––––––––
It was a definite dive, thought George. But what did he care; the resulting penalty provided him with a gilt-edged opportunity to bag his hat-trick. Kosak, the inside-left, had flown into the penalty area but the ball was already running away from him. The defender’s shadow had barely encroached on his space when Kosak threw himself on the ground, clasping his ankle and screaming as if it’d been hacked off. The referee charged to the scene, his whistle clamped in his mouth and pointed to the spot. The Union players made a show of complaint, if simply for the sake of decency. The crowd cheered in anticipation of a three-goal victory and a hat-trick for their dashing rising star, now standing over the ball.
George placed the muddied ball on the penalty spot and took four carefully paced steps back. His first goal, late in the first half, was a far post header; his second, minutes later, was a low, powerful drive from fifteen yards out. And now the third beckoned...
The crowd hushed. Before him, stood the Union goalkeeper, his knees bent, his hands comically big in their oversized gloves. The image of his father flashed across his mind as it always did in life’s big moments. There he was, standing between two piles of coats, telling his son to keep his eye on the ball.
The referee blows his whistle. One step, two, three... shoot! The goalkeeper dives the wrong way. He looks on helplessly as the ball almost trickles over the line and nestles in the far left corner, barely rippling the net. The ’keeper slams his fist on the ground in frustration but George doesn’t notice: he’s already halfway down the pitch, skipping with delight, acknowledging the crowd’s rapturous applause. His colleagues slap him on the back and ruffle his hair. He looks up into the stands and sees his mother in her usual place, jumping with joy. There’ll be tears in her eyes, tears of pride tinged, as always, with sadness that her husband wasn’t around to see another momentous occasion in George’s footballing career.
George’s third goal takes the sting out of the contest and the last twenty minutes are played out as a formality. With ten minutes to go, Bordas, the manager, substitutes him. George is delighted – being able to exit by himself, secure in the knowledge that the applause is his alone. Sure enough, the crowd stand to show their appreciation, their smiling faces and cheers reflecting the joy in his heart.
Bordas welcomed him with a solid shake of the hand, the gaps between his teeth showing beneath his smile. ‘Good lad, well played,’ he said. ‘Bring on the Soviets, eh?’
George laughed and, taking the tracksuit top offered to him, trotted off down the tunnel and down the stairs, his football boots echoing on the concrete steps. The dressing-room was empty but the noise of the crowd was still present, though dulled and distant, like the faraway crashing of waves. He rolled down his socks, removed the shin pads, and rubbed his calves. Three goals! What a feeling; his mind was still buzzing with the excitement, his muscles still tense with adrenaline.
‘Bring on the Soviets,’ he said to himself, repeating Bordas’s war cry. ‘We’ll knock them for six.’
The game against Moscow Lokomotiv, a fortnight away, was nothing more than a friendly but the thought of beating the Soviet Politburo’s third favourite team was the stuff of dreams. How his father would have loved it, seeing his son score against the country’s political masters. Any snub against Soviet supremacy, even on the football field, was worth paying to see.
‘Football is a game of psychology, a game where the confidence trickster wins.’ He could hear his father saying it, his pipe in the corner of his mouth, the smell of sweet tobacco on his breath. George closed his eyes and leant back against the tiled walls, the noise of the crowd lapping in and out of his consciousness; his father’s voice rising above the waves of sound: ‘Show them even the slightest hint of fear and you’re done for. Confidence in football, as it is in life, my boy, is the key to everything. Everything.’
George didn’t hear the dressing room doors open or the soft-soled shoes as someone crossed the tiled floor. Nevertheless, something made him sit up and open his eyes. With a lurch, he noticed the dark figure approach. ‘Sorry, you’re not meant to be in here,’ he said quickly, adding, ‘you can collect autographs later,’ although he knew full well that this short, middle-aged man with cat-like eyes, now standing in front of him, was no autograph hunter.
‘George Lorenc?’ asked the stranger. He had a round, moon-like face and a thin wiry moustache.
George’s stomach tightened. The man, with his hands in the pockets of his long cream overcoat, looked every inch a secret policeman, an AVO. ‘Yes?’ said George, unable to hide the nervousness in his voice.
The man smiled, his moustache stretching across the width of his face. ‘Mark Decsi,’ he said, offering his hand. ‘A good game today.’
George shook his hand. ‘Yes, it was OK.’
‘Ah, you’re too modest. It’s not everyday one scores a hat-trick. May I sit down?’ The man plonked himself on the bench so close that George had to fight the urge to inch away from him. Decsi looked at his watch. ‘Final whistle in a couple of minutes. I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself.’
‘Mark Decsi.’
‘I mean my responsibility and my reason for wanting to see you. You see, I am the player development officer for the Hungarian National Communist Football Team. In plain language – a talent scout.’
George’s eyes widened. ‘A talent scout?’
‘Indeed. And you, young man, are on my list.’
‘Really?’ Amazing, thought George, how he’d assumed the man to be a threat to his future; instead, he had the potential to be the maker of dreams. Suddenly, the invasion of his body space seemed inconsequential.
The two men heard the eruption of a cheer. The game had finished; soon the dressing room would be full with his team-mates. As much as he wanted to talk to this man, George didn’t want the others to see him; this was his moment and he had no desire to share it.
‘Your game in two weeks,’ continued Decsi, ‘against Lokomotiv – I’ll be there, as will be Comrade Gusztav.’ Had he heard correctly, wondered George, Sebes Gusztav, the national team manager? ‘Play like you did today, my boy, and Comrade Gusztav cannot fail to be impressed and you’d have every chance of a place on his team. What would you say to that, eh? Playing centre forward for your country?’
‘It – it sounds...’
‘Quite.’ Decsi rose abruptly to his feet, turned on his heel and marched quickly away, leaving the dressing room as George’s team-mates descended down the stairs and through the swing-doors. No one seemed to notice the short man in the long cream overcoat who slipped away as quietly as he’d appeared.
*
An hour later, George was walking home, striding home towards Pest, his mind reliving for the umpteenth time the brief conversation with the talent scout. Following Decsi’s exit, George’s team-mates had crowded round him, amidst whoops and cheers, and much handshaking and back-patting; jubilant in their own celebration and proud of their self-effacing, three-goal hero. Bordas was all smiles as he delivered his post-match dissection, congratulating George but emphasising the team effort. George tried to listen but his mind was too much a whirl to concentrate.
Following showers, the players dressed and talked excitedly of the coming evening and the bars they would crash and the girls they’d meet. But first they had to “voluntarily” endure the half hour lecture from the political advisor assigned to the team. After each game, they had to listen to another dirge on the glorious work being achieved by the Party, the need for vigilance, the supremacy of Stalin, and the wondrous future that lay ahead. Non-attendance was frowned upon but today George felt invincible. He slipped away before the lecture, asking the goalkeeper, Milan Ignotus, to vouch for him – a sick mother. He only hoped Kosak believed him. Kosak, the inside-left who’d won the penalty, was the only true communist amongst them, the only one who took his political obligations seriously.
George smiled as he crossed the Margaret Bridge into Pest. His team-mates would be in the midst of the lecture now, stealing glances at their watches, desperate to escape, desperate for a drink. He stopped and gazed at the river beneath him, the city lights reflecting in the murky water, the occasional car passing behind him, the fumes hanging in the air. The names of the national players floated in his mind – Puskas, Bozsik, Kocsis. He added his own, slipping it between the familiar names as if trying it out for size. He imagined himself in the famous red shirt and white shorts, standing shoulder to shoulder with these Hungarian giants. ‘This time two weeks...’ he said to himself.
If only his father could see it. He visualised him, with his pipe and brown suit, teaching the ten-year-old George to play with his right foot. ‘You have to play with both feet if you want to play for Hungary.’ He’d spent hours in the local park learning to shoot and tackle with his weaker foot.
In the two years following his father’s arrest, George lost himself in football. It was as if his very existence depended on it. He wanted to be as good as he could because one day, one day, his father would return, and he so wanted to impress him. He always had. His mother slowly began to embrace his enthusiasm, even learning the subtleties of the 4-4-2 formation and the offside rule. And as his proficiency improved, so the life returned slowly to her eyes.
The sound of a truck rattling behind him on the bridge brought George back to the present. His mother would be at home, preparing the evening meal, preparing to welcome home her conquering hero of a son. He couldn’t wait to tell her of his meeting with Decsi. All that stood in his way from realising his dreams was one of the Politburo’s pet teams, a bunch of over-hyped Soviets. This time two weeks, he thought, this time two weeks...