Playing the Moldovans At Tennis Read online

  I reached a decision, and I left the lavatories knowing that I had to follow the courageous course. I hadn't done anything wrong or behaved dishonourably, so why had I been skulking around in the karsy? If he decided to make things difficult for me then so be it. I wasn't going to run away from this one.

  In the foyer I saw that Grigorii Corzun was in conversation with two silly-hatted men. Taking a deep breath, I approached him as boldly as I could, head held high and proud, in a position designed to say 'I am strong and I am not frightened', even though I wasn't and I was, respectively. My plan was to embarrass him by being overly nice. I would offer my hand in friendship and he would be made to feel distinctly uncomfortable. A slightly eccentric method of getting even, but more than good enough for me. In my view, killing someone with kindness is always a better option than killing them with a shotgun. It's less messy, entirely legal, and you feel much better afterwards. I don't know why it isn't favoured more often.

  'Hello Mr Corzun, it's nice to see you again,' I said politely, arm extended with hand proffered for shaking purposes.

  The Transnistrian turned to see who was addressing him and was staggered by the sight before him. Surely not? The persistent Englishman had followed the players to Belfast?

  'Hello,' he replied, managing to change aghast into awkward smile.

  It seemed like he was completely unable to gauge which emotions he ought to be feeling, but I reckoned he was experiencing something between sheepish and uncomfortable. Good. No more than he deserved, given the way he'd treated me back on his patch.

  Then the most wonderful thing happened. Mr Vatamanu, on his way from the lifts to the hotel's revolving doors, broke short his journey so that he could give me a big friendly pat on the back. He made a comment in Russian to Corzun, which although incomprehensible, I knew was about me, and felt sure was wholly complimentary. Mr Vatamanu moved off, giving me a comradely wave. Corzun looked both hurt and bewildered. Whatever his feelings towards me might have been, they now had to be tempered by the fact that I had the approbation of the PR officer of the Moldovan National Team. Corzun looked a little nervous. He was just a club man after all, and his presence on foreign jaunts like this one probably depended on an invitation from the Moldovan Football Federation. Could he be worried that I might tell them the story of his behaviour towards me in Transnistria? Could it be that the balance of power had shifted and that I was now the one to be feared?

  Oh, I did hope so. It may not be gentlemanly to hit a man when he is down, but I couldn't resist it.

  'I beat your player Stroenco yesterday,' I said, wallowing in this brief moment of glory.

  Corzun smiled, and shuffled from side to side awkwardly.

  'Goodbye then,' I said, suddenly remembering that we shared no common language and that any further digs would be lost on him anyway.

  'Goodbye,' he managed with a feeble smile.

  As I walked away, in my head I read out the final score:

  GRIGORII CORZUN 1 TONY HAWKS 2

  (Hawks, o.g.) (Hawks 2, one pen.)

  I sat at the back of the coach. Not because I had any desire to do any singing or smoking (things which, in my youth, had been compulsory when sitting at the back) but because I felt like an intruder among all these middle-aged officials, and I thought it better to keep a low profile than risk being ejected. I didn't want to give Grigorii Corzun, who was seated at the front, any opportunity to avenge his foyer humiliation.

  As the Belfast rain pounded against the coach windows, I settled into my seat, relieved that the journey to the Under 21 match was going to be this easy, but a little concerned about what was going to happen once I got there. Earlier that day, as a result of information gleaned over the phone from Trevor Irskine at the Irish FA, I'd booked myself into the same hotel that the Moldovan team were staying in that night. My hope was that I would be able to play Sergei Rogaciov some time the following day, but acquiring the necessary permission wasn't going to be easy because the Under 21 team were run by an entirely different set of officials, none of whom knew anything about my intentions.

  The coach delivered us through the main gates of the Show-grounds, the venue for tonight's game, and the Moldovan posse alighted to witness the damp coolness of the county Londonderry evening. They all headed straight for the hot dog stand. My initial impulse was to sneak around the back of the stall and advise the vendor to revise his prices for Grigorii Corzun, explaining that this was a man who'd once paid twenty-five pounds for a beer and a sandwich in Manchester.

  I bought a programme, and found myself a seat in the stands, in readiness for the big game. As the players warmed up, I picked out the number eleven shirt of Sergei Rogaciov, and I was impressed by his balance and movement. I wanted him to have a good game tonight, but most of all I wanted him to avoid being carried off on a stretcher.

  The players lined up for the two national anthems. This was the first time I'd heard the Moldovan one, and I decided that it had quite a nice little tune, but nonetheless I was keeping my fingers crossed that I would never have to sing it. Then the band struck up with the anthem for the Northern Ireland team. I was surprised by its familiarity. I knew it well. Of course I did– it was 'God Save the Queen'.

  I had never seen a crowd stand and sing this mediocre song with such gusto and heart, but then I suppose this was because I had never been anywhere before where its rendition meant so much. In this part of the world, your attitude to this piece of music depended on from which half of the sectarian divide you heralded.

  I don't normally stand for the national anthem, given that I'm not sure that I approve of what it stands for, but on this occasion I felt that not to do so might have incurred the wrath of those around me. Cravenly I rose to my feet and sang the mindless words.

  God save our gracious Queen

  Long live our noble Queen

  God save the Queen

  Why should God save the Queen? Certainly ahead of anyone else. Were we suggesting that there ought to be some kind of pecking order for God's protective hand? If so, what number was I going to come in at?

  1. The Queen

  2. Sir Cliff Richard

  3. Tony Hawks

  Maybe not. I'd surely lose third place to Dana, on appeal.

  I felt that given the amount of interest the Queen was going to show in the outcome of this particular encounter between the Moldovan and Northern Irish Under 21s, she could have been safely omitted from the proceedings. However, a glance over my shoulder told me that it was probably advisable not to share this view with those around me. Instead, knowing that football crowds are a generic group of whom it is generally wise to stay on the right side, I begrudgingly played the role of patriotic royalist.

  The match was largely uneventful and it ended in a 1-1 draw. Rogaciov didn't score, but neither did he get injured. So far so good. I took a cab back to the country club hotel, checked into my rather luxurious room, and relaxed and waited. At 10.30 pm I put in an appearance at the bar.

  'Do you know if any of the Moldovans are back from the game?' I asked a man perched on a bar stool, assuming that everyone knew that this was where the team were staying.

  The man, who was making healthy inroads into a pint of Guinness, responded with characteristic Irish bonhomie.

  'Ah sure, they're back all right. They're all taking a meal in the other bar,' he said. 'Why do you want to know?'

  I hesitated.

  'Er, well it's a little complicated.'

  The man eyed me thoughtfully.

  'You're not Tony are you?'

  'Yes, I am,' I replied, rather taken aback. Tony Hawks to be precise.'

  'Jeez, I was talking to you on the phone earlier. I'm Trevor Irskine.'

  Trevor. Hello.'

  We shook hands.

  'Pull yourself a stool up. I'll get you a pint.'

  Trevor was good company, not least because he and I shared the same problem. We both had to deal with the world of Moldovan football on a daily basis.
r />   'My job is to look after them while they're here,' he said. 'Get them what they want, arrange the training facilities, organise sightseeing tours and all that kind of stuff. The problem is that four people are in charge, and every time a decision needs to be taken one of them says yes and three of them say no. It makes my job bloody impossible.'

  He looked both frustrated and jaded, and he'd only been with the squad for two days. I resisted the temptation to tell him the full duration of my Moldovan sojourn.

  'Yes, they can be difficult,' I understated.

  'Difficult? I'd say.'

  He took a swig of beer instead of saying what was immediately running through his head.

  The worst thing,' he went on, when the beer had hit its mark and provided a suitably soothing effect. 'Is that they think I'm bloody spying on them.'

  'How come?'

  Well they've still got this Cold War mentality which means that they don't trust me. They think that I'm going to relay information back to the Northern Ireland squad about their training and their tactics. They have these little secret meetings up in room 30 when they don't want me to know what's going on. It's annoying, cos all I want is for them to have a good time.'

  'I don't think having a good time is on their agenda.'

  'I think you're right. What's frustrating is, individually they're all really nice, but collectively they're a pain in the arse.'

  Two pints later we were still chatting, the most pleasing aspect of our conversation being the extent to which Trevor was prepared to embrace the cause of Hawks v Rogaciov.

  'Don't worry, Tony, leave it with me,' he said, just before I turned in for the night. 'I'll talk to the necessary people in a minute and I'll make sure you play that guy some time tomorrow.'

  The plan was very simple. Play Rogaciov after breakfast before the team left for their sightseeing tour of the Antrim coast. However, morning brought customary inconsistency from the Moldovan camp.

  'I don't believe it!' said a frustrated Trevor, when I bumped into him in reception after a worthy cooked breakfast. They want to put back the sightseeing tour because they've decided that the players need to do some training this morning.'

  Training? All they're doing today is sightseeing and watching the senior team play.'

  'Well, Ivan wants them to be in tip-top condition for both.'

  'Ivan? Who's Ivan?'

  'He's the trainer.'

  Logical enough. That's why he had them training.

  'How about the bosses?' I asked. 'Did you ask them last night if they agree in principle to me playing the match?'

  Three out of four said yes. I've still got to ask Ivan.'

  'He's not Ivan the Terrible, I hope.'

  'No,' he joked, 'more Ivan the Bloody Awkward.'

  The morning was as frustrating as they come. A veritable test of patience. I waited on a seat in the corner of reception for two hours while Moldovan players and officials came and went, all of them variously displaying expressions of vagueness, downright confusion, disorientation and bewilderment. I was powerless, other than to sit and wait.

  'What's happening?' I asked Catalin, the nice Romanian lad who was studying English at Trinity College and had been roped in as team translator.

  'Nobody knows,' he shrugged.

  Twenty minutes later I found myself momentarily empowered. Having returned to my room to fetch a book, I saw a familiar track-suited figure approaching me from the other end of the hotel landing. I had spent one and a half hours watching this guy the previous evening so I knew him to be Sergei Rogaciov. Here was a chance to by-pass all the red tape and to confront the young man head on. The only problem was that I knew he spoke no English.

  Never mind. There was one sentence which Elena had taught me back in Moldova and which I had spent hours mastering. I had only really learned it as a joke, but now I found myself in the situation for which it was absolutely tailor-made. I could not waste this opportunity. As Rogaciov drew level with me, I raised my hand to gain his attention and announced;

  'Ma numesc Tony. Sint din Anglia. Am fàcut un pariu, cà-i voi bate la tenis pe toti din echipa nationala de fotbal. Vreti sà jucati cu mine?'

  Rogaciov stared at me and then he shook his head. Was this a refusal? Did he just not want to play me? Was he going to be the first Moldovan footballer to turn me down flat?

  Not knowing what else to do, I repeated the question.

  'Mā numesc Tony. Sint din Anglia. Am fàcut un pariu, cà-i voi bate la tenispe toti din echipa nationala de fotbal. Vreti sà jucati cu mine?'

  This time Rogaciov screwed up his face and shrugged. I think I knew what was going on now.

  Although I thought I'd said 'My name is Tony. I am from England. I have made a bet that I can beat the entire national football team at tennis. Will you play with me?', the appalling accent in which the words had been delivered meant that what Rogaciov had heard, in the equivalent of his own language, had been:

  'My name is Stony. I am from Angland. I have made a bott that I can seat the entire national football team at tonic. Will you pale with me?'

  Understandably enough, the young footballer stood before me looking like he'd cry if I said anything more to him in this strange language.

  'You don't understand, no?' I tried in English.

  He screwed up his face again, mainly because– he didn't understand, no. The poor fellow didn't need this. He'd probably just popped up to his room for a dump and hadn't expected to be intercepted by a strange man confronting him with a diverse range of unintelligible sounds.

  Luckily for both of us, Catalin appeared and was able to enlighten Rogaciov as to what I'd been trying to communicate to him. When he had finished, the footballer looked no less comfortable. I doubted whether he had ever experienced a more surreal ten minutes.

  'I have explained what you want him to do,' said the co-operative Catalin, 'but he says that he does not feel very well.'

  'Oh dear. Can you tell him that it will not take long, and that if he doesn't play me, then I will have to strip naked in London and sing the Moldovan National Anthem.'

  Catalin did so, and Rogaciov responded with an ambiguous look which could have been a display of any one of four emotions. Frustration, resignation, defiance or downright despair. He grunted a reply.

  'He says that he will see how he feels,' said Catalin.

  Thank you. Thank you,' I grovelled in his direction. 'I am sorry to have bothered you.'

  The successful resolution of this bet looked like it was going to require competence in basic grovelling rather than on having a powerful serve and good ground strokes.

  I returned to my corner seat in the hotel reception a worried man. There was no getting away from it, if Rogaciov was ill, then Rogaciov was ill. No room for debate on the matter. I chastised myself for having taken on a bet, the outcome of which could be dependent on whether a 20-year-old was feeling off colour or not. I felt like a man carrying a vase which was so fragile it could shatter in my hands at any moment.

  When Catalin explained that Rogaciov's general mood had not improved and that Ivan the Bloody Awkward was still living up to his name, I declared that I thought that the game was probably up, but Trevor was having none of it.

  'Leave it to me,' he proclaimed, before disappearing outside into the car park.

  Five minutes later he returned.

  'It's all sorted,' he said. 'Mick the driver is going to stop the coach at some local courts and we can all get off while you play your match. We're going to make it part of their sightseeing tour.'

  'But what if Rogaciov is still not feeling well?' I asked.

  'He can't be that ill. He was playing international football last night. When we announce the match in front of all his mates, I bet he'll be up for it.'

  'And what about Ivan?' asked Catalin.

  We'll ride roughshod over Ivan. The other three officials have said it's OK, so stuff him.'

  It was an exceedingly lucky break for me that Trevor Irskine h
ad become so determined that my match with Rogaciov should take place. It was almost as if the successful conclusion of this game of tennis would represent a small personal triumph over the Moldovan bureaucracy which had dogged him during the past couple of days. I had no complaints. His feeling that way was very handy. Very handy indeed.

  When Mick pulled the coach off the road and parked it alongside the tennis court, I rose to my feet and did exactly what Trevor had suggested.

  'Now we are going to take a short break from the sightseeing tour,' I proclaimed, waving two tennis rackets in the air, 'while we settle a very important matter. I am going to play Sergei Rogaciov at tennis!'

  This was greeted with cheers from his team-mates, who had presumably only understood two words – tennis and Rogaciov. I marched down the central aisle and handed a racket to Rogaciov, who was now enjoying being the centre of attention and was responding positively to the reactions of his colleagues. From the front of the coach I heard Trevor's booming voice.

  'Come on everyone, let's go!' he called, eagerly waving his arms to usher everyone off the coach.

  Amazingly everyone responded. Everyone, that is, except Ivan. He sat there stony faced as his fellow countrymen filed off the bus with remarkable obedience. Trevor and I smiled at each other as we saw the players and officials making their way to the tennis court. Marvellous. The yiddish word for it is chutzpah, I believe. I glanced at Catalin, who was shaking his head in disbelief.

  'Amazing– you did it!' he said, as I alighted from the coach.

  'Not yet, I still have to beat him,' I replied.

  'You will, you will.'

  'Ever used one of these?' I asked, handing him my video camera.

  'A couple of times, yes.'

  'In that case I've got a job for you.'

  Catalin, in his role as chief cameraman, was able to record a remarkable scene, as an entire squad of footballers and their attendant entourage lined the side of a tennis court to witness a distinctly one-sided tie-break. Rogaciov had made a remarkable recovery, truly rising to the occasion by walking on to the court with his racket held proudly above his head and chanting 'I am the champion, I am the champion!'