Istanbul, Turkey (Part 2)

With our first Istanbul-based weekday program out of the way, it was time for our Sunday session with the association’s older boys. I was excited for this one, and how could I not be? The boys were previously part of an organized team and thus, were well-versed in the game making for the possibility of higher-level training in the program. I couldn’t wait.

I knew there was going to be a high level of talent on display and I couldn’t wait to see it with my own eyes. Fair play to the boys because they certainly did not disappoint. Once again accounting for the traffic, I pulled up to the association’s center well ahead of schedule before the session’s start time of 4 o’clock.

While I sat preparing my things, I saw some of the boys peeking around the corner curiously. “That must be him, that must be the coach!” I read in their eyes.

None of them gathered the courage to approach, but I was pleasantly surprised to see a familiar face emerge from the crowd. It was the young boy with the recently recovered broken leg from our first session. He approached me with a smile and stuck around the center with the hope of participating in a second session today. Shortly after him came another familiar athlete, good old Mohammad, who had graciously acted as my coaching lead during the weekday program.

“We’re starting at four today bro,” I told him with a grin and a handshake, gesturing towards an imaginary watch on my wrist in case my English fell short of understanding.

With the boys all gathered around and my footballs and jerseys all ready to go, Didem ushered us into a big passenger van as we would be driving as a group towards the rented turf complex. In addition to about a dozen soccer balls, we also had 30+ jerseys and a couple sacks of food for the kids afterwards. 

Finally, we pulled up to the turf field and were given directions to our designated court.

“Stephen, accompany the boys to the lockers where you can distribute their jerseys,” Didem said.

I originally gave them the pile of black and red jerseys so they could take care of it themselves, but Didem said the boys wanted me to be the one to designate teams and pass out corresponding jerseys as to make things as fair as possible.

Still though, you could hear the odd voice here and there saying, “Coach, give me the black one!”

Now donning their new jerseys as well as their well-taken care of football boots, the boys and I were ready to take to the pitch. I allowed them to warm up with some shots, some passing, and some juggling circles as I bounced within groups making sure my football feet were properly put on as well. I chose to engage in some freestyle to jump things off, and man, the boys were nice with it – they were hitting around the worlds, neck stalls, I even taught one boy to transfer the ball from his chest onto his neck. They were hitting clever flick ups and foot stalls, I swear they had it all. I couldn’t be outdone though so I threw down a TATW (the best trick in my bag) and walked away while the boys picked their jaws up off the floor.

Dominance successfully asserted, I blew my whistle and we were off and running. First, a line down the middle of the pitch to introduce our listening exercise, run by myself and by Mohammad, yet again.

Then, the same partners moving in tandem to practice dribbling in open space, layoffs, and one-two touch passes. From there, I quickly opened up our circle technical drill – working on basic control with both the right and left foot. Then, we ran 1v1s with Mohammad in goal as the General Director and other RASAS staff members looked on intently – the kids displaying every bit of effort and physicality they had, channeling their favorite professional footballers.

Moving quickly with the little time we had, I figured it was time to properly utilize our beautiful turf field and had the boys head to their corresponding sides – black jerseys on the far end, red on the closer side. It was time to scrimmage! I sprinted towards Didem for a check of the time, with our hour-long rental of the field we had about 20 minutes available for the scrimmage. I knew the boys were eager to play and I feared it might not be enough to satisfy their craving for footy.

“Teacher! Play with us!” said a boy donning a black Hummel top – evidently their team was down a man from the jump.

I happily obliged, disappearing into the wings ever so briefly to retrieve a black jersey barely big enough to cover the top I was already wearing. For the next 20 minutes, our nearly 15 players disappeared into a spirited full-field scrimmage. I willingly chose to disappear into the shadows of my team, playing simply – lots of 1-touch passes to let the young boys shine. My attention was divided anyway with my primary responsibility being that of a referee. From my spot at center-court, I scanned the field – taking note of the plethora of talent in front of me. One lad, Kutebi, was easily the most talented player on the pitch, and it wasn’t hard to see. The game flowed through him and he played the game effortlessly. If his game didn’t make him stick out, his bright purple Nike boots surely did.

“That little guy… he’s very good,” I told Didem, during a self-imposed water break, “he’s easily the best in the bunch.”

The boys followed my lead and after grabbing some quick sips of water, we got to chatting about the game.

I couldn’t wrap my head around the question. “Ferran Torres?” I asked. It seemed the boy was caught between two minds. “Eric García!” corrected one of his teammates, referring to the famous Barcelona defender.

As our water break drew to a close, the boys sought out my advice.

“Coach? Do you think I am a strong defender?” asked one.

“Coach? I need help… can you help me because I don’t know how to shoot the ball properly…” said one of the older boys who had shown up late. I showed him where to strike it on the instep of his foot and within minutes he was already showing improvement.

Water break already digging into our precious time on the pitch, I blew my whistle and restarted the scrimmage – carefully calling out my players’ names – Mohammad, Mohammad, Mohammad, and Yasni.

Tweet! Sounded my whistle.

Kutebi had found himself on the end of a cross too tall for his head as he lifted a fist and punched the ball into the net ala Messi “hand of God” style. “Hand ball!” I yelled out. A taller boy with glasses hadn’t heard the whistle and was motoring down the other end of the field, almost in at goal for a 1v1. I watched as he flew down the wing galloping past defenders unbothered by the repeated tweets of my whistle – I chose to lean into it instead, “ankara Messi, ankara Messi!” I yelled out, the boys clutching their chests with laughter. I knew our time had to be all but over and so I looked over towards Didem and pointed at my wrist.

“No it’s okay! Keep playing!” she said excitedly.

We were only supposed to have the field for one hour, but we were allowed to go for two – the manager of the complex graciously gave us an extra hour of playtime since our field hadn’t been reserved for the next timeblock.

“One hour would’ve been too short!,” I told Didem to which she agreed.

“… but two might be too long!” I said with a laugh, pretending to catch my breath while doubling over.

With an extra hour of playtime in the bank, our scrimmage chugged along. And man… things were really starting to get good now. Goals were dropping in left and right, but with those goals came injuries too. Mohammad, my trusty captain, got kicked in the hand while playing goalkeeper. Still though, he didn’t want to stop playing so he passed his gloves off to a teammate and took to the field, deploying himself as a left back so that the show could go on.

My team properly reset, I found myself charging at goal uncontested. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to shoot as no one on the opposing team, even the coach, wanted to step up to stop me. Finally, one of them bit and I rolled the ball to the right side to a teammate sitting inside the box, then I darted into the box to join him, screaming for the give-and-go.

In fairness, he did see me and he rifled a cross along the ground away from the keeper. A defender slid in front blocking my sight at the ball, but deflecting it into his own net as a result. My teammate ran towards me for a handshake, giving me a shrug as I shrugged back and dapped him up.

“Teacher!” I picked my head up and lofted a ball to the far post right on my attacker’s head and he just turtled it! “Bro!” I yelled out, as he put up a hand to acknowledge the good service and a lack of quality on his part.

I threw him a thumbs up in response, acknowledging the good run behind the defense.

Minutes later, “Teacher!“ Yet again, I served in an absolute peach of a ball to my lanky #9, a McWhipper you could even call it. And yet again, it grazed off the tips of his hair and out for a goalkick. Homie was watching me cook but didn’t wanna eat!

Nevertheless, I couldn’t even be pressed because both teams were displaying some serious quality. The other team, as said by themselves, were playing a tiki taka brand while we were spraying long balls over the top at our attackers, they were just finishing the ball better than us but the game was knotted pretty much all the way through!

Game still deadlocked, the scores were piling on now. The flair was on full display too, we’re talking bicycle kick clearances… the whole nine yards.

5-5!

6-6!

9-6!

The other team was on a three goal run and had an opportunity to really ice the game on a shorthanded breakaway. Luckily, the ball bounced up and struck an arm. I blew my whistle – “handball!” I was grateful for this moment knowing the surefire breakaway would’ve pushed the scoreline to an unmanageable deficit for my squad. Still though, it was slowly getting away from us, and my team was absolutely shot. 

One boy was running around with one shoe on. Mohammad was back in net trying to hold it down as best as he could as a one-handed goalkeeper still nursing the injury he sustained an hour prior. I blew my whistle in desperation, careful to not let the scoreline suggest the game was more out of hand than it actually was.

Despite the lopsided scoreline, we chose to end things with penalty kicks just for a bit of fun. I watched on as one kid tried to Charlie Brown an opposing boy’s pen, causing him to drill it into the goalkeeper’s outstretched hands.

*tweeeeet* “Do it over!” I said. “Back up please.”

On to the second try and the boy instead skied it over the bar into outer space, I couldn’t help but chuckle as I turned away in disbelief, having squandered his second opportunity.

“He’s like Lewandowski!” a boy on the opposite team said with a deep laugh.

As we vacated the field to the picnic tables just outside it, the boys had a well-deserved spread laid out for them. Not only did they get to play footy and receive some new jerseys, they were also receiving a feast to reward them for their hard work and exercise. This was all RASAS’s doing, they had really pulled out all the stops.

“The boys want you to come every week!” said Didem, translating our participants’ Turkish so I could understand.

“Actually, the General Director (and Founder) of our organization was in attendance…” she added.

“You know already that the boys hadn’t had an organized training for over a year because the funding had dried up – so I told them to try to butter up the Director but the truth is, having seen their joy in playing – he was already very thankful for the Around the Worlds class and could see the real benefit access to sport had on these kids,” she said, passing along the good news.

“You are always welcome here too, whether you are here for football or just in Istanbul for fun – let us know!”

As I devoured a meatball sandwich myself, I passed out some last minute gifts. One for the boys’ coach. “Coach!“ I yelled out, handing over an extra jersey for him to wear and one more for when the boys practice (that way they could train using both black and red to differentiate teams).

I gave Didem a red jersey as a thank you as well, but she had been hesitant to keep it with the extra one coach had grabbed. Ultimately, she decided to put it back. I caught her on the way out and returned it to her hands – “I insist, keep it Didem, I’ll have enough jerseys for Bosnia” – you see, I was hoping to now set up an extra session with a women’s side in Bosnia thanks to my surplus of gear but knew the single, extra jersey would make no difference.

“Consider it my Mother’s Day gift!” I said to her with a smile, as she was celebrating the holiday for only the second year.

“The boys want to know when you can come back, but I do know how booked up your schedule is,” she said.

An idea popped into my head. “Actually, I said something similar to my contacts in Egypt… I flew there on Egypt Air so whenever I fly that airline again I told them I’d try to stop by for a few days as a stopover. The same absolutely goes for here and Turkish Air,” I said.

“Please just message me if that happens – I’d be happy to set it up, not just for us, but especially for the boys, they’d be so happy,” responded Didem.

We all piled back into the van 10x more tired and 10x more full from a day dedicated solely to food and footy.

“We also have some snacks from the kitchen as well as a book titled the Beauty of Istanbul (a gift from RASAS staff member – Hande) waiting for you back at the center,” said Didem. Safe to say, Turkish hospitality was very much in full-effect, as it had been ever since arriving.

“Actually, the boys’ coach even wants to give you a signed jersey from Fenerbahce (his favorite team), but he can’t prepare it in time for your flight tomorrow.. so next time let him know and he’ll send you it,” she said with a smile, coach nodding his head in agreement from just behind.

As we returned back to the center and the boys hopped on their bikes ready to head back home with their new jerseys draped over their shoulders – they left me with some parting words. 

“Thank you teacher!”

“Good to meet you, coach!”

“Thank you again!”

That was it – a new book in tow, four boxes of delicious Turkish food under my arm, and country number 59 in the rearview… hopefully, only for a little while though. Thank you for the hospitality, Turkey!