But the second I remember it, it hits me right in the stomach again. Like finding myself one-on-one against Pepe.
Turkey is out. The truth hurts. The whole world cup performance of Turkey was like 180 minutes of a Gary Lineker warm-up – known for not wasting goals before the real thing. Unfortunately, this was the real thing.
Yes, we had something like 62 shots on goal, but still no goal. That sounds less like football and more like a 40-year-old man trying to have a baby while wearing boxers that are way too tight.
So I keep crying, pulling myself together, and sitting back down at my laptop. Again and again. I am now on attempt number 62. I think it’s my new favorite number at this point.
You know what? Maybe Turkey was not thaaat bad.
After all, we were better than the Greeks.
Greece had zero shots on goal. Zero. Not “a few.” Not “barely dangerous.” Zero.
And that is exactly where my healing process begins. Because when you are Turkish and you have finally reached rock bottom, you do not look up. You look to the side. Or down. You look for someone who is doing even worse. Someone who makes you feel like: Okay, maybe my national shame is not a medical emergency after all.
I mean, we were better than the Greeks. That is already a reason to celebrate. If given the chance, they would even claim that they had invented football.
It is also very considerate of the Greeks not to add unnecessary airfare costs to their economic collapse. Very financially responsible. Very European of them. Mehmet Şimşek is taking notes.
No, but seriously: Was Turkey really so bad that I have been feeling sick for hours? Is this state of never-ending shame justified? This twitch in my right eye?
Is it really necessary to smoke 40 cigarettes just because Turkey got eliminated?
I don’t think so. 39 would have been enough.
And yes, we had zero goals, but we were motivated. And is that not the most important thing according to Waldorf schools?
After the match, Montella said something like:
„I would never criticize my players, because I truly believe they gave their best.„
Bro. That is so cute.
To elaborate: Fatih Terim back in the day literally screamed, yelled, and—I truly believe—slapped the players by halftime in the locker room. That kind of pressure works on Turks. What exactly do you think a soft, friendly, positive attitude can achieve here?
Let’s focus on the bright side: drinking beer at 5 AM just doesn’t mix well with having a real job right after. So maybe, in a way, this is actually better for us. We should probably just be thankful and grateful for the participation.
Like, you know, one of our players even participated so hard that he kept giving Mario Balotelli vibes. Unfortunately, only as hair inspo.
Our teenage savior wanted to give us the Messi we had all been waiting for—in a Sufi dance edition. Beautiful view, but wrong stage, bro.
But hey, everyone has the right to their own football philosophy. Some teams defend deep. Some teams press high. And some teams are simply consistently against shooting a goal. That is also a stance. And having a stance is important.
And trust me, I have a stance too: I am German enough to accept the result. But Turkish enough to let off steam at the Greeks. And what could possibly be more beautiful for a Turk than being better than a Greek? Exactly.
Turks have this wonderful habit of calling things “Greek” when they are ashamed of something Turkish:
So, whatcha gonna do when they come for you? Blame the Greek.
Hopefully, they won’t hit us back with a sports edition of Tourkobarok and start calling a football disaster “Tourkoball.”
Greeks, please speak up on this matter. I am only asking so we can remain factually correct. Because factually correct is definitely:
Nice Greek World Cup.
Elanur Dinc is the founder of Istanbul Muse, former agency owner and writer, originally raised in Germany and living in Istanbul for over six years. What started as a temporary move for a project slowly turned into a deep emotional connection with the city. Somewhere between chaos, stray cats and emotional overstimulation, she accidentally became a little bit of an Istanbul muse herself. She came to Istanbul for work — and stayed for the cats. Through personal essays and urban observations, she writes about the beauty, contradictions and emotional intensity of everyday life in Istanbul.
