glimpse at one of them, they turn out to be as invisible as the saints and angels his nan told him about

when he was young enough to know he could actually see them if only he tried hard enough.

He’s absolutely everywhere. No sooner has he prevented a player of the rival team (A new guy

he never played against before? Why didn’t Degaré tell him?) from scoring or he’s at the other end

and he makes a goal that will be shown on TV over and over again. It’s such a beauty he knows Daniël

will be joining in with the others to make him disappear in a celebratory huddle. Before that happens

however he’s already somewhere else, assisting in the next goal. He hears the crowd.

Steve Gavan, he flies without wings,

Steve Gavan, defender of Kings.

But before he gets the chance to celebrate with his mates, with Danny, he’s right in the middle

of the next action. He plays like an angel, like the devil gone mad. He runs and takes the ball from

opponents he still doesn’t recognise. He knows Daniël and the others must be there. Someone plays

him the ball, so he can score and score again. And if he doesn’t kick the ball in the net, someone else

does from his passes that are so sharp and accurate there’s no way the net could have been missed. The

Kinbridge Kings have never been louder. No matter how fast he is, they follow him with their song.

Steve Gavan, he flies without wings,

Steve Gavan, defender of Kings.

He knows that some referees don’t like the players to make a full blown orgy out of a goal

celebration, but this one is extremely tight on the schedule. A chummy slap on his back from his

captain would be the least he deserves. Possibly a little hand-touching with Danny? Not even

Moreschi or Jensen or Kirkby make goals like this on a weekly basis, let alone a full back like him.

Perhaps this is just a friendly, merely something to use as practice for when it really matters.

But then, why doesn’t the crowd feel like it’s mainly for fun? He can always hear the difference

between being comfortably in the lead against an opponent they know through and through, and the

almost desperate faith they had in their team, during the relegation match the first season he played

for Kinbridge Town.

Steve Gavan, he flies without wings,

Steve Gavan, defender of Kings.

He keeps running, playing magic tricks with the ball. No one can touch him. He used to dream

as a little boy that one day he would play like this. This was when he was not yet aware that football is

team sport. That players remain in relatively fixed positions. That a lot of dull work is needed to make

those few brilliant moments even possible. That there’s a reason defenders seldom score. Or even that

he will become that quiet guy whose main role it is to stop a certain thing from happening.

He slides through the opponent’s defences. Alone. But he’s not alone. They’re all there. He

recites their names in his head. Kirkby, Moreschi, Levee... The ones who always play unless they’re

injured. Jensen, Jaworski, Dominguez...The ones who get a regular chance. Miller, Lain, Kowalski...

The ones who get at least as far as the bench. Portland, Celan... Even the ones who know they will be

in the transfer window at the next opportunity. Laporte, Devries... He knows they’re all there. They

must be all there. But he isn’t even sure who’s on the pitch with him, who’s on the bench and who’s

sitting on the terraces.

Steve Gavan, he flies without wings,

Steve Gavan, defender of Kings.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Daniël. He wants to jog in his direction, perhaps make a

little joke about the strictest referee in the history of football. But he’s already forced to make sure

their lead, although he has no idea about the score, stays as comfortable as it’s likely to be. Why this

frantic running for the ball? The first half surely is almost over and they can’t possibly lose unless

they walk out of the pitch, all eleven of them, and keep the goal open for whoever wants it. It must be

humiliating for the other team and their fans. Not that he even hears any of their singing and chanting.

Did they show up at all to support their team?

Steve Gavan, he flies without wings,

Steve Gavan, defender of Kings.

He’s getting tired. Forty-five, or even ninety minutes can’t be that long. The days when he was

twenty and could go on forever and ever have long gone. Games at this level, no matter how much he

loves to play, will soon cost more than he’s able to pay, as willing as he might be. The physical aspect

is not the most important element, even accounting for injuries and the fact that it takes more time to

recuperate from a match. Real decline goes much slower than that. No, the will to compete – to show

who’s the best, to prove beyond all doubt who’s worthy to lead, to mate, to become one of the stories

told around the fire during cold, dark winter’s nights – can only be the main driving force for a limited

amount of years.

Steve Gavan, he flies without wings,

He starts wondering why he’s running all over the place. Are there no mid-fielders to make the

game? No strikers to finish off the attack? No other defenders to keep the goalie from having to make

a dive for the ball? Some new tactic Degaré’s giving a try? The manager is known for his fondness of

experiments, for trying out unusual player combinations, to let them experience how it feels to play in

a different position. Nah, what’s happening here is not how this game is played.

Steve Gavan, defender of Kings.

Talking about the gaffer: why doesn’t he remind the ref time’s up? Or at least, why isn’t he

using any of the substitutes? It near to never happens that the starting Eleven is identical to the

finishing one, as far as Steve’s experience goes. Not at this level. Doesn’t the gaffer see he can’t go on

much longer? Are his team-mates blind? Can’t the skipper do something? Anything? He can’t believe

Daniël’s ignoring his desperate attempt to be taken out of the game, but why are the others ignoring

Daniël?

Steve Gavan, Gavan... without wings,

Gavan, Gavan ...

He no longer wants to be there. His body is aching, the wires in his brains are in overload, his

lungs are burning and his heart goes much too slow after having beaten much too fast. He’s reduced to

a machine shutting down. And still they sing and chant; for no one else but him.

*

All of a sudden, he knows where to look and he sees him. Sees it, more correctly. For Death is

neither man nor woman. Neither young nor old. Neither man nor beast. Neither angel nor devil.

“Take me with you,” Steve hears himself saying. “Take me from here, because I’m so tired. I

know you have stolen intensely wished for children from their mothers’ wombs as matter-of-factly as

you have ignored the prayers of old men until they had used up their bodies to bitter decline. You are

not impressed by kings and their armies. Money is of no help. Sometimes you pick up healthy men

during a match and you change everything for the ones around them. You make us wonder: am I next?

What makes me so different, so lucky, that I was not taken?

“You took my mother not long after I finally had the money to say to her, ‘Sit down, you’ve

worked long and hard enough. Now it’s my turn to take care of you.’ And I thank you for that, because

she welcomed you as her liberator, even if it broke my nan’s heart.”

Then insight dawns upon him. “I’m not on the pitch, am I? There is no referee, there are no

linesmen. No one is singing for me in the stands. There’s no other team. There’s no our team. It’s just