Football Frenzy

Every country has a certain sport or national pastime that the male population whole-heartedly obsess over. In China, it's basketball: in Japan, baseball. In America, it's American football. In Turkey, as well as rest of the world, it's soccer-football, and it inspires a fantastic amount of both comraderie and rivalry in this culture.


In Turkey, there are three teams to which one vows allegiance. Fenerbahçe, the most well funded sports club, is generally the most popular. It was my team choice after being forced to choose sides by endlessly pestering students. Its rivals are Galatasaray and Beşiktaş, both areas of Istanbul in addition to sports team names. These two seem to be borderline friendly, though team alliance is strictly exclusive, bound together in their battle against the daunting Fenerbahçe enterprise. These three names are also the names of basketball teams, and, I believe, other sports teams: a fact which I find rather confusing and uncreative.


At any rate, the Turks are passionate and enthusiastic, in the strongest sense of the words, about their football. This creates some rather hysterical and surprising experiences for the unsuspecting, laid back, Chicago-Cub-loving foreigner.


In one such instance, I was walking from the Metro Bus (a special bus that runs down its own lane on the highway) to the underground Metro in Şişli, a busy area of Istanbul. When I reached the entrace stairs to the Metro, I was unsuspectingly swallowed by a crowd of navy uniforms guarding the stairway. Wary policemen of various official ranks and status, wielding their AK47s, swept over my bags with their eyes - stylish yellow leather B.Makowsky, sporty grey Puma duffel, and a lime green cake carrier, complete with the remnants of a beautiful two layer chocolate cake - and decided I could pass. 


Living in what we lovingly call "The Middle East Lite", I have never felt in danger in any way. However, there is that hovering knowledge that, only a border away, the conflicts that dominate our news and threaten our safety carry on in real life. So, amid the intense throng of security and confusion, you can imagine the thoughts going through my hyper-imaginative mind. Has there been a legitimate bomb threat? A terrorist attack? A high-profile suspect aprehended, or a tip of sesitive materials transfer?


As the ideas hatched in my head, I aknowledged to myself that I watched too much 24 with too much attention; however, I couldn't stop my heart from racing. What was the reason for this? What is going on? Will I make it out of this metro alive? 


Just as my fears got the best of me, and I began to turn back out of the Metro station to seek out some alternate means of transport,  the sound of singing drifted up the escalator. 


It was then I noticed what I had failed, in all my panic, to see before: the odd number of men wearing marroon and gold striped scarves and goofy grins. Assuming they weren't all satisfied Griffindor students of Howarts School of Witch Craft and Wizardry, there must have been another explanation for the matching garb and festive air. As I descended via escalator into the bowels of the city, afraid of what I would find, I felt the tension rising with the volume of the chant.


All the sudden, a rush of men stampeded down the stairs between the ascending and descending escalators. They were singing at the top of their lungs, their deafening voices ringing through the underground tunnels as they bound down the steps like excited children.  On the platform, I nimbly picked my way through throngs of jumping, hooting, back-slapping men: and extremely frightening experience, to be honest. I could have been crushed in their rowdy mob with one misstep.


The train shook and echoes with their song and raccous laughter until I exited. I made a mad dash to beat them to the stairs, and rushed into Taksim Square just ahead of the mob. It was one of the more interesting Metro rides I have taken: an experience that makes me think that, perhaps, there is nothing more frightening in Turkey than an happy bunch of footballers.