England where he grew up. What’s he supposed to say? Get out of my face, mother-fucking sons of

just as many bitches, or I’ll make sure none of you will ever see Chestnut Road Stadium from less

than two miles again?

He has to get away. No way is he staying there with a bunch of bigots, reeking of stale beer and

chips fried in oil that’s become syrupy. If simple English words are not enough, a modest use of

physical force might be the answer. Even with trees and bushes blocking one escape route and those

men the other, it shouldn’t be too much of a problem. If he can dive between them, something he has

done countless times during equally countless matches and training sessions, he should be able to run

away. There isn’t a single cell in his brain doubting he can outrun any of this unfit lot without even

breaking a sweat.

A wall of muscle and fat is enough to stop any rational thought for a few precious seconds. If

this is a game to them, it is played by rules he isn’t familiar with. And there isn’t a referee in sight. If

this is a team sport, he’s still alone. He misses his team-mates. They would stick up for him, and only

later ask him how the hell he got into this bloody mess.

At first, the attack is indiscriminate. The men simply kick and punch and shove whatever they

can hit. There’s even some hesitation in their action, like they are still not 100 % sure of what they’re

doing. Perhaps it’s the remnants of human decency refusing to give up resistance this early. Six

against one can hardly be called fair. Even more than that, he is one of the men who helped in

changing their barely hanging on in the lowest regions of the Premier League club into something they

can proud of because there’s actually something to be proud of. He is a name on a shirt, a name called

by the announcer at their home games almost every match, a name in the Chronicle, a name they chant

because fuck, did you see how he took the ball and passed it so razor sharp to Kirkby it can only be

called pure science. Is it too much to hope for that? Recognition of a job well done?

Steve doggedly gets up every time he’s worked to the ground, tries to fight them off. It hurts,

but he’s had worse. He isn’t afraid to use his body; he’s not unfamiliar with its working and with the

discomfort that comes with using it in a way that’s perhaps ill-advised. If this doesn’t stop very soon,

he’s in risk of tearing several muscles. And at his age and in this line of work a position in the starting

Eleven is easily lost. But more than that, he doesn’t want to confront Daniël with bruises on his body

and face when they see each other again. How does a grown man manage to get in this kind of trouble

during a walk in a city that at worst shrugs off his existence as just one of the many, but mostly has

shown so much affection?

One of the men boots him hard enough at the back of his knees to make him hit the ground so

violently it knocks the wind out of him. His head whips so hard against the pavement it makes him

swoon. Even though a less trained man would fall even worse than he does, he soon realises this is the

point where he no longer is able to get up. He keeps trying though, because blind instinct goes on long

after the sane mind has drawn its conclusion.

He shouldn’t have forgotten his mobile phone. Daniël has teased him often enough that he

seems to prefer carrier pigeons instead of modern means of communication. If he hadn’t misplaced

the stupid thing... but, honestly, what does it matter now? The next match will be played without him,

no matter how many phones he might have been holding in his hand.

He tries to look them in the face. They have to know he’s human. They have to be reminded of

their own humanity. But the smile he sees on the faces of every single one of them makes him

strangely relieved, grateful even, that Daniël is at home, safely in bed, hopefully having a nice dream

about the next time they’ll see each other.

They now start to make serious work of venting their frustration about whatever is bothering

them about life in general and him in particular. Something inside him wishes that later, when he sits

in front of a nice and understanding (they have special training, he’s almost certain of that) police

officer (no man or woman these days, it’s called officer) he can say that it all went so fast, that he

hardly was aware of what happened. Or that he’s able to witness his own suffering from a safe

distance, like he once read in a magazine article during the flight to an away game. But his brain

refuses to work like that; it doesn’t subtract even one second from any of the agonizing minutes. The

pain isn’t lovingly covered up by endorphins.

“He shouldn’t have come here. Not to this park or this city or our club.”

Kick in his stomach.

“I hate it when they pretend to be normal.”

Kick at his left side.

“You guys think this piece of Irish shit is the only poof in our club?”

Kick against his right hipbone.

“Kirkby?”

Kick in his crotch.

“Hey, no one talks shite about the skipper.”

Kick in his back.

“Sorry.”

Kick against his left hipbone.

“Levee? Only joking, boys, only joking.”

Kick against his breastbone.

“Not funny. But, seriously: any of the other foreign lads, perhaps?”

Kick against his right shoulder.

“Can hardly believe that Moreschi really is a man.”

Kick at his lower back.

“He’s the best striker we had in ages. Would be a shame.”

Kick in his belly.

“Dominguez?”

Kick right in the middle of his spine.

“Don’t be daft.”

Kick against his left shoulder.

“Any of the French guys?”

Kick against his buttocks.

“Nah...”

Kick against his ribcage.

They must not say Daniël’s name. They must not even think his name.

Kick...

“Daniël Borghart?”

The sound he makes stops the kicking for a second. Even he hears how different it sounds from

the grunts and groans that follow every time one of their iron-nosed boots and his body make contact.

Don’t you dare touch him, he wants to say: not with your eyes, not with your words, not even

with your thoughts. Don’t you dare to make him as dirty as your vile hearts. Hearing them say

Daniël’s name hurt something inside him their boots hadn’t been able to touch. It is not theirs to

defile, not theirs to even know about. It should have been loving parents, a respected coach, close

friends. Not them.

“So you get it up for Borghart? And does he like the idea you’re a bleedin’ bumfucker?”

“I don’t think so, or else why are you here, getting touched up by fairies?”

“Nobody’s stupid enough to open his mouth about stuff like that to his mates. They can say

whatever they want about it being normal, but I don’t want any poofs even looking at me and I know

for sure that’s the same for the Kinbridge Town boys.”

“Did you come here to get sucked off? Would have thought Kinbridge pays enough to order a

rent boy. Keep it discreet and all. Did we spoil your fun?”

“It would make Borghart sick if he knew you think of him when you’re playing with your

bloody prick. I bet there’s going to be a photo in the Chronicle of that boy being spotted with a nice

local girl in less than a month.”

They are like one man in their resolve to save their Kinbridge Town Football Club, the club

they claim is as important to them as their mother and first born, from him. A misplaced kind of

affection that has just as much the power of its own conviction as any form of love. Had he been the

praying kind, he would pray for their indifference.