Chapter Text
This begins in 2013, on a scorching, July morning, when football feels boring. Last year Spain won the Euro, and now Europe is waiting for the 2014 World Cup in Brazil.
Summer 2013 is empty. People broil in the Sun, their clothes stick to their sweating bodies; they swim in unwatched lakes, then drown in them, they laugh, they eat ice-creams and they drink cold Coke. The bubbles fizz in their mouths, making them intoxicated, lost in the sweet taste. But no sugar can replace football.
Last summer was better. Michael was watching almost every match he could wherever he found a place — in pubs, on the street, looking through windows, or in the living room, when his father was absent. He wanted to see a match in a stadium, feel the magic in the air himself. He even thought about taking the train to Poland and trying to get in a match, but he gave up on that idea before he could even start to hope for it.
Now there’re no matches, and he has nothing to look forward to. He has lost interest in life again. What’s worse, he can’t even afford Coke, so he has to face reality without a sweet illusion to cover it. No football, no Coke, no hope for any form of happiness.
The air in the room is thick and suffocating. No one in the house cares about regular ventilation. The boy is lying on the old mattress, riddled with holes. His state isn’t any better than its. He’s wearing worn-out clothes, covered with stains; his blond hair is cut unevenly, frayed at the ends. His body is full of scars and fresh wounds.
He’s staring at the ceiling. He’s listening. Very carefully.
Michael can perfectly recognize whether the day will be tolerable or whether he should expect a total disaster. The whole process requires just a few signals that the boy receives, deciphers and then interprets, allowing him to determine the most probable scenario.
Signal number one — his father is snoring in the living room. Signal number two — Michael didn’t wake up at the sound of the door opening, so Frederick hasn’t left the house today. The man has been on a binge drinking spree for four days, so his behavior is limited to a small set of actions: sleeping, waking up to drink some alcohol, and then falling asleep again. Observing him in this state is no pleasure for Michael and makes him feel depressed, but at least his father is too drunk to pay attention to anything other than a bottle.
Harder times are about to come. The shitty father can live like this only one, maybe two more days. After that, his body will start to reject alcohol, and the man will begin to sober up. Then he will become aggressive and explosive, turning Michael’s life into a living death. At the mere thought made the boy’s chest tighten.
Alcohol rules Michael’s existence. It serves as a point of reference for every one of his thoughts, emotions and moves. Each thought begins with alcohol and ends with it — even if he has never had touched the stuff and swears he never will.
He stands up and looks around. The room reflects his state of mind. Dirty, messy, foul-smelling, with mold all over the walls. Michael believes he is the mold that infected his parents’ lives the moment he was born. And who wants mold in their life?
Anyway, he is hungry. Searching the fridge is pointless; he knows that. The old sausage he ate yesterday was the last piece of food in the house. He doesn’t want to touch the money he has saved, nor steal anything today. Eventually, he decides to ignore his needs and focus on something else.
He has to endure. A few more years, and he can leave and never come back. This perspective is keeping him going.
Michael looks through the window. The view of the courtyard doesn’t make him optimistic, but the summer weather always encourages him to go outside and enjoy moments of freedom.
Despite the temperature, he puts on a hoodie. It’s an instinct, a desire to hide his body and existence in some way. Then he grabs his greatest treasure, the ball he bought himself for his birthday, and practically runs out of the room, longing to breath in some fresh air.
“Fuck this slut…”
Michael’s heart stops on an unbearably long second. Fuck. He let his guard down and didn’t notice his father had stopped snoring.
He looks at Frederick out of the corner of his eye. The man is sitting on the couch, muttering meaningless shit to himself. He’s wearing only boxers and a worn-out, dirty white undershirt that barely contains his beer belly. Fortunately, he doesn’t seem to notice his son.
Michael hates to see his father in this state. The worst thing is that he rarely dares to see Frederick in any other version. Only occasionally, when he sobers up and claims he will change their lives, promising unbelievable stuff. The boy feels embarrassed for the fact he always believes his father.
When Michael puts on his shoes and is about to leave the flat, he hears the scream. “There's nothing left! You stupid brat, I know you took it from me!!! I'll kill you!!!
Michael stole a lot of things in his life. Yet he has never found the courage to touch the alcohol. Never. It’s equal with a suicide.
Terrified and horrified by the noise, the boy looks over his shoulder. When he sees that his father isn’t even looking at him and can’t stand up, he just shrugs and opens the door.
***
“Piece of shit,” Michael mutters as the ball bounces back.
Playing with the ball (named Piece of shit) is the only activity that can truly cut Michael off from reality. As a result, it has become his obsession. He keeps finding new tricks he wants to master and doesn't stop until he succeeds. Michael would never admit it out loud, but he quietly believes he has potential. Yet hoping that this potential could ever help him become a professional football player, even in a second league team, is naive and pathetic, and Michael is painfully aware of that.
No good life for pieces of shit like him. Only drinking, eating, and sleeping, if at all.
Dribbling the ball, he makes a sufficient distance from the wall.
There’s one obstacle Michael can’t overcome — he has no one to play with. Of course, he has some… friends (if he can even call them that), but they’re criminals, shady guys he has to tolerate in order to survive. Michael can’t let them into his heart, where football is the only source of joy. They would probably ruin it, making his only passion dirty.
The disgusting graffiti of a woman seems to stare at him. Michael meets its gaze.
“Be my dog,” he says, kicking the ball.
As the ball flies towards the wall, Michael starts his run to intercept it when it bounces off.
The ball hits the graffiti’s ‘face’ and flies back towards its owner. Michael is already in the position. “Perfect pass, my dog.”
Michael jumps. The ball is at the perfect height, and he knows the exact moment. He can sense it as naturally as his own limb. If this is how pieces of shit live with each other in this world, the boy can accept being one of them. He performs the bicycle kick. And, to his surprise, he succeeds on the first try.
For a single second, he believes anything is possible. That he has the free will to be emperor of his own world. But feeling the ground a moment later reminds him how cruel reality is. He groans out from the pain in his back.
“Wow, that’s amazing!” The high-pitched, boyish voice is full of excitement. Then he switches to foreign language that Michael can’t understand, “You looked like a superstar!”
The embarrassment of being seen makes Michael spring to his feet. He instinctively flicks the dust from his clothes, even though they’ve been dirty for at least a week.
Michael faces the stranger, who turns out to be a boy, undoubtedly younger than him. But the most striking thing about the stranger is his nationality. Something about his eyes feels off… Where is he from? China?
The boy starts to juggle the ball with a big smile on his face. He plays with Piece of shit like it’s his own. Suddenly, a surge of aggression hits Michael — he wants to punch the boy and teach him some manners about touching someone else's stuff.
But he’s standing motionless. No, he can’t be like his shitty father. He promises himself this every time he looks in the mirror, staring into the eyes he inherited from father. His history can be different.
“Want play?” the boy asks. He kicks the ball a little bit higher and catches it with his hands.
Michael blinks a few times. He isn’t sure if he’s understanding correctly. The boy has a strong accent. Moreover, he makes so many grammar mistakes that Michael finds it hard to make sense of his sentences, even though he’s a native German speaker.
“Oh, sorry, not good to speak German,” he says, noticing a confusion on Michael's face.
The boy pulls a smartphone out of his pocket and starts typing on it. The first thought that comes to Michael's mind is to steal it, but he reins himself in immediately.
Then, the boy stops, and the device emits a sound. Hey, I saw your bicycle kick. It was amazing! I play football too, but I have no one to train with since I'm in Germany. Wanna play together? Colon, closing parenthesis.
Michael can only stare at him like a hopeless idiot. Finding an answer is harder than he expected. His confidence is completely shattered.
The boy must think that Michael still doesn’t understand what he’s trying to say, so he starts writing again.
Michael interrupts him, “Thanks. We can play together.” He’s surprised at how easily he agreed. “What’s…” he tries to use the easiest words, since he doesn’t own any devices that are able to translate. “...your name?”
The boy jumps in joy and approaches Michael. “My name is Isagi Yoichi!” he says carefully, and, surprisingly, with a strong German accent. He must have learned some basic sentences. “I'm from Japan. I come to Germany…” He can’t find words. He shows Michael two fingers. “Two months.”
Japan? Michael doesn’t know much about this country. But why would someone from Japan come to Berlin — the ugliest, most disgusting place in the world? A place where the only thing you can feel is the pure despair, sucking happiness into concrete walls and making the world overwhelmingly grey. Why would anyone want to come to a place Michael has wanted to leave his whole life?
Michael nods slowly.
Yoichi smiles. “What's your name?”
“Michael.”
Yoichi makes a strange face. “Micael? Mihael?”
Michael shakes his head. “No. M…” He gestures, encouraging Yoichi to repeat.
“M…”
“Ich…”
“Ich like in ich bin!” Yoichi enjoys his discovery. “Ich…”
“Ael.”
“Ael. M-ich-ael. Michael.”
Michael claps his hands. There’s a hint of irony in it, but Yoichi doesn’t seem to notice.
“Your name is Yoichi or Isagi? I don't know.”
Yoichi doesn’t understand. He looks like a lost puppy.
“YOUR. NAME. ISAGI. OR. YOICHI?” Michael is convinced that if he yells louder, Yoichi will understand.
“In Germany people go by their first name, so…” Yoichi says in Japanese. “Call me Yoichi.”
Finally, Michael thinks. Until today, he hasn’t realized how important a common language is for communication. Without it, the conversation becomes exhausting. “Okay, Yoichi, let's play.”
Suddenly, Michael hits the ball that Yoichi is still holding in his arms. The ball bounced off the ground. Michael controls it and starts to dribble.
Yoichi is just standing there, gazing at Michael's legs and can’t make a move.
“So fast. I can't keep up,” Yoichi says to himself.
Michael smirks. He doesn’t know what Yoichi is saying, but the boy’s reaction to his skills feeds his ego, and he feels motivated to show even more.
Michael kicks the ball with his heel. He passes Yoichi the moment the ball lands behind the Japanese. Then Michael shoots it with the whole strength in his leg. The ball bounces off the wall at full power and hits Yoichi in the face.
The boy falls. At first, it’s funny. But Michael didn't intend to hurt this innocent kid, and now he’s scared.
He kneels beside Yoichi. “Hey, are you okay?”
Yoichi covers his face with hands. His chest rises and falls slowly; he seems to be taking in every deep breath.
An irrational fear grips Michael. What is he supposed to do? Should he call for help? What if he gets blamed and lands in trouble? He can’t let the police come to his house and see how he lives. He doesn’t want his dad to go to jail or himself to end up in a children’s home. What to do, what to do… Yoichi still doesn’t move, and Michael can’t just leave him like that. Right?
“Hey! Say something to me, kiddo!” Micheal’s out of his mind, almost on the edge.
He grabs Yoichi by the shoulders, wanting to shake him. But at that exact moment, the boy starts to laugh. Yoichi takes his hands off his face, revealing a happy look on his face.
Yoichi exclaims with a fake English accent, “Goal!” He props himself up on his elbows. “Right in the middle!” He has a red, round mark on his face, which makes him look even more childlike.
Michael puts some distance between them and sits down on his buts. He crosses his arms over his chest and narrows his brows. He snaps, “Are you insane?”
Yoichi, hearing the serious tone of Michael’s voice, becomes serious. “What?”
“Are you that reckless to approach an older boy and play around with him without thinking about your safety? Where the hell are your parents?! Kids like you are practically made of glass, so watch yourself!”
Yoichi makes a stupid expression, which reminds Michael that this kid barely speaks or understands German. He stretches out his hand. “Give me your phone. Phone!” he yells, making sure Yoichi will understand what he wants him to do.
Yoichi obeys an order. Michael tries not to show that he’s holding a smartphone for the first time in his life. He once had a flip phone, but he sold it to save more money. Besides, a flip phone has nothing to do with a smartphone. How is he supposed to deal with these kinds of gadgets?
When he manages to turn it on, the screen shows him Google Translator. Michael has never used or seen anything like that before, but the real problem is the signs he can’t read. Stupid language.
“Change it,” he orders Yoichi, pointing at the signs.
When Michael gets the smartphone in his hand again, he tries to write his message to Yoichi. It turns out to be harder than he expected, and can’t shake the feeling of embarrassment that writing a short sentence is taking him that much time.
Finally, it’s done. Now Michael has to find the right button to make the device play. He presses the speaker symbol and then hears the foreign language spoken by a robotic voice. I can’t let myself get into trouble because of a reckless kid. Watch yourself, if you’re that fragile.
Yoichi wants to object, “I’m not…” He starts, but then he taps on the screen again. Michael is impressed by the speed of Yoichi’s fingers. I’m not a kid! I’m eleven! And don’t underestimate me, I’ve been playing football for as long as I can remember. I’m not afraid of a ball!
The content of Yoichi’s sentence, combined with the robotic voice and the boy’s childish expression, makes the situations so caricatural that Michael can’t help but laugh. “You’re eleven? I thought you were at most nine, you’re so tiny.”
Yoichi feels offended. “And how old are you?”
“Thriteen.”
Yoichi is surprised. “Thirteen? Not fiveteen at least? You’re big.”
“No. I’m normal. It’s just that you're small. Anyway, do you still wanna play? I don’t have time to stand here all day,” he lies. Actually, his time is unlimited.
Yoichi seems to catch Michael’s drift. He positions himself, waiting for the older boy’s first move.
Michael makes contact with the ball. Before he starts the action, he looks at Yoichi’s face. The face full of determination, brightening from curiosity and only curiosity — without desiring to crush anyone. It’s the face of a person who hasn’t experienced any bad thing in life and hasn’t done anything wrong. Until today, Michael hasn’t realized that people like that even exist, that they breathe the same air like him. He hasn’t realized that some people perceive reality the other way he does.
Yoichi and him are two people who receive reality in opposite ways. They’re completely different receivers.
Michael holds back a grimace, trying to focus his thoughts on Piece of shit. He starts to run with it close to his feet. Yoichi is chasing him, but his short legs are too slow, and Michael easily leaves him behind.
It’s not fun that way, Michael thinks, so he slows down, letting Yoichi catch up.
They stand face to face, analyzing each other, trying to predict the other one's next move. Michael thinks Yoichi’s so easy to read, but he decides to give him a chance.
Michael goes right, passing Yoichi, who reacts too late and too jerkily. His leg slides down on the grass, almost putting him into a split. The boy props himself up with his hand and gets back on his feet as fast as he can. He starts chasing Michael again, but he can’t keep up. Too slow, too weak. Michael can feel Yoichi’s frustration filling the air, making it dense and hard to breathe with a full chest. Still, he doesn’t want to give up. He tries again and again, but he can’t get a single contact on the ball.
Suddenly, Michael stops, showing the T gesture with his hands. “Time out.”
“No, I’m not… done… yet,” Yoichi replies, struggling to catch every breath.
Michael wipes the sweat from his forehead. He glances at the Sun above them, cursing at it silently. Then he sighs, closing his eyes. “It doesn’t make any sense, if you can’t touch the ball.” Saying that, he passes the ball to Yoichi. “Show me what you’ve got.” He takes off his hoodie, now wearing only a shirt. Ugh, I stink, he thinks.
Panting heavily, Yoichi’s eyes go wide. “Wow! You’re big! You know, muscles,” he says the last word in Japanese, giving himself a pat on the shoulder.
Michael is glad that Yoichi hasn’t noticed his scars, at least for now. “Let’s go.”
Their battle begins for the third time. Michael and Yoichi charge towards each other. Yoichi has the ball, dribbling it — or at least trying to.
Predictable, Micheal thinks. He could steal the ball easily, but he decides to wait. Maybe Yoichi will surprise him.
Yoichi passes him, heading for the goal — the wall covered in graffiti. He does it, because Michael allowed him to.
Yoichi shoots. The ball flies straight toward the center of the goal, but just before it gets there, something stops it. Michael’s leg.
Michael says, “You’re two steps behind with these moves, Yoichi.”
The ball lands somewhere on the grass.
“Noooo!” Yoichi yells theatrically, dropping to his knees down on the ground.
Michael approaches him, feeling awkward. “What are you doing? Stop acting like a clown. It’s not funny.”
Yoichi pockets out his smartphone. Am I really that bad I can’t even make you laugh? His fake sad eyes gaze at Michael as he holds out the phone.
Football is not a circus, Yoichi. Michael hands the smartphone back to the boy.
I’m just trying to turn the fact I’m a total failure into a joke. Your attitude just makes me even more devastated!
“Really? Being surpassed by some piece of shit like me in kicking a ball is the last thing that proves you’re a failure,” says Michael before he can overthink it. He hopes Yoichi doesn't fully understand his words.
Then the moment of silence falls. The sound of a loud rumble from Michael’s stomach breaks it. He could swear it hadn’t rumbled that loudly in his entire life.
Yoichi laughs, making the older boy flush with embarrassment. Michael feels the warmth creeping up his cheeks. Someone is hungry. Okay, you beat me three times, so I owe something to you. Come on.
Yoichi stands up. He heads in a direction, leaving Michael behind, but suddenly stops and turns back with a silly expression. Well… where exactly are we?
“Huh?” Michael walks over. “You don’t know?”
Actually, I got lost even before I met you. That’s why I’m here. He scratches his neck.
It does make sense. Michael lives in one of the poorest areas of Berlin, where poverty spills out of the windows onto the street. Yoichi, wearing branded clothes and holding a new smartphone, is like a gold ring at the local dump — shining, attracting thieves. Thieves like Michael, to be more precise.
“Don’t you have any GPS on that small computer?”
Yoichi blinks a few times, then starts searching on the device. “Oh, it’s that easy. Follow me!”
***
During their walk, Yoichi can’t stop typing on his smartphone, bombarding Michael’s ears with a robotic, unemotional voice. This place is so different from the part of the city I’ve been in.
Michael looks up at the grey apartment blocks that sprang up like mushrooms in the 20th century. Now they house thousands of Berlin residents, reminder of what life used to be like on the other side of the Berlin Wall.
The residential complex is a true labyrinth. The buildings look strikingly similar, and their playgrounds are almost identical. For a newcomer, a walk through it could easily become a loop, making you feel like you haven’t made any progress even though you’re constantly moving forward. Michael isn’t surprised that Yoichi got lost. It’s an urban jungle.
Walking isn’t that easy. The streets are narrow, and almost everyone owns a car these days, so the sidewalks are often blocked. Communist-era architects didn’t predict that people in the future would be able to afford such things. Michael and Yoichi have to walk on the street, then switch back to the sidewalks repeatedly, dodging cars all the time.
“You live in West Berlin? How in the world did you end up here?”
Yoichi doesn’t react immediately. He seems to struggle with deciphering Michael’s question. I fell asleep on the tram and woke up at the tram loop. So I decided to do a little trip.
They board tram. The yellow vehicle rattles along the tracks, jerking passengers from side to side.
“I bought us tickets,” Yoichi says when he returns to Michael. He sits in the seat behind him.
Michael blinks. He always rides without a ticket, running away whenever a ticket inspector comes aboard. Eventually, he just nods and looks out the window, keeping his ball together with his hoodie on his knees.
Michael hardly ever leaves his neighborhood. Every visit to another district feels like a big trip. The view changes gradually, and now he can see buildings from the 19th century — one of the city’s showpieces.
“It’s our stop,” Yoichi says suddenly, snapping Michael out of his thoughts. Michael follows his steps.
They step off the tram. Michael looks around and realizes the street feels familiar.
“We’re here!” Yoichi exclaims excitedly.
“Did we really make this whole pilgrimage for McDonald’s?” Michael asks, staring at the big golden ‘M’.
A blank expression spreads across Yoichi’s face. He pulls out his phone again. I thought everyone liked Coke and fries…
Yoichi breaks into a wide smile, exposing his white teeth. Michael touches his own teeth with his tongue, thinking, When was the last time I brushed mine?
“That’s not what I meant. But there’s a McDonald's near my house, so we didn't have to go all the way to the city center.”
“Oh. Sorry, I don’t know Berlin well enough,” he admits.
***
“Are you really going to eat all that?” Michael asks when Yoichi approaches their table carrying his enormous order.
Yoichi sits down opposite him. He ordered three hamburgers, chicken nuggets, three large fries, and a cold Coke, of course. He gives a little giggle. I’m starving — I could eat a horse!
Michael looks down at his Two for You meal. He didn’t want to order anything expensive; having a debt to some eleven-year-old would feel pathetic.
Yoichi folds his hands as if in prayer, closes his eyes, and says, “Itadakimasu.”
Michael, who is halfway to biting into his cheeseburger, puts it back on the table. Not really knowing what he’s supposed to do, he mirrors Yoichi’s gesture and mutters, “Amen.”
Yoichi opens his eyes, surprised. “Amen?”
Michael regrets even opening his mouth. “Didn’t you pray to Jesus a moment ago?”
“Jesus…” Yoichi repeats, thinking for a second. “Oh! No, no!” He waves his hands in front of Michael. “I don’t, I don’t. Eat.” He grabs a handful of fries and looks away, ashamed.
Michael presses his lips together nervously. Why is he such a creep? No one has ever taught him manners, but until today he never thought it was a problem. Now, being around someone so gentle and well-raised, he feels he doesn’t fit in at all. He can try to mimic certain behaviors, but they won’t cover his true nature. They won’t hide the fact he’s just a yahoo.
The first bite of food has a bitter taste. Every bite after is an act of pure hunger. Michael turns into an animal that hasn’t eaten in days. He eats and eats and eats, as if someone might show up any moment and snatch the food from his hands.
When he takes the last sip of his cola, his sanity returns. He feels disgusting. Nothing more than a stray dog born only to sleep, drink, and eat.
Yoichi still hasn’t ended his hamburger. Chewing slowly and carefully, he looks completely elsewhere, lost in thought. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem upset by Michael’s behavior.
Michael looks around. There are a few people in the restaurant besides them, but all of them are sitting far away from Michael and Yoichi. I must stink, Michael thinks.
Yoichi doesn’t seem to care about it, though. He must notice it, but he hasn’t made a single grimace that could make Michael feel insecure.
Finally, Yoichi starts speaking again, as if waking up from a daydream. “How it feels… talent,” he falters, struggling to form the sentence properly.
“What?” Michael freezes, thrown off by Yoichi’s sudden shift in mood.
Yoichi sighs. He starts typing on his smartphone. It takes him a long moment, long enough for Michael’s stress to grow with every second. What is he going to say? Finally, Yoichi taps the speaker’s icon and takes a sip of his cola through the straw, intentionally avoiding Michael’s eyes.
The device speaks. First, I’m sorry for my German. I understand a lot, but hardly ever get the chance to speak. Second, my defeat earlier really made me feel like a total failure. I’ve been playing football since I could write my name in kanji, but I couldn’t even get the ball during our battle. I’m not gifted with a strong body nor the imagination of genius. I didn’t realize that until today, when I faced you, the personification of both, and experienced absolute defeat. I’m aware of my weaknesses, but I refuse to accept I’m hopeless in the only thing that I thought I’m good at.
A lot of things come through Michael’s mind during that speech. One thought, louder than all others, bounces around inside his skull, echoing with every heartbeat. How should I react? How to be nice?!
Before he can even answer himself, Yoichi suddenly straightens up — so abruptly that Michael thinks he’s about to storm out of the restaurant and never look at him again.
But instead, Yoichi bows. He bends so low he nearly smacks his forehead against the table.
Michael jerks in his seat, stunned, staring at Yoichi like he’s just seen a ghost.
Yoichi screams, “So please, teach me! Please, be my master!”
Michael panics instantly. He feels every pair of eyes in the restaurant turn toward them. “Okay, okay! I can train you. Just sit down.”
Yoichi raises his head. His entire face is bright red. Seeing that, Micheal can’t help but blush as well.
Embarrassed, digging his nails into his thighs and staring out the window at people rushing by, Michael thinks, You have no idea how wrong you are. I’m not a genius. I’m just a piece of shit.