So after just five minutes of the first half, when Bekim Develi scored from twenty-five yards with a shot that looked like a diagram from an artillery officer’s trajectory chart, I wasn’t that surprised that I should be hit on the shoulder with a banana as I threw off my linen jacket which was already damp with sweat and ran to the edge of my technical area to interrupt his thumb-sucking tribute to his new baby son, with a simple handshake.
It had all started so nicely, too, with both teams trooping calmly to the centre of the field, hand in hand with twenty-two local mascot children to the tune of Handel’s ‘Zadok the Priest’. What could be more calculated to create an inspiring image of UEFA’s family values and the honourable pursuit of victory in competitive sport? Even so, I sometimes wonder if any of these European football sides are aware that Handel’s music was composed especially for the anointing of an English king. This was followed by a minute’s near silence for the death of some Greek sportsman of whom I confess I’d never heard. But what the hell? A minute’s silence before a football game for anything strikes me as a good idea, especially in Greece — anything to stop those fucking drums and the warlike chants of the Gate 7 ultras. To listen that awful, masculine sound, brimful of aggression and testosterone, you would think yourself back at Rorke’s Drift in 1879, facing ten thousand Zulus.
I ignored the banana which — a later replay showed — must have come from the VIP seats. I guess VIPs are just as racist as anyone else. It didn’t hurt; not as much as a chair might have done. You can ignore almost anything when you’re a goal up after five minutes in the Champions League; the way I felt at that particular moment I could probably have ignored a spear between the shoulder blades. I turned back to the dugout and bicep-curled both arms, triumphantly.
The banana was almost immediately forgotten in the disaster that swiftly followed. Because no sooner had the game restarted than Bekim Develi missed a simple pass from Jimmy Ribbans, fell to his knees as if in penance for his mistake, and then collapsed face down in the centre circle, to the loud disdain of the Greeks. Seconds later, both Zénobe Schuermans and Daryl Hemingway began waving frantically towards our dugout. The club physio, Gareth Haverfield, didn’t need prompting from me; he snatched up his bag of tricks and sprinted onto the pitch.
‘What’s up with him?’ said a voice next to me. It was Simon. ‘Heat too much for him, do you think?’
I nodded. ‘He’s fainted, yes. It is incredibly hot in here.’
‘Twenty-nine degrees Celsius,’ said Simon. ‘I don’t know about him but I feel like a fucking chicken vindaloo. I hope he hasn’t fainted. If he’s fainted he’ll have to come off. Perhaps he got hit with something. A coin, perhaps.’
‘Could be. They’ve been throwing money away in this country for years. Makes a change from a banana.’
Risking another banana perhaps, I walked anxiously to the edge of the technical area. I put my glasses on; I am just a little short-sighted — more so at night, when I’m feeling tired. But what I could see now made little sense; Bekim Develi appeared to be trying to head-butt the ground and Gareth was trying without success to turn him onto his back. I knew this wasn’t good when the referee ran to the Olympiacos dugout and said something that made their whole medical team sprint onto the pitch; instinctively, without waiting for the ref’s permission, I followed, slowly at first, as if not quite sure of what I was doing, and then a little more quickly as I began to realise just how serious things were.
By now Develi had stopped moving altogether, and one of the Greek medicos had cut off his shirt with a pair of scissors and was giving him chest compressions; Gareth, our own physio, was doing mouth-to-mouth as a paramedic frantically unrolled an oxygen airway tube. Even the crowd seemed to have realised what was happening and fell silent.
Seeing me, Gary Ferguson stood up from his team mate’s side and came towards me. His cheeks were wet, but not with sweat.
‘What is it?’ I asked, already feeling sick to my stomach. ‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘He’s dead, boss. That’s what’s fucking wrong with him.’
‘What? He can’t be. How?’
‘I dunno. One minute he’s running around like he’s the dog’s bollocks; the next he’s on the floor. The way he went down I thought he must have been shot.’
The referee, an Italian called Merlini, came over and for a minute I thought he was going to tell me to leave the pitch; instead, he shook his head sadly.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘But it doesn’t look good, I’m afraid. They’re bringing a defibrillator to the pitch now. They would take him to the hospital across the road, but they’re worried about moving him.’
‘Jesus,’ muttered Gary.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Kenny Traynor with his head in his hands, and Soltani Boumediene with his face buried in Xavier Pepe’s shoulder. Prometheus was talking animatedly to one of the Olympiacos players. Jimmy Ribbans appeared to be kneeling in prayer for his stricken colleague. I might have knelt down to pray myself but I knew Bekim’s girlfriend was probably watching at home and the last thing she needed now was to see me looking like I’d given up hope.
I glanced up at the television display screen and then at my watch.
Merlini seemed to read my mind.
‘He’s been like that for several minutes, now,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what to do. I think I’d better speak to the other officials. And to the guys from Olympiacos. I should tell them what’s happening, too.’
‘I’d better speak to the rest of the lads,’ said Gary after Merlini had walked away. ‘If he wants to restart this match we’re going to have to pick ourselves up pretty quickly. And who are we going to bring on to replace him?’
‘Iñárritu,’ I said, numbly.
Gary walked away as one of the Greek medicos finished attaching two large sticky defibrillator pads to Bekim’s now motionless chest.
‘Do not touch the patient,’ said a female American woman’s voice from inside the yellow machine, which looked more like a child’s toy than something that could revive a man like Bekim Develi. And then: ‘Shock advised. Charging. Stand clear.’
‘Stékeste,’ said one of the Greeks loudly; everyone sat back from Bekim.
‘Press flashing shock button,’ said the machine voice.
‘Stékeste,’ repeated the Greek medico and then pressed the shock button.
Bekim’s body jerked momentarily but otherwise he remained motionless.
‘Shock one delivered,’ said the machine voice. ‘It is safe to touch the patient. Begin CPR, now.’
The Greek translated for some of the others attending Bekim and then, together with Gareth, he started chest compressions, while Gareth gave Bekim mouth-to-mouth, thirty and two, like you’re supposed to. The men were drenched in sweat not just from the heat in the stadium, but from the sheer effort of what they were now doing: trying to bring a man back from the dead. And this in full view of more than thirty thousand spectators.
‘Continue for one minute thirty seconds,’ said the machine.