The Norwegian Beast

There are many dangerous creatures in Norway.

There are bears, wolves, angry moose, and grandmothers who believe that wearing a jacket indoors will permanently destroy your immune system.

But none of them is as terrifying as Erling Haaland before breakfast.

At exactly 6:03 every morning, the Norwegian Beast opened his eyes.

He did not wake up slowly like an ordinary human being. He activated.

His eyes snapped open. His heart began beating at the tempo of a Champions League anthem. Somewhere in Manchester, three defenders woke from nightmares without knowing why.

Haaland sat upright in his enormous reinforced bed.

The bed had been specially designed by engineers who normally built suspension bridges. Ordinary furniture could not survive him. He had once destroyed a hotel mattress simply by dreaming about scoring a header.

He looked at the digital clock beside him.

6:03.

One minute late.

“Unacceptable,” he whispered.

The alarm clock immediately switched itself off out of fear.

Haaland stood, stretched his arms, and accidentally touched the ceiling. A small crack appeared above him.

“Sorry,” he said politely.

The ceiling accepted his apology.

Today was not an ordinary day. Today, Haaland had an important appointment at the bank.

His accountant had called him the previous evening with disturbing news.

“Erling,” the accountant had said nervously, “we need to discuss your finances.”

“Have I spent too much money on salmon?”

“No.”

“Have I purchased another Norwegian forest by accident?”

“No.”

“Did my father order seventeen tractors again?”

“That is a separate issue.”

The accountant had taken a long breath.

“You have officially broken even.”

Haaland had remained silent.

For most people, breaking even was not dramatic. It simply meant that income and expenses were equal.

But Haaland had misunderstood completely.

He believed something called “Even” had been broken.

And if something had been broken, he was probably responsible.

That was how Haaland found himself walking into the Manchester Central Bank at nine o’clock wearing a black tracksuit, white trainers, and the expression of a Viking arriving to negotiate the surrender of a small kingdom.

The security guard looked up.

“Good morning, sir.”

“I am here about Even.”

“Even who?”

“The one I broke.”

The guard stared at him.

“I’m sorry?”

“My accountant said I broke Even.”

The security guard considered calling his supervisor. Then he noticed the size of Haaland’s shoulders and decided that this was above his pay grade.

“Please take a seat.”

The waiting-room chairs were small and delicate. Haaland examined them carefully before sitting on the floor.

A child across the room recognized him immediately.

“Mum,” the boy whispered, “that’s the Norwegian Beast.”

His mother glanced over.

“Don’t stare.”

“Can I ask him for a picture?”

“No. He might be doing important football business.”

Haaland turned toward them.

“I am looking for Even.”

The boy’s eyes widened.

“My cousin is called Evan.”

“Has he been broken?”

“No.”

“Good.”

After several minutes, a bank employee approached him. His name badge said MARTIN, PERSONAL FINANCIAL ADVISER.

Martin had spent the morning explaining mortgage rates to nervous couples. He was not prepared to explain accounting terminology to a six-foot-four striker who looked capable of kicking a calculator into orbit.

“Mr Haaland, please follow me.”

They entered a private office.

Haaland sat down carefully. The chair made a sound like a ship trapped in Arctic ice.

Martin opened a folder.

“I understand you have concerns about breaking even.”

“Yes. Where is he?”

Martin blinked.

“Where is who?”

“Even.”

“Breaking even is not a person.”

Haaland narrowed his eyes.

“Then what is it?”

“It is a financial term. It means your income equals your expenses.”

Haaland leaned back.

The chair screamed again.

“So nobody is injured?”

“No.”

“No broken bones?”

“No.”

“No one named Even is waiting outside?”

“No.”

Haaland relaxed for the first time all morning.

“That is good news.”

Martin smiled cautiously.

“Very good news.”

“But why did my accountant sound afraid?”

Martin looked through the paperwork.

“Well, according to these figures, your spending has become somewhat unusual.”

“I buy only essential things.”

“Of course.”

“Food. Training equipment. Recovery machines.”

“Perfectly reasonable.”

“Seven Viking helmets.”

Martin paused.

“Seven?”

“One for each day.”

“Right.”

“And a longboat.”

“You bought a longboat?”

“For recovery.”

“How does a longboat help with recovery?”

“I sit inside and think about goals.”

Martin looked down at the expense report.

There it was.

NORWEGIAN LONGBOAT — PROFESSIONAL WELLNESS EQUIPMENT.

He continued reading.

“You also spent a considerable amount on milk.”

“I require calcium.”

“This says you purchased an entire dairy farm.”

“It was cheaper in the long term.”

“And what about this industrial freezer?”

“For salmon.”

“And the second industrial freezer?”

“For emergency salmon.”

Martin removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

“Mr Haaland, you may need a budget.”

Haaland frowned.

“I already have a budget.”

“Really?”

“Yes. My budget is: score goals, receive money, buy salmon.”

“That is more of a lifestyle philosophy.”

“It has worked until now.”

Martin turned the computer monitor toward him.

A colourful graph appeared on the screen. One line represented Haaland’s income. Another represented his spending.

The lines crossed in the middle.

“You see this point here?” Martin said. “That is where you break even.”

Haaland stared at the graph.

“It looks like two defenders crossing their runs.”

“That is one way of seeing it.”

“The blue line is out of position.”

“It is not a football formation.”

“It should drop deeper.”

“Mr Haaland—”

“And the red line needs to attack the space.”

“They are financial indicators.”

Haaland stood and walked to the whiteboard.

“Give me the marker.”

Martin handed it to him.

Haaland drew a football pitch over the bank’s financial chart.

“This is the income,” he said, drawing an arrow toward the penalty area. “This is the expense. The expense presses high, but the income makes a run behind.”

Martin watched silently.

“Then,” Haaland continued, “the salmon moves into midfield.”

“Why is the salmon in midfield?”

“It creates space for the longboat.”

The door opened.

Martin’s manager, Susan, stepped inside.

“Is everything all right?”

Martin looked at the whiteboard, which now featured twelve arrows, three circles, a fish, and something that appeared to be a flaming Viking helmet.

“We are developing a new financial strategy.”

Susan examined the diagram.

“Is that a salmon?”

“Yes,” Haaland said. “Defensive midfielder.”

Susan nodded slowly.

“I see.”

She did not see.

Nobody saw.

But this was the banking sector, where people regularly pretended to understand things.

Haaland capped the marker.

“To stop breaking even, I must score more.”

Martin raised a finger.

“Technically, reducing your expenses would also—”

“Score more,” Haaland repeated.

“That is one possible solution.”

“Good.”

He shook Martin’s hand. Martin lost feeling in three fingers.

“Thank you. I understand finance now.”

“I am not entirely sure that you do.”

But Haaland had already left.

Outside the bank, the child from the waiting room was still there.

“Did you find Even?” he asked.

“There was no Even.”

“So who did you break?”

Haaland thought carefully.

“The economy.”

The boy looked impressed.

Haaland returned to the training ground with a renewed sense of purpose.

His teammates were already warming up.

Jack Grealish was adjusting his hair. Kevin De Bruyne was passing a ball against a wall with such precision that the wall had begun questioning its defensive abilities.

Haaland marched onto the pitch.

“We have a financial emergency,” he announced.

The players stopped.

“What happened?” asked Jack.

“I have broken even.”

Jack looked concerned.

“Is he a new goalkeeper?”

“No. It means my income and expenses are equal.”

Kevin nodded.

“That makes sense.”

“I must score more goals.”

“You already score quite a lot,” said Jack.

“Not enough.”

“How many do you need?”

Haaland looked toward the goal.

“All of them.”

Training began.

The first goalkeeper faced him.

Haaland scored.

The second goalkeeper stepped in.

Haaland scored again.

The third goalkeeper claimed to have a dentist appointment and left the building.

The coach blew his whistle.

“Erling, this is only a passing drill.”

“Every drill is a scoring drill.”

He kicked another ball. It hit the net so hard that the goal moved backwards by half a metre.

The equipment manager made a note to reinforce it with steel.

By lunchtime, Haaland had scored forty-seven practice goals, broken two mannequins, frightened a drone, and caused the training-ground goal-line technology to resign.

He checked his phone.

No message from his accountant.

He scored another twenty.

Still nothing.

Finally, at four in the afternoon, the phone rang.

“Erling,” said the accountant.

“Have I solved it?”

“Solved what?”

“Breaking even.”

“I saw a news report saying you scored sixty-eight goals during training.”

“Sixty-nine. One was disallowed.”

“That does not affect your current finances.”

Haaland’s face fell.

“Then what must I do?”

“Spend less money.”

Haaland looked around the training ground.

“What should I sell?”

“The longboat would be a start.”

“No.”

“The seventh Viking helmet?”

“Monday cannot wear Sunday’s helmet.”

“The dairy farm?”

“The cows depend on me.”

The accountant sighed.

“What about cancelling the order for the golden barbecue?”

Haaland froze.

“How do you know about that?”

“It is listed in your accounts.”

“It has goalposts on the side.”

“You already own four barbecues.”

“Those are for ordinary meat. This is for championship meat.”

There was a long silence.

“Erling, you need to choose between sensible financial management and the golden barbecue.”

Haaland stared into the distance.

This was the most difficult decision of his career.

He had faced powerful defenders. He had played in enormous stadiums. He had taken penalties in front of millions.

None of that had prepared him for this.

At last, he spoke.

“Can scoring more goals pay for the barbecue?”

The accountant groaned.

“Possibly.”

“Then the barbecue stays.”

That evening, Haaland returned home and sat inside his longboat.

The boat occupied most of his living room. It was surrounded by protein shakes, football boots, recovery devices, and six Viking helmets. The seventh was in the dishwasher.

He placed a piece of emergency salmon on the table and opened his notebook.

At the top of the page, he wrote:

OPERATION: STOP BREAKING EVEN.

Underneath, he made a plan.

1. Score more goals. 2. Spend less money. 3. Do not buy another forest. 4. Ask whether forests come in smaller sizes. 5. Protect the golden barbecue at all costs.

He looked proudly at his work.

This was financial discipline.

Then his phone buzzed.

A message appeared from his father.

FOUND CHEAP TRACTOR. SHOULD I BUY TEN?

Haaland stared at the screen.

He began typing no.

He stopped.

He imagined ten tractors driving across a Norwegian field in perfect formation.

It would be magnificent.

He deleted the word no.

HOW CHEAP? he replied.

Three minutes later, his accountant called.

Haaland ignored the phone.

Outside, thunder rolled across Manchester.

Somewhere far away, an accountant quietly began to cry.

The Norwegian Beast smiled, lifted his emergency salmon, and looked toward the future.

Tomorrow, he would score more goals.

Tomorrow, he would save money.

Tomorrow, he would become financially responsible.

But tonight, he had tractors to purchase.