by When Manchester United land in Istanbul this week ahead of their vital Champions League tie against Galatasaray, one thing is certain: the greeting will not be the same one they received 30 years ago.
Back then, members of the media shared a charter plane with United players. I was there, witness to one of the most extraordinary episodes in the history of sports. And if the group of officials and police filling the baggage claim area as we stepped off the plane that November day in 1993 seemed a little too excited, that was nothing compared to what awaited us at the airport. main lobby.
Several hundred locals had gathered there, many of them taping signs against the glass barrier scribbled on pieces of cardboard. All of them were in English. None of them were friendly.
“Welcome Mr. Cantona. Then you say goodbye, Mrs. Cantona,” was a strangely cryptic threat. Another – “You call us barbarians, but we remember Heysel, Hillsborough” – was more to the point. But it was the one held by a guy that came to define the occasion.
“Welcome to hell,” he said.
And if we look back almost exactly three decades, it still resonates. In my entire life watching football I have never experienced anything like what happened in Istanbul that time. This was a football match in which the home fans, seething with nationalistic intensity, decided to play their part in ensuring that the noses of European football royalty were properly bloodied. It’s a statement often made, but back then the crowd really was the twelfth man.
United had arrived in Turkey for the second leg of the second round of the Champions League after having paid for their complacency in the first. Like their current successors in Copenhagen recently, they took a 2-0 lead at Old Trafford and quickly let it slip away. Galatasaray had tied the score at half-time, before taking the lead shortly after. Only an 81st-minute equalizer from Eric Cantona had saved United’s then unbeaten record at home in European competitions.
So they knew when they landed in Turkey for the second leg, having conceded so many goals away from home, that only a win would be enough. And walking behind the players as they nervously made their way through the bustling welcoming committee, it was obvious this was going to be a challenge.
That afternoon, Alex Ferguson gave an upbeat press conference at the Ali Sami Yen Stadium, confident his team had the means to progress. The first question, however, was whether he had ever experienced a riot like the one at the airport.
“That was a riot, right, guys?” was the jovial response. “You’ve obviously never been to a wedding in Glasgow.”
When it was over, I walked out onto the field and looked out at the expanse of empty terraces that we had been told would be packed with people the following night. In the center circle was Denis Law, then a co-commentator for ITV. If he had played here, I asked him.
“Yes, for Scotland,” he replied.
And what was the atmosphere like? Her response was succinct.
“M— myself.”
On the night of the game, the media bus arrived at the field two hours before kickoff. When they dropped us off, there was no one in sight outside. Not a soul. It was as if we had arrived on the wrong day. I asked the bus driver where everyone was. “Inside,” was the response. “They’ve been here since 9 in the morning.”
They were there fine. Once inside the stadium, a roar enveloped the place, like that of a plane taking off. The front of the upper level was filled with men playing big bass drums. Behind them was a constant swirl of firecrackers and flares. A cloud of gunpowder smoke covered the playing surface. The chants were incessant: one stand shouted, another responded in perfect coordination. And this was more than 90 minutes before kickoff.
The only floor space I could see was in the visitor section. About 300 United fans were surrounded by police. The rest of the 1,200 who had traveled apparently had not yet arrived.
With half an hour left before kick-off, next to the entrance to the underground tunnel that led to the locker rooms, a phalanx of police formed a turtle of riot shields to protect the United players as they went out onto the field to warm up. . Rockets fired from the stands destroyed the shields. A great chant of “f— you f— you, f— you Manchester” broke out in welcome.
Just before things started, I saw Turkish Prime Minister Tansu Ciller arrive from the press box, waving to the crowd. Unpopular in the polls, he took the opportunity to associate himself with Turkish sporting success.
And what a success it turned out to be. With the noise incessant, as if only singing could lead their side to victory, everything unfolded in a deafening cacophony. As the sound echoed around them, United seemed disjointed, distracted.
Cornered by UEFA’s then-limit on foreign players (which counted Irish, Welsh and Scottish internationals as foreigners in English teams), Ferguson had been forced to modify his favorite line-up, leaving out Mark Hughes. Without the bull forward, United looked toothless. In fact, only a magnificent double save from Peter Schmeichel on Hakan Sukur (whose popularity at the club propelled him to a later career as a member of the great Turkish assembly) kept them standing.
With three minutes left and the game still scoreless, the ball shot off the field, among substitutes, photographers and police. Who, between them, refused to return it to a United player. Seeing the heist, in a manner that would become familiar at Selhurst Park three years later, Cantona ran 20 yards and kicked the ball out of the arms of the policeman holding it.
When the whistle blew in the 90th minute (there is no modern extended time for a referee who seemed eager to make it to the locker room in one piece) chaos ensued. Galatasaray had beaten all the odds, defeated the former champion on away goals and advanced to the next round.
Hakan ran into the crowd waving his shirt above his head. He never made it, sunk under a human pyramid. The field was invaded by thousands, jumping and dancing with joy. It turned out that most of the invaders were police officers. Their dogs, several of them wearing red and yellow Galatasaray collars, bit the United players wearing red shirts as they headed disconsolately toward the tunnel. On the way, Cantona said something to the referee and was shown the red card. As he left the field, accompanied by Captain Bryan Robson, he was punched in the back of the head by a police officer, apparently still angry at his kick. When Robson turned to protest, he was hit with a riot shield.
I ventured out to see what was going on. Word of the famous global victory had spread. From all over the city, thousands of people came to the place to join in the celebrations. A truck drove over the overpass bordering the stadium with a half-dozen young people dancing on its hood. Car horns sounded everywhere and pyrotechnics filled the sky. It was chaos. After asking a local a question in English, he advised me to come back soon. “You’re not safe here,” he said.
Back inside, I went down the tunnel, where I was told Ferguson would speak to the press. He was full of cops, pushing and shoving. I headed to the United locker room, where I expected to hear the sound of breaking dishes. But the director was more subtle. He had allowed the silence to speak. For the first time that night, everything was silent, muted by defeat. Finally, Ferguson appeared for a brief press meeting.
“We just didn’t play well enough. In the end it was desperation. Chaos,” she said. “I don’t intend to look for any excuse. The biggest loss tonight was our European experience.”
Although as far as European experiences go, this was one to remember. As he returned to the field, the helpless 300 United fans were the only ones left on the ground. They were surrounded by police as if they were a threat to national security. I yelled at one “where is everyone else?”
“Arrested,” was the response.
And some, indeed, had been arrested. Apart from the many who were denied entry to the ground despite having tickets, or the several hundred who were deported before the start of the match, six were held in an Istanbul prison for the next 28 days, until they were unceremoniously returned to Blighty. His crimes? Being largely in the crosshairs of a police force apparently willing to do its bit to improve the chances of his team.
As for the locals, the hangover was significant. After an evening of prolonged celebration, the list of victims included two people killed by gunshots fired into the air, another man who had drunkenly fallen under a train, and dozens of people taken to hospital after being injured by a waterfall. Fireworks.
As it happened, the result gave no indication of what was to come: in the next phase of the competition, Galatasaray finished last in their group; United, embarrassed by their eviction, consoled themselves by winning the domestic double. That consolation is unlikely to be available if Erik ten Hag and his team face similar discomfort on Wednesday.
