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

  ‘Second?’ the boy said timidly.

  ‘Of course not! I won the thing! I whopped them all.’

  All of a sudden there was a knock at the door. The referee came in and asked us to get on the pitch. ‘The match is starting,’ he said.

  But Elgert couldn’t care less. ‘Not now,’ he screamed, slamming the door in the referee’s face.

  ‘We’ve got him against us now too,’ Elgert said, chuckling. Then he turned back to us. ‘Do you know why I told you this story? To show you that everything’s possible if you’ve got the belief. I was almost out of the competition and yet I did it. And you’ll do it too. Losing 2–0 in Berlin is no reason to doubt yourselves. The defeat makes us stronger.’ Then he picked up the golden dumbbell he’d brought with him, raised it above his head and shouted, ‘This is our symbol for today. We’re going to do it! Here’s to the final! And now, out you go, boys!’

  After this story there was no way we could lose. I felt as strong as an ox. As fast as a cheetah. As accomplished as Zinédine Zidane. Elgert had stoked such passion in us that we managed to beat Berlin 3–0 and made it into the championship final. Where Bayern Munich awaited us. The southern Germans had come out on top against Freiburg in their semi-final. Thomas Kraft was in goal for Bayern, Mats Hummels in defence and Sandro Wagner was up front. In my team we had Ralf Fährmann, Benedikt Höwedes and Sebastian Boenisch.

  When Elgert saw the confidence with which the Bayern players were warming up he got us together and said, ‘Let’s do a sliding-tackle circle.’ So we formed a 15-metre circle and tackled each other in turn. One of us stood in the middle, sprinted towards the players in the circle and launched a sliding tackle. At the very last moment they jumped over the tackler. As we performed this exercise we shouted our heads off and drew attention to ourselves. Anybody watching us apparently kicking each other’s shins to bits – which, of course, we weren’t doing – must have thought we’d lost the plot. Elgert’s idea of the tackling circle was a brilliant one. It didn’t just drive us on, it really intimidated Bayern too.

  After 34 minutes we were already 2–0 up thanks to goals by Pisano and Boenisch. Bayern only managed to get one back. We were German U-19 champions.

  My first title. Which was followed by my first real party. We began celebrating in the Courtyard hotel near the stadium. Then we moved on to a club. It was my first ever visit to a disco. Dad let me stay there till one in the morning. When I proudly told my teammates about my curfew they laughed in my face. ‘It only really gets going at one,’ they said. ‘Nothing much happens before then.’

  I felt like a complete idiot as I didn’t know the rules of going out. When I begged Dad to let me stay longer he wouldn’t relent. ‘One o’clock’s your limit,’ he said. ‘If you’re not home by then, we’re going to have a problem.’ I nodded and set off. Of course, I didn’t make any move to go when one o’clock came around. We partied, we danced, we drank. And totally forgot the time. When I checked and saw it was two, I realised that there was going to be big trouble the following morning. Oh well, I thought, it doesn’t really matter if I get home at six now. My old man isn’t going to be interested in whether I’m one hour late or three or four.

  I’ve never been a big party animal. Because my friends were dreaming of becoming professional footballers too, we didn’t tempt each other. All of us were addicted to football. We spent most of our time on the pitch. And when we weren’t playing we were lifting weights or going running. I worked hard on the basics that Elgert had said were so important for our careers. Women and parties couldn’t distract me from that. My father realised this too, which is why the telling-off I got the following morning wasn’t so bad.

  4

  A bone of contention between Germany and Turkey

  The art of making the right decision

  Although I was born in Germany I had only ever had a Turkish passport. At the time dual nationality didn’t exist. And, of course, as a child I didn’t care about the difference either. What child scrutinises their passport and has lengthy discussions with their parents about their nationality? None, I bet. And understandably so. What normal child is interested in immigration policy? Or spends their spare time reading about citizenship law? Certainly not me!

  But when I got older and it became apparent that I might have a great football career, I had to address the issue. I had to ask myself what I was, or what I wanted to be, on paper at least. German or Turkish? Who did I want to play for if the possibility ever came about? For the German national side or the Turkish one?

  It wasn’t a decision I made in a couple of minutes, just in passing. After all, we weren’t talking about something trivial here, like whether you’d rather go with your friends to the zoo or the cinema. Whether you’d prefer to be Real Madrid or Barcelona on the PlayStation. Whether you’d rather have a margarita or a Hawaiian at the pizzeria. It was a decision that would fundamentally shape my whole career, and note I say my career.

  All the same, I obviously discussed this difficult question with my family and listened to their different opinions. You can’t make a decision like that all on your own, irrespective of whether you’re 16, 17 or even 18. Everyone gave their honest view on the matter, and for that I’m especially grateful. The advice you receive isn’t always objective, not even from family members. If a son asks his mother about whether he should take a better job at the other end of Germany, in most cases she will look for arguments against, because she doesn’t want her son to move so far away, meaning she’ll rarely see him. I completely understand that. Which is why I was so appreciative that everyone was very honest in what they said.

  My mother, Gulizar, was in favour of me playing for Turkey. ‘Remember,’ she said, ‘those are your roots. Your grandparents come from Turkey. That’s where our origins are. If I were you,’ she continued, ‘I’d go for Turkey.’ My uncle Erdogan was of the same opinion, He told me about Zonguldak and how he felt whenever he went back there. How he immediately felt at home there each time. I listened attentively to what he said as he was one of my most important advisers. But I didn’t feel the same way as he did. After all, until I was 17 I’d only been to Zonguldak twice in the summer. I liked it there, but I never felt at home. When I stood by the sea there and took a deep breath I didn’t get a real sense of having arrived.

  My father disagreed with my uncle too. ‘Mesut was born in Germany. He went to school in Germany. He’s learnt his football with German clubs. And so he must play for Germany.’ When my brother Mutlu spoke I laughed out loud. He’d spent the whole time up till then shifting around restlessly on the sofa, listening to the grown-ups. But now it all came out. ‘Mesut has to play for Germany,’ he cried. ‘Do you know what Turkey’s best performance ever is? Third place at the 2002 World Cup in South Korea and Japan. Germany, on the other hand: World Champions in 1954, 1974 and 1990.’ I listened to everything and thought about it myself too. On the evening of our family summit my sister Nese also came to talk to me. She’d got wind of what we’d been discussing that afternoon, but without really understanding it. ‘I prefer the shirts the Turkish team wear,’ was all she said, with a big smile.

  So, putting together all the family’s opinions, it stood at 2–2, if you discounted Nese. What about me? From the start my thoughts had actually been the same as my father’s, but I wasn’t able to admit this to myself to begin with. For weeks I kept turning the decision over in my mind. I didn’t want to rush into anything, make the wrong decision. Sometimes I’d lie in bed at night, imagining myself trotting into the stadium wearing the German strip. It was a wonderful image that put a smile on my face each time. The idea of it made me happy. Although this isn’t to say that the idea of playing for the Turkish national side gave me a bad feeling.

  There were also odd moments when I felt overwhelmed by the burden of having to commit myself once and for all. I didn’t want to annoy or disappoint anyone. ‘I’ll decide tomorrow’, I told myself almost as often as I abandoned the decision.
I was playing for time against myself. Until I realised that this wasn’t helping anybody. Least of all me. I was dodging a decision that I ought to have made long ago. Maybe because I was worried about the reaction from those I’d be rebuffing. But then I told myself: It’s my life, my career, my decision.

  In spring 2006 I finally let my family know my decision. That same year I went with my father to the Turkish Consulate General in Münster to surrender my passport – a necessary step for those wishing to acquire a German one.

  Up till then my Turkish passport had simply been a document. Laminated paper with my name and photograph. Although I was very sorry that my mother and uncle were sad about it, I felt no emotion at having to surrender the passport. It just seemed a necessary step to get closer to my dream of being a top-flight footballer.

  Upon entering the consulate we were on Turkish sovereign territory. And from the moment we told the official the reason for our visit, we were hated. He couldn’t understand how a Turkish person could willingly surrender their passport. And not only was he unable to understand it, he didn’t hide his anger at what he regarded as an outrage. ‘Wait over there,’ he barked, pointing to a place in the waiting room, where we sat as instructed.

  One after the other, the people waiting went into the official’s room to sort out their business. It was the same procedure each time: a name was called out, someone got up from their seat, went into the office and came out again some time later to go home. The only name not to be called out was ‘Özil’. People who’d arrived long after us were dealt with before us. After more than an hour my father had had enough, and he stormed into the official’s room. ‘When is it our turn? We ought to have been seen ages ago,’ he grumbled. But in vain. In the official’s eyes we were merely applicants with an outrageous request. ‘I’ll tell you when it’s your turn,’ the employee replied.

  An hour or two later – in places like that you completely lose your sense of time – the Turkish civil servant came out of his office, with his coat on, and locked the door behind him.

  ‘Excuse me, what’s going on?’ my father asked furiously. ‘What about us?’

  ‘Come back tomorrow. I really didn’t have time to see you today.’

  As exasperated as we were, it didn’t change our situation. I hadn’t been allowed to surrender my passport, which meant that we had to travel the 80 kilometres from Münster back to Gelsenkirchen empty-handed.

  The next day, however, we were standing on the Turkish Consulate General doormat again. We waited. And waited. And waited. Until my father grabbed my hand, yanked open the official’s door and blustered, ‘We’re not going away until my son’s given up his passport.’

  Things got loud. Very loud. My father demanded his right to be treated like everyone else here. ‘Not everyone else here,’ the official yelled back, ‘wants to give up their Turkish passport.’

  He was taking our decision personally. Even though it was none of his business. He kept lambasting us with outrageous insinuations. For example, he ticked us off for not having ‘an ounce of pride’ and for not liking Turkey. Anybody leaving the Turkish community was a traitor. What nonsense! But eventually he complied with our request.

  And that’s where the matter ought to have rested. In September 2006, at the age of 17 years, 10 months and 21 days, I had my first international game for the German U-19 side. I played a further ten matches before I was moved up into the U-21 side by Dieter Eilts. According to FIFA statutes, junior international fixtures don’t affect your eligibility for a national team. So although the question of Germany or Turkey was settled as far as I was concerned, for many others it wasn’t.

  Suddenly I was being pushed and pulled in all directions. Suddenly people were coming to tell me they knew what was good and bad for me. Dishing out advice for my life even though they barely knew me.

  Metin Tekin, the chief scout of the Turkish football association’s Europe office, who had been based in Dortmund and then in Cologne, had once swapped phone numbers with my father after spotting me at some trials. Now he tried to tempt me into going for the senior Turkish team. Out of the blue I was invited to a training camp for the Turkish national side. Later I had a call from the Turkish manager at the time, Fatih Terim, who promised that at the very least he’d give me a game against the Ivory Coast in February 2009. Hamit and Halil Altıntop, who’d both decided to play for Turkey, also tried to talk to me because the association had asked them to.

  Suddenly everyone was discussing me and the decision I’d made. Not through any fault of mine, I publicly became a bone of contention between Germany and Turkey. And yet I’d done nothing wrong; I’d just made the decision I had to. I hadn’t offended anyone. I hadn’t snubbed anyone. I’d even listened to all sides, refusing to reject anything in haste, so no one could be cross with me. And yet for a while I felt like a pinball being knocked to and fro by both German and Turkish flippers.

  At this turbulent time I was playing for Bremen, and Turkish journalists arrived at our training camp on the Turkish Black Sea coast to grill me. The Turkish assistant manager, Müfit Erkasap, also travelled from Istanbul, because he wanted to speak to me. I wouldn’t talk to either him or the journalists as I felt I had nothing to explain and every word of mine would have been pored over at length. Which is exactly what I didn’t want.

  I didn’t want even greater media focus on me. After Jogi Löw, with whom I’d had very friendly conversations beforehand, picked me for the international fixture between Germany and Norway, even German politicians started voicing their opinions. One said, ‘I’m actively in favour of footballers with Turkish backgrounds who’ve grown up here opting for a sporting career in Germany. And so it’s important to have players like Mesut Özil breaking the ice. In a few years’ time there’ll be no more discussion as to whether German Turks or other migrant groups belong in the German national team.’

  But I never wanted to be an ice-breaker. I never wanted to become a bone of contention between Germans and Turks. I never expected the stir that would be created, especially in the media, by my decision to play for Germany. Mustafa Doğan, who played twice for the German national side in 1999, was asked what he thought I’d be feeling. He, too, was born in Turkey, but grew up in Germany and then, like me, chose to play for the German team. ‘Before coming to his decision,’ he speculated, ‘Mesut must have spent sleepless nights.’ Which was wrong. In general I’m not a bad sleeper. I rarely take my problems to bed with me. I’m not a brooder who spends hours staring at the ceiling instead of going to sleep. The only time I have trouble sleeping is after matches. When I come home after Champions League encounters, I find it hard to wind down. Irrespective of whether we’ve won or lost. I can’t push my body to its limits for ninety minutes and then just go to bed and sleep. For hours after the game my body is still in power-mode. Usually I don’t feel tired till three or four in the morning and only then can I think about sleeping.

  But I had no problems sleeping because of the decision between Germany and Turkey. Nor did I feel personally torn. At most I had vague mixed feelings. Maybe it would have been different if I’d come to Germany after I’d been born. Maybe then I would have been more receptive to my uncle’s arguments and would have felt the same as he did whenever I went back to Zonguldak.

  Hakan Eseroglu, the director of the Turkish football association’s Europe office, later accused me in Bild of slightly mucking the association around. ‘Mesut’s a good boy, a nice boy. But there are people influencing him.’ Which was sheer nonsense.

  In the days leading up to my first international game for Germany we had to shut down my website for a time as a few unsympathetic individuals had written the most offensive comments. Because they were able to hide behind pseudonyms their accusations were far stronger than those that had been made to my father and me by the official in the Turkish consulate.

  After all, my decision in favour of Germany – and many people seemed to have forgotten this in the weeks that followed �
�� was not an explicit rejection of Turkey. Just because I’d chosen to play for Germany didn’t mean that Turkey wasn’t close to my heart. I wasn’t shutting myself off from Turkey and its people.

  On 11 February 2009 the day had arrived. My first full international for Germany, at the age of 20 years, 3 months and 27 days. I started on the bench with Tim Wiese, Thomas Hitzlsperger and Simon Rolfes, amongst others. It was Germany’s first friendly of the year, six weeks before the World Cup qualifiers were due to restart.

  At half-time the German manager made some changes, taking off Per Mertesacker, Andreas Hinkel and Miroslav Klose, replacing them with Serdar Tasci, Andreas Beck and Patrick Helmes. It was a rather messy match – somehow we were confused and unable to build any pressure. Christian Grindheim scored from a corner to make it 1–0 to Norway.

  The atmosphere in the Düsseldorf stadium had sunk to rock bottom. Joachim Löw made more changes, bringing Stefan Kiessling on for Mario Gómez and Marko Marin for Torsten Frings. Then, in the seventy-eighth minute, he took off Piotr Trochowski, and I was given 12 minutes on the pitch.

  The whistling subsided briefly and when I sprinted on I even earned some gentle, but audible applause. I’m sorry to say, however, that no shiver ran down my spine as I cantered onto the pitch for the first time in full German colours. The conditions weren’t right for that. The fans were disappointed, the team unable to find its rhythm, the result was ‘wrong’. Of course, I was delighted that Jogi Löw was showing confidence in me. But it simply wasn’t the right time for pure enjoyment.