"I'm not a sportsman Fräulein!"

Football...and he'd support Bradford City...and we'd win everything...and everyone would bow down to Bradford and say "You are the greatest team in the world"......

What?

Actually, Bond is the Service' best footballplayer.

James Bond stood at the Centre Spot of Old Trafford stadium's football pitch and shot the 70th and last goal of the 90-minute training session. He relished the memory of hitting the ball with his right instep, giving the necessary backspin, his eyes following it's bowed trajectory that at first shot far above the goal, then gently flattened out, drifting to the left and, on reaching the 18 yard box, suddenly dropped to the corner built by the left goalpost and the crossbar.

Ben Foster, at first standing too far to the right, realized the ball�s crooked angle the split second too late that divides between goal and a successful stopped shot. He leaped to the left, arms stretched out towards the ball but couldn't manage to even touch it with his fingertips.

�'That was number 70.'� His team-mate Darren Fletcher commented as the ball hit the net, playfully bouncing back before joining the number of leather balls that were strewn across the lawn.

�'Damn hell, I can�t believe it! How is this bloody doing this? And at this distance! That�s about 50 yards and I haven�t been able to stop a single shot of this freak. If ever a journalist gets a whiff of this my bloody career is down the drain. Sun�s ***ers are on to me anyways.'�

Fletcher gave a wry smile. He could sympathise with Foster only too good.
�'Calm down, Ben. Guy is from the Ministry of Defence. Has to do something with National Security, or so I understand. Anyway, thank god you�re the goalkeeper and I only have to shoot them back to him.'�

Foster gave an expression of disbelief.
�'Ministry of Defence? And that's why he's shooting hell out of my goal? What kind of are they up to?'

Foster and Fletcher now both observed the tall dark figure of Bond, clad in a navy blue tracksuit, undoing his cleats and putting them in a nondescript battered but once expensive pigskin holdall.

�'Honestly, I've no idea myself. But from what I heard, three weeks ago that guy pulled the same trick on Cech and Frank Lampart was doing my job, shooting him the balls back. So just be glad it�s over and chalk it up to experience, Ben.'�

Bond had put on a pair of soft moccasins now and crossed the 50 yards to Fletcher and Foster, his movements relaxed, nothing betraying his previous workout. He noted with satisfaction that throughout the session he'd been able to shoot without getting report from Scaramanga's old bullet wound in his stomach. Shooting at this range was difficult business and it called for every single ounce of effort. Especially if you wanted to pull different kinds of spin onto every shot to make it unstoppable even for a goalkeeper of Foster's class.

�'Mr Foster, Mr Fletcher. On behalf of the MoD I thank you for your efforts. Your assistance has been invaluable and will be duly noted. Goodbye, gentlemen.'�

With a firm handshake and a noncommittal smile Bond left the two football players to their speculations and made his way through the catacombs to the car park where his Bentley waited. He placed the holdall in the boot where it joined his suitcase and with a glance to his watch decided that he'd just have enough time for a quick shower and a change of cloths before his flight to Vienna. While he inched his car towards his Chelsea flat, luxuriating in the low growl of its two-inch double exhaust, he smoked the 20th cigarette of the day. Reluctantly he'd gotten used to cutting down on his nicotine intake during the last three weeks. Tomorrow evening he would have a rendezvous with a German goalkeeper and he would need to be in top form then.

Three weeks previously, Bond had been summoned to M by the red phone on his desk.

‘Come in 007 and take a seat. Be with you in a second.’

The clear grey eyes had hardly looked up from the folder M was reading. Through the open windows the muffled sounds of the London traffic and Regents Park had seeped into M’s office. Bond had sat down and had observed M reading what Bond had immediately recognized as his health file.

Bond had always felt a kind of superstitious unease whenever he saw somebody touching what amounted to his fate and destiny as far as the Service was concerned. And he usually hadn’t felt much different just because it was M who held this file now in his hands.

‘Now, 007.’ M had looked up, glancing above his reading-glasses.
‘I asked the CoS to bring me the file of the Service’ best football player. And imagine my surprise when he came up with your name.’ M had raised his eyebrows in impatient enquiry.

Bond had silently prayed that this conversation wasn’t going to touch the question of his cigarette consumption. Now, with considerate relief, he had felt this wouldn’t be the case.

‘Oh, yes, I see. That was the year after the Scaramanga affair. You weren’t well and had to recover, you remember?’

With an angry nod and a wave of his hand M had prompted Bond to continue.

‘Well, the MoD threatened to dismiss all officers that didn’t meet it’s new health regulations. As you may remember, Sir, my mode de vivre was not inclined to agree with these restrictions. Bill suggested that I begin some kind of sport that really keeps my physical potential at level. I discovered the Hackney Marshes. At first it was kind of uncommon. But over the years it somehow grew on me. I actually quite like it now. Our changing-room always reminds me of the one at Royal-St-Marks. I’m playing every Sunday for 42 years now. Developed a little routine and became a reasonably good player. Could be better, off course, if it wasn’t for my right hip.’ Bond had added with a small pang of regret. He owed that to Heinkel, who had probably destroyed Bond’s career in professional association football fifty years ago.

‘Well, it looks as if you’ve done remarkably good. The CoS and the Health section have kept track of your exploits. And it’s all very fitting that you should be the best football player in the Service. Something has come up that calls for your talents now, 007.’ M had grunted with bitter seriousness.

‘Once more it’s Germany. Once more, Europe is at stake. And, once again, the Continent isn’t able to defend itself against the onslaught of the Germans.’ M had continued.

‘Sir?’ Bond had exclaimed uncomprehendingly.

‘You have read the file on the UEFA EURO 2008?’

Now Bond had remembered one report in his in-tray. Had he read it? He certainly had ticked his number on the cover.

‘Yes, there is this tournament this year. Swiss and Austria? I think it’s about to begin this weekend?’

‘Exactly, 007.’

‘And what’s this got to do with the Germans?’

‘There have been rumours, 007. On the street. In pubs and restaurants. Hell, even in the press. It says the Germans are setting out to win this tournament.’

‘What? The Germans? Yet again?’ Bond had called out. Were they really up to their usual dirty tricks again? After two lost World wars? Hadn’t they got enough? It was almost unbelievable. They must be out of their minds.

‘But that alone wouldn’t have been reason enough for the Service to concern itself with. We don’t act on mere rumours and I won‘t let waste precious Service resources just because a few Jerries getting overambitious once more. But yesterday we’ve got this.’ M had said, presenting Bond with a photograph of the German National Football Team for the EURO 2008. 23 players and their manager, one Joachim ’Jogi’ L�w.

‘Don’t you recognize him?’ M had inquired, his pipe cold between his teeth. Ill tempered he’d shoved a magnifying glass across the green leather-top of his desk.

‘Look at their manager. You surely have to recognize him. You of all people!’

Bond scrutinized the face of L�w. And, sure enough, under the dark hair the two eyes (blue? grey? green?) both held a tiny red spark of fire.

‘Is it…?’

‘Drax, 007!’ M had exclaimed. ‘It’s Drax again and his men. Their bodies have never been recovered from that damned Russian submarine. Somehow they must have survived. Of course received the latest of plastic surgery, looking at least fifty years younger. But its him, make no mistake. And his team is most likely the very guys that built that blasted Moonraker of his. God alone knows what that man will do if they should succeed in this tournament. He’s certainly out to enslave the whole of Football Europe. Surely won’t ever give the new trophy back. 7.6 kilograms of sterling silver! Designed by Asprey! In the hands of a 110-year-old war criminal!’

Again Bond had inspected the players faces with the magnifying glass. Yes, indeed. Now he could see it too. It had all been so obvious now!

Ballack, that poorly camouflaged Russian plant. When speaking German he had that pronounced Saxonian accent, something Bond had learned the hard way was a sure sign of Stasi-connections. And to think he made his way into the very heart of Chelsea, his beloved Chelsea, of all clubs! Bond had felt a wave of mental nausea washing over his consciousness. He had felt almost physically stained by this sudden revelation. Why the hell had nobody seen the truth earlier?

Schweinsteiger, a man whose name meant ‘Pigclimber’. But the pallid, pasty complexion betrayed his real identity: Willy Krebs, Bond was now sure of it. After an extended amount of plastic surgery, no doubt. But the set of small pig’s eyes had remained the same. As had the wide pores of his face one could almost see the tallow erupting from. Bond had shuddered with disgust.

And Metzelder with his dark hair and his beard! Yes, of course! He just hadn’t recognized him earlier because he didn‘t wear a roll neck, leatherjacket and the white Captain‘s cap. Now Bond remembered. WWII, a restaurant in Pimlico. He’d questioned this German submariner captain. A tough biscuit that one had been. Even after 7 bottles of wine he hadn’t talked much. Why hadn’t they shot the bastard when they had the chance to? Now he, Bond, would have to avoid him from getting his revenge.

‘I see, Sir. I’d very much like to meet our old friend Drax again, Sir.’ Bond had said, his growing anger and disgust in the face of this enormously fiendish plot hardly kept in check, his nails digging into his palms. Yes, he’d settle his debt with Drax and his men once and for all!

‘Very well, 007‘.A grim smile in the old weather-beaten lines of M’s sailor’s face had betrayed his satisfaction with Bond’s eagerness.

‘You’re on special training from tomorrow onwards. We’ve already managed sessions for you with some of England’s finest football clubs. We want you to meet Drax when he’s expecting the least resistance: in the finals of the EURO 2008!’

M - Churchill's Cup of Couch-Potatoes (no sports)

Moneypenny - table tennis and advanced origami (to be in Britains Olympic origami-team in 2012)

Boothroyd - snooker

Tanner - beach volleyball coach (only female teams)

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