The Supporter

  

“Gooooal for A-I-I-I-K!” Tommy Engstrand shouted on the radio.

“Goal! What a goal, good Lord!” Arne exclaimed, slapping his knees in front of the large radio cabinet.

He had dreamed of that victory his entire life. Born in Solna, when the whole neighborhood lived and breathed AIK, he was convinced he had learned to say “AIK” almost at the same time as “Daddy.” He took his first steps with a worn football at his feet in the courtyard, not far from Råsunda, back when the gravel pitches still existed and boys played until darkness fell.

At seventeen, he played for the junior team and was its leading scorer. But when his father died, only weeks before he was due to get his chance with the first team, he was forced to start working. He signed on as an ordinary seaman aboard ships of the Transatlantic shipping line sailing between Gothenburg and Hull, and football remained ashore. In his seaman’s chest, he always carried the black-and-yellow number nine shirt.

After a few years at sea he rose through the ranks, but one day in the port of Gothenburg, while his ship lay idle for repairs, he took out the shirt, stared at it for a long time, and felt that something had come to an end. He left the seafaring life behind. He worked in cafés, sold lottery tickets, took odd jobs, until he finally found steady employment as a postman in Stockholm, with a service bicycle and a fixed delivery route.

Every Sunday, Arne sat in his underwear in front of the radio, drinking coffee and trimming his toenails while listening to Sportextra. For many years AIK was mentioned only in passing—the result, the attendance figure. The big features were always about Malmö FF, IFK Göteborg, or Norrköping.

At his regular pub, Kvarnen on Södermalm, his friends would tease him:

“Come on, Arne, why don’t you start supporting a real team?”

He would answer calmly:

“One day, we’ll win the league.”

The years passed. His eyesight worsened, his joints ached, and his pension was meager. But the AIK badge remained stubbornly pinned to his lapel. It was no longer pride—it was defiance. Sooner or later, it had to happen.

And then came the season when everything clicked. AIK topped the table. Best attack. Fewest goals conceded.

“Gooooal for A-I-I-I-K!”

When the final whistle blew, Arne stood punching the air. He put on his best suit, his black-and-yellow tie, and went outside. He hailed a Volvo taxi in the square.

“We’re driving around town and honking the horn,” he said. “AIK are Swedish champions.”

They cruised along Sveavägen. He held a small black-and-yellow flag out the window. Outside Kvarnen, his friends were already gathered. When they saw the taxi, they rose to their feet and began applauding.

“Slow down, but don’t stop,” Arne said as tears streamed down his face.

Back home, he hung the flag on the front door. His heart was pounding hard, almost violently. He lay down on the bed without even taking off his clothes and switched on the radio. The reporter was broadcasting live from the celebrations at Råsunda.

He smiled.

Then came that dry blow in his chest.

He tried to catch his breath, but saw the room begin to blur.

And in that moment, the whole world was called AIK.