“Win it, and it’s 10 million euros.”
Those words repeated themselves in his head. “I need to form a team,” Jeffery Bridge decided.
He came to the Tuerkheim area, the Turkish quarter of town. He could hear a lot of noises. He glanced at his watch. Close to midnight. What could it be? He came closer to the source of the noises.
A group of young men was playing football by the empty road. He stopped by the railing to watch, interested. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, Bridge observed. He watched on. The ball bounced behind one of the youngster who had taken a step too early, or too far. But just when Bridge thought the attacking move was finished, that youngster stretched out his left leg and slammed the ball downwards. At the very next instant, he had somehow swung his body back in line with the ball, which had by then bounced up. A snap volley. The ball went straight between two cardboard boxes, presumably the goal. The opposing players raised their arms in mock despair, while that lad grinned and slapped the outstretched palms of his teammates. Someone said something. It was probably in Turkish. But Bridge knew very well that it signaled the end of the small game.
He also knew very well that he had found his first player.
The boys were getting ready to move. That lad put on his black leather jacket. Bridge went up to him.
“Good goal.”
The boy just looked at him, somewhat surprised.
“Do you have a moment?”
He nodded, and motioned for his friends to go on.
“Jeff Bridge.”
“Yusuf Korkmaz.” They shook hands.
“How long have you been in Germany?”
“I was born here.” Yusuf looked at Bridge strangely.
“You like football?”
Yusuf’s eyes glinted. “Very much.”
Bridge smiled. “Do you want to play for me? There is a tournament coming up. Five-a-side. Street. 10 million euros for the winning team.”
Yusuf’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“I am forming a team. I need you in my team.”
Yusuf was still hesitant.
Bridge gave him his name-card. “Call me when you have decided. We have about a month before the tournament starts.”
*
The next morning, Bridge was at a court near his house, watching some more youngsters play.
“That guy in white. He is good. You know him?” he asked the boy standing beside him.
“That?”
“Yeah.”
“Falchini.”
“Italian?”
“Yeah. His family came from Italy ten years ago. But there’s only his grandmother left now. Accident.”
“Oh.”
“He is a troublemaker.”
“What do you mean?”
“He gets into all sort of trouble with the school, with the law. He dropped out of school. Violence, I think. He was put in detention the other time round. He has a nasty reputation here.”
Suddenly, there were some shouting from the court. They turned to look. A fight had already begun. Falchini was in the thick of it. Bridge left, shaking his head. He wasn’t looking for a troublemaker.
*
He found himself next in a bakery. He bought some bread and stood by the glass window, eating. There was a young lad beside him.
“Nice weather,” Bridge said, trying to make conversation.
“Nice weather to play.”
“Play?”
“Football.”
Bridge was suddenly interested. “You like to play football?”
“Yeah. But I don’t think I am going to play from now on.”
“Why not?”
“I am out of the academy. They say they don’t have a place for me anymore.”
“Do you want to play for me?”
“You?”
“There’s a tournament coming up. Five-a-side. 10 million euros prize money. I am forming a team. Are you interested?”
“But you have never watched me play.”
“Look. Er, what’s your name?”
“Frank. Frank Lazymski.”
“Polish?”
“Yeah.”
“Ok. Look, Frank, I believe you are good enough, whatever they might say. You want to be like Podolski?”
“I am not a forward.”
“Ok, but we shall see how it goes. Here’s my contact. Just tell me when you want to join.”
“I want to play.”
“That’s good enough for me,” Bridge smiled. A reject could not be that bad.
*
There was a young man juggling the ball at the square. Bridge watched on. His technique was superb. His body movement was elegant. Fluid. It was like art. He looked like he could go on forever. But he stopped, trapping the ball neatly under his shoe, to applause from the onlookers. He took some photos with the people who had been under his spell. When they cleared at last, Bridge went up to the boy.
“Jeff Bridge. Wonderful ball control you have.”
“Corey Staelen. Thank you.”
“It is like art.”
Staelen laughed. “We try to do things beautifully. There is nothing better than to be acclaimed for your style.”
“That sounds familiar.”
“Cryuff said that.”
Bridge laughed. “You are Dutch?”
“Yeah.”
“Bergkamp’s my favourite player. I am an Arsenal fan.”
“Oh. Good attacking team. I like attacking football.”
“You want to play in a tournament? I am forming a team.”
Staelen was interested, and Bridge got his man.
*
Bridge chanced upon some lads having a kick-about. He joined in. At the end of it, he had found two more players. Best friends they were, Leo Warnecke and Marc Debuchy. French and German. Things were getting better and better.
*
“Your paella, sir,” the handsome waiter interrupted his thoughts. Bridge was now at a Spanish restaurant, looking at the Real Madrid memorabilia all over the restaurant.
“Thank you,” he said. “The owner must be a Real fan.”
“He is,” the waiter nodded, smiling.
“What about you? Do you watch football?”
“I am Barcelona through and through,” he said with pride.
Another waiter came up to them. It was around five, so the place was empty except for him. “Francisco was with the Barcelona youth team. They wanted to sign him, but he didn’t want to play professionally.”
“Why not?”
“I want to see the world,” Francisco shrugged and grinned at the same time. Bridge could tell this was a very confident young man. “That’s why I am here. Maybe a year on, I will be in France.”
Bridge laughed. “What about playing leisurely? I am forming a team. Would you be interested? We are going to take part in a competition. But it is not professional, so…”
Francisco Torres was the next person to join Bridge.
*
Bridge was back at the court a week later. He spoke to the boy whom he asked about Falchini that day.
“Where is the Italian boy today?”
“He hasn’t been playing. He comes sometimes, but he just sits and watches. His grandmother just passed away, so things are a little hard for him. Oh, there he is.”
Bridge went to sit beside him. The Italian glared at the intruder in his private space.
“Falchini? I am Jeff Bridge.”
Falchini ignored Bridge’s hand.
“I guess things aren’t going well for you…”
Falchini turned his head. “My life is screwed up.”
“And so, you are giving up on football? How much does football mean to you?”
“You don’t know anything.”
“Maybe I do. Listen, football is your only form of redemption now.”
Their eyes met. That was how Bridge convinced the Italian rebel Paolo Falchini to play football again. He was that last player, the player to complete his team. Yusuf Korkmaz had called him to signal his intention to participate.
*
Bridge had gathered his team at an empty courtyard. Bridge had met the lads separately, to assess them if he hadn’t already done so on the first meeting. But it was the first time the team met. They introduced each other. Leo Warnecke, Marc Debuchy, Corey Staelen, Yusuf Korkmaz, Francisco Torres, Paolo Falchini and Frank Lazymski.
Bridge was banking his hopes on them.
