Gunning for Greatness: My Life: With an introduction by Jose Mourinho Page 7

  In my first game, however, it was very different. I heard the whistles of the Schalke fans, who couldn’t understand the drop in our team’s performance. I even picked out individual faces whenever I looked at the stands.

  I had to think of Altıntop and his advice to play courageously, rather than hiding behind safe football. Not to worry about making mistakes. I ran, called for the ball, got the ball, played it on. Ran. Ran. Passed. Whistle! What? Already? How could that happen? I’d only been on the pitch for 20 seconds. It wasn’t possible! Wolfgang Stark, the referee, must be mistaken. Or perhaps not. No, he wasn’t. The match was indeed over.

  And unfortunately I hadn’t been able to change the scoreline. It stayed 1–1. Not good enough for a team with our lofty ambitions. I wasn’t really satisfied with my debut either. Although it felt good finally to be part of the team, we – title contenders – had dropped two points in the very first game of the season.

  In the next league match in Aachen I started on the bench again. Not a problem. But of course the cinema in my mind was playing the whole time. I saw a film in which I came on as substitute and played my second Bundesliga game. I couldn’t think of anything else. I was totally excited. Shifting restlessly on the bench. But after 45 minutes Mirko Slomka wasn’t thinking of making a substitution. Nor after 50 minutes. Once more, time didn’t seem to be passing. Sixty minutes had gone by without the manager thinking of bringing me on.

  As a young Bundesliga player you’re always on a knife edge. On the one hand, footballers are dreadfully impatient, or at least I was. Not a bad quality to have, really, because anybody who sits back patiently and gives the impression of being satisfied isn’t going to get far in this bear pit. Football is a hard and highly competitive business. You can’t just be technically and tactically brilliant. You need nerve too. Occasionally you also need to make demands on your coach. He needs to feel how determined you are, and part of this is that you won’t ever accept a ‘No’ from him.

  On the other hand, you mustn’t allow yourself to be devoured by your impatience, especially not at the beginning. Good managers usually know how to slowly acquaint young players with the Bundesliga. When they need match time and how much. They also know how to protect young players from burning out or immediately losing control in the media whirlpool.

  Some journalists are prepared to give a really poor rating to a player who makes a few errors due to nerves in his first Bundesliga appearance, and will claim that he’s not ‘top league material’. Of course, you get wind of this as a young player. Your parents read it. As do your siblings. Your grandparents. Friends from school. And because you’re not experienced enough you can’t just brush off a rating like that. The joy at having made your debut dissipates. You feel insecure, and put yourself under pressure in the next game, in which you mustn’t make a single mistake. You start to think about things too much. And then make the next mistake.

  I bet every employee makes mistakes when they start a job, whether they’re working in a travel agency or as a roofer. A trainee in the hotel industry who is unable to cope with the computer system has to call for help while a guest is waiting impatiently at reception. A young assistant doctor doesn’t manage to take blood at the first attempt, making a wild stab with the needle. All rather messy. But all, ultimately, perfectly normal. Just not in football, where perfection is demanded of young players from the outset. If a journalist isn’t happy with what they’ve just written, they can delete the sentence and rewrite it. But once made, a pass can’t be taken back. In the worst-case scenario it lands at an opponent’s feet and leads to an opposition goal. Then it’s easy to bandy words around such as ‘catastrophe’, ‘bad’, ‘disastrous’ or ‘embarrassing’. And yet, as they’re typing these harsh judgements most journalists probably don’t consider the effect these words are going to have.

  Mirko Slomka didn’t bring me on in the Aachen match. Nor did I play against Werder Bremen. My ten minutes as a Bundesliga player could be set against 260 as a reserve. The next time I came on as substitute, against Hertha BSC Berlin, we were already 2–0 down. Christian Giménez had scored twice. Løvenkrands had to come off, I went on, but there was no change to the scoreline.

  Another game that didn’t go as I would have liked. We dropped to sixth in the table. Slomka wasn’t happy, the fans weren’t happy and nor was I.

  Our next match was against Wolfsburg. The atmosphere in the stadium was poor. The fans mercilessly booed our performance in the first half. No goal. Somehow that wasn’t right. After we changed ends Slomka brought me on and I swore that today I’d finally be celebrating a victory with my team. I was desperate to find out what it felt like to experience the ecstasy of a great game with 60,000 spectators.

  I stepped onto the pitch with my right foot. As I’ve always done. When I get out of bed I also put my right foot on the floor. I eat with my right hand, even though I’m left-handed. There are religious reasons for all of this. The right hand is the pure one, the left hand is for removing dirt. For example, I brush my teeth with my left hand. If I were to put my left foot on the pitch first I wouldn’t be able to play.

  I pray just before kick-off. That’s also a tradition of mine. It’s always the same text that I recite to myself on the pitch before the whistle goes. In Turkish, the prayer goes:

  ‘Allahım bugünkü maçımız için bizlere güç ver ve özellikle beni ve takım arkadaşlarımı sakatlıklardan koru. Allahım sen bu rızıkı hem veren hem de alansın. Bizleri doğru yoldan şaşırtma. Amin.’

  Which, translated, means:

  ‘Allah, give us strength for today’s game and protect me and my teammates from injury. Allah, you can open up the path (success) to us or close it. Do not lead us away from the right path. Amen.’

  This is my third prayer. Earlier, when we’re warming up, I say a few more sentences in Arabic:

  Bismil-lahir-rahmanir-rahim.

  alhamdu lillahi rabbil-a’lamin.

  ar-rahmanir-rahim.

  maliki yawmid-din.

  Iyyaka na’budu wa iyyaka nasta’in

  ihdinas-Siratal-mustaqim.

  Siratal-ladhina an ’amta alayhim

  gayril-magdubi alayhim walad-dalin.

  Which means:

  ‘In the name of God the gracious and merciful!

  Praise be to God, Lord of all the worlds, the gracious and merciful, the ruler on the Day of Judgement.

  We serve you alone and you alone we ask for help! Lead us on the straight path, the path of those to whom you are merciful, not of those with whom you are angry, and not of the errant!’

  And finally, there is another prayer I say in the dressing room just before we go out onto the pitch. In Arabic again:

  ‘Bismillahir-rahmanir-rahim.

  Qul Huwallahu ahad. allahus Samad.lam yalid walam youlad.

  walam yakun lahu kufuwan ahad.’

  Translated, this means:

  ‘In the name of God, the gracious and merciful!

  He is Allah, the One, the eternally besought of all.

  He begetteth not, nor was begotten.’

  I learned this prayer from my parents when I was a child. I also say it when I get up and after eating. It’s such a part of our lives that I’ve adopted it into my day-to-day routine. Even as a young boy I prayed on the football field before a game. And I’ve kept this up till today, because I derive a lot of strength and confidence from prayer.

  So Slomka brought me on at half-time. Eleven minutes later a Kevin Kurányi goal put us ahead, while just before the full-time whistle Lincoln made it 2–0. The conclusion of the Süddeutsche Zeitung was:

  By the end of the first half the atmosphere was faintly apocalyptic. Those in the stands were suffering miserably. In the second half the manager was able to lift the crowd’s low spirits with a substitution and by changing the formation. Coming on for Peter Løvenkrands, seventeen-year-old Mesut Özil animated the midfield and also inspired Lincoln to substantially up his game. Eventually the combination s
tarted to flow and Schalke looked almost serene. Now the fans were singing and dancing in the stands and love was in the air everywhere, as if this were a musical.

  That was the feeling I wanted to experience. Sixty thousand people singing. People cheering. People bursting with joy, delighted at our performance. As I walked across the turf and applauded them, I felt as if I’d grown a few centimetres. As if I’d become taller and stronger. The celebrations of our fans were so loud my ears were droning when I vanished into the underground dressing rooms.

  After two more games where I came on as sub, I spent four matches in a row on the bench. I had 14 minutes in our 4–0 win over Mainz, then two fixtures – against Cottbus and Bochum – where I didn’t play an active role. And 23 minutes against Bielefeld were followed by 360 more in the worst place in the entire stadium: the substitute bench.

  Spending time as a reserve is part and parcel of football, of course. It’s the fate of every player that they can’t be on the pitch permanently. Obviously the manager has to rotate players, make tactical changes and respond to fluctuating performances. I understand that and accept it. But I’ll never sit on the bench, smile contentedly and look forward to an afternoon of good football, even if I have a spectacular view of proceedings from the bench – and all free. I want to play. I want to help. On the bench you feel like only half a footballer. Even a trainee chef wants to conjure up dishes rather than merely peel potatoes. Several more months passed, in which I had to exercise patience, before my first appearance in the starting line-up. On 10 March 2007 the day came when Mirko Slomka entrusted me with this responsibility in the game against Hannover.

  Probably only because Gustavo Varela, Peter Løvenkrands, Christian Pander and Gerald Asamoah were injured. Rodríguez and Lincoln were also missing because of bans. I was going to play as the third striker alongside Kevin Kurányi and Halil Altıntop.

  Our team was lacking in confidence. Although we’d topped the table since our victory against Werder Bremen in our twentieth match, in the three games since, against Wolfsburg, Leverkusen and Hamburg, we’d managed only one wretched point, thus forfeiting valuable ones on the way to the championship.

  We had a tense relationship with our fans. But they seemed to be in a conciliatory mood before the Hannover game and accompanied us along the A2 motorway to Lower Saxony.

  After 92 seconds a corner from me went to Halil Altıntop, who put us in the lead.

  My first start in a league game and a beginning like that! But the joy at my first assist wasn’t to last long. Because 108 seconds later Hannover got an equaliser. Jan Rosenthal disrupted Manuel Neuer after a corner and then Michael Tarnat pushed the ball over the line with his outstretched leg.

  A jittery game followed with plenty of poor passes on both sides. Midfield skirmishes mostly, interrupted by lots of minor fouls. There were no more goals.

  The fourth game in a row without a win. Afterwards we argued as to whether their goal had been legitimate. ‘Rosenthal touched me with his hand; I wouldn’t have let go of the ball otherwise,’ Neuer protested. Slomka described it as ‘a clear foul’. But Andreas Müller said, ‘There’s no way the ref would have blown his whistle for that in the Champions League or in England.’

  Ultimately it was completely irrelevant whether the goal ought to have counted or not. In referee Knut Kircher’s eyes it was legitimate and we didn’t manage more than one point. All the discussions were a result of the frustration we felt at our own performance. And so I was in a bad mood on the journey home.

  With 50 points we were heading the table. Werder Bremen were in second place with 47, ahead of Stuttgart. In fourth were Bayern Munich with 44 points.

  Slomka put me in the starting line-up again for the next match – the top-of-the-table clash with VfB Stuttgart. I was desperate to show him that he’d made the right decision. I began like a wild bull. In the fourth minute I broke through on the left. All alone I was running towards Stuttgart’s goalie, Timo Hildebrand. Ten more metres. Eight. Six. Four. Shoot. But my shot went just over the bar. ‘Siktir lan,’ I cursed (a general expression of frustration in Turkish, which is always appropriate when you’re annoyed at yourself, someone else or the whole world). I ought to have taken advantage of the chance. Opportunities like that don’t come around frequently. ‘Siktir lan’.

  I often talk to myself on the football field. Especially when I’m angry at myself and have made mistakes. But I also do it for encouragement. I didn’t realise it at first. But my friends certainly did. When they followed my games on Sky they noticed that I was always chuntering away. Particularly before a free kick or a corner.

  As in the seventy-sixth minute against Stuttgart. The ball had been released. I was four paces away. ‘Go on, cross it,’ I told myself. ‘Right onto Kurányi’s head.’ I took a deep breath, kept the air in for a second, blew it all out again, ran and crossed the ball into the box. Not completely onto Kurányi’s head. It bounced off him towards Hildebrand, who couldn’t take it cleanly. Mladen Krstajić swooped in and put it in the back of the net. 1–0. Which was how the match ended.

  This meant we were now seven points ahead of the team from Swabia. But thanks to a 2–0 victory over Mainz, Bremen were still breathing down our necks. We won four of our next six games, although we lost to Bayern and Vfl Bochum, and then again in our penultimate game against Borussia Dortmund. We’d gone into the encounter just one point ahead, and following our 2–0 defeat, Stuttgart now overtook us in the championship. We’d all flopped. None of us was even approaching our normal form.

  For so long we’d been on course to be champions in my first Bundesliga season. We had led the table uninterruptedly for 13 rounds. At times we were ahead by six points. But now, if VfB Stuttgart won their home match they’d take the title. If the Swabians drew, we’d have to win our game by four goals. When we were leading Bielefeld 2–0 after early goals by Lincoln and Altıntop, a glimmer of hope sparked again. Especially when the video cube showed the scoreline in the match between Stuttgart and Energie Cottbus. Sergiu Radu had put the visitors in front and, all of a sudden, it looked as if we could be champions after all. But our hope lasted for all of eight minutes. First Thomas Hitzlsperger scored the equaliser and then our dreams were shattered when Sami Khedira’s goal took Stuttgart into the lead.

  While they celebrated the title in Stuttgart, an aeroplane paid for by some Dortmund supporters circled above our stadium, trailing a banner that read: ‘A lifetime without a title’.

  6

  A dirty smear campaign

  Success requires a good network

  In my first season as a professional in the Bundesliga I made 19 appearances. Twelve of these were when I came on as substitute. I played the full 90 minutes on three occasions. So all in all I was on the field for only 28 per cent of the total playing time.

  I’d been patiently impatient, as Norbert Elgert had advised me. But now I wanted more out of my second season. And I let Schalke know this too. Since late summer 2007 the club had been wanting an early renewal of my contract, which was due to expire in 2009. They offered me a basic monthly salary of 35,000 euros. If I played more than 30 competitive games in the season, this would increase to 60,000 per month and be retroactive. In addition to the basic salary there was a bonus of 5,000 euros per point. And if I were to play my first senior international fixture there would be a special payment of 100,000 euros.

  In the best-case scenario I could have earned 1.52 million euros gross – an unbelievable sum that made me proud. Nobody in our family had ever seen such an amount of money. The idea that any one of us would ever have a salary like that was unimaginable to all of us. Even the 4,000 euros I earned per month as a young professional was a vast sum of money for me – and had improved the life of our entire family in a flash.

  As I mentioned earlier, I never got pocket money as a child. I used to deliver papers, although I have to admit that my brother Mutlu ripped me off. It was actually he who’d been employed by the firm as a paper b
oy and he’d been given three districts to do, for which he earned 50 euros. I had no idea of this and was delighted when he gave me one of the districts, for which he paid me 5 euros.

  I spent years wearing second-hand clothes that my mother was given by friends. It was irrelevant whether they were nice, stylish or a particular brand. All that mattered was that I had something to put on. There are childhood photos of me wearing pink jumpers – girls’ clothes. I had to wear them because they’d been given to my mother by friends and it would never have occurred to her to throw them away unused just because they weren’t blue or grey.

  My favourite food as a boy, which I had to make myself after school, was white toast with curry ketchup. A packet of toasted bread cost about 55 cents. You could get the ketchup at Aldi for less than 1 euro too. I could easily fill myself up with that for days on end.

  Compared to the misery I saw years later in a refugee camp in Jordan, mine was a carefree life. But we never had it easy. We knew exactly what it meant to have little. Not to be able to afford anything. And I knew exactly what it was to work hard for your money.

  But when we negotiated my new contract with Andreas Müller, the money wasn’t important. For my father and agent it was all about securing the best prospects for me from the deal. At the forefront of negotiations was not whether I’d be earning half a million or two million – we wanted a salary in line with what was normal – but how I could get as much match practice as possible.