Gunning for Greatness: My Life: With an introduction by Jose Mourinho
Page 20
‘I trust you. I’m relaxed. Everything’s all right, Erkut. It’s good that I’m prepared.’
That night I slept normally because I was convinced my team were doing the right thing. And because I had nothing to reproach myself for.
When I played the following day against West Ham United in London’s Olympic Stadium I wasn’t thinking about the matter any more. I put us 1–0 up and assisted a goal for Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain – so much for that.
But I don’t know that I’d have been so relaxed had I known what was going on at the same time in my agency in Düsseldorf. The telephones would not stop ringing. After the claims in Der Spiegel my employees were getting threatening calls, being insulted and sworn at. I should piss off out of the German team, some callers demanded. I was a disgrace, a lousy crook sullying the German shirt. Unbelievable claims, based on an inaccurate Spiegel investigation, which was also broadcast on ‘SpiegelTV’ on the RTL channel. To stop this character assassination going any further we filed for an injunction against the magazine on the day of publication.
One thing is certainly true. The transfer fees that are now paid in football are crazy too! We footballers are commodities whose value to a club varies, depending on the differences in our performances. And also on our individual market value. I realise that football is growing and growing, becoming ever more global, causing prices to continue spiralling upwards.
But we have reached a level that is unhealthy and difficult to explain to the fans. As far as I’m concerned, no single sportsperson in the world, no matter how good or popular, is worth 50, 60, 80 or even 100 million euros. Those are astronomical sums. Especially as I can’t see any correlation whatsoever. It’s no longer just about a player’s class. Sometimes – at least this is the impression I get – it’s all about club directors being able to bask in the knowledge that they’ve achieved a new record transfer. Increasingly they just want to show off.
Of course, Paul Pogba is a good player, but neither he nor any other footballer is worth 100 million euros or more. What on earth would you have to pay these days for someone with the unique abilities of Zinédine Zidane? These are just unreal sums.
I’ve never forgotten where I came from. My best friends who, when I was a child, helped me get my bike from the rat-infested cellar, are still by my side today. They assist me in my company – Mesut Özil Marketing GmbH – and I pay them for their work. I’ve bought my mother a wonderful little house and I support her financially so she doesn’t have to work any more.
Having said all this, there’s a simple reason why my father demanded a higher salary for an early extension of my Real Madrid contract. It was to do with how the club valued me. As in any other job. Besides, it’s usual practice with contract renewals that salaries are adjusted accordingly.
If someone produces good results, they should be paid accordingly. If an apprentice, through hard work, ambition and overtime, has evolved into a skilled professional who takes a business forward, they deserve a pay rise. If a footballer matures, improves tactically and helps break Barcelona’s dominance, and if he also permanently plays at the highest level, he cannot continue to be paid the same as a newcomer.
A contract renewal must benefit both sides – this was the message my father was supposed to bring to Florentino Pérez. This was our starting point for negotiations and nothing else.It had nothing to do with greed. Nothing to do with not being able to get enough. It was about being paid fairly. Unfortunately, this was not reflected by the first offer that Real made us.
I’m not going to criticise Madrid for this. In the early stage of negotiations the two sides have differing views that converge as talks progress. One side gives way on a certain point, the other offers something else, and it goes on like this till both parties are happy. It must be very rare that both sides immediately reach agreement in initial talks.
But it was a new situation for my father. He was not used to being put under this sort of negotiating pressure. He suddenly found himself operating in an arena where he was not, as he’d hoped, an expert with a solution for all eventualities at his fingertips. In retrospect I have to admit that because he hadn’t conducted dozens of negotiations with top club directors, he lacked the detachment to deal appropriately with such a challenging offer. Which is why he unfortunately didn’t have the cool head that was probably needed.
My father can be terribly stubborn. Sometimes that’s a good thing. And I’ve certainly benefited from this occasionally, as was evident in the episode in the Turkish Consulate General in Münster, when he managed to get my passport revoked. But stubbornness was not appropriate when dealing with a man such as Florentino Pérez, who expects people to dance to his tune. And it definitely wasn’t right to storm angrily out of Pérez’s office, slamming the door noisily behind him.
Rather than intimidating the Real boss, this behaviour merely provoked him, which meant there were now two stubborn-headed men firing on all cylinders. Both of them were determined to show the other who was the stronger, or at least that’s how I saw it.
At first I was convinced that this pig-headed duel wouldn’t last long. That the two of them would make up as quickly as they had fallen out. After all, both sides wanted the same thing: an extension to my contract. It was with this expectation in mind that I went to a press conference on 28 August 2013 with my new sponsor, Adidas.
Journalists were there from all over Europe. Television cameras were filming and photographers snapping away. I was ready to answer their questions honestly and put an end to the speculation flying around about me in the media again. In front of everyone present – and you can still see this on YouTube – I said, ‘I’ve got a contract with Real Madrid and I’m staying with Real Madrid.’ In the individual interviews I gave to Marca and Bild afterwards, I then reiterated this in similar words, outlining in more detail what my actual intentions were: ‘I’m proud to be playing for this club. I feel very happy here. Why should I leave? I haven’t given a transfer a moment’s thought. As far as I’m concerned there’s no other club worth considering. I can promise now that I’m going to fulfil my contract with Real until 2016.’
If I had had the slightest inkling that I would break this promise less than 120 hours later, I’d never have made such a clear commitment. I’d never have chosen words that could blow up in my face and be held against me for all time as lies. I don’t sit in press conferences talking tosh without weighing up the effect my words could have. I wanted the speculation about me to stop. And I also wanted Florentino Pérez to realise what Real meant to me.
I couldn’t know that the duel of stubbornness was no longer just a silly showdown, just banter between men, but had gone so far that it had consequences for me. I’d fallen out of favour with my club’s big boss, even though I’d done nothing myself. I was at risk of being dropped. I had to do something, quickly. For the sake of my career. Not playing any more was out of the question, especially if the decision had nothing to do with my performances.
And so, although I found this hard to do, I called a number that I’d saved in my phone back in 2010.
‘Mr Wenger,’ I said, ‘I promised that you’d be the first person I’d contact if I were ever looking for another club. Now I am.’
Arsène Wenger told me that he had been keeping an eye on me the whole time and that he liked how I’d developed. And all of a sudden I had that positive feeling again, the one I’d had during our telephone conversation back in 2010. I sensed that this man, who I’d never met personally, had a very high opinion of me and trusted me. Exactly what I needed at this difficult time.
Of course, I’d hoped that Pérez would back down and not punish me for the argument between him and my father. That he’d approach me again. But he didn’t. The relationship had cooled.
Two days after committing to Real Madrid I contacted another club because it seemed to be the only possible way out. Time was flying. There were thousands of things to sort out if I were to actually move to London. W
as I sure that’s what I wanted? That this was what would make me happy?
I took Luka Modrić – my teammate who’d played for Tottenham between 2008 and 2012 – aside. ‘What’s London like?’ I asked him, and talked honestly about what I was considering. ‘It’s the coolest city in the world,’ he said. I believed him. There wasn’t time for more questions.
On the evening before our fixture in the Santiago Bernabéu stadium against Athletic Bilbao, our third league game of the 2013–14 season, my friend Baris asked whether we could have a chat. He sensed that there was something weighing on my mind. That I wasn’t totally at peace with myself. ‘Are you really sure?’ he asked, when the two of us were sitting together. ‘Do you really want to move?’
It’s true to say that my transfer from Real Madrid to London was the most difficult decision of my life. When I left Bremen I was 100 per cent certain that it was the right move. I knew that I owed a lot to Werder and that I was giving up something great. But the future was so attractive that I didn’t have to think for a second whether my decision was right or wrong. My heart and my head spoke in unison: my mission at Werder was over.
But now I was on the verge of leaving a city where I felt really happy. I loved running onto the pitch in the Bernabéu. I loved being able to put on my Real shirt, first number 23, then number 10, which Ferenc Puskás, Günter Netzer, Robinho and Wesley Sneijder had worn before me. I felt such strong support from the fans. And most of all I felt my mission here was far from over. I still harboured the desire to win the Champions League with Real. And with the help of my teammates at Madrid I wanted to become the top footballer in the world. My journey with Real was not yet at its end. But the last thing I wanted was to stray through the Spanish football universe like a rocket in a tailspin and maybe come crashing down to earth.
And then there was this man with the calm telephone voice, engaging personality and clever words that convinced me that he really wanted me in his team. Wenger had been watching me intensively for three years and he gave me a much better feeling than Carlo Ancelotti at Real was doing at the time.
So there was that cool city with that attractive football league. There was that club where Per Mertesacker and Lukas Podolski played. A club with a melodious name, but which hadn’t won a title since its FA Cup victory in 2005. And there was that manager.
‘Yes, Baris. I think it’s the right move,’ I replied after I’d told him everything that was on my mind.
When I drove to the Bernabéu for the last time on 1 September 2013, I found it a real struggle. When I took my place on the bench beside Álvaro Morata, Casemiro and Iker Casillas I had a lump in my throat. For the last time I was part of this team in this magnificent stadium. For the last time I heard the Spanish songs of our fan choir. For the last time our club anthem, ‘Hala Madrid y nada más’.
After we’d won 3–1, thanks to two goals from Isco and one from Ronaldo, I told my closest friends – Álvaro Arbeloa, Sergio Ramos, Karim Benzema and, of course, Sami Khedira – that I would in all probability be leaving.
Afterwards I made my way to the airport. The next day the German national squad was assembling in Munich to get ready for the forthcoming World Cup qualifying matches against Austria and the Faroe Islands.
When the plane took off I peered out of the window. For the first time ever I watched the runway beneath me get smaller and smaller. The terminals at Madrid’s Barajas airport became tiny dots until they, like the rest of the city that had received me so wonderfully for the past three years, vanished once we broke through the clouds.
I’d taken off and landed at this airport hundreds of times. But till then I had never really looked at it. As soon as I’m on board the plane I usually get into my seat, put on my chunky headphones that block out any external noise, plug them into my tablet and watch films. I don’t take any notice of the safety announcement or the take-off. I’m not someone who looks out of the window. Apart from this one time, on my last flight from Madrid for the time being. I even noticed tears welling in my eyes. ‘Hala Madrid.’
All the German players were supposed to be at the hotel in Munich at 1 p.m. Including me, but I had another important meeting and so had to let Jogi Löw in on my transfer plans too, and ask him if I could join the squad later. Although I was going to Munich, my first stop was to undergo the routine medical check. I ought to have done this in London, but as the transfer window was about to close and time was running out, Arsenal’s director of football, Richard Law, and the team doctor came to Hans-Wilhelm Müller-Wohlfahrt’s medical practice and carried out the necessary tests.
At the same time my father was sorting out the final contractual details with London. While Arsenal and Real were haggling fiercely. At the end of the day, less than an hour before the transfer window closed, I signed my new contract at 11.16 p.m. and was now an Arsenal player.
Ex-Bayern keeper Oliver Kahn said of my move, ‘In the choice of whether to sacrifice Özil or the Argentinian Di María for Bale, Real’s coach Ancelotti has plumped for the German.’ He also said that I hadn’t managed to make myself ‘indispensable’ in Madrid. The Frankfurter Allgemeine wrote, ‘The competition in Madrid became too intense for the artist with the ball who lacks the necessary bite.’ Elsewhere it said that I was ‘escaping’. Then quotes suddenly appeared in the Spanish press, purportedly from Pérez, which claimed that I was ‘obsessed by women’ and ‘not a good professional’. When it later emerged that these quotes had been made up, they’d already been reprinted in half the papers of Europe. Worked up by Pérez’s supposed accusations, my father had also gone on the counter-attack and replied in their duel, ‘Just because someone earns a lot of money, it doesn’t automatically make him a man of honour. And Pérez isn’t a man of honour. Mesut is now meant to be the scapegoat. And me the greedy father who’s just been waiting for the big money. A stitch-up, a rotten business.’
All I can say and want to say about these claims is that I don’t know Gareth Bale personally. I’m not jealous or upset that Real bought him for something around 100 million euros. After all, it’s not his fault that Madrid wanted him and laid this money on the table. He’s never played a part in my life and it would be utter nonsense to claim that I feel hatred for the man.
Nor did I ever have a problem with Carlo Ancelotti personally. We only had dealings together in a phase when it was difficult for me at the club. We never really got to know each other. We weren’t able to build up any mutual trust.
Likewise I didn’t have a problem with Florentino Pérez – that was my father: a small, but important difference.
When I looked at my phone on the evening of the signing there was a variety of messages. Including one from my brother Mutlu, who was on holiday in Turkey with his wife. He’d left a message on my voicemail. He’d been asked at the hotel reception if it was true that I was moving to Arsenal. The papers were full of rumours to this effect. Until then I hadn’t had the time to let the people closest to me know personally. Everything had gone so quickly. My mind just had to keep working. There hadn’t been time for breaks. No opportunity to catch my breath. No lengthy pondering.
When I called Mutlu and told him that I had actually transferred to Arsenal, he was gobsmacked. ‘I hadn’t been expecting that,’ he replied. José Mourinho, too, was astonished. ‘You didn’t say anything to me. I thought you wanted to finish your career at Real Madrid,’ he texted me.
On the day that Gareth Bale was unveiled at Los Blancos, thousands of fans bellowed at full volume, ‘Özil no se vende!’ – ‘Özil’s not for sale!’ Sergio Ramos also complained when my transfer was settled: ‘If I had any say in the matter, Özil would be one of the last players I’d let go.’ Even Cristiano Ronaldo sounded critical: ‘Özil’s departure is very bad news for me. I’m furious about his move.’
The Spanish press featured polls in which up to 80 per cent of Real fans said it was wrong to sell me.All of these showed me that I hadn’t done much wrong in my three years there.
Of course, it would have been easy to make my father the scapegoat. He had been obstinate with Pérez. He hadn’t made up with him. And so he was to blame. No, no, it’s not that simple. Year in, year out my father was there for me and always supported me. He helped me in difficult times. He took many right decisions, thanks to which I was able to begin my stellar career in the first place.
Just like anybody else, my father isn’t perfect. And ultimately the negotiations with Pérez and Real Madrid were out of his league.
When the German squad met again in October 2013 in Düsseldorf, I asked my father to come to the team hotel. It was just before my twenty-fifth birthday when I told him that he was no longer going to be my agent. A really difficult conversation. I think it’s always difficult for parents when their children cut the umbilical cord. When they announce they’re moving out of home. Or even to another city to study. It breaks the heart of most parents, because many of them refuse to believe that their children will now be able to cope on their own.
Breaking with my father wasn’t just moving out; it was the end of a business relationship. A notch up. He took it very emotionally at any rate. I didn’t want to hurt him. I didn’t want him to think he’d done something bad or wrong. I just wanted him to understand that I needed a change in my life, the last step in the process of growing up.
Obviously I had no intention of banishing him altogether. From now on I just wanted to stand on my own two feet and thus be completely responsible for my decisions. I resolved that from now on only I would stipulate the when, where, how and why when it came to key decisions.