Where the Bougainvillea Grows

by Gary Cleaver

  Rudi scored twice more and his side ran out winners 6-3. As the players were leaving the field Costas called Andreas over once more to act as interpreter, it turned out the boy and his family were leaving on the following Monday and therefore he was free to play on the Sunday evening. He told Costas that his family name was Schnellinger, but Costas assured him that on Sunday he would be Iannis Petelas. They watched Rudi trot away, Andreas rubbed his chin with the back of one hand, “Do you think this is wise boss? If the league finds out there could be a lot of trouble, we could be fined and even have points deducted”

  Costas grunted, “If there is a fine” he shrugged “Well it’s only money, as for the points, I’ll be happy if we have some for them to deduct!”

  He clapped Andreas on the shoulder, as well as part time translator he was also the team captain and Costas wanted to reassure him,

  “If there is trouble then it will be coming my way, you and the boys just focus on the game.” When the squad had dispersed he locked the changing room, turned off the lights and went home.

  The visiting opposition on Sunday evening was Didima, a neighbouring village to the south, it was a small place and unsurprisingly they tended to struggle too, during the previous season they had tasted victory only three times, but it was a sobering thought that two of the wins had been against Katsimila. Costas thought about this as he piloted his battered old Fiat Punto through the narrow streets, he thought about the young German boy, how had he become so desperate, one player could not make much difference, and it was, as Andreas had warned a serious risk, but on the plus side it might give his boys some confidence, who knew? It could be the boost they needed to improve. As he turned the corner into his street he spotted a lone figure, she was wearing a plain white dress, which hugged the impressive contours of her body, and a pair of frighteningly high heeled gold shoes, he pulled over and lowered his window.

  “Hello Sofia, how’s tricks?”

  She turned and frowned “The joke was not funny five years ago, Costa and it doesn’t improve with age.”

  He smiled, Sofia Hadjadakis was one of three prostitutes who plied their trade in the local area and while he himself had never found need of her services, he knew that at least two of his players paid her regular visits, sometimes just a few hours before a game, a fact which he thought explained a lot.

  “So, first game on Sunday then?” she said “I may come along and cheer for my brave boys”

  Costas chuckled, “ Ok Sofia, but do me a favour please, don’t dress like that, I’d like them to watch the ball occasionally.” She laughed and waved as he drove on.

  Late that evening, after his wife Maria had chased their two young daughters off to bed, Costas sat in front of the television not really watching, his mind was still very much on the game, he reasoned that it was too late to reverse his decision, the team was excited about having Rudi on board and he would not disappoint them. Maria was not interested in what she referred to as his silly game so he decided not to discuss it with her, instead he sat until after midnight, with the television entertaining no one but itself, trying to convince himself that what he had done was right. It was a long time before he slept that night, when he did his dreams were confused and not very encouraging. In one his long dead grandfather appeared and called him a cheat, for some reason the old man was holding a bunch of flowers. He woke twice, and the second time he knew he would not sleep again if he just lay there. The clock on the bedside table read five thirty, he got up and made himself a cup of lemon tea; he drank slowly, brooding over the pressures of being a manager.

  Sunday came at last, Costas got to the ground early as he always did and went through his pre game rituals. He unlocked all of the gates, tidied the changing rooms and the team shirts, which Maria had grudgingly washed and pressed a few days before. He walked over the pitch checking carefully for any debris that might threaten a player’s safety, he made sure that the goal nets were tight and free from holes, and he brought four flags from the small storage shed, setting one at each corner. The game was scheduled to start at eight pm, just before seven his mighty gladiators began to turn up, Mitsotakos was predictably first, brimming with excitement, he asked if there was anything he could do to help and upon being told that all was prepared sat in his usual place in the changing room drumming his feet on the floor. Stamos the goalkeeper came next, parking his enormous break down truck behind the bleachers, he sauntered up to greet his coach.

  Costas regarded him soberly, “Dimitri, put that thing out how many times have I told you?” Stamos grinned sheepishly, dropped the cheroot on the floor and stamped on it.

  Papadopoulos and Giannakopoulos arrived together on the former’s motorcycle, the tiny machine groaning under their weight. When they had all assembled, Costas followed on into the changing room to give his team talk, when from behind a voice wished him good evening in halting Greek. It was Rudi. Costas patted him on the back and gestured for him to sit down with the others. After his pep talk he went back outside to greet the visiting team and the referee. He looked over at the bleachers, the usual crowd was about forty, but word had spread fast about the German boy and there were more than one hundred and twenty shirt sleeved figures sat around on the steps, these included Sofia Hadjadakis, her bleached blonde hair scraped back in a discreet pony tail. She was wearing jeans, a tee shirt and no make up, what a good girl she is, he thought. High up on the halfway line sat George Karamis leaning on his walking stick, beside him was Spiro, his cousin the hated olive press owner, who was expecting an entertaining evening and had brought not one, but two packs of Marlboro to ease his nerves. Costas too was nervous, so many expectant faces, he hoped he would not let them down. He had given young Rudi a ‘roving commission’, he was to cause as much havoc with the opposition as he could, and the boy had said that he would do his best.

  The teams took the field, Didima in all red, Katsimila in their usual blue and black stripes, the referee and the two captains shook hands and tossed a coin, Katsimila would kick off. The referee blew a single long blast on his whistle and, for better or worse, Katsimila’s season was under way. Almost immediately there was near disaster, on Didimas’ first sortie into home team territory, the ball was floated in from the right, Giannakopoulos rose above everyone to head it clear, but he failed to keep his eye on it, the ball struck his left temple and made straight for the top corner of the net. Stamos flung himself across the goal and just managed to palm it round the post. There was a low groan from the crowd, followed by a great deal of muttering, above this a lone voice shouted “Business as usual!” After the corner had been taken the game settled to its usual ebb and flow, that is to say that it ebbed slowly away from the Katsimila goalmouth before rapidly flowing back in again. Stamos was called upon to make two more good saves before the home team made its first attack, but this too was doomed to end badly. Rudi picked up the ball on halfway and went quickly forward, he rode a couple of tackles easily and then noticed someone unmarked on the other side of the penalty area, it was Mitsotakos. Rudi rolled the ball to him with pin point accuracy, Mitsotakos stepped on it and went flat on his backside, a Didima defender arrived, thanked him for his generosity and trotted away with it, there were more groans from the bleachers.

  In the home team dug out Costas put his head in his hands and wondered how many times he would be repeating this forlorn gesture over the long months ahead, his mood became even darker a few moments later when Rudi picked up the ball at halfway again, before he could set off he was unceremoniously upended by a large Didima centre back who received the games first yellow card as a reward. Rudi lay on his back not moving, the referee asked him if he was alright, not understanding a word the man said, he smiled in what he hoped was a convincing way and picked himself up.

  The crowd was on its feet baying for blood, Spiro Karamis flung away his cigarette and yelled “Red, it should be a RED card, you IMBECILE!”

  Rudi took the free kick himself rolling it forward to Andrea
s the captain who knocked it on into the young Germans path, he controlled it, shrugged off the attentions of his recent assailant and looked up, the goalkeeper had strayed from his line, as casually as he had done in the practise game, Rudi floated the ball over him and into the corner of the net.

  The crowd was up again, this time in a wild jig of joy, Sofia Hadjadakis flung her arms around the man standing beside her and kissed him wetly on the cheek, she then smiled charmingly and told him there would be no charge. Costas was on his feet too, but he was calling for calm from his players, it was yet early in the evening, there was along way to go, he directed his remarks in particular to Giannakopoulos who was carrying Rudi back to the centre like a trophy. The Didima coach was howling at his team, they were sloppy, they were over confident, and now when they should be at least two up, they were behind! Morons! Unsurprisingly during the final few minutes of the first half the Katsimila goal was under constant siege, but every effort found an equal. Stamos was everywhere, flying around the six yard box like a hyperactive dervish, palming, punching and once even elbowing the ball to safety, the crowd was on its feet for every feat of daring, roaring him on.

  At half time they still held their precious lead, Costas threw water bottles to his exhausted warriors and urged them to make still greater efforts, they were ahead and the longer they could keep it that way the more pressure there would be on the men of Didima. The faithful masses cheered the team as they took the field once more, Rudi, via Andreas, was instructed to provide more of the same, he was already tired, not being accustomed as the others were to the heat, which was strong even in the late evening, but once again he had smiled at his coach and promised his best. The second half began and the German boy was as good as his word, the opposition was forced to put two players in his vicinity at all times which made it more difficult to launch repeated assaults on the beleaguered Stamos. With twenty minutes left Katsimila were gifted a golden opportunity to wrap the game up, Rudi went clear on the left and sent over a perfect cross, Andreas headed it on and the ball landed at the feet of Mitsotakos with the goal at his mercy, this time instead of standing on it poor Victoras got completely underneath it and hoisted his shot over the goalkeeper, over the crossbar and over the five metre high fence behind the goal, the ball came to rest among the orange trees beyond. Fortunately two small boys were watching from this vantage point and immediately returned it, the crowd were still muttering and Mitsotakos wisely decided to patrol the left flank, furthest away from them. As the game wore on, Costas began to feel the blossoming of tiny seeds of hope, he risked a look at his watch, there were just eight minutes left, could it be that the longed for miracle was about to happen? He decided that it could unless fate was to be particularly cruel that night, just as he was thinking this, fate turned up. It was ironic that what happened next stemmed from Rudi, he made an awful hash of a back pass which sent a red shirted player galloping free down the right wing, his cross was innocuous enough, until it took a wicked deflection from the hip of Papadopoulos and fell straight to a Didima forward on the six yard line, he couldn’t miss, and he didn’t.

  For once the crowd was stunned into silence, Costas placed his head back into his hands and tried not to weep, seven minutes to go and the dream had been crushed. Negative thoughts rushed in on him, Didima would not let this slip now, the league would find out about his “ringer” and even the precious point would be taken away, then there was the fine and the distinct possibility that the club would decide it was time to find a new coach. Things could not be worse, but then in the last minute of the game they suddenly were. With the referee looking at his watch, Didima launched a final attack in search of the winner they thought was rightfully theirs, but the ball played in to the striker was too strong and it was obvious he would not be able to control it, unfortunately, in his efforts to reach it he passed very close to Giannakopoulos. The briefest of touches was enough, the Didima player hit the plastic grasping his left knee, his face a twisted rictus of gothic agony, Giannakopoulos’ infamous reputation sealed it, without hesitation the referee blew his whistle and pointed to the penalty spot.

  On the bleachers the crowd, who had watched the minutes since Didimas’ equalising goal in sullen silence were quickly back in action, as one they were on their feet screaming abuse at the referee, Spiro Karamis spat out his Marlboro, which burned the earlobe of the man directly in front of him, shook his fists and loosed an hysterical tirade at the hapless official, he was going to kill him! And his wife! And all his family! And if he could find any, all of his friends also! Sofia Hadjadakis described so graphically what she was going to do to him, the man beside her, who she had hugged and kissed less than an hour earlier, winced, it wasn’t so much what she intended to bite off, it was what she planned to do with them afterwards that made him feel slightly queasy. The only man still in his seat was George Karamis who leaned on his stick and shook his head sadly, poor Costas, he thought, no one deserves such bad fortune. Over in the dug out, Costas was back in his default position.

  After the referee had issued Giannakopoulos with his obligatory yellow card he placed the ball on the spot, the wounded Didima forward, realising he had been generously rewarded for his theatrical performance, got quickly to his feet and prepared to take the kick, he paced out an impressively long run up and upon hearing the whistle, sprinted in. Sometimes it’s just your day, Dimitri Stamos had played the game of his life and he was determined not to end up on the losing side, he guessed that, with such a long run up the only thing the approaching striker could do was hit the ball straight, he stood his ground and when it rasped toward him, going just right of centre, he managed to get a hand on it, thus deflected the ball smacked against the cross bar and sailed off downfield, twenty metres out it reached the sulking Giannakopoulos who helped it on to the halfway line, in the centre circle stood Rudi, two Didima defenders and the dreaded Mitsotakos.

  Rudi fastened on to it, he was on the point of complete exhaustion and as he started up field into enemy territory he saw with a heavy heart that both of the defenders were coming with him, leaving Victoras to make his way toward goal alone, praying to every saint he could remember that Rudi would not need him. As the German boy reached the edge of the area the goalkeeper, never one to learn from previous mistakes, came roaring out. Rudi saw him and prepared to repeat the chip that had brought the first goal. One of the defenders guessed what was coming and stuck out a leg at the perfect moment, the ball hit the heel of his boot and spun away, directly into the path of Victoras Mitsotakos fifteen metres out and once again with an open goal. Like a rabbit caught in headlights he watched it come toward him, he said a final prayer, this time to the blessed virgin herself and swung his boot. He scuffed it, as everyone knew he would, it bobbled away. In the dugout Costas turned his back and placed his hands on the top of his head, he could no longer bear to look. He was therefore the only person in the stadium not watching when the ball made its way into the goal mouth, struck the inside of the left hand post, before rolling slowly and majestically across the line, with just enough momentum left to gently kiss the back of the net.

  Extract from the Oxford shorter English dictionary

  PANDEMONIUM: noun, wild and noisy disorder, originally from the Greek: PAN (all) and DAIMON (demon)

  For the last time on that never to be forgotten evening, the crowd was on its feet and this time they were up to stay, George Karamis included. They danced, they sang, they threw their arms around each other, some even wept. Mitsotakos was off and running towards halfway, he pulled the hem of his shirt from his shorts, rammed it over his head and ran blindly, arms outstretched, from inside the shirt came muffled screams of joy, reaching the centre of the pitch he lay down on his back. The referee approached and showed him a yellow card for “Excessive celebration” and later that evening told his wife that if he had pulled out a dead cat or a loaded gun he would have got the same reaction, Vic took his shirt down and beamed back at him. The referee had seen enough, he
put his whistle to his lips and blew two long blasts, the game was over. Rudi retrieved the ball from the net and walked back downfield shaking his head and braying laughter, what an experience! And what a story he would have to tell his team mates in the Bayern Munich youth squad when he returned home the next day. The rest of the Katsimila team headed into the goalmouth to hail the real hero of the hour, they hoisted Dimitri Stamos, who had already somehow found a cheroot and the means to light it, on to their shoulders took him on a lap of honour, as they passed the bleachers the crowd yelled “BRAVO!” at the top of their lungs.

  In the dugout on the halfway line Costas Capellas sat and watched the happiness, the Didima coach came by, grudgingly shook his hand and congratulated him, he sat back down and enjoyed his moment. So they had bent the rules a little, and they might yet get caught, it was worth it to see so many joyful faces. It might be, as Maria would have it, a silly game, and tonight had been one of the silliest he had ever seen, but he loved it and could not see himself wanting to do anything else. He left the bench and went to join the celebrations.

  The stadium was empty once again, the revellers had departed to raise their glasses and tell their stories on the terrace of the hotel Artemis, Costas could hear the noise from where he stood in the centre circle. A long season lay ahead but he could find it in his heart to look forward to it now, spurred on by tonight’s victory his little band of heroes might just have enough confidence to mount a real challenge, or at least to finish above bottom place in the league. Looking around he saw that he was not alone, on the bleachers a solitary figure was still sitting, he walked over, as he drew closer he smiled.

  “Well George what do you think?”

  Karamis leant forward on his stick, “I will tell you this Costa, you have cheated, do not deny it, you have bent the rules way beyond what is good. But I’ll tell you something else, you have made a lot of people happy tonight and that is worth more than all the rules in the book”