by Mesut Özil
Ever since a 2–0 defeat in the 1936 Olympic Games, Germany hadn’t lost against Norway. And because the national side had also lost to England the previous November, after this defeat at the start of the year the press came down on us like a ton of bricks. Germany hadn’t lost two home games in succession since 1956.
As I was leaving the stadium through the mixed zone a reporter asked me if I didn’t regret my decision after this evening. Of course I didn’t, but I refused to give an answer to such a stupid question. In any case, my 12-minute outing hadn’t definitively committed me to Germany because the friendly against Norway didn’t count according to FIFA statutes. It wasn’t until I’d played a further six minutes in German colours, against Azerbaijan in August 2009, that the tug-of-war – which hadn’t been anything of the sort – was over for good. Which was more than could be said about the debate over my decision.
This reached a climax in October 2010, when Germany were playing a qualifier in Berlin against Turkey for the European Championship. All the media were again full of discussion about my decision to play for Germany. Spiegel-TV filmed a report and called the match ‘a celebration of football in the shadow of the debate about integration. The crescent moon against black-red-gold.’ The journalists interviewed Germans and Turks. And of course they also found people who despised the decision I’d made. ‘He’s Turkish, not German. How can he be proud of Germany?’ some asked. Others scoffed that I wasn’t ‘a proper Turk’. Their hostility was absurd.
Very soon it was no longer just about the game and the three points. After the match there was even some discussion about the colour of my boots. One newspaper, for example, wondered if with my choice of colours – a lot of red and a little white – I’d been trying to make a point and show the Turkish fans how close I felt to them, even thought I’d opted for the German national team and rejected the Turkish one. That wasn’t my intention at all. To put it bluntly, I’d just worn any old boots. I hadn’t thought about any kind of message; that would have been going too far.
The media, on the other hand, thought long and hard about the matter. Christof Kneer of the Süddeutsche Zeitung, for example, was worried about my narrow shoulders, on which the whole debate was apparently resting, and wrote, ‘The issue has been so prominent that soon it’s likely someone will ask Philipp Lahm why he decided to play for Germany.’
Nobody did ask Philipp Lahm, of course. But he played a pivotal role in this volatile encounter. In the seventy-ninth minute he passed the ball to me. All of a sudden I was approaching the Turkish goalie, almost unchallenged. With my left foot I shot it through his legs. 2–0 to Germany. But I didn’t celebrate. Because, to cite Nazan Eckes again, ‘my heart beats German and my heart also beats Turkish.’
After the match I headed straight for the shower and then had a bit of treatment. Having felt a little twinge in my thigh during the game, I grabbed one of our physios and asked him to massage my muscles. In the Berlin Olympic stadium the massage tables are in a separate treatment room, which meant I had no idea what was happening in the changing room. It wasn’t until I shuffled back slightly wearily in my flip-flops and with a bare torso that I found out.
Chancellor Angela Merkel was standing in the middle of our dressing room. Her government spokesman, Steffen Seibert, and President Christian Wulff with his daughter Annalena were there too. I was so embarrassed I just wanted to turn around and leave again. After all, I wasn’t on the beach on some club holiday where you can easily stroll up to a woman or a girl without a top on – quite apart from the fact that this woman was the most important and powerful person in the country. I hastily looked for something nearby to slip on. You can’t stand face to face with Mrs Merkel half-naked, I told myself. But as she turned to me, smiling, I couldn’t find anything apart from a towel, which I made a quick grab for. But before I could throw it around my shoulders, she was already holding her hand out to me.
‘Well done for that victory, Mesut,’ she said. ‘And for your goal, of course.’ She called me by my first name. ‘I imagine it wasn’t an easy game. But all that whistling whenever you got the ball didn’t seem to trouble you.’
She spoke calmly and was very friendly. She looked me in the eye. ‘I’ve had more difficult games,’ I replied, before adding, ‘I deliberately didn’t celebrate after my goal because I didn’t want to provoke anyone.’
‘You handled it well,’ the chancellor said.
We went on chatting a while longer. I told her that I’d been particularly impressed by the conduct of our opponents. ‘After the game the Turkish captain came up to me and wanted to exchange shirts. I was thrilled. I didn’t feel any resentment amongst the opposition that I’ve decided to play for Germany.’
Because a photographer from the chancellor’s office was present the image rapidly went around the world. Before publishing it he’d secured the OK from the German Football Federation. When my friends saw it they texted me in jest: ‘You and the chancellor? Have you got something going?’
Of course, the picture caused a great stir in the media again. Die Zeit described me as a ‘model immigrant’. My name kept cropping up in discussions about immigration. For example, Joachim Herrmann, the Bavarian minister of the interior, referred to me as ‘someone who brings his fantastic skills to our society, who gets every opportunity in this country.’ During a debate on immigration on the TV programme Hart aber fair, there was a discussion about how German I actually was. The American writer, Heather De Lisle, argued that I wasn’t an example of successful integration because I was German.
Virtually everybody voiced their opinion. Sometimes it was positive. Sometimes people sneered that I couldn’t be taken as a role model as I was unable to say a single German sentence without making grammatical errors. In fact, I couldn’t do anything except play football, they said.
I never took part in these debates. I never elevated myself above others or felt superior. After careful consideration I chose to play for Germany. I did my job well. And I feel comfortable and at home in the country of my birth. But I feel comfortable in Turkey too. And I’ve also had great times in Madrid and London. The media often tries to force you to tie yourself down to one thing. Along the lines of: ‘Come on, tell us. What are you? German? Or Turkish? Where do you prefer to be? Germany or Turkey? You have to choose one. Come on, commit yourself. You can’t be both. There’s only black and white. There’s only Turkish or German.’
I had to make the decision about whether I wanted to play for Germany or Turkey. Logically I had to opt for one or the other; there was no way around it. But I don’t like being hustled in that sort of way.
You can definitely belong to two cultures. And you can certainly be proud of two cultures. A heart can beat Turkish and German at the same time. You can think like a German and feel Turkish. That’s how integration works. With mutual respect, like in a great football club.
I’m proud to have chosen the German national team, in spite of the pressure. And I’m happy that I’ve never turned my back on Turkey.
5
Runner-up with Schalke
Don’t be afraid to make mistakes
By now I’d also signed my first professional contract with Schalke. After winning the U-19 championship I moved up to the first team. As I’ve already said, everything that happened in these 12 months felt as if it had occurred in a few weeks. And the madness continued. Suddenly head coach Mirko Slomka put me in the German League Cup match against Bayer Leverkusen. Because I’d never thought this a possibility I couldn’t alert anyone in my family. My brother Mutlu was on holiday with his family in Turkey, where he watched me play my first minutes in an official match for Schalke on television. When I returned to the dressing room after the match, which we won, I saw on my mobile that he’d already texted me. ‘Wow! You nutmegged Carsten Ramelow,’ and ‘I’m proud of you!’
Shortly afterwards the 2006–07 Bundesliga season began. Before our opening fixture against Eintracht Frankfurt, we were on our way to
the team hotel in Münster when Lincoln spoke to me. ‘Mesut,’ he said, ‘go to bed early tonight, close your eyes straightaway and get some sleep.’ To begin with I had no idea what he was trying to say. When I looked at him in astonishment, he smiled, placed his hand on my shoulder in a paternal fashion and explained, ‘Let me tell you a secret. But you didn’t hear it from me. This is an insider tip-off: you’re playing tomorrow. You won’t be in the starting line-up, but I know the manager’s going to bring you on.’
I wanted to jump for joy. Shout out loud. Cheer. Hug him. Hug the manager. The entire world. I was going to get my first appearance on the pitch in a real Bundesliga match.
I bet no player in the world has ever forgotten his first minute in a league match. It’s the milestone on the way to the top. I’ve played with so many talented players in youth teams. So many I was sure were going to become great footballers. But then one’s girlfriend became more important than a potential career while another enjoyed partying long and hard, and was fed up with self-denial and discipline.
Millions of children around the world dream of playing in the Bundesliga at some point in their life. And now it was going to happen to me. Or, at least, that’s what Lincoln was saying. But I wondered where he’d got his information from. Or was he just winding me up and playing a terribly bad joke?
‘Are you sure? I thought the coach wasn’t going to reveal the line-up until tomorrow. Come on. How do you know that? Please tell me. Please.’
But Lincoln just smiled and went away with the words, ‘Don’t say anything to anyone. And make sure you’re prepared tomorrow.’
Instead of going to bed early for a relaxing sleep. I tossed and turned that night. I switched from lying on my stomach to my back. Put the pillow over my head. But nothing worked. I was so restless that even my roommate, Halil Altıntop, couldn’t sleep.
‘What’s wrong?’ he said. ‘Why are you so worried? Is it because of tomorrow?’
Altıntop seemed to know too. So I opened up to him.
‘What if I make a mistake?’ I asked. ‘If I don’t play as the manager thinks I will?’
In truth I’ve never been the type of person to be plagued by self-doubt. I’ve always had a good deal of confidence. But that night, at least, things were different.
I found it a big help that Halil told me about his first Bundesliga match. Three years earlier, the same thoughts had churned around in his head when he found out he was going to play for Kaiserslautern against Cologne. ‘I asked myself the same questions, Mesut. But do you know what? You can make mistakes. We’re behind you. We’ll get the ball back if you lose it. Play as normal. Trust yourself. Whatever you do, don’t start passing sideways just to avoid making bad passes. That’s not your game. Take your natural risks. And don’t hide behind safe passes. Now go to sleep. You need your energy.’
Halil’s words were of some comfort. But I didn’t fall into a deep sleep. Not for a second. When I looked at the radio alarm on the bedside table between Halil and me, it said three o’clock. After what felt like another 20 minutes, only five had actually passed. Thirty glances later it was still only four o’clock. This night was simply refusing to pass.
When Mirko Slomka showed us the team sheet after breakfast I wasn’t in the starting line-up. But Lincoln had said I wouldn’t be. However, Slomka didn’t mention anything about me being brought on during the game. So I took my place on the bench with Manuel Neuer, Rafinha and Sebastian Boenisch, amongst others, still uncertain as to whether or not my dream would come true today.
The game got underway. Halil scored with Kevin Kurányi assisting to make it 1–0. An hour had gone – no: only half that. This darned sense of time. We played well. Our tactics were working. The passes landed accurately at players’ feet. Only the score didn’t reflect the run of play. It wasn’t happening for Frankfurt, as they say. We were playing in a manner that was in keeping with the ambition we’d set ourselves for the season. ‘We want the title. Our team is now considerably stronger. It would be implausible to set out any other objective,’ our coach Mirko Slomka had clearly stated.
In the half-time chat I was still hoping he’d mention my name. He didn’t.
We began the second half by continuing to dominate as we had in the first. Until the fifty-first minute. After a foul on Kevin Kurányi we were awarded a penalty. Levan Kobiashvili was going to take it, but Lincoln grabbed the ball because he claimed he had a good feeling about it. His strike landed in the arms of Frankfurt’s keeper, Markus Pröll. And all of a sudden the game turned on its head. Our dominance was gone.
While I was finally warming up I had to watch Ioannis Amanatidis take advantage of Eintracht’s second chance and head the ball into our net. The equaliser. Followed by unmistakable whistling from our fans. Then, shortly after five o’clock, I was called over to the manager and told to get ready. Just a few seconds remained before I’d be making my first appearance as a professional in the Bundesliga.
Mirko Slomka put a reassuring arm around me as the fans kept whistling. He didn’t say much, nothing monumental anyway. He just gave me a few tactical tips. He was going to bring me on for Hamit Altıntop. Then he said, ‘Just enjoy it!’
In the weeks leading up to this game he’d fielded many questions about me from journalists. As had Andreas Müller, our director of football. ‘We know what a great talent he is,’ Müller had once said about me. ‘He’s a smart and carefree player, instinctively he always does the right thing. His footballing intelligence is incredible.’ I found it almost uncomfortable to listen to, even though it obviously felt good too.
Gerald Asamoah had the ball. He played it to Kevin Kurányi. Via Løvenkrands it came to Lincoln. I watched the ball go from one to the other, while 79 minutes had already ticked by on the clock. With each pass I was being robbed of more seconds. A pass to the left, to the right, forwards, back again. ‘For goodness’ sake,’ I heard my inner voice shout, ‘just kick the bloody ball into touch.’
The desire to get my first taste of the Bundesliga was driving me mad with impatience. I was virtually unrestrainable; I was desperate to get running at once. Even though I’d be entering a forlorn match situation. Joining an uncertain team that which had squandered all its dominance. That which had inexplicably lost the flow of play. In which nobody wanted to take responsibility.
And yet I was as excited as a little child. How often had I discussed with my friends what it must be like to play in the Bundesliga? Up till then my biggest match had been the League Cup game against Leverkusen. It was only back in June that I’d won the German U-19 championship at the Lüttinghof stadium in Gelsenkirchen-Hassel in front of 6,528 spectators. Now I was a few seconds away from playing in a real Bundesliga game in front of ten times as many people. I’d invested every minute of training for this moment. Every shot at goal, every dribble had been in preparation for now.
As I stood on the wrong side of the touchline, waiting for the substitution, I allowed my gaze to wander around the stadium. In our goal was Frank Rost.
How that man had bugged me. Rost was a real grump. In 1999 he’d won the German Cup with Werder Bremen. In the penalty shootout in the final against Bayern Munich, he saved Lothar Matthäus’s strike and then converted one himself to make it 6–5 for Werder. Rost had also played in the UEFA Cup against teams like Arsenal and he’d stood in goal for Germany.
I would always give Rost a wide berth wherever possible. To escape his snarling. He let us young players know what he thought of us – absolutely nothing! Whenever you got close to him he’d bare his teeth, and each time I fancied I could hear a menacing ‘Grrrr’.
Once, when I was getting a massage after training, Rost, then 33, came in and shooed me away. Back then there weren’t as many treatment tables and physiotherapists as there are today.
‘How old are you?’ he snapped.
‘Seventeen.’
‘Are you playing this weekend?’
‘No!’
‘Get down then.’
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This is what it was like back in 2005. The hierarchy was stricter. The older players called the shots. The younger ones had to work their way up submissively. That’s just how it was. And I didn’t find it perverse or bad.
In retrospect it was good for us young players. Who were we to contradict someone like Frank Rost? To work your way up by finding favour with the elder players was an incentive.
When later I was with Werder Bremen – to fast-forward briefly – things hadn’t changed. Thomas Schaaf and his assistant manager Wolfgang Rolff often joined in our piggy-in-the-middle game. It had been 18 since Rolff had won the UEFA Cup and so not only were his ball skills a little rusty, but his reactions weren’t as quick as they had once been. And yet he never wanted to be in the middle, not even when one of his passes had been intercepted. Thomas Schaaf also turned out to be rather reluctant when it came to chasing the ball. Sometimes, just on a whim, he’d fire passes to us younger players, especially Sebastian Boenisch, that were impossible to bring under control. If he saw the ball bounce off our feet or thighs like off a concrete wall, he’d laugh and order, ‘You’re in the middle. It was your mistake.’
Back when I was younger you still needed a lot of discipline. We’d lug the balls, we’d fetch the jerseys, we’d carry the cones –and we didn’t dare answer back when the Frank Rosts of this world said something. Today it’s much more common to see young players in their first season as professionals parading around like spoilt brats and seasoned stars who’ve already got 300 top-flight league games under their belt. They answer back arrogantly as if they’ve already been champions several times and experienced everything on the pitch . . .
The ball is still in play. Gustavo Varela makes a sliding tackle on Patrick Ochs. Then the time has come. In the eightieth minute I’m brought on for Hamit Altıntop. My first minute in the Bundesliga has begun.
These days, after more than 570 hours as a professional footballer on pitches all over the world, 70 of which have been in the Champions League, I’m barely aware of the crowd during the game, apart from when there are corners and throw-ins. As soon as the whistle has gone, it’s as if the mute button has been pressed on the remote control. The moment I’m on the pitch I blank out the background noise. No more voices. No cheering. No whistling from opposition fans. I’ve only got ears for my teammates. I hear the warnings from these 11 men if an opposition player’s getting close to my back. I hear the calls to play the ball to them. Or their criticism if I’m hanging on to it for too long. Nothing else.
