by Mesut Özil
I like this exchange with my fans. Every message is a piece of me that I consciously give away and share with my followers. I particularly like the efficiency required by Twitter. Only 140 characters. No stylish flourishes or embellishment. Just boiled down to the message. Twitter is my favourite social network.
I consult Hubert Raschka, my PR man, before sending every message. We have a WhatsApp group in which we discuss each tweet. Sometimes Hubert makes a suggestion, sometimes I do. We’re like two directors with equal say.
Thanks to social media platforms I have very different opportunities to engage with my fans. For example, Hubert once found a video of a wedding speech on YouTube, in which the groom says, ‘I think everybody in this room knows that this person has made me the happiest guy on the planet [. . .] All that I hope is that this special someone knows from the bottom of my heart how much they truly mean to me. I know that it’s difficult to find someone who makes you feel this way. I’m never ever going to take it for granted. So can we please raise a toast to . . .’ Then, to the amazement of everyone there, he says my name.
I thought the video was so sweet, funny and warm that Hubert and I decided to show my thanks for his admiration. So we tweeted, ‘Well said. I’ll congratulate you both personally after your honeymoon and I’ll also invite you to an #AFC game.’ Of course they took up the invitation.
So Arsenal finally won another trophy in 2014. Somehow this seemed to be my competition. I’d won it with Bremen, Real Madrid and now Arsenal. And then we won it again the following year. After we beat Aston Villa 4–0, a journalist in the Sun wrote, ‘I have to take my hat off to Mesut Özil. I have criticised him for much of the last two seasons. But the artistic German reserved one of his best displays for yesterday.’
Contrary to what some people claimed, I had won big games too. Proper finals. All-or-nothing matches. Being actively involved. And with real passes.
Because of the size of my transfer fee, the expectations of me in London were higher than ever before. I was even more sharply in the focus of the media, being scrutinised more carefully than normal. And I received more frequent and harsher criticism than I’d ever had at Schalke, Bremen or Madrid. But I didn’t take it all to heart. For I know that the most important thing is not to lose faith in myself and my ability. Despite the criticism coming from all quarters, I trusted the fact that my way of playing could be successful. And so I didn’t just manage to win titles, I also developed as a person and left the golden cage, at least inwardly.
17
World Champions in Brazil
A successful conclusion needs passion and discipline
All of a sudden the other people around me are unimportant. I’m even ignoring the beeping on my mobile that that’s telling me I’ve got a text. I don’t want to look at the screen and get distracted right now. I want to hold on to this moment. Capture the impressions and simply enjoy this unbelievable beauty.
I’m standing on a rusty ferry, sailing over the João de Tiba, a river in Brazil, on the way to our World Cup base in Campo Bahia.
When we boarded LH 2014, the ‘Fanhansa’, in Frankfurt just before 10 p.m., to head to Brazil after our pre-tournament training, I knew that the World Cup was beginning. But I, at least, didn’t feel immediately overwhelmed by emotion. We knew that the next few weeks would be a special time. We knew that soon the whole world would be watching us. But in the end this was just one of many, many, many flights we took each year. You take off, you eat, watch films, turn from left to right, from right to left, sleep and then land somewhere. This time in Salvador de Bahia, around 3.40 a.m. local time. A stopover. An airport like any other. Sometimes the plastic seats at the gate are green, sometimes grey, sometimes yellow, sometimes white. Sometimes comfortable, sometimes uncomfortable. I think that airports look the same all over the world. Not a surprise really, given the 600, 700 or 800 flights I’ve taken over my career so far.
Out of the plane, loiter around, back in the plane. Onward flight. Next stop: Porto Seguro. Another step closer to the World Cup. But still no knockout blow of emotion. The routine is far too mechanical for that. Gather your things, get up, out of the plane, into a bus. Onwards to the team base. After the long journey, even though it was very comfortable, you just long to finally get there, get into your room and collapse onto your bed.
But now we’re suddenly on this ferry that’s bringing us to our base. None of the players has stayed on the bus. We’re all outside enjoying the air that somehow smells different than in Germany. The engine of the ancient ferry is rattling loudly, startling a few birds in the mangrove forest. A few crabs have smuggled themselves onto the boat as stowaways, and are hiding beneath rusty iron girders. The sun is shining golden on the river.
We pass colourfully painted fishing boats with blue, green and yellow stripes. Trees with gigantic roots hang in the water.
I’ve rarely been so overcome by my feelings. This glimpse of the Brazilian jungle reminds me of my African safari and the sense of freedom I experienced there. ‘It’s the World Cup. Now it’s the World Cup. We’re here,’ I think.
Our set-up is perfect. Not just in the camp. There are technical innovations too. For example the German Football Association provides us with software that we all have installed on our mobiles. This allows the players to do some homework on our forthcoming opponents from the comfort of our rooms. Just a few clicks and I know the strengths and weaknesses of my counterpart. I can get as much information on him as I need. I can look at him as often as I think is right.
Our World Cup motto, which the coaching team is fostering by example, goes, ‘A good start requires enthusiasm. A good finish discipline.’ And so we, too, start the tournament brimming with enthusiasm. Against a Portugal team containing Pepe, Coentrão, Nani and of course Ronaldo.
Cristiano has the first chance early on in the match, but Manuel Neuer saves the shot. Then Mario Götze is brought down in the penalty area. Pereira could only stop him by grabbing and pulling him. Thomas Müller scores the ensuing penalty as cool as a cucumber.
I feel good. Toni Kroos plays me a dream pass that I take in the Portuguese box. Götze comes running from behind; he’s in a better position than me so I give him the ball. But his shot is just deflected, otherwise it would certainly have gone in.
Soon after, however, a header from Mats Hummels makes it 2–0. And then the great Thomas Müller Show continues. First he powers through the Portuguese defence and scores our third, then he steals another goal to make it 4–0. A hat-trick in our opening game.
A match like that can inspire you. A successful first game gives you self-confidence and a sense of ease. It means that our plan has worked and we don’t have to ask too many questions of our performance.
We have a tougher time of it in our second game against Ghana, however, even trailing 2–1 for a while, before we eke out a 2–2 draw. In the final group fixture we beat the USA 1–0 and claim a place in the last 16.
There Algeria put up an inexplicable fight. We really have our work cut out and don’t manage to win the game in normal time. If we hadn’t had Manuel Neuer on our team, who, as so often in this tournament, puts in another sterling performance, there could have been a debacle.
But we don’t give up. Two minutes after the start of extra time André Schürrle scores with his left heel. In the 119th minute I make it 2–0. From 5 metres I slam the ball so hard at the goal that keeper Raïs M’Bolhi can’t get his hands up quickly enough and it fizzes in between the heads of Madjid Bougherra and Essaïd Belkalem. A case of millimetres. Thank goodness, for in the last minute of extra time Algeria’s Abdelmoumene Djabou actually scores to make it 2–1.
The international press crucifies us. ‘In 120 minutes Germany forfeited any status it might have as a favourite for the World Cup,’ the Brazilian paper O Globo writes. The Neue Zürcher Zeitung says, ‘The favourite teeters, but doesn’t fall.’ And the Swiss Tages-Anzeiger comes to the conclusion, ‘With hair-raising mistakes in defence
Germany almost skittled out of the World Cup. For now the good morale has gone.’
Right after the match Per Mertesacker has to do an interview with ZDF reporter Boris Büchler. His opening question is ‘Congratulations on getting into the next round, the quarter-finals. Why was the German game so plodding, so vulnerable?’ Per’s reply and the interview as a whole have since attained cult status. ‘I couldn’t care less,’ he answers back stroppily. ‘We’re now in the last eight and that’s all that counts.’
An argument develops between a critical Büchler who keeps probing, and a Mertesacker who stands up to him. At some point Per asks, irritated, ‘Do you think being in the last sixteen is like a carnival parade?’ then finally finishes the interview with the words: ‘What do you want? Do you want us to be successful in the World Cup or play beautifully and be knocked out again? I . . . I just don’t understand all these questions. We’ve got through, we’re really happy, we’ve given our all and we’re now going to get ready for France.’
I thought Per’s reaction was truly remarkable. I could never have been so quick-witted. Essentially these weren’t bad questions and comments about the game. At another time, perhaps the following morning, Per would have probably answered them in a more relaxed way – I expect he would even have agreed with Büchler that we had to raise our game. But the timing of the question was clumsy. Just imagine that boxer Wladimir Klitschko is in a bout against David Haye. Each man is taking some heavy blows. Both are staggering. Either could find himself on the canvas with the next punch. The fight is wide open, nobody can pick the winner. At the last moment Klitschko manages a final upwards hook and sends Haye to the floor. Shouldn’t the first question to him be how he managed to land that last fantastic punch? Instead of talking about his weak defence?
For 120 minutes against Algeria we were on the verge of being knocked out. The opposition players demanded everything of us. And made it far more difficult than we’d expected. Of course it came as a surprise. Of course the game wasn’t pretty to watch throughout. But when you’ve spent 120 minutes running, sliding, throwing yourself into tackles, even though your muscles are burning and already full of lactic acid, you don’t want to have to talk first about the bad aspects of the game. Because however tense or close it was, we were in the quarter-finals. And in the end that’s the only thing that counted.
In the next round, too, we have to dig incredibly deep against a French team featuring my friend Karim Benzema. We take an early lead with a header from Mats Hummels, but miss the chance to make it 2–0. Jogi Löw substitutes me in the 83rd minute to waste a bit of time.
From the coach’s perspective this substitution is perfectly understandable. I’d never be so arrogant as to hold it against him. Especially as Jogi Löw and I have great trust in each other. For me he’s more than a manager. He always has a sympathetic ear; even off the pitch he’s an excellent listener. There are some people you only have professional contact with and nothing else. But with Jogi Löw it’s different. Such as the time he paid me a visit in London. As I knew that he’d been a coach in Turkey, including with Fenerbahçe of Istanbul, I invited him out to my favourite Turkish restaurant, Likya. Löw was in his element, even ordering in Turkish. He still speaks the language remarkably well, albeit with a funny accent. That evening he downed Turkish tea by the litre.
Although I’m not his captain, I sense that Löw values my opinion. At this dinner he spoke to me about a number of young players, and wanted to know whether they might be of use to Germany. Whether I saw them as up-and-coming internationals. It’s hard for me to evaluate the younger guys in the Bundesliga, however, because I don’t see them play much and very rarely play against them.
When Jogi Löw takes me out of the France game there are still seven minutes to go. Seven minutes that which are pure agony for me although – or perhaps because – I spend lots of time on the pitch during this World Cup. In all seven matches I’m in the starting line-up, and in four of these I’m on the pitch for the entire game. But it drives me crazy that I can’t make an active contribution any more. There’s nothing worse for a footballer than to have to watch, unable to help your teammates. This sitting on the bench is almost torture. Especially during such a tense conclusion. Especially when the game’s on a knife-edge. Of course, I’ve got 100 per cent faith in my teammates. Of course, I know the quality that each of them has. But you still want to get involved. You want to launch into tackles and stop attacks. Or put the result beyond doubt with another goal.
I love sitting in front of the telly. Or the games console. But I hate sitting on the bench in a situation like that. For from that vantage point I have to watch France make one last assault on our goal in the fourth minute of stoppage time. Laurent Koscielny, my Arsenal teammate, makes another pass towards our goal. It lands at the feet of Benzema, who, after a double pass with Olivier Giroud, suddenly appears unmarked in front of Manuel Neuer. He gives the ball a crack with his left foot from 6 metres.
I hold my breath. Please, no extra time. I watched Benzema score 81 goals during our time together at Real Madrid. Thirteen of these were from his left foot. And these were only the ones in proper matches. He scored hundreds more in training. But at this instant it’s not Germany against France; it’s Benzema against Neuer. The ball flies towards Manuel as fast as an arrow, fired as hard as a cannonball. If I were him I’d probably try to duck for fear that the ball might knock me unconscious. But Manuel doesn’t budge one millimetre. He stands there like a colossus. Legs splayed. Body fully tensed. Not a trace of fear or doubt. His eyes somehow locked onto the ball. And then he throws his right hand up. He manages to parry the ball and preserve our lead. The match is over and we’re in the semi-final.
Where Brazil are waiting for us. The hosts. My friends have told me about the hype that’s taken over the whole of Germany. They say that some companies, such as Volkswagen in Wolfsburg, have given their employees time off, for the duration of the game at least.
All the Brazilians are completely delirious too, of course. The drive in our coach to the stadium for the semi-final against the host nation is accompanied by nine police motorbikes and two police cars. A helicopter is flying above us. Our bus wiggles its way through a sea of green and yellow. Practically no one in the mass of people we pass is dressed normally. I see painted bodies, wigs, flags.
Our coach is easily recognisable as the German team bus. It’s different from in London, where the Arsenal buses are indistinguishable from any other. Every English team travels to the stadium in an identical model, with no markings. From the outside it’s impossible to tell which team is in which bus.
I always sit at the back. It’s what I did at Real Madrid. It’s what I do at Arsenal. And it’s what I used to do in the school bus too. I’d always sit on the back seats.
I don’t take much in on most journeys. I sit in my seat and listen to music. Or watch series. Some players are already in their own bubble on the bus, focusing on the match. Whereas I can still laugh at the jokes in the programmes I’m watching. I can still have fun. But I respect it if teammates are already going through their personal, individual routines of preparation. I leave them to do their thing in peace.
On the way to the semi-final I look out of the window more than usual. Because I’m fascinated by this play of green and yellow outside. In a similar situation at Real Madrid I would probably have thought of the Barcelona fans: ‘You won’t be celebrating tonight!’ But the people here are just brilliant – what confidence and joy they’re walking to the stadium with! It’s amazing how every person bar none is completely behind their team. And the way they belt out the national anthem with their team before the game too. United like the biggest choir in the world. Even I get goose pimples.
It seems an eternity that I stand there, taking in this remarkable backdrop to the stadium. It’s almost two minutes before the ref blows his whistle and Miroslav Klose, who’s at the centre spot, can play the ball. In FIFA’s strict schedule there’s no prov
ision for starting earlier, even if everyone’s ready. In a tournament like this everything is timed to the second. Everything to ensure the perfect entertainment. The game kicks off at 5 p.m. precisely.
The Brazilians want to strike at us in the opening minutes of the game. They immediately drive into our half and win a corner after only 42 seconds. We’re forewarned because our coaching staff have prepared for this. Brazil scored from a corner against both Chile and Colombia. One goal was by David Luiz, the other Thiago Silva, but he’s missing from this evening’s game, having collected two yellow cards. So is Neymar, the corner dangerman, who fractured a lumbar vertebra when he collided with the knee of Colombian Juan Zúñiga.
In the third minute Marcelo has a shot at our goal from 18 metres, but misses by a good metre. Then Müller gets the ball and crosses it to me from the right. Maicon hasn’t noticed that I’ve slipped away from him and he can’t get to the cross. From the corner of my eye I see Khedira racing forward and chip the ball to him. He whacks a drop kick, making perfect contact. It’s only Toni Kroos’s backside that prevents us from going into the lead.
The ball goes back and forth in the first few minutes. We sound things out. Check out what the opposition will allow us to do. Then something happens that no one can have expected. Brazil loses control of the game. Of their home fixture. Despite the support of the entire country. After 9 minutes and 40 seconds Hulk prances around a bit on the left, but shies away from a tackle by Philipp Lahm. He shifts responsibility, in the form of the ball, onto Marcelo, who passes it into no man’s land, where Sami Khedira snaps it up. From that moment the game is ours. And we don’t give it back again.
