The First Goal

The interviews

Amel

The lounge is comfortable but charged with nervous energy as I set up for the first round of interviews. Thirty minutes with each player feels like both an eternity and a blink of an eye, and I'm determined to make the most of every second. This is my chance to connect with these athletes beyond their public personas.

Dries Mertens is the first to arrive. He walks in with a big smile, shaking my hand warmly. "Hey, Amel! Thanks for doing this," he says, his enthusiasm contagious.

"Thanks for taking the time, Dries. So, tell me a bit about yourself—what made you get into football?"

He leans back, a look of fond nostalgia in his eyes. "Well, I grew up in Belgium, and I've always loved football. My dad was a huge influence—took me to games when I was a kid. I started playing at a young age, and it just became my passion. I feel incredibly lucky to be here at Galatasaray now."

As we chat, he opens up about adjusting to life in Turkey, his voice animated as he describes the passionate fans. "The energy here is incredible! They live and breathe football. It's hard not to get swept up in it," he says, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

After Dries, Mauro Icardi walks in, and I can feel his charisma before he even speaks. "Hello! Ready for my interview?" he says, his smile warm and inviting.

"Definitely! So, Mauro, what's your journey been like? What inspired you to become a professional footballer?"

He shares his story, speaking fondly of his beginnings in Argentina and his path through Italy before arriving at Galatasaray. "My family sacrificed so much for my dream. I just want to make them proud," he says earnestly, and I can sense the depth behind his confident exterior.

Mauro's laughter fills the room as he talks about his son, Chiro. "He's my biggest fan! It's the best feeling, having him cheer for me," he beams, and I can't help but smile along with him. There's a warmth in his words that makes the interview feel genuine.

Next up is Kerem Aktürkoğlu, who enters with an easygoing smile. "Hey! Let's do this!" he says, settling in with an air of relaxed confidence.

"Kerem, what's your story? How did you get into football?" I ask, genuinely curious.

He grins, a playful twinkle in his eye. "You know, they call me 'Kerem Potter' because of my looks," he quips, and I burst into laughter, feeling the tension ease.

"Is that so? Do you see the resemblance?" I tease back, and he pretends to think about it, making the moment feel light and easy.

Our conversation flows effortlessly as he shares stories from his childhood in Turkey, his dreams for the future, and the challenges he's faced. It feels less like an interview and more like a chat with an older brother. His sincerity and warmth make it easy to connect, and I leave our conversation feeling uplifted.

Then it's time for Barış Alper Yılmaz. As he walks in, there's a nonchalant air about him, but I sense an underlying tension. "Merhaba, ben Barış," he says coolly, shaking my hand before taking a seat.

"Thanks for coming in, Barış. I appreciate it," I say, trying to keep my voice steady despite my growing nerves.

He nods, but his body language feels distant. "Yeah," he replies, his gaze drifting away as if he's already mentally checked out.

I push through the awkwardness, asking him the same questions I posed to the others. But his answers are clipped, almost dismissive. I can't shake the feeling that he's looking at me with a mix of irritation and indifference.

When I ask a more personal question about how he handles the pressures of fame, he leans forward, his expression suddenly serious. "Bunlar biraz fazla özel," (These are a bit too personal) he says, the edge in his voice cutting through the room. "Bunları sosyal medyaya paylaşmaya gerek yok, tamam canım?" (There's no need to share these on social media, okay love?".

His tone is condescending, and it stings more than I expected. My heart sinks as I quickly nod, trying to mask my disappointment. "Of course, I understand. Thank you for your honesty, Barış."

He stands up without offering a handshake, simply giving me a curt nod before walking out. I sit there for a moment, feeling deflated. The contrast between Barış and the warmth of the others is stark and disheartening.

I had hoped for a different experience with him, one that might reveal a more relatable side beneath the surface. But now, I'm left grappling with the harsh reality that he is just another self-centered, egoistic athlete, more focused on maintaining his image than on forming any genuine connections.

As I gather my notes, I can't shake the lingering disappointment. Today had been a mix of joy and disillusionment, and I can't help but wonder how I'll navigate the challenges ahead—both in my work and in understanding the complicated dynamics of the world I've stepped into.