by Mesut Özil
The game against Wolfsburg ought to have been a pretty clear-cut affair, especially as we were seriously weakened in goal. Both Tim Wiese and his deputy, Christian Vander, were out through injury, which meant that Nico Pellatz played his first competitive fixture for Bremen. Until then he’d been in goal for our second team against other third-division sides like Unterhaching, Sandhausen and Kickers Emden.
But we managed to have another Werder moment. Diego put us in front with a strike from the edge of the box. I made it 2–0 after dribbling into the area. Edin Džeko got one back for Wolfsburg with the third goal of the game. All of this in the first ten minutes. And there was more to come. Having missed, unmarked, from 5 metres, Pizarro then scored, but was offside. After the break Džeko scored again from the spot to make it 2–2. Seven shots on goal later, the game ended 5–2 in our favour and we’d secured our place in the semi-final.
In the UEFA Cup, which we were in because we’d only come third in the group phase of the Champions League, we knocked out AC Milan, Saint-Étienne and Udinese, and were drawn against Hamburger SV in the semi-final. Exactly the same opponents as in the German Cup semi-final. And because there was another meeting against Hamburg coming up in the Bundesliga, we had four northern derbies awaiting us in 19 days. It promised to be an exciting time. We were on course for a double, which provided us with a distraction from our poor showing in the Bundesliga. For Hamburg, three titles were at stake in our four clashes, for they still had a chance of becoming Bundesliga champions; after 28 games they were only three points behind Wolfsburg and equal third in the table with Bayern. Theoretically everything was possible.
Of course, the slings and arrows were flying around well before the first of our encounters. Nigel de Jong stirred things up by saying that he ‘couldn’t care less’ who played on the day – ‘I’ll eat the lot of them up.’ Rafael van der Vaart described Diego as ‘a sissy’.
Tim Wiese’s kung fu kick was also pulled from the archives to fire up the contest. He himself chipped into the conversation by saying, ‘I think they’re afraid in Hamburg. If they get a good battering from us in the German Cup they’ll be trembling in the rest of the games too.’
I believe that Wiese is one of those players who needs this sort of friction with the opposition and fans. There are footballers who actually get stronger as the whistling in the stands grows louder. They draw strength from hostility. They have an ‘I’ll show you’ mentality and thrive particularly when they’re under serious pressure. This approach doesn’t work for me because, as I’ve said, I barely notice the fans during the game, only my teammates.
In Hamburg Per Mertesacker put us in the lead. Ivica Olić equalised, managing to slot one past Wiese, who otherwise had little to do. In the ninety-second minute David Jarolím hit me with a bad tackle. Referee Knut Kircher immediately pulled out the red card, which meant we were a man up for extra time. But in spite of this advantage we weren’t able to score the winner.
So our first duel had to be decided by penalties. Hamburg went first. Joris Mathijsen scored. So did Claudio Pizarro. Then the Wiese show began. Before Jérôme Boateng shot, our goalie advanced towards the HSV defender and looked deep into his eyes. A touch of intimidation. The message: I’m stronger than you. He did the same to Hamburg’s remaining penalty-takers, Olić and Marcell Jansen. He also fidgeted wildly on the line, earning Wiese even more whistles than he’d got at the Hamburg end of the ground. But his performance had the desired effect. All three Hamburg players seemed awed. And no matter where they shot, Wiese leapt in the right direction.
He saved all three attempts, while I converted our second penalty and Torsten Frings scored with our third. This meant we hadn’t just ruined our Bundesliga arch-rivals’ chance of their first title of the season, but we had also given ourselves a chance to win the German Cup.
HSV narrowly won our next clash, beating us 1–0 in our own stadium and thus getting their noses ahead in the UEFA Cup. They’d also be playing in front of their own fans for the return match. The crowd went wild when Olić put them in front in the second game. Everything seemed to point to a Hamburg victory, but we didn’t give up and got back in the game through Diego and Claudio Pizarro.
Shortly before the end of the game we were leading 2–1 – and so ahead on away goals – when something happened that I’d never seen before. Under no pressure, the HSV defender Michael Gravgaard went to play the ball with his left foot back to the Hamburg keeper, Frank Rost. A simple pass he must have executed a hundred thousand times before. A pass you’d never talk about because it would normally be too ordinary. But a wad of paper turned this ordinary pass into a remarkable one, and the paper itself into the ‘wad of God’.
An HSV fan must have been holding the sheet of paper up before kick-off to encourage his team – it was part of the routine the fans used to spur their side on. And in all likelihood this fan scrunched it up in anger after one of our goals and hurled it randomly towards the pitch, where the wad of paper sat for ages unnoticed in the glare of the floodlights. Until Gravgaard attempted his pass. Suddenly the ball hit the wad of paper and bounced up, hitting Gravgaard’s shin and going out rather than back to Frank Rost. This gave us a corner. Diego took it, the ball made its way to Frank Baumann and then into the goal. 3–1 to us – thanks to that wad of paper. It was just as unexpected as my bizarre first goal for Karlsruhe had been.
Although Olić scored again to reduce Hamburg’s deficit, in the end we won 3–2. Because of the three away goals we’d scored, they were out of the UEFA Cup. We went on to beat them again in the Bundesliga too.
After the UEFA Cup semi-final a television reporter picked up the paper ball. It became the topic of discussion, described and analysed by almost the entire media. It was passed around like a trophy, and even taken to the final in Istanbul. A bidding consortium was set up for the ball of paper, and ultimately purchased the exhibit for 4,150 euros in the auction that ended after the final.
But while the paper ball was able to enjoy its big appearance in Istanbul, I couldn’t enjoy mine.
Diego was suspended from the UEFA Cup final against Shakhtar Donetsk in Turkey, and so all eyes were on me. After seven assists in 13 international fixtures so far, great things were expected of me. ‘The match will depend on Mesut,’ Torsten Frings said before the final. And Thomas Schaaf expressed the hope ‘that Mesut can crown his excellent season with this game.’
I’d got half my relatives from Zonguldak to come to Istanbul. They’d made the 330-kilometre journey to the final in camper vans. To this very special (at least for all the Özils) game. But it wasn’t just special because I was playing; this was also to be the last ever UEFA Cup final after 38 years.
The competition had been in existence since the 1971–72 season and German teams had won the title six times: Gladbach twice, as well as Frankfurt, Leverkusen, Bayern and Schalke. The last time a German side had been in the final – Borussia Dortmund in 2002 – they had lost 3–2 against Feyenoord of Rotterdam. From 2010 the competition was to be slightly modified and become the Europa League.
I’d slept well the night before the big game. Now I felt good and was ready to fulfil the high expectations of me. But then I didn’t play well at all. All the ideas I had in the match somehow went wrong. None of my runs worked. It was as if my antennae, which usually guided me across the pitch with precision, were faulty. I lacked my usual fluency, unpredictability and penetration.
In spite of this we managed as a team to come through the 90 minutes and make it into extra time at 1–1. But we were fully engaged in preventing Donetsk’s Brazilian players from building momentum instead of sticking to our own game. And so we were doing exactly what Thomas Schaaf was always trying to avoid: we were being reactive rather than pro-active. In the ninety-seventh minute Jádson, one of the Ukrainian side’s five Brazilian players, had a free shot at goal. He took a cross from the right and struck from 11 metres. Standing a metre and a half in front of the goal, Wiese reacted with li
ghtning speed. He thrust out his legs and lunged with both arms down to his right. I watched the ball get closer. Wiese bent his torso as far as he possibly could and stretched out his arms, allowing him to touch the ball with the fingers of his right hand. But all he could do was take some of the pace off the shot. The ball spun into the net. 2–1 to Shakhtar Donetsk. We were beaten.
After Donetsk’s victory in the Şükrü-Saracoğlu stadium I just wanted to make myself scarce. I didn’t want to watch the cup, which I’d been so set on winning, being raised. But there was no escape. The shower of orange confetti, shot into the air for the victors, pattered down onto us losers. The bits of paper stuck to my sweaty skin. I wiped them away. I hadn’t earned them. I didn’t want to feel them on my skin. I didn’t want to feel anything.
But Thomas Schaaf did something unbelievable. Instead of leaving us alone to brood painfully over the missed chances or criticising us for our performance, he rounded us up on the pitch and immediately started the work of rebuilding the team. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I want you to forget this game immediately. Let’s put this defeat in Istanbul behind us. Either we can start looking for mistakes, looking for people to blame. Or we can just forget it. And look forward to a great final in Berlin. All of Germany will be watching us. They’ll want to see if we can pull ourselves back up. And do you know what? We will pull ourselves back up. Forget Istanbul! Look forward to Berlin. And next week we’ll be doing the celebrating! No one else!’
Our fans, too, had an excellent sense of what we needed right then. When we dragged ourselves over to the 5,000 supporters who’d travelled with us, they sang. No whistling. No anger. No reproach. All they did was chant, ‘Berlin, Berlin, we’re going to Berlin.’
At that moment the Werder fans were simply outstanding. With their singing they helped alleviate at least some of the pain. They made it easier for us to deal with this rotten defeat, and I’ll never forget that.
I’m sure a lot of fans don’t realise just how important they are. The effect they have on us players. Probably because it often sounds so corny when we call for the support of the ‘twelfth man’ and urge our fans to cheer us on. But it’s really true. Fans can shout the tiredness out of your legs. They can make you keep running despite muscle cramps. Attempt one last sliding tackle. Try to turn around a game that’s almost hopelessly lost. Even if, like me, you basically block out the background noise and switch it to mute, nobody can remain unmoved when the level of fans’ encouragement rises to extraordinary levels.
I still remember the game when I became aware of how important fans are. It was against Bayern Munich in 2006, when I was still under contract with Schalke. After some poor performances our supporters had announced a fan boycott, in which they remained silent for 19.04 minutes, in reference to the year the club was founded. I was sitting on the bench in the Veltins-Arena, watching the game. It all seemed so wrong. So unreal. You could hear the dull thud of the ball when it was passed, as well, of course, as the Bayern fans cheering their team’s skills. It had nothing to do with football and for the first time I sensed how fans can spur you on. Which footballer wants to run up and down the pitch when it’s dead quiet? When, on the other hand, your ears hurt because the atmosphere is scintillating, you’ll keep running even when your thighs are burning.
When, after 19.04 minutes, the Schalke fans amongst the crowd of 61,482 started chanting again, it was fitting that Levan Kobiashvili scored almost straight away. On the bench I felt stronger, more motivated and more assured than before.
That’s how I always want it to be. In every stadium. Loud, passionate, crazy fans who don’t only cheer when things go well but are also there for you when things aren’t working out.
In 2012 there was a heated debate when I didn’t sing along with the German national anthem. I heard critics grumbling, ‘The stupid German-Turk doesn’t sing.’ But do they sing themselves? Are these people there before the game, stoked with passion?
Besides, I think it’s a shame that I’m condemned for this, for I’m sure that these people have no idea why I don’t sing along. I don’t just stand there vacuously, letting the anthem wash over me. While it’s being played I pray, reciting the words outlined above. I pray as I always have done. And I’m certain that these moments of contemplation give me – and by extension the team – strength and confidence to bring victory home. And that’s what matters.
I’m sometimes disappointed by the atmosphere at international fixtures. When, as reigning World Champions, we played in Berlin in 2016, it was almost as quiet as that time when the Schalke fans had carried out their boycott. Why? What was the cemetery atmosphere all about? Was it fair on the team? Was it perhaps because these days there are too many sponsors in the stadium rather than passionate supporters? The German fans are really so cool.
Luckily the Bremen fans and Thomas Schaaf didn’t lack this sensitivity in Istanbul. They knew what we needed. And thus we didn’t sink into a deep gloom that could have stymied us.
That evening we had dinner with the team and backroom staff in the exclusive five-star Four Seasons Hotel. I poked at my food unenthusiastically, shovelling carbohydrates into me without any enjoyment. After defeats like that your taste buds are dead. Nothing gives any pleasure. Not even the most well-meaning text message can lift you up. You just want to be alone – you hate yourself because you didn’t play to your potential.
To be absolutely honest, after an hour of the Istanbul game I was desperate for the ref to blow the final whistle. I could have begged him to put an end to the misery. Fairly early on in the game I realised that it wasn’t going to be our night, especially not mine. I’m able to admit this today, although of course I couldn’t have back then. So long as you’re on the pitch you consistently want to turn things around. To force a change. Even if you’re playing badly. But I can’t explain why it doesn’t work sometimes.
There are days in the life of a professional footballer when your foot is like a flipper, slapping the ball wildly without any control. No matter what you try, it doesn’t work. Even though you’ve got the determination to play well, you struggle with yourself. You know how everything is supposed to go in theory, and yet it doesn’t work in practice. The following day the media write that your attitude wasn’t right. That your body language left a lot to be desired. But that’s not correct. I don’t know a single footballer in the world who would ever say, ‘Well, today I’m only going to give fifty per cent. Today it’ll be OK if I don’t run or pass as much and only take two shots at goal.’ You’re on a stage with millions of people watching – dozens of cameras are focused on you and studying every move you make. All players want to shine every time. It’s certainly never got anything to do with attitude.
The fact is, sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes, when you’re playing well, it comes as a surprise when the ref blows the final whistle, because you weren’t expecting the game to be over so soon. And on other occasions you get the impression that the 90 minutes are never going to come to an end and that you’ll have to play for three hours.
After our 120 minutes against Donetsk, the reaction of the press to my performance was predictably critical. According to the Frankfurter Allgemeiner Zeitung, I was ‘not up to the job of replacing the Brazilian Diego as playmaker’. It wrote, ‘The young German international more often avoided the ball than asked for it. He seemed so wrapped up in himself that he was never able to withstand the outside pressure.’ And Kicker said, ‘Without Diego the attack proved to be eyewash. Too fainthearted, too uninspired, too homespun. The man supposed to be his successor failed the acid test.’
I’m not someone who spontaneously reads all these newspaper articles. I don’t put my name into Google to find out what the media have been saying about me. But it doesn’t completely pass me by either. There are always a number of newspapers lying around on aeroplanes, which you leaf through out of boredom. Also, all my agents have been avid newspaper readers. Whenever they come round they brin
g piles of papers and magazines, which they leave with me. At some point I look through them and discover what people out there think of me. Of course, my friends find out what’s written too and keep me up to speed.
The slating I got after Istanbul was fair enough. The questions legitimate. But I agreed with Günter Netzer. The former world-class footballer was pretty spot-on in his summing-up of my role in the final. He said, ‘Özil mustn’t have too much pressure heaped on his shoulders and fans’ expectations shouldn’t be set too high. He still needs time. He can play far better than he showed on the night.’ So I no longer dwelled on the match and the criticism levelled at my performance, but focused on what Schaaf and the fans had asked for. I wanted to go to Berlin and show them the real Mesut.
The final of the German Cup against Bayer Leverkusen was described as a ‘final for two frustrated sides’. This was partly because we’d limped through the league and abandoned our first title chance. And partly because Leverkusen, who at one point had led the table for two rounds of matches, had slipped just as miserably as we had, finishing up in an equally disappointing ninth place.
The description was sheer nonsense, of course. Neither we nor Leverkusen felt frustrated in the run-up to the game. Which team approaches a final in a bad mood?
I was in the starting line-up, the youngest player on the pitch. Beside me was Diego, who was playing his last ever game for Werder. His transfer to Juventus was already a done deal. The grass was wet, the tempo fast. The perfect conditions. Chances at goal on both sides. But both Tim Wiese and Leverkusen’s René Adler held firm. It was end-to-end stuff for the entire first half; a game to savour.
Then, in the fifty-ninth minute, a long ball came to Almeida. He just deflected it to Diego, who was surrounded by three Leverkusen players. With his first touch Diego brought the ball under control, with the second and third he sidestepped the men marking him. I’d started just behind the halfway line and now sprinted down the left wing as fast as I could. I took the ball inside the box, shot from 7 metres, and it was in. 10 to Bremen. At the corner flag Diego lifted me into the air. I felt weightless. My most important goal to date, because it remained the only one of the day and it secured us the title.
