by Mesut Özil
I’ve had scratches on the neck and bruises on my back, shoulders and chest – from opponents’ elbows welcoming me into the Premier League when the referee wasn’t watching. Some opponents also gave me a right earful on the pitch soon after my move from Spain. I’d never heard anything like it before. Nowhere is there as much chit-chat as in England. There are some players who are permanently rabbiting on. And of course it’s not exactly friendly stuff. For example, after I’d been brutally brought to the ground in one of my first encounters, the opponent hissed, ‘It’s not Real Madrid. We’re not in La Liga.’ And as my new best friend turned away he muttered a clearly audible, ‘Come on, get up boy,’ with a malicious grin.
In an attempt to fight back I’d go running to the ref to begin with and try to ‘work’ him. Every player does it. We all try to influence the referee verbally, to raise his awareness if we’re worried about getting hurt. We complain so that the next time he’ll watch more carefully and spot if we’re kicked or elbowed. I do this just like Franck Ribéry, Arjen Robben or Lionel Messi – all players who get kicked a lot because opponents are trying to disrupt their rhythm. And because sometimes it’s the only way to stop them.
But, to my great surprise, I was forced to realise that even the English referees have their very own form of communication. In my early days at Arsenal they dismissed my appeals in a way that made me think I’d misheard them. They’d say things such as ‘Don’t whinge. You’ve got to deal with it. Welcome to the Premier League.’
Sledging from the opposition. Cutting comments from refs. And football that’s harder than anywhere else – that’s the Premier League. That’s English football. And that’s the football I’ve got used to and love today.
At Arsenal I’ve grown tougher. I’ve learned to take so much more. I’ve toned a few more muscles than during my time at Real Madrid so I’m in a better position to meet the physical challenges. But it’s a very fine line. I wouldn’t gain anything from spending hours on the bench, wildly pumping iron. If I were too muscular I’d be less nimble and sprightly. I reckon I’ve put on about a kilo and a half of muscle mass. Enough to survive the physical batterings, but not so much that I’m too brawny to run.
Otherwise I haven’t changed that much as a player – partly on the advice of Robert Pirès, the Arsenal legend, who has become a close friend. Between 2000 and 2006 he won the Premiership title twice with the Gunners. In 2002 he was chosen as the best player in England. After his career he often looked in on Arsenal, even training with the injured players sometimes, so I got the chance to get to know him better. Over the years he has become more than a friend. He’s an advisor, a confidant – someone I can discuss problems with and whose opinion is incredibly important to me.
When the media started having a go at me again, demanding that I become more selfish and score more goals myself, I asked him what he thought. I wanted to know if he judged these criticisms to be correct. He encouraged me to stick to my way of playing. ‘Let them say what they like,’ he said. ‘You’ve got a unique style. You’re not like Ronaldo. You’re different. You see spaces that barely any other player does. You can read a game. Trust in your extraordinary ability and don’t adjust your game merely because this is what outsiders are telling you to do.’
It did me the world of good to hear this assessment from him. Pirès has been a European and World Champion, as well as contesting a Champions League final. He knows what he’s talking about. And he’s honest. He’s not someone who tells me what I want to hear and doesn’t dare criticise me. Quite the opposite. After poor performances I had to listen to him say quite a lot, which I value enormously, and which is why he’ll always be an important person in the background for me.
When I got an offer from China in the summer of 2016, however, I didn’t need his advice. Because the offer was too absurd. The Chinese were prepared to pay me 100 million euros net over a period of five years. A fairy-tale amount of money that went beyond the limits of my imagination.
In spite of this it took me less than three minutes to decline the offer. My agent, Erkut, called me to let me know about the bid. He told me the name of the club and the amount. ‘I think we’re agreed what we’re going to do, aren’t we?,’ he said over the phone, ‘I just wanted to inform you that the offer’s been made. It’s my job. You won’t consider it, will you?’ Of course he was spot on with his supposition. ‘I’m nowhere near the end of my career,’ I replied. ‘I still want to win titles with Arsenal. The Premiership – at least. I don’t want to play in China no matter how much they’re willing to pay. No way.’
And so the matter was settled. In the knowledge, by the way, that Chinese President Xi Jinping is a fan of mine. On one occasion Arsenal’s managing director came to tell us that the president had contacted the club asking for my jersey with a dedication. In fact he wanted a Germany shirt, which of course Arsenal couldn’t help out with. We promised to sort it out and that same day a courier picked up the shirt from my house.
Recently I was also asked for one of my jerseys by the daughter of Dennis Bergkamp, a legend who left his stamp on London over a period of 11 years. She said she’s a big fan of mine – and of course I granted her wish. It is also these little things – the support both loud and quiet – that make me feel very happy at Arsenal. The two club photographers, David and Stuart, are part of my circle of friends, which is highly unusual. I’ve never allowed photographers at any other club to get so close to me or trusted them as much.
At the start of the year I went with Josh Kroenke, the son of our owner Stanley Kroenke, to watch an NBA game between the Denver Nuggets and Indiana Pacers that was taking place in London. We sat next to each other and were completely on the same wavelength. And I find the same is true with my teammates, which is the most important thing of all. At the beginning of every training session we play rondo, an exercise where five players on the outside pass the ball to each other while two in the middle try to win it – the whole thing is played in as small an area as possible and the aim is to pass as rapidly as you can. At Arsenal it’s generally the same seven of us who play it. In my group, if everyone’s fit, are Alexis Sánchez, Theo Walcott, Gabriel Paulista, Per Mertesacker, Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain and Aaron Ramsey.
They are a great bunch of guys and we have huge amount of fun with this exercise. I take particular pleasure in annoying Aaron Ramsey. When I play the ball to him for the first time I pass it so it bobbles and is difficult for him to pass on. Or I make an especially weak pass so that our opponents in the middle have a better chance to intercept the ball when Ramsey tries to pass it. And he tries to do the same with me. Sometimes you need a bit of amusement like this. It makes training more fun and of course players should be able to have a laugh during the hard and highly focused work.
At the end of every session I usually stay out with Shkodran Mustafi for a little shooting competition. We take turns to stand at the edge of the box and get one of our goalies to throw us the ball. We then have a maximum of two contacts to take the ball and shoot it back at the goal. I usually win this shooting duel, and so I’ll shout across the pitch, ‘What? We paid Valencia 41 million for him? Why?’ Mind you, if he wins he doesn’t hold back with his comments about me.
As far as preparation for matches or announcing the line-up are concerned, Arsène Wenger doesn’t particularly differ from my previous coaches. He won’t tell us the formation until the day of the game. But there are two things that mark him out.
First, I’ve never practised set pieces so frequently and intensively with any other manager before. It’s one of Wenger’s passions. He places great importance on trying out free kicks and corners. Again and again and again he gets us to practise all manner of variations.
Second, he’s the most gentlemanly coach I’ve ever played under. When he comes into the dressing room in the morning he shakes everybody’s hand. A firm handshake and he’ll look you in the eye. If he happens to miss a player and see him for the first time on the ground
, the personal greeting will take place there. In winter he even takes off his gloves before shaking hands.
I actually think that every club should have a morning routine like this. I like it when people show their respect for each other. But the manager’s handshake is not usual; Wenger’s the odd one out here. It was not for nothing that at the beginning of the year in an interview for the German football magazine, Kicker, I emphasised what an important figure Wenger has been in my life. He watched me for years, followed my progress, then hired and nurtured me. He is entitled to criticise me in any way he likes. He can throw anything at me if I’ve played poorly. Because what he says is important. Because he’s good at getting things into perspective.
Even the devastating loss against FC Bayern in February 2017 – obviously a very painful chapter in my time at Arsenal. This dreadful 5–1 defeat is undoubtedly one of the darkest hours of my footballing career. It’s in the top five of the most humiliating defeats I’ve suffered. Our failure in the Munich Allianz Arena is almost as difficult to bear as the semi-final loss in the 2016 European Championship. As unacceptable as the Clásico calamity against Barcelona in my first year at Real Madrid. It hurts as much as losing with Germany in the 2010 semi-final against Spain in South Africa, or two years later in the European Championship against Italy, also in the semi-final.
In truth, we were positively prepared for the game. On the Monday before the match Arsène Wenger had revealed to us in London his game plan against the German record-holders. His talk lasted ten minutes. It was short and sweet, but he was very clear about his ideas – and they were good ones. Our intention was to go all out for Bayern’s central defender Mats Hummels, to prevent him from opening up the game, which he does so brilliantly. We wanted to force him to play the ball to Javi Martínez, who’s also a fine central defender, but whose greatest strength isn’t opening up the game. In this way we hoped we’d be able to stop Bayern from building up the play at an early stage and disrupt their rhythm.
Wenger also warned us about Douglas Costa and his speed over the first 5 to 10 metres, as well as Arjen Robben. Of course, I could go on and on writing why our game plan didn’t work. I could look for excuses. But I’m not going to. What went on between us in the dressing room after the match is nobody’s business. Nor is what Arsène Wenger considered our failures to be in his post-match analysis. The fact is: we all failed. We were all bad! We played a game that held a mirror up to our faces. It was a performance we can’t just brush aside. No, we have to learn our lessons from it. We all have to ask searching questions of ourselves and accept responsibility for the defeat. All the players, all the trainers, even the club management. Because this fiasco also represents a great opportunity!
When we lost with Real Madrid to Barcelona, José Mourinho said – and I’ve already mentioned this in the book – ‘Forget the game… Don’t think about it any more. I’m sure we’re going to break Barcelona’s dominance in this country. I’m sure we’re going to be champions. But we won’t do it if we allow this defeat to get on top of us.’
That’s how we have to deal with it now too. I have thought long and hard about the match. I’ve visualised what went wrong. But I can’t allow this game to inhibit me in the future and destroy my confidence, which is the most important thing a footballer can have on the field. This defeat mustn’t get the better of any of us.
In my footballing life I’ve often fallen flat on my face and been knocked to the ground. But I’ve always got up again and won victories and titles following the defeat. In spite of the disappointments with Germany in South Africa and Poland and Ukraine, we became World Champions. In spite of the humiliation at the hands of Barcelona we won the Spanish league with Real Madrid. And this defeat by Bayern Munich will produce something good at the end too. It has left me with a little scar. But nothing more. Just like the scornful sledging I received at the start of my adventure in England and the blue marks on my shins and the bruises on my torso, it has made me tougher, harder-nosed and better able to take what’s thrown at me.
And I’m going to prove it!
Epilogue
Danke schön, teS¸ekkürler, gracias, thank you
The photo of Mrs Merkel and me, which was taken in the dressing room at the Berlin Olympic stadium in 2010, still hangs in my office in Königsallee in Düsseldorf. It’s where I keep the few souvenirs that are really important to me. I’m not someone who puts everything on show. My house is London isn’t full of football things. In fact there’s nothing on display. It was like that in Madrid too. No collection of jerseys. No cups. I don’t feel the need to show my visitors how brilliant I am, all the people I know and all the places I’ve played football. I have an aversion to that. Quite apart from the fact that I don’t own that many shirts. I’ve never asked a player for his shirt after the game’s over. I’m not the type. I don’t want to annoy anyone. It wouldn’t mean much to me anyway.
I might have made an exception for Zinédine Zidane, because this man was a footballing legend and the player I most admire. If I’d ever had the fortune to play against him I’d have definitely asked for his shirt. But only his. Otherwise the jerseys I have are mostly mine. My collection includes my complete kit from my first game for Schalke, as well as those from my debuts with Bremen, Real Madrid and Arsenal. And of course a kit from each of the tournaments I’ve played for Germany. I’ve also got a shirt from Cristiano Ronaldo that he signed for me when I left Madrid, as well as one from Sergio Ramos, on which he wrote in Spanish, ‘For my brother. All the best. It was great playing in a team with you. Yours, Sergio.’
In November 2010, almost exactly a month after that legendary match between Germany and Turkey, I’m on a plane from Madrid to Berlin. After ten rounds of matches Real are top of the table. I’m bursting with confidence. In our recent 2–0 victory over Atlético Madrid I scored from a free kick. In the first ten games of the season I’ve managed five assists and three goals. And yet, at this precise moment, I feel tiny and my confidence has vanished. I’m about to give a speech live on television.
I shift fretfully in my seat. Again and again I rehearse in my head the words I’m going to say. My hands are sweaty with nerves and so the notes on my crib sheet are smeared. I have to jot them down again halfway through the flight.
I’m not the sort of bloke to make big speeches. I’ve never enjoyed being the centre of attention and talking in front of others. It doesn’t suit me, and it probably never will. There are people who are born orators. Who can enter a sitting room at a birthday party, open their mouth and within seconds the assembled company is hanging on their every word because they can make what they say sound so exciting. I admire these people. But I don’t think it’s a great tragedy that this is not one of my strengths.
Especially not on that November day in 2010. From Berlin airport it’s a limousine ride to Potsdam. ‘Just please listen to it again, Mutlu,’ I implore my brother, who must have heard my thank-you speech at least 20 times. And now a twenty-first and twenty-second time on the 40-minute drive.
Hubert Burda Media has invited us to the Bambi awards in the Babelsberg Metropolis Halle. The event is being held for the 62nd time. This evening I’m going to be one of the prize-winners.
Sarah Jessica Parker, the Sex and the City actress, is presenting the evening. The fashion designer Karl Lagerfeld is one of the guests. Orlando Bloom, the English actor who played Will Turner in Pirates of the Caribbean, is also here. I can see the drummer, Udo Lindenberg and the actress and singer, Barbara Schöneberger. The pop star Shakira, who was on the same plane to South Africa as me and the rest of the German squad, is also here. Later she’ll sing the World Cup song ‘Waka Waka’.
So many interesting people. But instead of talking to them I stick to my brother and agent, who are accompanying me. Even now I’m particularly annoyed that I missed the chance of chatting to Jane Goodall, who was also at the Bambis.
Before that evening I didn’t know that she was a world-famous primatologist
. But since then I’ve seen lots of her films. As I’ve said, I’m a complete documentary junkie. I love them and am continually watching films about the lives of chimpanzees, crocodiles and elephants or about the journeys made by whales and penguins. I’ve seen Goodall’s films from the ancient forests of Tanzania, where she lived with and studied chimpanzees. I’m sure it would have been fascinating to get first-hand information from her.
Hannah Herzsprung won the best actress award. Best actor went to Florian David Fitz for his film Vincent will Meer (Vincent Wants to Sea). I hear 800 guests laugh at a joke from comedian Michael Mittermeier. But I don’t take in what he’s said. The evening is going over my head. I’m only vaguely aware when people applaud. In my mind I’m already up on the stage, giving my thanks to people. The spotlights are flickering through the hall. My tie, which I only managed to get the right length after 20 attempts, is choking me. I keep taking sips from my water glass because I feel as if my throat’s drying up. How am I supposed to speak with a dry mouth? When my brother spots me reaching for the bottle again to refill my glass, he chuckles. ‘Calm down,’ he says. ‘You’ll be fine.’ But instead of calming down I really need the loo.
Then Nazan Eckes gets up on the stage. Now it’s serious. I have another quick glug of water. ‘I was born in Cologne. My parents are Turkish,’ she begins. She talks of feeling that she has arrived in Germany. Describes the country as her ‘home’. The country has given her opportunities that she’d never have got elsewhere.
I don’t take in the rest of what Nazan says either. My heart is thumping so loudly that I can hear every beat. I see her mouth open and close on the stage. The odd smile. And the odd thoughtful expression. I only discovered what she actually said when I watched clips from the event on YouTube.