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Klopp sighed as he rewrote his latest plan for the eighth time that evening. The upcoming trip to Old Trafford had left his team excited and frightened at the same time--and apparently the press reflected this. Everybody was asking the same question: was Liverpool’s first win at Old Trafford in six years simply a fluke of desperation? Can Klopp do it without motivation?
“Of course I can, Jamie Redknapp!” Klopp yelled, slamming the desk. “What do you think I am, some old, gray-haired, weirdo from the German middle of nowhere? I won the UCL, that’s something!”
“Who are you talking to at 6:30 in the evening, Jurgen?”
With a chuckle, Pepijn Lijnders popped into the room. The Dutch sidled into the office, taking a bratwurst from Klopp’s desk, which earned him a slap from the German.
“Watch it!” Klopp pulled the plate closer to him, groaning when his laptop slammed shut. “Those are my bratwurst you’re dealing with here! Ugh, stupid, damn, crappy laptop! Who opened the damn windows anyways? It’s too damn windy here! And stupid crap lamp! It probably added fifteen damn minutes to my work! And this damn pen is as light as a beach ball, and the crappy desk is two damn centimeters too short--”
“Whoa, Jurgen!” Lijnders grabbed Klopp before he could punch a hole in the wall. “What is wrong with you?! It’s like you just became the Hyde!”
“I have no damn idea what you’re damn talking about!”
Lijnders shook his head in disbelief. Klopp was one of the most relaxed people he knew, and it was unlike him to go berserk at his office furniture. For a while, he tried to figure out what was wrong--until he saw the mountain of papers on Klopp’s desk and frowned as he realized what was going on.
“Overworking again?” Lijnders scolded Klopp. “Jurgen, you’ve been doing this since last March. It was working before, but now it’s not. You need to take a break.”
“But the boys! If I don’t have a plan, we’ll fail at Old Trafford, and then the press will be right! And I hate Jamie Redknapp! And Gary Neville is just a COMPLETE pain in the damn--”
“Look at this mountain of paper!” Lijnders argued, holding up a particularly large pile. “I think you planned enough, Jurgen. We’ll be just fine.”
But Klopp still wasn’t sure. “What if Ronaldo decides he’s not having a hip flexor problem that day and wants to play?”
“Who cares?” Lijnders chuckled. “If Leicester can wipe the floor with Christi-Lame-O Ronaldo, then we’ll do even better! We’ll assassinate their bils!”
“I don’t want their bills!” Klopp roared, shuffling his papers again. “I have enough problems with my own bills! And Raneildo must have some hefty bills--”
Lijnders facepalmed in frustration. Thank goodness he’d picked up some German from working with Klopp so long. “Their Hinterns, you absolute heini!”
“Alright.” Klopp finally set the papers down, rising from his desk. “But the desk is still two inches too short today.”
“Whatever,” Lijnders smirked, opening the window for some actual fresh air. “Guys night at my house?”
“Let’s do it,” Klopp agreed. “I’ll drive.”
“No, you will not drive,” Lijnders insisted. “I’ll drive, okay? You need an actual break.”
“Fine. But Gary Neville’s still a pain in the damn butt.”
“Jurgen!”
*
To be fair, Klopp was very much looking forward to hanging out with the rest of the coaching staff. Just like the Liverpool players were close with each other, the staff had known each other for years (whenether they liked it or not).
So when Vera ran into the office just before they were about to leave for Lijnders’ house and told Klopp that the Dutchman had sprained his elbow, Klopp couldn’t believe his bad luck.
“Pep!” Klopp finally located Lijnders standing on the pitch with his arm in a sling. “How’d you sprain your elbow?”
“Lifted too many boxes,” Lijnders admitted, facepalming at his own error. “I knew I should have got Jim. Now we’ll never have our guys’ night out.”
“We can have a guys’ night in,” Klopp tried. “Maybe we lock ourselves up in the meeting room and have the boys hang out with each other?”
Lijnders sighed, a clear sign that he wasn’t convinced. Before Klopp could find something else to say to him, a few more figures appeared in the setting sun.
“John? Andreas? Pete? Claudio? What are you doing here?”
“What’s this stuff about a ‘guys’ night in’?” Taffarel wondered aloud. “Because I thought it was called a ‘guys’ night out’. And what’s wrong with Pep? Why the long face?”
“Pep wanted to drive us to his house for a guys’ night, but he sprained his elbow and can’t drive,” Klopp explained as briefly as he could. “Now he’s feeling bad about it.”
“Hey, come on Pep.” Kornmayer walked around Lijnders so that he was facing him. “Look, you don’t have to drive. We can take my car, okay? And I’ll drive us to your house. It doesn’t have to be a total disaster.”
“You’ll do that?”
“Of course I can, Pep!”
Lijnders almost crushed the air out of Kornmayer’s lungs.
*
Soon the six were loaded in Kornmayer’s car, driving into the downtown area. Kornmayer was driving and Taffarel was in the passenger’s seat, and Klopp, Lijnders, Achterberg and Krawietz were squeezed in the back.
“If the police pull us over for not wearing a seatbelt, this is your fault, Andreas,” Klopp grumbled. “If we had just taken the bus, we would have had plenty of space.”
“Oh, lighten up, Jurgen,” Kornmayer scolded him. “Maybe we should turn on some music.”
“If Torsten lightens up, he’ll disappear!”
Kornmayer flipped on BBC Radio and switched it to the music channel. But all that played was…
The Backstreet Boys.
“Tell me why! Ain’t nothing but a heartbreak! Tell me why! Ain’t nothing but a mistake! Tell me why! I never wanna hear you say…”
“Oh no, this piece of crap again?” Klopp facepalmed in disgust. “The Backstreet Boys are history! They made that song before I retired!”
“Actually, it was the same year you retired,” Lijnders corrected him. But he still had his arm wrapped around his ears. “But no, I can’t stand this song again. Change it, please Andreas!”
Kornmayer shrugged and switched the station to NPR UK.
“Heal the world! Make it a better place! For me and for you and the entire human race! There are people dying…”
“Not this again!” Achterberg groaned. “Why don’t we just go and hack into Jurgen’s speakers and blast Dutch music from them again?”
“John, NO!”
“If you want to know why there's love that cannot lie, love is strong, it only cares of joyful giving…”
Kornmayer sighed, sliding a CD into the player.
“She was more like a beauty queen from a movie scene, I said don't mind, but what do you mean, I am the one?”
“Now this is more like it,” Klopp approved, but it didn’t last long. Because apparently Lijnders decided this was a perfect time for a car karaoke session.
“People always told me be careful of what you do/ And don't go around breaking young girls' hearts--”
“Pep, stop it for the love of Mainz!”
“And mother always told me be careful of who you love/ And be careful of what you do 'cause the lie becomes the truth!”
As if to make things worse, Krawietz and Achterberg decided to join in.
“Billie Jean is not my lover! She's just a girl who claims that I am the one! But the kid is not my son!”
“No, you three!” Klopp couldn’t believe his predicament. “Stop it! Enough! No more singing!”
“For forty days and forty nights, the law was on her side/ But who can stand when she's in demand/ Her schemes and plans…”
Kornmayer fast-forwarded before Michael Jackson began doing his MJ screams and their “new karaoke trio” could try and emulate.
“It's close to midnight, something evil's lurking in the dark/ Under the moonlight/ You see a sight that almost stops your heart…”
“Well, that’s very soothing!” Klopp retorted. “Ultimate lullaby!”
“You try to scream/ But terror takes the sound before you make it/ You start to freeze/ As horror looks you right between the eyes/ You're paralyzed…”
“Oh, no thank you, Jackson! You stay paralyzed, I’m stayin’ alive!”
“Jurgen, could you shut up and enjoy the ride?” Kornmayer snapped.
“'Cause this is thriller, thriller night/ And no one's gonna save you/ From the beast about to strike/ You know it's thriller, thriller night/ You're fighting for your life inside a killer, thriller, ow!”
“No, thank you, beast!” Klopp didn’t shut up, instead continuing with his sarcasm show. “I’d like some more time with my boys, please! I’m not that old yet?”
“And the kid is not your son?” Lijnders shot back, raising an eyebrow. “See what I did there?”
“I'm gonna thrill you tonight/ Darkness falls across the land/ The midnight hour is close at hand/ Creatures crawl in search of blood/ To terrorize y'all's neighborhood (I'm gonna thrill you tonight)”
“THIS is called children’s music?!” Achterberg roared, quickly closing Google before anybody could see he’d just Googled the fact. “What kind of children’s song has this stuff in it?”
“Change. The. Stupid. Song.”
Taffarel stuck in another CD before Kornmayer went to play “Beat It”.
“Dog goes "woof”, cat goes "meow", bird goes "tweet" and mouse goes "squeek"/ Cow goes "moo", frog goes "croak"/ And the elephant goes "toot"...”
“They do not!” Taffarel pointed out. “Misinformation spreader!”
“It’s your CD, Claudio,” Klopp chuckled. “You deal with it!”
“Ducks say "quack", and fish go "blub"/ And the seal goes "ow ow ow"/ But there's one sound that no one knows/ What does the fox say?”
“Who cares?!” Klopp snorted, and the whole car erupted in laughter.
“Well, I only care about one thing,” Lijnders interrupted. “Getting dinner. Are we at my house yet, Andreas?”
“Well…” Kornmayer faltered as he stopped the car. “Hey, why don’t we take a little walk? I’m cramping up here.”
The six filtered out of the car, confused at Kornmayer’s sudden decision to stop. But soon, everybody had the same thought in their heads.
“Andreas.” Klopp calmly broke the silence as he faced his compatriot. “Where are we?”
Kornmayer froze as he stopped examining his surroundings, slowly facing Klopp. “I…don’t know?”
“ANDREAS!” everybody groaned.
“Sorry…”
“Apparently,” Taffarel groaned, “you got so caught up being ‘DJ Andreas’ that you forgot you were actually driving somewhere. How we haven’t crashed is beyond me! How could you forget the destination, you idiota?!”
“Umm…”
“My house isn’t that far from Pep’s,” Klopp offered, more helpfully. “Perhaps we can drive there and then see what happens?”
Kornmayer instantly perked up at that suggestion. “Yes, let’s do that.”
Everybody piled back into Kornmayer’s car, and Kornmayer eagerly hit the pedal. But just a few minutes after restarting the drive, the dashboard flashed red.
Half a mile more of gas before running empty.
“What. The. Crap.” Kornmayer slammed a fist on the dashboard in frustration. “Half a mile? Jurgen, how far away’s your house from here?”
“About three miles. We’re never getting there on half a mile’s worth of gasoline.”
“And I’m hungry!” Taffarel moaned.
“Nobody’s interested in satisfying your enormous appetite!” But Kornmayer stopped as soon as a very audible growl sounded from his own stomach. “And now my appetite decides to rebel.”
“Hey, there’s a place to eat a third of a mile from here!” Krawietz announced, slamming the “close app” button on Google Maps. “Maybe if we hurry, we can get there before the gas runs out.”
Kornmayer pressed the gas, and soon they were speeding down the freeway, racing time. By the time they got to the aforementioned building, the gas had just reached almost empty.
“Wait a minute,” Taffarel pointed out, tapping the dashboard. “I thought we had half a mile left.”
“Probably because we kept these running.” Krawietz pointed to the CD player and the AC unit. “They sapped all the energy.”
“Whatever.” Kornmayer opened the doors before the gas could run out and they’d be locked inside the car. “Alright, let’s get inside, folks!”
“See, Pep?” Klopp shrugged as he helped the Dutch out of the car. “I told you it wouldn’t be a total disaster. Just call it ‘Guys’ Night, Chaos Edition’?”
Lijnders rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help smirking.
*
As soon as the six walked into the restaurant, they could see it was a little…different than most restaurants. For example, there were considerably less tables and chairs, and not a child in sight. There was neon and strobe lighting everywhere, disco balls hung all over the ceiling, there was a stage, and a lot of people were dancing.
Wait a minute…
“Andreas Kornmayer.” Klopp gripped him by the shoulders. “Do NOT tell me you have just brought us to a NIGHTCLUB.”
“It’s not my fault!” Kornmayer protested. “Pete said that it was a restaurant!”
“Oh, seriously?” Krawietz shot back. “Well, maybe if Pep had just asked for help with those boxes, maybe he wouldn’t have sprained his elbow and drove instead!”
“Oh, REALLY?” Klopp jumped in front of Lijnders, staring Krawietz down. “You’re going to blame Pep? Well, why don’t we blame Claudio for being a LAME CAR DJ?”
“Well, then.” Taffarel crossed his arms. “Why don’t we blame you for hating every song we played?”
“Is nobody SERIOUSLY going to blame John?” Lijnders shouted. “We’ve blamed everybody but John!”
“YOU IDIOT! I did nothing!”
“Just wait, heini, I’m very sure you did something!”
“YO, DJ, PUMP THIS PARTY!”
Everybody froze at the overly familiar voice.
“Konstantinos Tsimikas…” Klopp pushed his way to the stage, followed by the rest of the staff. There they were greeted with the weirdest sight.
Kostas Tsimikas at a turntable, acting as DJ.
“Kostas!” Klopp ripped the headphones off the Greek. “What are you DOING here?! You’re a professional footballer! You’re supposed to be asleep, and now you’re at a NIGHTCLUB?!”
“Well…” Tsimikas motioned around him. “Everybody does. See, Leandro Trossard does the drinks. Mesut Ozil runs the lights, and Sergio does the appetizers!”
“Anybody want a ham?” Sergio Reguilon called out, holding up a gigantic chunk of pork. “Smoked or salted, choose your flavor!”
“Kostas!” Klopp insisted. “I don’t care if you and these guys run a nightclub! We’re Liverpool Football Club! We’re not Manchester City, we have standards! Unlike Arsenal, we’re an example to the next generation of footballers! We have a game in two days! Versus Man. United, no less!”
Tsimikas shrugged, draining a can of something strange. “I won’t be playing anyways.”
“You can’t think like that, Kostas! What if Robbo gets injured at the last minute? And what are you drinking?”
“Chill out, it’s only ginger ale,” Tsimikas brushed the concern off, tossing the can away. “I’ve only drunk five cans of it. I’m not drunk yet.”
Lijnders grabbed the can. It turned out that Tsimikas was telling half of the truth--the “ginger ale” was actually spiked ginger ale.
“Kostas!” Lijnders yelled. “This is 20% alcohol per volume! And you drank five cans?”
But Tsimikas was gone. Instead of acting as DJ, he was on the dance floor.
“Oh, crap,” Klopp groaned, facepalming.
“Language, Jurgen!” Taffarel scolded him. “We’re in a public area!”
“If there was any time that saying ‘oh, crap’ in a nightclub could be excused,” Klopp sighed, positioning the microphone, “this would be it.”
“GO HOME!” he yelled into the public address system. He spotted three dancers in skin-tight, crop-top tankinis and feathered headdresses and boas. “Put some clothes on! No alcohol above 4% volume!”
“Let’s party!” Tsimikas slurred, leaning against one of the barstools. Clearly, he was drunk. “All night, folks!”
“That’s it,” Taffarel announced, grabbing Tsimikas’ arm. “We’re going home. I’ll call Hendo to pick us up.”
“Let life go, man!” Tsimikas drawled as Taffarel led him away. “As I always say! Let the good vibes thrive, right?”
Kornmayer flipped off the strobe lights. Now a regular white light coated the room, and the crowd began to protest, throwing things at the stage.
“Let’s get out of here!” Klopp called, spotting the bus, driven by Henderson, pulling up at the door. “Bar’s closed, everybody! Go home!”
*
The next morning, Klopp took his seat at the head of the table and proudly looked over the team. Everybody was at their place, eating breakfast--except for one noticeably empty chair.
“Where’s Kostas?” Salah mumbled in between mouthfuls. “Is he okay, boss?”
“He has a headache,” Klopp explained, shuddering at the memory of the night before. “He’ll be back down in a week.”
“A week?!” Matip exclaimed. “What kind of a headache takes a week to heal?”
“Oh, his headache will be gone by afternoon.” Klopp smirked, winking at the coaching staff. “Then he’ll be grounded the rest of the week.”