We went with the Janissary band, we're returning with a suitcase

Turkish Football Federation President İbrahim Hacıosmanoğlu believed in it from the very first day.

“We will win the World Cup for the Turkish and Islamic world and return,” he was saying.

Mr. President, this is a football tournament.

It is not a political arena.

It is not a campaign rally.

It is certainly not a campaign bus.

You don't win a World Cup by stuffing rhetoric between the goalposts, sprinkling slogans in the midfield, and laying down “homeland, nation, Sakarya” in the penalty area.

This is football.

It is not a game to be managed with songs, Janissary bands, political messages, stiff poses for the camera, or by failing to kick the ball while trying to take a shot on goal during a training session.

Although, seeing you try to take a shot on goal during that training session made some things clearer.

Let alone managing Turkish football, the fact that an approach that cannot even manage to kick a football expects to take us to the World Cup and find success there was, in itself, a summary of Turkish football.

But you remain in that seat with these and similar discourses.

When you empty the substance of football and cover it with rhetoric, what emerges is not success, but a failure video shot with nice background music.

And indeed, that is what emerged.

We had to pack our bags at the end of the second match of the World Cup, which we reached after 24 years.

We became one of the first two teams to be eliminated in the group stage.

Our only luck there was that Haiti had played their match before us.

If we had played first, we would have been the first team eliminated from the tournament.

So, the issue is this:

We set out with a Janissary band.

We had a song written by your beloved Sinan Akçıl.

We said, “We will win the cup and return.”

Then, with zero points in two matches, we packed our suitcases.

It turns out these things don't happen just by saying “we believe.”

Believing is a good thing.

But in football, you need to add reason, planning, merit, organization, and a little bit of shame to that belief.

In our case, the same scenario plays out after every failure.

First, big words.

Then, big poses.

After that, big disappointment.

And finally, a big sense of shamelessness.

We haven't forgotten Mr. Hacıosmanoğlu's outburst at Fatih Terim, either.

What did Fatih Terim say?

He said let's not criticize the kids while the tournament is ongoing; if there is an account to be asked, we will ask it after the tournament.

This was actually a message of support.

But what did you do?

You took the rumors circulating in the lobbies about “Could Fatih Terim become the federation president?” seriously and turned it into a successor-predecessor feud.

You tried to emulate a character from the show *Kurtlar Vadisi* and lecture one of the men who knows football best in Turkey.

Lecturing is easy.

Managing a team is hard.

Clenching your fist in front of the camera is easy.

Building a system is hard.

Saying “We will win this cup” is easy.

Giving an account for that sentence while packing your suitcase and leaving the hotel after the second match is hard.

Let's come to coach Montella…

I listened to his statements after the match.

In the previous press conference, he had said things along the lines of “I am more Turkish than all of you,” hadn't he?

He really has become one.

Because he has learned the reflex that some administrators in Turkey learn best:

Not accepting failure.

Blaming others.

Marketing shamelessness as a morale speech.

Labeling criticism as “chaos.”

And then trying to wrap things up through the concept of Turkishness.

After the match, Montella said, “We must continue to show Turkey's fighting spirit. We are all sad, but we must leave the locker room with our heads held high.”

He continued, “When you represent the colors of Turkey, you represent the people, the culture, everything. We need to continue our strength, our spirit. We will improve ourselves looking forward.”

Looking at it, it doesn't seem like a bad statement.

But that is exactly where the problem lies.

We have been tired of listening to nice sentences after bad results for years.

We have spirit.

We have struggle.

We have potential.

We have a future.

But we have no points.

We have no goals.

We have no plan.

We have no game.

And we also have no sense of shame.

Coach, since you feel so Turkish, then pay the price for this tournament like a Turk.

I'll skip the group stage.

I'll even skip the playoffs.

Donate the salary you received from the moment you earned the right to participate in the World Cup until the moment we were eliminated to the Turkish nation you love so much.

And we will believe that you are truly Turkish.

You know how you said about the heat of the Arizona deserts, “I'm used to this from Adana”…

You know how the TFF President said he really wanted you to come and apply from the place where his own registry is when you applied for Turkish citizenship, that he wanted to see you as his fellow townsman…

Go ahead, coach.

Show your fellow-townsmanship.

Pay the price for the failure.

Because in this country, when a citizen fails, they pay the bill.

When a tradesman fails, they shut down their shop.

When a worker fails, they are fired.

When a journalist makes a mistake, they are lynched.

When a student fails, they stay back a grade.

But what happens when those at the head of football fail?

They hold a press conference.

They say, “Our heads are held high.”

Your heads may be held high.

But the scoreboard is on the ground.

Let's come to our players…

Throughout the tournament, we shouted everywhere:

“Let's not criticize the kids.”

“Let's not ruin their morale.”

“Let's support them until the tournament ends.”

Many people, including myself, showed this team a patience they didn't show their own children at home.

We said let's not criticize.

We said let's not go after them.

We said let's not lynch them on social media.

We said let's not let the kids stay under pressure.

So what happened?

We put them in one category.

They, however, put themselves in a completely different place.

The spoiled behavior didn't end.

Social media didn't end.

Advertising didn't end.

Image work didn't end.

YouTube videos didn't end.

The rush to gain subscribers didn't end.

Commenting on politicians' weddings didn't end.

Some had their psychology ruined because of the criticism.

Some couldn't put their phones down.

Some changed their hair, beard, and image; they entered into the calculation of “I wonder if I can get another commercial out of this, will they put more products in front of me?”

But when it came to the pitch?

Zero to zero, nothing to show for it.

We were criticized because we said let's not criticize you.

There was nothing left unwritten or unsaid about us on social media.

We were even insulted.

But we didn't go out and cry.

We didn't say, “They are criticizing us, we are getting flustered.”

We didn't go on the state's official channel and complain about the nation to the nation.

Because everyone has a job.

Everyone has responsibilities.

Everyone has pressure.

The pressure on a footballer wearing the national jersey is certainly great.

But the reward for that jersey is also great.

If you are wearing that jersey, you will hear not only applause but also criticism.

You will not only do commercials but also be held accountable.

You will not only receive bonuses but also carry responsibility.

Of course, this is football.

There is success.

There is failure.

You win, you lose.

Sometimes the ball hits the post and bounces back.

Sometimes the referee makes a mistake.

Sometimes the opponent plays better than you.

All of these are acceptable.

But there is one thing that is unacceptable:

Not knowing your place.

The statements of captain Hakan Çalhanoğlu, who showed no presence on the pitch in either match, honestly made one say, “Woe to us.”

The rumor mill was already boiling before the tournament.

A lot was written and said about him.

Claims circulated that Hakan determined the squad, that he had the men he wanted preferred in the midfield so he could play more comfortably, and that he was influential in who would be selected for the national team by using some of his relationships.

We still said, “Come on, there's no such thing.”

Because a claim is one thing, reality is another.

But sometimes one watches the attitude, not the claims.

As the captain of a team that pulled zero points, he made such statements that it was as if a politician running for mayor was speaking, not the national team captain.

Instead of taking responsibility, he chose to portray failure as success.

He said, “Look where we came from.”

Meaning, he implied that we were very unsuccessful in the past, and even where we are today is a success.

Dear Hakan…

Let me tell you clearly and plainly where we came from.

We hadn't been able to go to the World Cup for 24 years.

But when we went 24 years ago, we returned as the third in the world.

And where we are today is this:

Zero points in the first two matches.

A return ticket to the country.

Moreover, in the new format where even third-place teams with one point have a chance to advance to the second round, throwing in the towel in two matches.

So there is no need for that “there was no ball here before us, no cleats, we came and brought football to Turkey” attitude.

There is no need to talk as if rugby was being played in Turkey instead of football before us.

These kinds of sentences work in politics, not in sports.

Although, if the goal is to wink at politics like Mesut Özil after football…

Or to gain a place in the federation corridors through political relationships like Hamit Altıntop…

Then you made the right statement in the right place.

Congratulations.

Because in this country, portraying failure as success has a political reward.

You say, “We were worse in the past.”

You say, “We didn't get to these days easily.”

You say, “Those who criticize us wish us ill.”

Then you take the zero points and say, “But our heads are held high.”

There are buyers for these sentences in this country.

But not on the football pitch.

The scoreboard does not listen to propaganda.

The ball does not understand rhetoric.

The goalpost does not widen with a political message.

The opposing defense does not step aside when you say, “We came for the Turkish and Islamic world.”

Football does not listen to the fairy tale you tell yourselves.

Football comes out and hits the truth in your face in ninety minutes.

The most decent statement in this team was made by the youngest, Arda.

He said, “We are ashamed.”

That is the issue.

Arda is ashamed.

But his elders, administrators, and coaches blame others to cover up the failure instead of being ashamed.

The young one is ashamed.

The experienced one makes statements.

The child is embarrassed.

The adults sell shamelessness.

Perhaps this is the most painful photograph of Turkish football.

Because this is not just a football elimination.

This is the elimination of a management approach.

This is the declaration that rhetoric cannot replace merit.

This is the proof that you cannot become a football country with songs, slogans, commercials, and social media videos.

This tournament showed us this:

We didn't send a football team to the pitch.

We sent a communication campaign.

At the head, there was a federation president giving political messages.

On the sidelines, there was a coach polishing failure with spirit speeches.

On the pitch, there were footballers who were crushed by criticism but couldn't put their phones down.

And in the captain, there was the language of a politician trying to portray failure as success.

The result?

We went with the Janissary band.

We walked with a song.

We posed.

We believed.

We shouted.

We were excited.

And at the end of the second match, we packed our suitcases.

Now let someone come out and tell this country the truth.

This failure is not a coincidence.

This collapse is not for one match.

This story didn't start in the Paraguay match.

It didn't end in San Francisco.

This story is the story of those who have for years replaced merit with loyalty, reason with rhetoric, plans with slogans, and football with spectacle.

And unfortunately, we saw the end of this story in the same place again:

Zero points.

Zero goals.

Zero accountability.

But plenty of statements.

Mr. President, coach, captain, and dear players…

The Turkish nation perhaps didn't expect a World Cup from you.

But it expected a little bit of game, a little bit of character, a little bit of responsibility, and a little bit of shame.

You couldn't win the cup.

We've already moved past that.

At least try looking in the mirror.

Because what is seen in that mirror is not just an eliminated team.

It is the face that Turkish football has been ignoring for years.

And that face, this time, really looks very tired.