Free Hand of God by Philip Kerr Page A

superb header from Hertha’s talented Adrian Ramos that made me understand why Borussia Dortmund were so keen to secure the Colombian’s services after their own top striker, Robert Lewandowski, had left to join Bayern Munich in the early summer. But oddly the Gate 7 boys didn’t even pause; indeed, they carried on shouting as if the German goal had not happened.
    Meanwhile, trying my best to ignore the crowd, I made tactical notes in an ancient Filofax I always used for this kind of thing:
    Greeks weak at defending set-pieces. Muscular and fit-looking, but small of stature which makes them less equipped to compete in the air when good crosses swing in. Bekim Develi or Prometheus can give anyone problems if they get the right service. Develi tends to drift naturally to the right and this should probably be encouraged as Miguel Torres, likely Olympiacos’s right left-back, plays more like a right-winger than a defender – especially if Hernán Pérez isn’t playing, which he wasn’t today. If Develi does find space, or drags out Sambou Yatabaré (most likely centre half), he is more than capable of putting Jimmy Ribbans through. I hope our referee will be better than the one here today. I wouldn’t be surprised if the penalty earned him a small bonus .
    ‘It’s ages since I went to a football match,’ said Valentina as the Gate 7 hooligans, with arms extended in Nazi salutes, started another nasty song: ‘ Pósoi Evraíoi ékanes aério símera? ’ – How many Jews did you gas today?
    ‘I can quite understand why.’ I glanced around. ‘You’re about the only woman here, as far as I can see.’
    With Hertha’s number one keeper, Thomas Kraft, feeling too ill to play, I had a good chance to assess their second string keeper, Willie Nixon, an American. I’ve always admired American goalkeepers: they’re usually great athletes and Nixon was no exception, pulling off a couple of saves that kept his team in the game. He was young, too.
    A few minutes later, I thought I would have a chance to see what Nixon was really made of when Olympiacos won a penalty so unbelievable it looked as if the referee had pulled it out of a top hat. The German defender, Peter Pekarik, brought down one of the Greek players just outside the box – except that the big-screen replay showed he was at least a foot away when Kyriakos dropped to the ground, apparently suffering from a fractured tibia. That was bad enough but the improbably named Pelé, who took the Greek penalty kick, put the ball so high over the crossbar he must have thought he was Jonny Wilkinson; his effort was greeted with a loud and derisive chorus of boos and whistles and, around me, several shouts of į líthia maïmoú (stupid monkey).
    I used to wonder exactly why Socrates had felt obliged to drink hemlock; I guess he must have missed a penalty for Olympiacos, too.
    By half time the Berliners were two goals up; they scored again immediately after the break, and that was how the game finished: 3–0. Hertha had won all three games of its Greek peninsular tour and the Schliemann Cup, put up by Hertha’s sponsors, was won by the Germans themselves, which seemed a very German outcome. But it wasn’t Willie Nixon the goalkeeper who had impressed me most, but Hertha’s charismatic team captain, Hörst Daxenberger. Strong as a racehorse and 193 centimetres tall, he looked like a blond Patrick Vieira.
    The Schliemann trophy ceremony, like the earlier warm-up, took place in a corner of the field far removed from Greek insults and missiles and Valentina and I joined Hertha for the muted champagne celebration in the players’ tunnel. In spite of the futility of the competition in which they had taken part I was glad for the German lads; they’d had a pretty tough time of it one way or another and were glad to be going back to Berlin. I almost envied Bastian Hoehling returning to a football club that was owned and managed in such an egalitarian way. You might say that