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

by Mesut Özil

  In the eleventh minute we have a corner. Toni Kroos will take it, as he has in so many practice sessions over the past few weeks. Including the goalkeeper, there are nine Brazilians in the box. Only four of us are there. But the advantage we have is that we know exactly where each of us is about to move. We’ve got insider knowledge; the Brazilians can only react. We’re now determining the rhythm of the game. Dominating the situation. If Toni’s corner lands where it’s supposed to, Thomas Müller will be there.

  Miroslav Klose, Mats Hummels and Benedikt Höwedes come towards the ball. Not Müller. He takes a few steps in the opposite direction, but he’s not followed by David Luiz who’s marking him. I’m right on the edge of the area in case the ball is knocked out or Thomas doesn’t get to it.

  Corners are a bit like chess, only with lots of pieces being moved at the same time. If all the moves work perfectly, it’s checkmate, i.e. a goal. As happens at that moment in Belo Horizonte.

  No German has ever scored a goal against Brazil at a World Cup before. The only meeting between the two sides came at the 2002 final, which Germany lost 2–0.

  Now Müller scores. Then, between the twenty-third and twenty-sixth minute – or within the space of 178 seconds, to be precise – Miroslav Klose gets a goal and Toni Kroos scores twice.

  It’s the most unbelievable period of play I’ve experienced on a football field. Every one of our passes works. Every run is perfect. Every idea is a stroke of genius. We surpass ourselves with every successful play we make. At the same time we rob the Brazilians of every last speck of self-confidence. Each one of us wants the ball because he has a plan. None of the Brazilians want the ball because they’re too afraid of making a mistake.

  You might expect such dominance if a full-strength Real Madrid side were playing against a ninth-division XI. But not here. I still can’t explain why this semi-final should go the way it does. I don’t know what it was that intimidated and unsettled the Brazilians so much. These great footballers with their individual class. Was Neymar’s absence so decisive? Or was he playing around in their minds too much? At any rate, before the anthems Luiz and César lifted his shirt up into the air. One online journalist from the Daily Telegraph commented during the game, ‘It’s like Brazil have been shot with tranquiliser darts.’

  I find the whole thing unreal. Surely it can’t be true. After Toni’s second goal I look up at the scoreboard and really do see four goals for us and none for the Brazilians. After less than half an hour’s play. That’s never happened before in World Cup history. In none of the – as I read later – 832 encounters since 1930.

  Later David Luiz said he thought he was stuck in a nightmare from which he was desperate to wake up.

  When I look around I see the first Brazilians leaving the stadium in despair. At a throw-in I’m standing right on the touchline looking at a man with tear-stained eyes. The make-up he’d painted flags on his cheeks with has smeared. I feel sorry for him. As I do for the country as a whole, this united sea of tears that in the end has to digest a 7–1 defeat. We destroyed their dream of a title. Every goal was a stab in the heart of this proud nation with their great reputation and their samba football that had inspired all visiting nations. A German ‘machine’ had steamrollered the helpless Brazilian national side in four minutes.

  Of course, I was proud and delighted that we’d made it to the final. But the dominance with which we humiliated the Brazilians was a historic annihilation. An annihilation this country hadn’t deserved. I felt I had to compensate somehow for the fact that we’d destroyed their World Cup dream in such a way. I wanted to express the true feeling that many of us had. In a short message, 140 characters long, which would be irrevocable; nobody would be able to change it. And so I tweeted, ‘You have a beautiful country, wonderful people and amazing footballers – this match may not destroy your pride! #Brasil’.

  It was a message from the heart that I really wanted to get out. It was a collective feeling, a truth with which I spoke to many people from the soul. More than 92,000 people liked my tweet and more than 124,000 retweeted it, which meant that my message, which I’d written in English, became the most viewed tweet of the year.

  The most remarkable thing was the reaction of the Brazilians we met on our way back to Campo Bahia. No trace of hatred. No outrage that we’d thrashed their team. In spite of their sadness at having been knocked out, they were good losers and showed us respect. From time to time, but rarely, you’re confronted by contempt from fans of teams you’ve beaten. But we felt none of this in Brazil.

  On the flight back Wolfgang Niersbach, president of the German Football Association, grabbed the microphone and spoke to us: ‘It’s no exaggeration to say this is a historic result. In the years and decades to come you can say to your children, when you have them, and your grandchildren, that on 8 July 2014, in Belo Horizonte: I was there. In ten, twenty, thirty years’ time people will still be asking: How was that possible?’

  It’s lovely to be admired from all sides. And, of course, I felt flattered to hear such words. But at that moment, deep down, I couldn’t really care less about them. For amongst all the euphoria there was one thing we mustn’t forget. We’d only won a semi-final. We may well have done it in unforgettable fashion, but I didn’t want to tell my children about a 7–1 victory in a semi-final. At some point I wanted to tell my children about winning the World Cup. What it feels like to have that golden trophy in your hands.

  What use would it have been to enjoy this moment and feel like king of the hill if five days later there was a renewed discussion about the German loser’s gene? About us sissies? About the generation that can’t win a title? Up until the semi-final against Spain in 2010 we’d also earned lots of respect for our performances. But Spain won then.

  That’s why I blocked out Niersbach’s words – for the time being, at least. Jogi Löw and his team also impressed on us that we hadn’t achieved anything yet. And that’s exactly how we continued to work until the final. No training session was casual. Nobody was arrogant or thought of settling back for even a second.

  Although the 7–1 victory helped us go into the training sessions with great confidence, it didn’t take away our sense of reality.

  When we leave the team base at 1.50 p.m. on 13 July 2014 to go to the Maracanã stadium for the final against Argentina, the feeling is somehow different from usual. Nervousness would be the wrong word. I think that the people in the stands, the players on the bench, the presenters and journalists are more nervous than we are for a final like that. I really believe that none of us players was properly nervous. Because nervousness is not a good companion. You can’t go into a final feeling nervous.

  You have to go into a final in the knowledge that no millimetre is too far. That no tackle is unimportant. That no slide is unnecessary. That it’s important to remain positive and be there for your teammates. And of course you must be absolutely convinced that you can win the game.

  Nonetheless more thoughts than usual flashed in my mind that day. Things like, ‘Today you could become a legend.’ You want to banish these thoughts and keep them out of your head. You want to stay cool, but you can’t. The coach journey seems longer than normal. You’re brimming with vitality, you can barely control your energy, so great is the desire to start running around, passing and shooting. On the bus you feel locked in. Cooped up between seats.

  Because Jogi Löw doesn’t let us use mobiles in the dressing room I write my mum a text from the coach. ‘Pray for me to stay fit and for us to win.’ Seconds later, as if she’d had her phone in her hand, just waiting to hear from me, she writes back, ‘Mesut, I always pray for you. Before each game. We love you. You’ll do it.’ And then she sent a smiley.

  When we’re sitting in the dressing room it’s louder than any other I’ve been in throughout my career. The 74,738 spectators are making a noise that penetrates underground. Even with the door closed we can hear the singing and chanting. It’s faint, but it still finds its way i
nto our changing room.

  You feel so hot because of the atmosphere in the Maracanã that it’s barely necessary to warm up. In an adjacent room I play keepy uppy with Per Mertesacker and Julian Draxler. In bare feet. Just a bit of fun before the big showdown.

  There are people who denied we had the necessary will for success as a national side. They thought we weren’t mature enough to win the biggest title of them all.

  Anybody who looked into the eyes of the German players that day would know that such claims are utter rubbish.

  When I’m on the pitch, a few seconds before kick-off in the most important game of my life, I feel like the little Mesut. Like the boy who was once addicted to playing football every day in the Monkey Cage, as our pitch in Gelsenkirchen was called. Who in the mornings at school would look forward to playing with his mates in the afternoon. Who would forget the time and the fact that he was hungry. Who didn’t care what the weather was like and if the pitch was the right length. Who just wanted to play and win. Without any pressure or obligations, simply for the fun of it.

  I love this feeling of being carefree. Because it makes every game so simple. So relaxed. Luckily it stayed with me the entire match. I felt free the whole time. Never under pressure for a second. I wasn’t thinking that I had to prove something to the world. I wasn’t thinking about having players like Lionel Messi opposite me. I didn’t worry about the skills of this exceptional footballer.

  Manuel Neuer is in the form of his life. Benedikt Höwedes defends brilliantly. Jérôme Boateng is always in the right position. Mats Hummels gives us security. Philipp Lahm exudes calmness and confidence. Bastian Schweinsteiger fights like a lion who’s been wounded but refuses to die. Toni Kroos always knows what to do with the ball. Although Christoph Kramer doesn’t realise it, he plays a really important role until he’s substituted. Thomas Müller makes Argentina tremble. Miroslav Klose gets completely stuck in.

  Everyone on the pitch is playing the game of his life. When André Schürrle crosses to Mario Götze in the 113th minute I immediately get the feeling that something magical is about to happen. Mario chests the ball down, strikes with his left foot and scores the all-deciding goal. 1–0 to us.

  I still can’t really explain what happens then. At the moment when the whistle blows I’m completely overwhelmed. Players in blue jerseys collapse onto the ground, burying their faces in the grass. Men in white shirts fall to the ground too, but these do it for joy. Because the fact that they’ve won has bowled them over emotionally.

  I can’t remember what I did. Who I hugged when. What I said to whom. All I know is that everything is spinning. I want to shout and cry. I never want this moment to end. Pelé, the Brazilian legend, once said, ‘Without the Maracanã I would not be the person I am.’ Without the Maracanã none of us would be what we are today – the first European team to win the World Cup in South America.

  I’d really like to find the right words to describe what it feels like to lift the golden trophy in the air. But I can’t. Because this feeling is so strong that you can’t describe it in words, or at least I can’t.

  That night chaos reigns inside my head, albeit a nice chaos. One moment you’re still standing on the pitch, the next you have a medal put around your neck, and the next moment Philipp Lahm is lifting the cup into the night and a firework display erupts into life above us.

  So much happens that my head can’t process all these moments all at once.

  Suddenly Michel Platini is standing in front of me. I don’t have a clue where he’s come from. Three years in a row, from 1983 to 1985, Platini was European Footballer of the Year. With Juventus he won virtually every title going. ‘I don’t take the shirt from every player,’ Platini says that evening to me. ‘But I’d love to have yours. It would be an honour.’

  When such a great footballer asks for your jersey, you give it to him. Platini’s words were probably the biggest compliment I’ve been paid in my career. It was an expression of respect, just between the two of us. A really intimate moment.

  For this I was happy to risk more criticism from some quarters in the media. Because I’m the only German player in the World Champions team photo standing there bare-chested, some people thought I was trying to show off my muscles. Total nonsense. When I get my first feel of the cup, strange thoughts enter my head. Why is it smaller than the cup given to the Champions League winners? At 73.5 centimetres, the silver Champions League trophy is almost twice as tall and considerably heavier. But I don’t actually care about the answer, and the question vanishes as quickly as it arrived.

  I don’t yet know what it feels like for parents when they hold their baby in their arms for the first time, unfortunately. Up till now my only experience has been the emotional feeling of holding my nieces Mira and Lina for the first time. I think that I handled the World Cup trophy with the same care as I had my two nieces. All I thought was, ‘It’s beautiful.’

  The coach ride back to the hotel, the party and the flight back to Germany pass by in a flash. We keep bawling the same songs. Do high fives. Take souvenir photos of the cup. But I don’t grasp what it really means to be World Champions until we drive through the streets of Berlin and celebrate by the Brandenburg Gate. I’d never imagined that we could delight so many people with our play. That we could have put so many people in a good mood, having given them such euphoria, satisfaction and happiness. On that day we get smiles from many, many people.

  Once I was at a Michael Jackson concert. I admired the perfection with which he staged his show and choreography. The audience went crazy and cheered him with a passion that was infectious. After the concert I wondered what it must feel like to stand up there on the stage and experience this adulation.

  Well, I did experience it in Berlin. This moment was worth everything. Every tough training session. Every severe dressing-room bollocking. Every harsh criticism. The hassle with the Turkish authorities over a document. Every whistle. Every critical comment.

  For all those things had meant that today I was able to stand on this stage with these wonderful people. It was a feeling I wanted to savour again in the summer of 2016. To soak up this football euphoria once more, and experience again the feeling of belonging to a tight-knit group. The admiration.

  We could have become European champions. We were the best team in France. We managed to knock out our nemesis, Italy. And in the semi-final we played really great football.

  After half an hour the French were spiritless, on the verge of collapse. It didn’t matter whether it was Griezmann, Giroud or Pogba – all of them were panting like horses that have had to draw a plough across a field without water. When I ran past them I heard them breathing loudly like I’d virtually never heard before in a footballer. They were gasping for air, as if their heads had been held under water for a minute. We were doing lots and lots of things right. We were on the way to creating a bit of history.

  But sometimes even doing lots and lots of things right isn’t enough. The penalty scored by Griezmann seconds before the half-time whistle breathed life back into the tottering French team. They recovered themselves in the dressing room and gathered new energy. So much so that in the end they beat us 2–0. After the match Giroud, himself in disbelief, asked me what we were doing to them in the first half. After we were knocked out I howled like a little child, because this defeat hurt unbearably. We had to be European champions in 2016. We’d had such a big chance.

  On the flight back I barely said a word. From Frankfurt I immediately jumped on the next plane to Los Angeles. Once again an escape. Once again I put my mobile well away. I didn’t want to read any reassuring texts, or hear any sympathy. Nobody would have been able to find the right words.

  I didn’t watch the final. I didn’t want to watch two teams – both of which I’m sure we could have beaten – play each other. In 2016 we squandered a great opportunity. But it wasn’t a one-off. This German team still has sufficient quality to take the European title. It’ll come in 2020, I�
�m convinced of it. Just as I’m sure that my personal collection of trophies at club level is not yet finished.

  I’ve won titles in three countries. Won the Spanish league with the greatest club in the world. And I’ve won the biggest trophy you can possibly win as a footballer. Does that mean I’m content with my tally of trophies so far? No! Because it could have been more. I absolutely want to win the Premier League title. I absolutely want to hold the Champions League trophy in my hands.

  But most of all I want to feel the magic of this wonderful game of football as often as I can.

  18

  Arsenal

  the toughest challenge

  I’m 28 years old now. I’ve played in Germany, Spain and England. I’ve taken something from each of these countries and soaked up experiences from each club. I’ve learned to cope with setbacks. I’ve learned by watching how the biggest stars in the world prepare for games. Germany has given me a lot. Spain has enriched me in an incredible way. But it’s been during my time in London that I’ve learned one of the most important lessons of all: how to be a real man.

  The Premier League is the toughest challenge I’ve experienced in football so far. If you can’t take it here – and without whining – then you’re history. It’s something I had to get to grips with in the first few weeks and months after my switch from Real Madrid.

  Whereas in Spain the entire game is based on elegant ball play – even in the teams from lower leagues – in England you have scratching, biting and fighting to contend with. In England, football is one tackle after another. There’s barely any respite. The next opponent is already at your feet.

  Generally, this doesn’t happen in Spain because the ball is constantly on the move. Pass – pass – pass – pass – pass. The opponent rarely has the opportunity to intervene because the ball is already on the other side of the pitch. Sometimes in England you fail to notice how hard it is during the game itself and how many attacks the body sustains. You’re so full of adrenalin that you don’t feel the pain. But then, under the shower, you discover the ‘misery’. After some matches my shins have looked as if someone has gone at them with a hammer – covered in blue marks.