Gunning for Greatness: My Life: With an introduction by Jose Mourinho Read online

  Gunning for Greatness

  My Life

  Mesut Ozil

  with Kai Psotta

  translated from the German by Jamie Bulloch

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2017 by Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © Mesut Ozil 2017

  The right of Mesut Ozil to be identified as the Author of the Work

  has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright,

  Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

  stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any

  means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be

  otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that

  in which it is published and without a similar condition being

  imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  ISBN 9781473649941

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

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  www.hodder.co.uk

  For my parents, without whom I wouldn’t be

  the person I am today. Without whom I

  wouldn’t be where I am today. Without whom

  I’d look at the world through different eyes.

  For my parents, who always encouraged me

  to go my own way. I love you.

  I’m a big fan of Mesut Özil and have great respect for him in every way. He’s an absolute pillar of our national side and he’s played in most of the games under me as manager. He’s someone I can always rely on. With his style of play, Mesut’s always creating special moments on the pitch. And in football these are often the key to winning games. Mesut is also very adaptable and has a high level of footballing intelligence. This is what makes him so valuable for me as a coach, because I can use him flexibly in different positions. He is an outstanding team player and we’re all delighted to have such an exceptional sportsman in our ranks.

  Joachim Löw

  Contents

  Foreword

  Prologue

  1 My Embarrassing Home

  2 Matthias rather than Mesut

  3 The world of football isn’t a talent show

  4 A bone of contention between Germany and Turkey

  5 Runner-up with Schalke

  6 A dirty smear campaign

  7 Mesut at home alone

  8 Footballers aren’t politicians

  9 Kung fu goalie

  10 Victory in the German Cup

  11 My move to Real

  12 A new world

  13 Galactic duels

  14 London Calling

  15 Sami Khedira

  16 Out of the golden cage

  17 World Champions in Brazil

  18 Arsenal

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Photographic Acknowledgements

  Picture Section 1

  Picture Section 2

  Picture Section 3

  Picture Section 4

  Foreword

  I’m always on the lookout for young players. And I found a wonderful one in Mesut at Bremen. An ambitious boy with a feeling for magic passes, a flair for dribbling, a player who could assist goals and score them himself.

  But was he ready for a top team? Physically, not yet. Mentally, perhaps. Technically, certainly! In my head I put him on my golden list.

  When I moved to Madrid I realised that I was missing someone capable of making the magic pass. Someone who could launch our attacks with brilliance. Then Mesut came to mind again.

  When he proved at the 2010 World Cup that he was able to cope with high levels of pressure I decided to sign him. The transfer went through and a wonderful relationship was born. Özil behind Ronaldo and Di María, with Benzema or Higuaín.

  I have many things to be pleased about, including those titles and records we achieved with Mesut. But what has particularly lingered in my memory are all those moments of exceptional footballing quality. The beauty of his passes and traps, as well as his goals.

  The crowds in the special arena of the Bernabéu adored Mesut Özil. Large numbers of teammates have enjoyed playing alongside him. Even his opponents, I believe, have occasionally been astounded by the beauty of his dribbling.

  Have I been able to give him anything as a coach? I do hope so. Although players like Mesut are not made by managers. They are born.

  What else should I say about this boy? I miss him a lot. He’s my friend. He’s a star who never forgets where he came from, and never forgets the fun you get from the game.

  Not only is he a world champion, he’s a champion in life too, with all the challenges that brings – challenges he overcomes. I’m proud to have been part of his story.

  José Mourinho

  Prologue

  The most important bollocking of my life

  If he says another word I’m going to explode. Just one more word. What does the guy want from me, anyway? Why’s he picking on me? That’s not normal. It’s madness. Huh, what do I know what it is? Whatever, it’s really unfair.

  It’s half-time and I’m sitting in the dressing room at Real Madrid. My club. The seat next to me is free. It’s where Karim Benzema sits, but he’s warming up as he’s going on for the second half. Sami Khedira is absent-mindedly fiddling with his boots. Cristiano Ronaldo is staring into space. And José Mourinho, our manager, is ranting. And ranting. And ranting. Especially at me. In fact, his entire harangue up till now has been just about me.

  But I ran my socks off. I played really well. Honestly. I’d admit it if I hadn’t. We were leading 3–1 against Deportivo La Coruña. Our opponents took the lead after 16 minutes, but we turned the game around. Within 21 minutes Cristiano Ronaldo had scored twice and then Ángel Di María added a third.

  The two of them are playing on the wing, with Gonzalo Higuaín up front. Behind me Khedira and Luka Modrić are in defensive midfield, keeping my back free. Everything’s fine. But instead of praising us, me included, I’m getting another roasting. Mourinho’s had it in for me over the past few weeks too. Against Rayo Vallecano he let me stew on the bench. In our defeat against Sevilla he took me off at half-time. Admittedly, I could understand his tactics that day. We were already behind after a Piotr Trochowski goal in the first few minutes and didn’t exactly cover ourselves with glory.

  But now? All of us had shown character. I was in control of my game. The passes were getting through.

  OK, I admit, in the last few minutes before the half-time whistle I slacked off a little. A tiny bit. That’s true. There I can’t take issue with the coach who’s criticising my commitment. Instead of going at full pelt, once or twice I just trotted as I ran backwards. I was only on it about 80 or 90 per cent. But I wasn’t playing badly. Is it really a good reason to snap at me like that in front of the whole team?

  I exchange a furtive glance with Sergio Ramos. My friend. I really like the guy. Then I lose myself in my thoughts again while Mourinho’s dressing-room thunder continues.

  I don’t much like dressing rooms. No matter where they are. Whether they’re old and revered or ultra-modern. Whether they’re in the stadium or at the training ground. I know the allure of team dressing rooms for football fans around the world; they act like a magnet. Everyone wants a glimpse inside their club’s shrine. Many are even prepared to spend go
od money to see Cristiano Ronaldo’s or Lionel Messi’s locker on a tour of the stadium.

  But there’s nothing mythical about changing rooms for me. They don’t radiate any magic. They’re not special. Dressing rooms are control centres. They’re like the towers at airports, with managers acting like air traffic controllers directing the flow of flights. But they’re not sacred places. I find the changing room before the match or at half-time more like a cage. I want to get out of there. As fast as possible. Like a tiger longing for its freedom. But time passes more slowly in the dressing room. The quarter of an hour until the start of the second half always seems much longer to me. Because I’m desperate to get back out onto the pitch to continue the game.

  The changing room is just for preparation. The pitch, the turf is my stage. It electrifies me. It’s where I belong. For me it’s liberating to step out onto the pitch. In your private life you can sometimes have problems, arguments, discussions, disagreements. But there aren’t any problems for me on the football field. Those 90 minutes – sometimes more if there’s extra time –signify peace for me. Pure pleasure. The grass doesn’t even have to be perfectly cut. I don’t need accurately marked-out chalk lines. I don’t even have to be wearing the perfect boots to feel content. I just need a ball to kick around. It’s the football field that makes me happy, not the dressing room, that cramped space, sometimes 60 square metres, occasionally 80. I want to get out of that cage. Especially now during this humiliation.

  Mourinho is standing in the middle of the dressing room. He’s talking and talking and talking. In fact, he’s more like shouting: Mesut here, Mesut there, Mesut this. Mesut that.

  I try to switch off. Allow the criticism to bounce off me. Because I can feel the anger beginning to bubble up inside.

  ‘You think two passes are enough,’ Mourinho screams. ‘You’re too refined to go in for the tackle. You think you’re so good that fifty per cent is enough.’

  He pauses. Stares at me with his dark brown eyes. I stare back. We are like two boxers eyeballing each other before the first round.

  He’s not showing any emotion, just waiting for my reaction. How I loathe him at this moment! Although in truth I love José Mourinho.

  He alone is the reason why I went to Real Madrid from Werder Bremen in 2010. I didn’t choose the club, I chose him. I chose the man, José Mourinho. I wanted to play for him and no one else.

  I’d harboured this strong desire since 2008. Back then, at the beginning of October, I’d played for Werder Bremen against Inter Milan in the Giuseppe Meazza stadium. In goal for the Italians was Júlio César. The attack was Adriano, Zlatan Ibrahimović and Mario Balotelli. What names. What a team. Put together with the tactical brilliance of none other than José Mourinho. In the very first minute Adriano found himself in mid-air in our box and tried a sideways scissor-kick, which he fired just a few centimetres above Tim Wiese’s goal. Soon afterwards Ibrahimović just missed too when he hit the side netting. After 14 minutes we were one down from a goal by Maicon.

  Inter were strong. Doing everything right in this phase. During stoppages I’d occasionally look over at Mourinho, watching how he directed his team. The passion with which he motivated his side from the touchline. And how positive he always remained towards his players. It fascinated me.

  In the sixty-second minute I broke through on the left wing, made a pretty perfect cross to Claudio Pizarro in the centre, who equalised. 1–1. Once more I hazarded a glance over at Mourinho, who seemed fairly impressed, or at least that’s what I imagined. After the game he shook my hand and congratulated me with a firm slap on the shoulder. Now he had me. That night I told my then agent, Reza Fazeli, ‘At some point I’m going to play for José Mourinho.’

  What did I like about Mourinho so much? The way he spoke, the way he moved, his elegant dress sense. He always looked controlled and supremely confident. Back then it was a charisma I’d encountered in only a few managers.

  Two years later, after the 2010 World Cup in South Africa, he actually wanted me in his team. Mourinho had just won the Champions League with Inter Milan, after which his move to Real Madrid was made public.

  At the time there were five potential clubs in the mix. Arsenal had already shown their interest, as had Manchester United, Bayern Munich, Barcelona and Real Madrid.

  My agent, Reza, met Bayern Munich. The bosses told him what their plans were for me, how they wanted to use me. He then had the same conversation with the other clubs. But in 2010 Bayern was quite a way behind Real Madrid and Barcelona. Under Louis van Gaal they’d just lost the Champions League final in Madrid against Mourinho’s Inter. Viewed objectively, as well as from a global perspective, the two Spanish clubs were bigger, brighter, better. So for me these were the only two possibilities.

  Not long after that I was enjoying a few days’ holiday in a villa on Mallorca with my cousin Serdar, my brother Mutlu and some good friends, including Baris and Ramazan, when Reza came and said that José Mourinho was going to call us.

  I still recall my head spinning when he told me about the impending telephone call. This wasn’t any old conversation; it was the conversation.

  I’m not someone who likes talking much, who enjoys being the centre of attention and having people hang on his every word, spellbound. And, more importantly, I couldn’t speak Portuguese, Italian or fluent English. So I had no chance of speaking to Mourinho directly. Yet there were so many questions I wanted to ask him. The idea of him phoning today made me quite dizzy. I was as nervous as before my first call to a girl I’d fallen for as a boy.

  My agent and I retired to a room at the back of the villa. Then the phone rang. Mourinho was calling Reza’s mobile on a withheld number. When he said ‘Hello’ and then his name, I was unable to utter a sound at first. My heart was beating faster than after 20 interval runs in pre-season training.

  Having put his mobile on the table in front of us and switched to speaker so I was able to hear every word, Reza began his discussion with Mourinho. I listened to the sound of Mourinho’s voice. and tried to understand what he was saying, picking up words here and there without knowing what they really meant. From time to time Reza would interrupt the conversation to summarise and translate what they’d been discussing.

  This telephone conversation drove me mad. Sometimes the two of them would say ten sentences at a time without any translation or I would hear both of them laugh. I kept nudging Reza, insisting he tell me what it was all about, but he just asked me to be patient.

  After three-quarters of an hour the conversation was over. I prowled around the room in excitement. ‘He really wants me. Did you hear? Mourhino wants me in his team!’

  A few days later we were climbing aboard a private jet that Real Madrid had laid on for us. I felt like a Hollywood star. Until then I didn’t know it was possible to travel in such luxury – I hadn’t even seen a private jet from a distance. And now I was checking in at a separate terminal in Mallorca. Without any queues. Without having to wait to hand over my luggage. Until this August day in 2010 that world had been closed to me.

  In Madrid there was a chauffeur waiting for us, who drove us in a limousine to the house of Jorge Valdano, who was then Real’s director of football. A perfect gentleman, who’d already been involved in the signings of Zinédine Zidane, my absolute idol, Cristiano Ronaldo and David Beckham for Los Blancos. His shirt was the whitest I’d ever seen. His tie sat accurately in the middle. I barely remember anything more as my mind was focused on José Mourinho, who I was about to meet in person for the first time. And then he was there: the man who’d taken Porto to the championship and the Champions League. The man under whom Chelsea had won the Premier League and FA Cup. The man who, with Inter Milan, had cleaned up every national and international honour going.

  As soon as he entered the room I immediately caught sight of the Real Madrid logo on the tracksuit that Mourinho seemed to be wearing with great pride. That golden crown. Those strong colours. Images started flashing in my mind
. I dreamed of entering the Bernabéu, Real’s stadium. These pictures were so overwhelming that I didn’t take in what Mourinho was saying in the first minute or so.

  But then reality caught up with me. I wrenched myself from my dreams, from that unreal world. Perhaps this legendary team was still too big for me? From Werder Bremen to Real Madrid? From a good Bundesliga side to the greatest club in the world? Who was I, anyway? In comparison to the Real stars, a nobody. A nobody on the great international footballing stage.

  I’m neither naïve nor deluded. And, of course, I confront the issue of failure too. It would be reckless not to. But when you’re a young player it’s not enough to show you can play a good game. Because as soon as the whistle goes, what you’ve done in the past means nothing any more. These days ten good games are very quickly forgotten. As a footballer you don’t have any credit – one or two bad games and you’re out. Then you start back at square one. Would I actually get a real opportunity at Real Madrid? This question refused to stop plaguing me.

  ‘Yes, that’s what I’ll give you,’ Mourinho said. ‘A very real opportunity! Train hard. Then play. Show me you want it and I’ll have you in my team. If you want to get better, I’ll make you better. Real Madrid isn’t too big a move for you. Real Madrid is the only right move. Trust me. I’ll turn you into a regular player. And then all the doors will be open to you. You’ll be able to show the world what you’re capable of. And, believe me, that’s a huge amount.’

  Mourinho swept all my doubts away. He gave me a good feeling, exactly what I needed to summon the courage for such a change.

  After our discussion we all went to the Estadio Santiago Bernabéu, and Valdano took me through the sacred halls of Los Blancos. Past all the trophies that Real had won during its long history. Shining cups polished to a mirror finish; I could see my reflection in them. A magical sight. So alluring. With a clear message: welcome to a victorious club! A club of champions. Guaranteed trophy-winners.