Exposed at the Back Read Free Page B

leading the fantasy football statistics in the papers, his self-confidence was back, and his web series had become Norway’s most watched online programme. Per Diesen had a lot to thank Arild Golden for.
    PDTV was also where Diesen’s pop career was launched. Together with his best pal and teammate at Vålerenga, macho centre-back Marius Bjartmann, he’d recently released the single ‘Bleed for the Team’, which was currently at number one in the charts. It was true: a footballer could be more than just a footballer.
    A ripple of expectation went through the crowd. Skeid had been given a throw-in and Stanley was getting ready. Throw-ins weren’t usually exciting, but Stanley did somersault throw-ins. Benedikte had seen them before, but not from such a young boy. Stanley ran towards the touch-line, dropped the ball to the ground and spun in the air. He made a perfect landing on the touch-line and let the ball go just as it passed his head, but he threw it too far. The ball flew over all the players who’d gathered in front of the goal, and there would be a throw-in from the other side. Still, the boy’s not even 15, thought Benedikte, before turning back to look at Diesen.
    Diesen looked uncomfortable as Skeid supporters crowded around him. He signed autograph after autograph but also checked his watch several times. Eventually, he patted a young lad on the back, said something and walked towards the exit. The lads sang the well-known chorus from his song: ‘Yeaaaah! Bleed for the teaaaam!’

The Small World of Football
    ‘Kick him, for fuck’s sake!’
    Steinar turned towards the shouting. A man in his forties, wearing glasses and light-blue clothes, was gesturing at the pitch. He carried on screaming abuse at the Skeid players in their red strips, and at the referee, with the occasional bit of praise mixed in for the right-back on the team in white.
    A few yards behind him stood two African men, over 6 feet tall and broad shouldered. One of them had to grab onto the other several times to hold him back.
    The right-back miskicked a pass straight out of play. Undeterred, the man in glasses shouted, ‘come on Oppsal!’, his voice annoyingly high-pitched.
    Skeid took a quick throw in, the ball ending up at Stanley’s feet. The players on both teams were shouting his name continuously. Either, ‘pass to Stanley’ or, from the other side, ‘mark Stanley’ and then more and more often, ‘get Stanley!’
    Stanley was right in front of the man in glasses, showing off. He put his foot on top of the ball purposefully. Two players from Oppsal were blocking his way. He performed the slightest of feints, a minimal shift of weight from right to left. Steinar felt the same movement in his own legs, how many times had he done the same? Stanley took off and sprinted down the touchline.
    Steinar didn’t read the sports pages any more, but it was impossible not to pick up on the biggest stories. He knew that Spain had won the World Cup, Lionel Messi was a fantastic footballer, and Liverpool had gone from three goals down to victory against AC Milan, but he hadn’t seen it himself. Still, it was so easy to recognise a dummy on the pitch.
    ‘Shit,’ said the man in glasses.
    One player had reacted and was now approaching at full speed from the side. He was clearly fed up of Stanley laying waste to them. He closed his eyes and flung himself with both legs stretched out, one along the ground and the other high in case Stanley jumped. This tackle had to hit its target. Either the ball or the player, preferably both.
    Stanley stopped and the Oppsal player went past him, onto the tarmac surrounding the astroturf, crashing into a large rubbish bin. By the time he opened his eyes Stanley was long gone.
    In between the artificial grass pitch and the gravel pitch there was a small, grassy knoll, a natural grandstand usually reserved for the players’ parents and friends. Today it seemed as if there were an unusually large number of