Playing the Moldovans At Tennis (24 page)

Tour room is over on ze left,' said Sister Anne Marie in a strong French accent, clearly disconcerted by the way I'd been eyeing the place. 'Zair is a nine o'clock curfew.'

In by nine o'clock, righto. I would have to give Nazareth's Studio 54 a miss tonight

That night I again ate in a restaurant where I was the sole diner. Single-handedly I was keeping the Israeli tourist industry ticking over. After a kebab designed to give courage, I called Faisal, the boss man of Maccabi Kfar Kana. I was nervous. If Faisal was obstructive then life would be very difficult indeed. My mobile connected with his and a precarious signal afforded us the kind of conversation two people might share who were shouting through a six foot thick stone wall. Everything was repeated four times and nothing was properly understood. Thank God for mobile communication. From what I could make out though, Faisal had not been hostile and I was under the impression that he had invited me to training in the morning. This would have been better news if the signal hadn't disappeared before I could find out where it was taking place. Never mind, I would think of something.

I returned to the convent at 8.59 pm, having been careful not to have wasted the time available to me in the free world, and I went to make a hot drink in the area designated as communal lounge and kitchen. Here I made the acquaintance of two Japanese guys and a Frenchman called Jean. The Japanese didn't speak much English and Jean didn't speak much sense. The combination of these two factors made for a painful twenty minutes. They say that a watched kettle never boils (from my experience I've found that the same is true if you don't push that little button in at the back) and boy was I watching that kettle. It turned out that all three of my new chums were religious pilgrims who were keen to quote the Bible whenever possible, Jean with an unstoppable enthusiasm. He was a nice enough chap and, to be fair, he did give me quite a lot of his biscuits, but I did have to suffer 'how he found God' in return. It was a fair trade though. They were good biscuits. Good biscuits were turning out to be about all I could hope for in the fun department on this trip. Oh well, just do the job you came here for, I told myself, after all I was closing in on the real Spynu.

According to the Gospel of John it was in the Arab village of Kfar Kana that Jesus performed his first miracle – turning water into wine at a wedding feast, a trick that is always going to see you pretty high up on the list when the invitations are being drawn up.

Who shall we invite?''

Well, Jesus would be good. He's ever such a nice fellow. And cancel that order with Oddbins.'

My miracle, though small in comparison, is still worthy of a mention. Having alighted from the Nazareth bus, I was standing in the middle of Kfar Kana's deserted main street unsure of what to do next, when a car pulled up in front of me and a young man got out and moved towards the bread shop behind me.

'Excuse me,' I asked, 'but is there a football ground anywhere round here?'

Why do you want to know?' he replied.

'Because I'm going there.'

'Me too, wait here, I will take you in my car.'

This guy turned out to be Wasim, one of Maccabi Kfar Kana's footballers who was on the way to training. OK not water into wine, but not bad for a beginner.

What was to follow was quite at odds with my Moldovan 'football experience'. At the ground Wasim introduced me to a handsome-looking man called Mywan.

'Ah Tony, pleased to meet you. Faisal told us you were coming. You are most welcome.'

Mywan was a former player who was now the club's general manager. He was also so charming and friendly that I decided he was my hero.

Would you like some tea?' he enquired.

Tea. I'd been offered
tea.
No-one in the Moldovan world of football had even come close to offering me a cup of tea.

'Ooh, yes please Mywan, I'd love one.'

A young lad was sent scurrying off to fetch me one and when he returned, I held the cup proudly in my hands. Each sip confirmed for me that I was among friends. I was introduced to Baruch, a big man whose figure provided his track suit with lavish contours. He was from Moldova and was both Marin Spynu and Sergiu Nani's agent, his implausible job being to facilitate the movement of footballers from Moldova to Israel. I assumed his company was called Wilderness Transfers Ltd'. I explained to him why I was stood here at an Israeli second division football club's training ground and he laughed heartily, especially at the mention of the naked anthem singing.

'So you played Miterev?' he said.

Yes, he was the first one actually.'

'And Testimitanu?'

'Yes.'

'I was trying to bring him out here. What about Sischin?'

And so the conversation went on, the surprising arrival of this eccentric Englishman affording Baruch the opportunity to remind himself of the country and friends he'd left behind.

'Do you think Marin would agree to play tennis with me?' I asked, cautiously.

'I don't see why not. You know that he doesn't speak any English?'

'Yes, I was wondering if you might translate for me?'

'No problem.'

Mywan arrived with another cup of tea. I did like it here.

Coincidentally the real Spynu didn't look unlike the phoney one had done. Similar height, similar hair colour and similar features. Just as long as his tennis bore no similarities, I would be happy. Baruch introduced me to him and I was greeted with the now familiar combination of confusion and shyness. It transpired that neither he nor Sergiu Nani had heard a thing about me. Evidently to Moldovan footballers, an Englishman who had devoted months of his time traversing the world in their hot pursuit did not constitute news. They didn't indulge in long phone calls with colleagues catching up on news and gossip. The Moldovan footballer says what needs to be said and then gets on with the business in hand with an air of resigned stoicism.

Baruch explained to Marin what was expected of him and he listened and nodded obediently.

'He will play you tomorrow morning,' said Baruch assuredly.

'Fantastic. Where?'

'In Nazareth. He lives there. In fact if you go with Sergiu and Marin now, they will give you a lift back to your hotel.'

Convent actually, but I didn't bother to correct him.

'Great.'

And so I left the ground in a car with two Moldovan footballers, having achieved more in a few hours than I had done in two weeks in Moldova. Mywan had given me a Maccabi Kfar Kana scarf and rosette, and invited me as a guest of honour to their next home game. I'd thanked him profusely and told him that I would do everything I could to be there, not having the heart to tell him that by then I would be back in England. I felt real regret that I would not have time to get to know these people better. They'd shown a genuine kindliness and desire to help. I hope they win the Cup.

It couldn't have been the way he had expected to see his Wembley team-mates again but Marin chuckled all the way back to Nazareth as I showed him the footage of them playing me at tennis on the small video screen on my camera. Now he had seen with his own eyes that I was no fraud. He must have been relieved to know that I had genuinely travelled the world in pursuit of the Moldovan national football team and wasn't just some loony who had turned up at the training ground.

'You can drop me here,' I said, after the car had successfully negotiated Nazareth's roadworks and drawn up alongside the Church of the Annunciation.

'OK, we see you tomorrow at 10.30 at the tennis courts,' replied Sergiu in his hesitant English.

'Yes, 10.30,' I confirmed, getting out of the car and looking up at the towering edifice beside me. 'It's a fine church isn't it?' I declared in an attempt at parting small talk. 'Did you know that it's the largest church in the Middle East?'

'Yes, at 10.30,' replied Sergiu.

I hoped that Spynu played tennis as well as Sergiu spoke English.

I took breakfast at 8.30 am and set off for Nazareth's only tennis courts on the stroke of nine. It was way too early but I had taken the precaution of building a 'getting a bit lost' hour into my schedule – after all, directions to the courts had been provided by a Moldovan with only a sketchy command of English. As I left the convent there was a coachload of American Christians at the entrance waiting to check in. They looked at me askance as I left this holy sanctuary dressed in white shorts, holding two tennis rackets and a video camera, and wearing a green and white 'Maccabi Kfar Kana' scarf around my neck. I wasn't the average pilgrim, by any means.

'Morning – lovely day for it,' I said, knowing that by addressing them directly it would contribute still further to their discomfort.

'Good morning,' replied one bold one. 'And may God go with ya!'

Thanks.'

I wasn't sure if God was going to come with me, but He'd shown an interest in this part of the world before, and this morning's action on a Nazarene tennis court might offer Him some light relief from organising floods, typhoons and earthquakes. I felt confident of winning. Even if Spynu was good, I had the competitive work-out of the tough match against the fake Spynu behind me, and I reckoned I was in good shape. My only concern was that for some reason he might not show up. My flight home left the next day. It was now or never.
Please
don't let me down Mr Spynu,
please.

A jovial Arab taxi driver took me to Nazerat Illit, the modern Jewish neighbourhood on the outskirts of ancient Nazareth, where sure enough, exactly where Sergiu had said, a reassuring spread of tennis courts greeted me. The commentator in my head began again:

'And so Hawks has a reprieve. He has already tasted defeat and he knows he doesn't like it Surely this morning, in this holiest of places, when the final act of his epic struggle is played out, victory will be his. There is no crowd, but that does not diminish the significance of this moment. Hawks is carrying the hopes of the world on his able shoulders. If he wins then the world will be–'

'My God, shut up Tony!' said another, more balanced, voice in my head. You're losing your mind. Just play Spynu and sod off home.'

Yeah okay, maybe you're right A touch of humility wouldn't go amiss.

Marin Spynu had humility in abundance. At a delightfully punctual 10.30 he strode unassumingly on to the tennis court with his friend Sergiu, and shook my hand, revealing just a hint of a smile. I noticed the good news straight away. He had no tennis racket. I handed him my spare one and he made his way up to the far end of the court and we began hitting with each other. Well, to be more precise, I began hitting and he began missing. To my relief, Spynu did play tennis as well as his compatriot spoke English.

Fifteen minutes of tennis was played which was worthy of the crowd it had attracted. One. In fact, technically it wasn't even one because Sergiu had taken on the role of ball-boy throughout the whole one-sided affair. At match point, I put in a good first serve which Spynu was only able to return into the net, and I leapt the net in triumph. A slightly embarrassed Spynu shook my hand and I waved to an imaginary stand of adoring fans.

'I have done it!' I cried. 'I have beaten the entire Moldovan National football team at tennis.'

I had too. And the film was in my video camera which would prove it.

I was deeply grateful to Marin Spynu. He had been the eleventh Moldovan footballer to have walked on to a tennis court purely to facilitate the completion of a stranger's whimsical bet. There had been nothing in it for any of them, and none had expected anything in return. No big egos had barred my route, instead they had all been pleasant and co-operative and, most pleasingly of all, reassuringly bad at tennis. I could unequivocally reach the following conclusion:

MOLDOVAN FOOTBALLERS ARE A NICE BUNCH

It seemed bizarre that I had spent so much time in pursuit of these footballers and so little time actually getting to know them. Hey, maybe one of them would get transferred to England and I could take him out for a beer. Yes, I liked that idea a lot. I would definitely do that. As I walked to the taxi rank I allowed this thought to comfort me. It would be my way of saying thanks.

Leaving the Holy Land wasn't as easy as it might have been. Given that Israel is keen to boost its economy by encouraging tourism, the security policy at the airport constitutes something of a spectacular own goal. Before the traveller reaches the check-in desk, a heavily badged official takes each traveller aside to ask 'security questions'. These are not merely routine – these zealots give you a full twenty-minute grilling about your entire stay in Israel. When asked for the reason for my visit, I felt it wise not to mention that it had been to play and beat my eleventh and final Moldovan footballer. I may have been considered too dangerous to allow on to an aircraft. Instead I maintained that I'd been in the country for pleasure, and to meet with my Israeli publisher. As soon as I had done this, my interrogator asked me for Daniela's phone number so he could ring and have her verify my story.

'Are you suggesting that I'm lying to you?' I asked, patently riled.

'No sir. It's just that we have to be thorough.'

I gave him the number and he went off, made the call, and returned with the words That is OK.' But still further questions followed.

'Have you spoken to any Arabs while you have been here?'

This irritated me greatly.

'Can I ask you why you are asking me these questions?'

'You must understand that we have to be very strict with our security because of the sensitive political situation here.'

That's as may be, but I'm trying to
leave
your country, not enter it. What is the point of asking me these questions now?'

That is our business. Could you please tell me if you have spoken to any Arabs whilst you have been here.'

'And if I answer no – who are you going to call to verify that I'm telling the truth?'

The security man disappeared, presumably to ask how to deal with people who answer questions with questions. I hoped that the supervisor's answer would be 'How should I know?'

While I waited, I overheard the guy at the next desk being asked to produce hotel receipts which would verify his movements within Israel. A thorough search of his baggage then followed before he was finally thanked by the security officer and then wished a pleasant flight. The extraordinary thing was that throughout his entire interrogation there had been a magazine on the desk beside his bag which the security officer had failed to notice. I couldn't help thinking that it might have been worth a question or two, given that it was a magazine called
Handguns.

After ten minutes of further questions by a different officer I was finally deemed safe enough to allow out of the country, and I boarded the plane with all the other disgruntled passengers, many of whom were so affronted by their treatment that they were swearing never to visit this country again. Israel has many things to put right, but perhaps they should start with the easy ones – like not causing people to leave with a nasty taste in the mouth.

I drank champagne on the plane and bored the American lady next to me with all the details of my heroic story.

'And will this guy Arthur really strip butt naked?' she enquired.

'He'd better.'

'What will you do if he doesn't?'

That was a point, I hadn't thought of that.

'He'll do it. I'm sure of it.'

'I hope you're right.'

I hoped I was too. I didn't want to have to go to the European Court of Human Rights.

2 March 1999 was the big night, and I'd booked The Bedford pub in Balham for the event. It would be one of the more unconventional evenings which its Function Room would host. Arthur was looking pretty smug when he arrived. Good. This meant that he had taken the bait. It would make for a more interesting evening.

On my return Arthur, naturally enough, had wanted to know the outcome of my Middle Eastern endeavours.

'So what happened then, Hawks?' he croaked down the phone, his vocal chords evident victims of recent excess.

'You'll have to wait until I present all my evidence in the pub,' I answered, unforthcomingly.

'Alright, I suppose that's fair,' he muttered with a pleasingly uncharacteristic insouciance.

Normally in a situation like this he would have kept on at me, desperately trying to discover the truth, but on this occasion he had no need since he already knew it. Or at least the
version
of the truth which I had wanted him to believe. Good old Johnny had kept schtum about what had really happened in Israel and Arthur had most probably been party to whispers among our mutual friends that my final match had provided something of an upset, since I'd provided the relevant information to a select few who could be relied upon to gossip.

'Can you keep a secret?' I had said, already knowing the answer.

'Yes.'

Well, the last guy Spynu was really good and I went and bloody lost.'

You're joking.'

'I'm not, but don't tell anyone yet will you?'

'No, of course not.'

Forty-eight hours later and that would have filtered its way back to Arthur, and everything would be in place for the denouement.

Despite being a miserable wet cold March night, the turn-out was pretty damn good. The promise in the invitation that 'At the end of the evening either Arthur or Tony will strip naked and sing the Moldovan National Anthem in Balham High Road' may have persuaded a few waverers to attend. One very special guest was Corina from the Journalism Centre in Chisinau who was studying for a few months in Oxford and had been able to make it down to London for the evening. It was wonderful to see her again, although she seemed smaller and quieter than I remembered her. Perhaps she was a little overawed by the raucous and boozy atmosphere of a Balham pub's back room. I could not imagine a more stark contrast to the world she knew in Moldova.

'I am looking forward to seeing how your little adventure ends,' she said as she arrived.

'I hope you brought a magnifying glass,' said a cheeky bystander, who thought he knew the outcome.

Corina smiled politely and took her seat with the rest of this specially invited and expectant audience. I felt strangely reassured having her here, delighted by the pleasing circular shape it brought to my journey. Corina had been one of the first people I had met in Moldova and now here she was six months later sitting a few feet from me at the finale of the whole ludicrous bet. Her physical presence in this pub somehow confirmed to me that the whole thing hadn't just been a bizarre dream. Corina was real. I really
had
done what I was about to recount to the assembled throng gathered before me.

Arthur kicked proceedings off, his many years of experience in hosting evenings of comedy cabaret meaning that there were few better able to perform such a task.

'Welcome to this evening's unusual entertainment,' he began, as at ease behind the microphone as most of us would be behind the wheel of a car or doing the washing up. 'My name is Arthur Smith, unless there is anyone here from Streatham Tax Office in which case my name is Daphne Fairfax.'

This prompted a huge cheer from a section of the audience whose love for this venerable old line had not diminished since they had first started listening to it fifteen years previously. After a brief bow which acknowledged the age of his opening gag, Arthur continued:

Tonight, as a result of a bet which Tony Hawks and I made some eighteen months ago which I believe you all know about, one of us within the hour will be standing naked on Balham High Road, singing the Moldovan National Anthem.'

Big cheers. I looked at Corina who was both laughing and shaking her head incredulously. It was almost as if the whole time I'd been in Moldova she had never really believed that there were two people in England who were really foolish enough to see this thing through to its bare, naked, ballsy conclusion.

'Generally speaking,' continued Arthur, adopting a playfully deprecating tone, 'comedians like getting drunk, taking drugs and staying up late. Tony likes playing tennis. He is ranked 45th in Britain, which means he's at number 88 million in the world rankings – slightly below Cliff Richard. Anyway, the point is that, magnificently, he has spent the last six months chasing Moldovan footballers around the globe and he is now here to make a rather dull presentation of his evidence. I do not know who won this bet, in fact only Tony knows – so welcome him now so we can all find out – Tony Hawks.'

A confident-looking Arthur handed me the microphone and I began a talk about Moldova and outlined some of the difficulties that I had faced. The audience listened politely and attentively but I couldn't help thinking that a good proportion of them were keen for Arthur and me to get to what could be described as the 'meat of the evening'. For some tonight wasn't 'Playing the Moldovans at Tennis' – it was a show called Which Penis?'
⁶

⁶
Surely it's only a question of time before the BBC runs a show along these lines. Well, I'd just like to state here and now that if they do, then I don't want to be the host.

As I recounted my story I felt something of a glow of pride, for I had succeeded where, for a while at least, failure had seemed inevitable. When the moment arrived to present the video evidence of my tennis victories, I sat back in my chair and watched the events on the screen with a peculiar detachment. It seemed that time was allowing me an objectivity which meant that it was almost in disbelief that I watched myself vanquishing Moldovan footballer after Moldovan footballer on a tennis court in downtown Chisinau. Had I
really
done that?

The mood in the room changed when I began to show the footage of the phoney Marin Spynu. Gasps of horror. Mumbles of 'Blimey, he's a bit good isn't he?' Exactly the feelings I'd had at the time of the game. I felt them again now too, but they were easier to handle this time round, sharing them as I was with a roomful of people. And knowing the truth. Ah yes, the truth, the wonderful truth. I glanced at Arthur to gauge his reaction. He was smiling, as well he might.

Spynu struck his final backhand passing shot past me as I languished at the net, and the audience let out a big roar. No-one had expected this. Through a deluge of cheers and taunts I made my way forlornly to the microphone.

'So that is it. It was a case of so near and yet so far. Ten beaten but I'm afraid I fell at the last hurdle.'

'Aaahs' from the audience.

'In a moment I shall invite you to follow me outside where I will remove all my clothes and sing the Moldovan anthem, but for now I shall hand the microphone over to Arthur who may wish to say a few words in victory.'

Arthur strode proudly to the stage, the victor.

There was a rather beautiful structure to that – Tony, smug throughout those first ten fixtures, easily beating footballers who had clearly never played tennis before in their lives. He met his match and he was beaten finally, so now it's time for him to take his clothes off. We know about Tony's tan – but is he tanned all over? Soon we will find out. All I'll say now is that after we have seen Tony naked and singing the Moldovan national anthem we will all re-adjourn here where I will have something further to say, germane to the subject. But do we want to see Tony with his kit off?'

Big cheers of approval. But I was about to play my trump card. I wrenched the microphone from Arthur's grasp.

'Before we all make our way outside, I just think you ought to know what happened immediately after I lost that match'

I now showed a final piece of film in which I had re-created my discovery of the real Spynu in the newspaper. The ever more vocal audience reacted noisily to this exposure of attempted sabotage, and I glanced at Arthur and saw him laughing sheepishly, like the naughty boy in the class who had been found out by teacher. On the screen, the story continued to unfold – my journey to Nazareth and subsequent location and defeat of the bona fide Marin Spynu. There was great excitement and expectation in the room now that all had been revealed. Well, not all, there was still the small matter of Arthur's penis, although he mightn't wish it to be described thus.

Arthur returned to the microphone to a chorus of both cheers and boos. Panto season had come early this year.

'It seems that Tony found out about my ringer,' he declared resignedly. 'I'm disappointed in a way because I thought they'd have been good, those footballers. They're young, they're fit, they're athletes – and yet they were all shit.'

Arthur looked at me, and I smiled back smugly. I was savouring my moment, and why not? I'd gone to quite a bit of trouble to get to this point, so I figured it was time to enjoy it. Unfortunately the expression on my face did not register with Arthur, who I noticed for the first time was now magnificently drunk. He had clearly accelerated his drinking during the presentation of my evidence and had arrived at a level of inebriation which would be distinctly advantageous given the nature of his imminent task. He wasn't dribbling, but he wasn't far off. 'I'm not afraid of what I've got to do,' he announced proudly without slurring, the power of coherent speech being the last of Arthur's faculties to surrender to drink. 'I've had some collagen implants put into my penis this morning and it's about forty-two inches long.'

We all giggled like schoolchildren. Corina included.

A bizarre spectacle followed in which a crowd of around eighty people spilled out on to the streets of Balham and marched up the pavement to a suitable location on Balham High Road. It was decided that the unveiling should take place outside Woolworths, and Arthur prepared himself. A megaphone was handed to him and he addressed the expectant gathering of voyeurs before him.

'Any women who see me naked singing this national anthem tonight and fancy a bit of slap and tickle, please form a queue to my left after the event.'

Cigarette in hand, he proceeded to strip to his underpants as cheers echoed down the High Road. Cries of 'Off! Off! Off!' ensued. Arthur then delivered a sentence which I feel will only ever be uttered once.

'I am an honest man and I am a just man, and when the music strikes up I will genuinely remove my pants.'