Off Side by Manuel Vázquez Montalbán Read Free Book Online Page B

chin and an Adam’s apple which looked like a third testicle as it strove to rival the club’s chairman in his metaphorical reference to the players’ sexual impedimenta.
    ‘Toté, I want more balls!’ he shouted to the club’s mid-field defender. ‘Pérez, let’s have more balls up front’ — this to the man who until that season had been the club’s centre forward but since the arrival of Palacín had been playing inside forward.
    Every now and then he went over to an old blackboard, to try and plan out moves, but he couldn’t always find the chalk, and, when he did, it screeched and set the more sensitive players’ teeth on edge. His real forte was training with the players, out on the pitch. ‘Out there, that’s where it matters. I want to see intelligence and balls,’ he would say, as he stood next to the south-end goal, onto which the club’s parsimonious lighting had been focused in a sort of half light which left the rest of the pitch in the dark, a ghostly landscape for the antics of these nocturnal footballers.
    ‘I don’t want to overdo it with my knee,’ Palacín warned him.
    ‘Do you mean just today, or for always?’ the manager asked, his Adam’s apple suddenly paralysed with alarm.
    ‘Gives me trouble every now and then. When I’ve had a bit of a warm-up, I’m fine.’
    ‘So I should hope. You just play the way you want to play. But I want balls, Palacín. Midfield players in the regional League are a lot more lethal than what you find in the Second or Third Division. Compared to most of them, Pontón was an angel.’ And he winked knowingly, because he had just named the player whohad been responsible for crippling Palacín’s knee.
    During this first training session, the players were watching as much as playing. Palacín was the object of their evaluation, and in skirmishes for possession of the ball they were respectful but also at pains to demonstrate that they were not dazzled by the residual splendour of his past. Especially Toté, the central defender, who marked him so closely that it felt like having a limpet on his back. Each time that Palacín slowed down, protected the ball with his body, and was about to swing on one leg so as to wrong-foot his marker, an elbow would knock him off balance, or a knee in his thigh would stop him in his tracks. During one of these encounters, when Toté’s knee made contact with his old injury, Palacín suddenly went wild. He left the ball and went for his team-mate, grabbing him by his vest, and pulling him face to face as if he was about to chew his head off.
    ‘You just fucking take it easy, bastard …’
    ‘You too. We don’t play like young ladies here.’
    ‘What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?’ The manager ran up, arms flailing, to separate them.
    It wasn’t necessary. The two players backed off, knocking the earth from their boots. The manager put one arm round Toté’s shoulder and took him to the corner of the pitch, where he gave him a quiet talking to. Then he came over to where Palacín was cautiously checking his knee for damage.
    ‘I’m sorry about that. The man’s a bit of an animal …’
    ‘Exactly what I was just telling him.’
    ‘No need to get all worked up. Don’t let him upset you.’
    ‘Easier said than done.’
    ‘Come on! Let’s see you running! Hup, hup, hup!’
    The players broke from their statue-like immobility, and started running in Indian file, hopping alternately on one leg and then the other, and moving their arms and necks in a way that made them look dislocated. The trainer ran alongside, moving up and down the line to check how willingly or unwillingly histroupe was performing. He had banned the wearing of watches during training, but some players had them up their sleeves and checked them surreptitiously as they waited for the whistle that would signal the end of the session.
    ‘Look at your arse, man! You look as if you’re running sitting down! All of you, I want you