? Of course, in Greece, we've known about this thing for quite the while. Or we did, back then. Things are a bit different now. But Müllberger... He's ready to rewrite the rules completely. My whole acquisition was based on my intuition... If I played for pennies, I would've taken my money to Ladbrokes, just like the rest of them. Put a penny on the Hogs. 'The Hogs are going to win their next game.' Hogs win next game. Payout for Stavros! Pennies for the Scrapmaster. Does Müllberger not understand who he's dealing with? I play the long game. Always have. And I win. I knew they were going to qualify. As I knew the Ravens were going to win the league. I saw it as clearly as a mosquito heading for your cousin's calves. That's why they call me the Scrapmaster. Stavros sails his ships to port. Full of the world's most valuable worthless merch. But you already know that, Chloe: all these people sitting on their gold, let them believe in it. By the time they realize who's the boss, they'll be too late. Anyway! Even Müllberger will have to come to terms... Is everything ready for the inspection? We are ready to sue in Geneva. Transitional provisions my knee! We have to be ready, Chloe. What have we got on the agenda?"
Over the course of his monologue, Stavros had soothed himself into a calmer state. His last words sounded like a purring cat. He was ready for whatever next bite Chloe would toss at him.
She scanned through her folder.
- "Ah, yes. We went through that. The documents on your desk need signing. Yes, the ones on the left, as always. And the quotation for the seats is the other one. Yes. But that's it."
Stavros went through the pile on the left, quickly eyed the document on the right, giggling at the private joke that must have been hiding behind the pricing for seating for three quarters of the south side. He jotted a note here and there, crossed out two sections, and put his pen down with a contented smirk.
- "Okay, Chloe. That's it for today. Remember, get them ready for the inspection. It could be any day."
Chloe closed up her folder. She grabbed a stylish briefcase sitting in the corner off the floor, slid the folder in, opened the door, and disappeared. The heavy door squeezed closed without a noise, besides the gasp of air pushed out through the hallway, as if the whole room exhaled.
Stavros shifted towards the edge of his seat. He stared in front of him, his head slowly bobbing. The movement of his head got increasingly more pointed, more emphatic, as if he was working towards growing conviction, or was just trying to hit not too big a nail on its elusive little head. At last, satisfied, he eased his muscles and released a hum. It was a single, uninterrupted hum, a phrase that, though not properly musical, traveled all the way up to the alto register, reached a pointed conclusion in seven-eighths, and finally slid down towards his natural baritone. "Ah," he said, with anticipation. He slid his chair back, and reached out towards the lower left drawer.
He grabbed a glass jar from the drawer with his left hand, took the lid off and reached further back with his right. With a plastic card pinched between his right thumb and index he dipped inside the jar. He put the jar back and closed it with his left. Then he swiveled back towards the center of his desk, his right hand and accessories carefully guided through the air as if it were a precious porcelain cup. Then, after a moment of solemn orientation, he quickly turned the card and its load and slammed both flat against the granite top of his desk. He stared at it for a second, as if wondering whether anything had been smart or swift enough to escape his move. Then he proceeded to cut the mound, handling the card with the confidence if not the grace of a musical director. He dropped the card, reached for the pocket on the inside of his jacket, producing a crisp £50 note, smiling at the magical trick unfolding before his eyes. Then his mouth evened out, and with a grave look he rolled the note between the fingertips of his right hand. After a minute, the mound was gone. He got up, paced about the room, and many endless seconds later started to exhale, still seeming to struggle not to let the precious air escape. Then he grabbed his coat, swung the door open, slipped through the opening and threw his long legs through the hallway, the one catching up with the other until he reached the staircase. The sound of voices downstairs crept up as he slowed his pace.
Stavros reached the hall. The walls were hung with fading photographs of Hogs heroes, with and without football, more often flaunting a grimace garnished with some blades of grass than a medal, cup, or other trophy. But in a corner, behind a dusty glassed frame stood a silvery cup, the lid askew. The fluorescent light on the ceiling and the square brown tiles on the floor gave the entire space the appeal of a dank underpass at the station. Further down, at the end of the hallway towards the green doors, Stavros identified the source of the clamor. Two men in a second-tier business suit were talking to Timmy, the uniformed doorman, their index raised. They were surrounded on all sides by piles of boxes, dropped there by an unidentified delivery service. The waft of colognes, applied without restraint or coordination between the two of them, hit Stavros like a toxic wall.
- "Timmy, what's going on?" Stavros bellowed.
- "Erm, these two gentlemen, erm, Giggs, and, erm-"
- "Greenwood!" one of them barked.
- "... erm these gentlemen are with the FF and they're here to see the records."
- "Timmy, what are all these boxes? Why are they here?"
- "They just got delivered, boss, but these gentlemen of the FF-"
- "Why are they still here? Where's Maguire? Get Maguire to put this mess in order!"
- "Erm, these gentlemen..."
- "Where is he? He's not wanking in the shed again, is he?"
- "Erm, no, Maguire is mowing. He just finished with the sod."
- "Get him out here! And who are these people?"
At last, Stavros looked the visitors over. They looked identical in a not too obvious way, Stavros thought. The suits, the shiny shaves drizzled with ineradicable dots, the imperious look of the true-born bureaucrat.
- "So how can I help you? What are you here for?"
- "The records, sir. As your doorman said just now," Giggs, or Greenwood, stated flatly.
- "What records? The FF just finished the audit for our license. Chloe made ten years' worth of copies. What is this?"
- "You might be referring to the license procedure, sir, but this is quite a different matter. We're with the financial oversight and anti-money laundering committee. We're only here for the financial years 2007 until this year. Until today, really." He chuckled. "So if you show us the way, we'll be big enough boys to show ourselves around. We've done this a million times."
Stavros stared at him and wheezed. After thirty seconds he slowly raised his right arm, stretched it out towards Giggs or Greenwood, who backed away an inch or so, before raising his own and shaking Stavros' hand. Stavros smiled at him, like a cat in love with its prey, and said: "I think you will have to deal with Chloe. She has a copy of the FF articles, so I'm sure you can point all relevant regulations out to her. She will be down in just a minute." His smile seemed to retract behind his piercing eyes. He opened his mouth but that very second the door opened and a man in trainers and a woolen cap bumped into Timmy.
- "Ah, Mr. Stavros, I was looking for you. The tape, the video." He offered a brown envelope to Stavros. "The video. The player I was telling you about. You said you wanted to see him... Here!" He looked disappointed well before Stavros opened his mouth.
- "Have you never heard of the internet, William?! Send the damned file to Chloe! Unbelievable."
Stavros pushed passed him, through the door. Creaking, the heavy door slammed shut behind him.