by Mesut Özil
Unfortunately, however, my father did not congratulate me for having taken this, as I thought, mature decision. He was angry. And hurt. So hurt that, as the administrator for my Twitter account, he deleted it in a fit of obstinacy, which meant that the several millions of fans following me disappeared.
This happened on 23 November 2013, a Friday evening. I wanted to go to bed earlier than usual, as the following day we had a home fixture against Southampton. About 10 p.m. my phone rang several times – friends telling me that my Twitter account no longer existed. Quite apart from the fact that it’s stupid if your fan forum simply vanishes like that, it also does huge financial damage. Hubert Raschka, who in the meantime had been helping me with my media and PR work, told me that from a commercial perspective each social media contact is worth several euros. So with his action my father didn’t just extinguish me from the internet, but also almost destroyed a million euros’ worth of advertising. Luckily, with Twitter’s help Hubert Raschka was able to completely recover my account that night and block my father’s access to it.
Raschka remained on my team. Besides my brother Mutlu, who I trust blindly, I also hired Dr Erkut Sögüt, a trained lawyer, to help represent me. We consult closely on decisions relating to my career.
In the end the separation from my father didn’t go as calmly and smoothly as I’d hoped. He felt as if he’d been booted out, and even went to court to claim his commission, as he had secured the sponsor contract with Adidas. There’s conflict in every family – times when you don’t want to be with each other. For the most part these arguments take place within your own four walls, without much involvement from your neighbours. Unfortunately our dispute was made public, owing to a mistake made by the judge at the court in Düsseldorf. In actual fact we’d already come to an agreement in private, well away from the public gaze. In spite of this the court announced in a press release the date originally scheduled for the hearing, which had been cancelled because of our settlement. They apologised for this afterwards and the spokeswoman told us that it had occurred due to an ‘internal misunderstanding’. If it hadn’t been for this blunder nobody would have found out about our dispute.
I very much regret the quarrel. It’s a sad chapter in a very long, very sound and harmonious father–son relationship, which is the reason why I’ve come as far as I have as a footballer. I’ll never forget that.
15
Sami Khedira
‘He fought like a lion’
Sami Khedira arrived at Real Madrid the same year as Mesut Özil. Long before Özil’s transfer was made official, the two of them exchanged text messages about Los Blancos. Together with Real they went on to win the Spanish championship. Later the two became World Champions with the German national side. Khedira played 102 games for Real, and won the Champions League with them in 2013–14.
Although I’d already played with Mesut – we were U-21 European champions together in Sweden in 2009 – I only got to know him properly in Madrid. It’s funny when you look back on it. Two German internationals, with Turkish and Tunisian roots, get to know each other well in Spain. And all because of a Portuguese man: José Mourinho. He brought me to Real Madrid after the World Cup in South Africa. On a trip to Los Angeles just a few weeks after I’d joined Los Blancos, he told me in the dugout that he was looking to sign Mesut too. Cool, I thought, because at 23 and without any Spanish at the time, Real was full on. With Özil there I’d have someone I could relate to and my life would probably be easier.
Mesut then got in contact himself, pestering me with text messages about what Madrid was like. He confided in me that Barcelona were trying to sign him too and he had to decide between the two. To be honest I was still busy digesting the size of this club, this crazy attraction for fans and the media. ‘The club is absolutely huge,’ I wrote. ‘An enormous step.’ But I also explained to him that if José Mourinho really wanted you, this would give you ‘absolute certainty’. ‘If Mourinho wants you, he’ll nurture you. Every day he makes me feel I’m important.’
Then, a few weeks later, Mesut was there. We got together in our new home and chatted about how the two of us had got here. Going into all the details. From the first contact to the final signature. At some point Mesut said with a smile, ‘Because of Mourinho I’d had my sights set on Madrid for ages. But I also chose Real because of you. When I heard that you were going to Madrid I was finally convinced. It made me feel more assured.’
Since then Mesut’s had to listen to me go on about how it’s only because of me that he’s had such a great career. For the first league game we sat side by side on the subs’ bench. Mourinho left us out for the match against Mallorca. We hadn’t been expecting that! We were convinced that we’d be part of this landmark fixture.
As the game in the Iberostar stadium plodded along we huddled together in disbelief. ‘What have we done wrong? We’ve moved to Real Madrid and we’re not playing.’ Luckily our frustration didn’t last long. In the second league game against Osasuna, Mourinho had both of us in the starting line-up. From that day on we were part of the regular 11. In the dressing room everyone talks to everyone else. Small talk, the odd joke, music and some chat about the game, of course. But it’s not where you get to know people well. Mesut and I also spent a lot of time together in private. Anybody who knows Mesut just from the football pitch or interviews knows the player, but not the man. Mesut is deeper and more complex than many would expect. He’s incredibly caring and helpful. Characteristics that aren’t common in the football industry. In private he’s often putting others first out of concern for their well-being.
There are critics who accuse him of not being a leader. It’s true to say he doesn’t go shouting his head off on the pitch or in the dressing room. But he looks after teammates and young talents who are new to the squad. That’s a crucial quality in a leader.
There are people who accuse him of hiding in big matches. Besides the fact that no footballer can be at his best in every single match, his body language is often misunderstood. Some things appear casual because with his great talent he finds them easy. I’ve rarely seen him look fiercely determined, even though I know he’s busting a gut for the team. There’s no doubt that in his early days, when things really weren’t going his way, his shoulders would sink and he might not exude the perfect attitude, but I think this has totally changed now.
At the European Championship in France he had a brilliant game against Italy in the quarter-final. Not just because he scored a goal, but because he fought like a lion. In the semi-final against France, too, he led from the front. I was able to watch him closely because I was on the bench injured. His body language reflected his determination.
Which sort of brings us back to Mourinho. I was there when Mesut got the biggest bollocking of his life. When an argument such as you rarely see broke out between him and the manager at half-time in our game against Deportivo La Coruña, which we were winning 3–1.
The fierceness of Mourinho’s attack was incredible. In the rough world of professional football his choice of words was OK, perhaps, but took some getting used to, shall we say. A good performance by Mesut wasn’t good enough for Mourinho. He wanted to see him play outstandingly every time. And Mourinho has a very provocative way of trying to get to you. He managed to find Mesut’s sore spot. I was sitting next to Mesut and saw how he rolled his eyes and turned red. All of a sudden he took out his shin pads, kicked off his boots and pulled down his socks. Even though Mourinho hadn’t said a word about substituting him.
Now Mesut began mouthing off himself, virtually substituting himself in the game. All I thought was, ‘Oh no, that’s it. They’ll never talk to each other again.’
But things turned out differently. Mesut began to think about the bollocking and question himself. And what I find admirable is that Mourinho didn’t hold Mesut’s reaction against him. A few days later everything was good again.
Then, in our first Clásico, Mesut and I were on the receiving end of a t
errible 5–1 hammering. Afterwards we spoke a lot about what had gone wrong, and knew that we must never allow another humiliation like that to happen. ‘We’ll have them,’ we swore. ‘We’ll thrash Barcelona. They’ll get a taste of their own medicine.’
In the following season we did exactly that. After 34 games we were leading the table, four points ahead of Barcelona. Now we were due to play them in the Camp Nou. A Barcelona victory would leave the championship race wide open again. But we didn’t let that happen. In the seventeenth minute I put us in the lead, then an hour later Barça’s Alexis Sanchez equalised. A few minutes later Mesut got the ball. He was a few metres behind the half-way line and quite far out on the right. Di María passed to him, then he sprinted away from his three opponents in the expectation that Mesut would pass back to him as he ran. Ninety-eight per cent of all footballers would have done precisely that. But not Mesut! As quick as lightning he’d seen that Cristiano Ronaldo was starting to run from behind Javier Mascherano. Not many would spot that. But after that, to play the ball 60 metres past Mascherano into Cristiano’s stride – that is great artistry!
We won 2–1, thereby taking the decisive step towards the championship, now seven points in the lead after 35 games. ‘We’ve arrived in the footballing elite,’ we told ourselves at the celebrations to mark winning the title, and we planned the next step. ‘Now we’re going to win the Champions League with Real too.’ Unfortunately, after three unsuccessful semi-finals, we were unable to achieve this accolade together.
I’m eternally grateful to Mesut for our three years together at Real. I made a great friend who really has so many talents. But is Mesut talented in the kitchen too? That’s debatable! He once invited me over to dinner. ‘Let’s cook together this evening and watch a film,’ he suggested. I like trying out dishes from all around the world. I don’t get to eat much Turkish food, so I was looking forward to this occasion. Half an hour before I was going to set off for Mesut’s house he called and asked what I’d like to eat. Then he read me out a menu from a delivery service. This wasn’t exactly my idea of cooking. In his defence, however, let me say that his ‘sucuk’, a Turkish garlic salami, is in a class of its own.
When Mesut left Real in 2013 it hit me hard. I’d heard about the negotiations with Arsenal and knew that there were a few problems with Real, but I’d never imagined these were insurmountable. In negotiations it’s only normal that each side starts by stating its own aims.
On 1 September we were in the team bus on the way to the Bernabéu. Mesut was sitting next to me, dead still. He hardly said a word, nor was he bothered that our new coach, Carlo Ancelotti, hadn’t picked him in the starting line-up for the game. When I asked him what was wrong he said, ‘I think I’m moving to Arsenal.’
That was really a shock for me. In spite of everything I hadn’t thought he’d actually leave Real. In the dressing room after the game he told me, ‘I’m going. Both clubs came to an agreement during the match.’
Boy, that came as a blow! Not just because we’d lost an excellent player, not just because a great role model was leaving, but because Mesut is my friend.
Together Mesut and I have achieved almost everything, including the World Cup in 2014, but to be in the same team that wins the Champions League is still on our wish list. Who knows . . .?
16
Out of the golden cage
Or, be the man you are
I spent my first few weeks in England in a top luxury hotel. It looked like a palace – like something straight out of a film adaptation of a Rosamunde Pilcher novel. It was a grandiose country house hotel called The Grove in southern England.
I looked out of my window onto a golf course, with a lawn like I’d never seen in my life before. Mown with such precision. No yellow patches. No bumps. No gouges like the ones on our football pitches when a defender slides along the turf with his boots. As I stood at the window, lost in my thoughts, I sometimes wondered what it must feel like to have a kick around on that lawn.
My friend Baris accompanied me to London to help me get set in my new life. In Madrid my cousin Serdar was busy packing my old life into crates and sorting out things such as giving notice on my rental contract.
I had come to London with practically nothing. When I’d booked my flight to join the national squad I’d assumed that I’d be going back to Madrid afterwards. I’d even booked a return flight back to Spain. But now my life had completely changed in less than five days. A new language. A new city. More rain. Less sun. Driving on the left. A new colour shirt. New fans whose hearts I had to win over. New media. A new journey to the training ground. A new boss. A new way of playing. Everything, really everything was new.
Imagine you’re getting up one morning and nothing is as it was before. Normally you prepare yourself for such a big change. You look for somewhere to live beforehand. You take a language course. You read up on the customs of the country, or at least I think most people would. You spend weeks packing up your things and gradually prepare yourself mentally for the move. I did none of this. I knew nothing about London, except for what Luka Modrić had said in his brief assessment. It was almost as if someone had clicked their fingers and I had been suddenly transported from Madrid to London.
Several times I wondered how my neighbour Sergio Ramos was. What Ronaldo was doing. How my dogs were in Serdar’s care.
I’m not a sentimental person by nature. But I missed Madrid even though I felt excited about my new adventure. After all, the decision had been mine. I’d been the one to tell Wenger that now there was the chance we might work together. The impulse for all this had come from me.
And yet I couldn’t just forget Real Madrid from one day to the next. I couldn’t easily wipe this beautiful capital city from my heart. I’d loved Madrid. And I still did. It’s only when you leave Real that you realise what makes this club so special. You quickly get used to certain things. If you spend a while there, at some point the huge circus around the club starts to feel almost normal. But when you leave Real, you first have to absorb the fact that everything’s different.
From the hotel Baris and I embarked again on the search for somewhere to live. For my fourth apartment or house in six years. And I came across one between the parks of Hampstead Heath and Highgate Wood. We found a house that the former supermodel, Claudia Schiffer, was also keen on. Why did the owner rent it to me rather than her? No idea. Certainly not because he was after a pretty face. Perhaps he’s an Arsenal fan.
When I arrived at the Arsenal complex for the first time barely anyone was around. It was a yawning void as the club had given the players a day off from training. Only Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain was there, doing a special session. As I was inspecting my new dressing room he came up to me with a big smile, took me by the arm and said, ‘It’s great you’re here. We could do with a player like you. I’m pleased.’
I’m normally reserved to begin with when I go somewhere new. I sit in the dressing room and watch what’s going on. Each changing room is governed by its own rules. It has its own hierarchy. There are loud and quiet players. Those who talk the whole time and call the shots. And the more introverted ones who you barely notice in the dressing room. Some have lockers in total chaos, others are obsessed with tidiness.
In truth, a dressing room is not much different from a classroom at school. Where you’ll find the class representative, the swots, the clowns, as well as nice and nasty pupils. There are those who get on well and others less well. Those who listen dutifully and studiously write down what the teacher says, and those who aren’t interested and are easily distracted.
As a newcomer you have to work out what makes each individual player tick. You have to learn which players are most like you. To give me an idea I always spent a few days at the beginning observing the squad. That’s what I’d done at Schalke, Bremen and Madrid at any rate.
But at Arsenal I didn’t have the chance to start by sitting quietly in the corner and studying my new team. That’s because one of m
y teammates was Lukas Podolski. Poldi never gives you a moment’s peace. He and Per Mertesacker collared me straightaway and did everything to ensure that I was given a wonderful welcome into the Arsenal family.
I went to watch boxing with Poldi in London. The frequent team evenings also helped me to integrate. They were held roughly every couple of months, and organised by the team committee, of which Per is a member. Once, for example, we had a fancy-dress party. Everyone had to pick a piece of paper at random and then appear in the corresponding outfit that evening. I was lucky; I picked out Superman. Poldi was the Hulk. But there was also someone – I really can’t remember who it was – who had to go as a short, fat, Italian plumber. With overalls, cap and big moustache. Of course there wasn’t just a Super Mario at our party; we had a Luigi too. But neither is my idea of a hero. There were hardly any team evenings like this at Real Madrid. If we did get together it was at lunchtime. In Bremen they were held every month,
Arsène Wenger, too, helped me acclimatise to London. He and his entire family made every effort to ensure that my friends and I felt comfortable in London from day one.
When I left for my first game with my new team – an away match against Sunderland – Wenger asked his ex-wife Annie to look after my friends and family so they weren’t hanging around on their own in London. She invited them all to her house. Mrs Wenger cooked for them and her daughter Lea was there too. Our game was going on at the same time. During the match Mrs Wenger was highly emotional. She sat on the floor, watching her husband’s team play. When, in the eleventh minute, I set up Olivier Giroud’s goal that put us in the lead, she leapt up with a homemade cheesecake in her hand and danced around the room. Or at least that’s how it was described to me . . .
Before the game, which we won 2–1, I had to undergo the Arsenal initiation ritual. Fortunately Per Mertesacker had warned me about this in advance, which meant I was partially prepared for it.
