A Perfect Friday ... Almost

My perfect Friday started with me taking a day off of work -- and quickly wishing I hadn't, given the decibel level in our house caused by Emily's daycare kids. It's like six jet engines roaring inside a concrete bunker. After finding every reason I could to run errands and find some quiet (I went to the grocery store twice because I "forgot" something), two friends and I piled into The Tank and took off for Konya -- a city four hours from here. Konya is the home of whirling dervishes and, more importantly, was the site of the Turkish 2nd League promotion playoff final. Our beloved Adana Demirspor made the final and, naturally, we decided to drive up and catch the sure-to-be glorious acsension into the illustrious 2nd League. Joining us on the two-lane highway were over 100 Adana city buses (not sure if they were hijacked or not) that were packed with crazy and very likely stinky Demirspor fans, who had somehow gotten a day off from their jobs picking lemons. We even passed two Demirspor fans riding a moped with Adana license plates -- they had to have left the day before, especially as the route to Konya goes up one of the highest mountain passes in all of Turkey.

After somehow becoming part of Demirspor's official police escort into downtown Konya (we saw the Demirspor bus, got behind it, threw on our hazards, and then ran every red light in town), we made our way into the stadium. Konya's stadium is not exactly modern -- it basically consists of a series on penned cages separated by rusty metal bars topped with tetanus. It's very charming, kind of like East St. Louis and Tijuana. The authorities had given a little less than half of the 25,000-seat stadium to Demirspor fans, who stuffed into the terraces -- every seat was filled and then some (as long as you can squeeze through the turnstile with your buddy, the Turkish "ushers" don't care that you don't have a ticket). The other side of the stadium was nearly empty, as Adana's competition was a crap team from Istanbul that nobody cares about except the players' mothers.

After getting whipped into a pre-match frenzy by our fellow fans -- who had made the trip with their drums, horns, flags and 20 packs of cigarettes each -- we settled in for what we all assumed would be a cake walk. Demirspor controlled the entire match, spending almost the entire 90 minutes in front of the opposition's goal, but just could not score. It would have helped had the Demirspor players ACTUALLY SHOT THE FREAKIN' BALL instead of acting like they were trying to walk the ball into the net, but whatever. With about five minutes to play in regulation and the game tied at 0-0, I turned to my friends and said that things could get really ugly if the other team managed to scratch out a score. It proved to be prophetic.

Just before the final whistle, the Istanbul team (Gungoren) got the ball, went on a counterattack, and somehow scored. The Demirspor players immediately fell to the ground -- maybe they were disappointed, maybe they were taking cover because they knew what was coming. I'm thinking it was the latter. The Demirspor fans -- including some of the crazies around us -- started throwing anything they could get their hands on in the direction of the field: lit flares and firecrackers, pieces of the stadium, their seats, small children, puppies, etc. It was hard to tell whether the fans were trying to pelt the players or the riot police who ringed the pitch -- in any event, the cops were taking the brunt of it and as far as Turkish soccer fans are concerned, the cops are always somehow to blame. As soon as the goal was scored, a massive crush of people headed for the narrow stairway exits. It has always been our experience that it's best to wait out the run to the exits -- less chance of getting trampled, less chance of sniffing a sweaty Turkish soccer fan's armpit for the 15 minutes it takes to get out of the stadium. So we sat tight as debris flew overhead and rained down on the police. And of course, I snapped photos and took video of the action (like the one at the top of this page -- and yes, that is a seat from the stadium in mid-flight).

After two or three minutes of injury time and a couple of desperate Demirspor shots on goal, the referee blew his whistle and ran like hell out of the stadium under police escort. Some of the more, um, "passionate" Demirspor fans around us decided it would be a good idea to bust through the metal bars and barbed wire separating them from the field and the police. With the exits still clogged and impassable, our only choices were to help burst through the bars or to run to another part of our penned cage. We opted for running away.

As can be expected, the police did not take kindly to the fans who (somehow) successfully ripped through the bars -- and they responded with furious baton swinging and then tear gas. Just to be extra safe, the cops went ahead and tear gassed the entire Demirspor side of the stands -- including those of us who were running away from the action like French conscripts. Fortunately, I've been gassed before (as I was going poo in a New Jersey shopping mall bathroom -- a story for another day) so I knew what to expect: an uncontrollable drainage of the sinuses, a near-complete inability to see, a gagging cough that makes it feel like each and every one of your internal organs is going to come through your throat, and an overwhelming thought of "I am going to die in _______ (a soccer stadium in middle-of-nowhere Turkey)(a New Jersey shopping mall bathroom as I'm going poo)(etc). Somewhat fortituitously, however, I had been suffering from the worst head cold of my life -- so even though the mucus burned as it departed my nostrils, it was welcomed relief and I recommend it to anyone suffering seasonal allergies.

As the yellowish clouds of tear gas encircled us, we decided that maybe it would be time to leave the stadium after all, so we made our way for the exits. I was bringing up the rear and when I saw my buddy Sean turn and run back towards the field, I followed without waiting to see what was coming up the exits. By now, the Demirspor fans had breached both the awesome security fences and the crack police line, and were coughing half to death on the field. I noticed that the police only seemed to be clubbing people who were still able to breathe and fight back, and since I was not in that category, I figured the place to be was lying on the nice grass until I could catch my breath. As I jumped down to the field, I saw out of the corner of my eye that some Demirspor fans were taking out their frustrations on a fire truck -- a window shattered right as I jogged by and one of the side mirrors flew in the direction of the police. Some moron was on top of the fire truck, stomping the siren.

I coughed my guts out for the next five minutes while I crawled on all fours on the grass. Nearby, some cops were going Rodney King on a Demirspor fan, who probably deserved it. A line of cops blocked anyone trying to exit out of the Gungoren side of the stadium (the opposite side from where we sat). After eventually finding Sean, who was lying on the grass, we decided our best means of escape was to somehow get through the line of police and out the safe side of the stadium -- without getting clubbed in the head with a police baton. I suggested we play the American card.

We approached one of the officers and I said, "We're Americans! No Turkish! How do we get out of here?" He looked at me and Sean, perplexed -- he surely was wondering what in the hell a couple of American retards, sporting Demirspor jerseys and scarves and covered head to toe in snot, were doing in the middle of a soccer riot. We shrugged our shoulders and shook our heads, as if to say we didn't know either and to please not tell our wives. For good measure, Sean denounced Demirspor and threw his scarve to the field. I think he may have stomped on it, but my eyes were still burning and I couldn't really see. The police officer said something to the riot cop next to him and then grabbed our hands, leading us to safety. I can't think of a time when I was happier to be an American -- and happier to be leaving a soccer stadium.

Somehow, despite having parked near the stadium, The Tank had survived the ravages of the riot unscathed. Sean and I eventually hooked back up with our other friend and we collectively decided to be Adanaspor fans once and for all -- not only had Adanaspor actually gained promotion to the 2nd League, but more importantly you can watch their matches without getting tear gassed.

The drive back was far less festive -- the buses no longer honked happily each time they were passed by cars stuffed with Demirspor fans and the two guys on their moped definitely looked like they regretted their decision to go to Konya at 30 miles per hour. The weird thing is, the three of us laughed the whole way home. Sure, we were disappointed that we had taken leave, spent a total of eight hours on crowded Turkish highways in my sweltering car (the a/c was out again, which Emily said was part of my punishment for going), sat through a dispirited loss, and got tear gassed, but it was a great time. Maybe we were just giddy that we survived. Maybe it was the adrenaline of being part of something so big, so uncontrollable that you have no choice but to go with the flow and end up on a soccer field. Who knows. But I did have an odd, slightly exhilirating feeling the next morning: What does one do the day after getting tear gassed?