Emre Aşık’s Military Stories Belong in a Guy Ritchie Film
There are certain rites of passage in Turkish football:
- Getting screamed at by Fatih Terim from three centimetres away.
- Playing on a pitch that resembles an active archaeological dig.
- Being hit by a flying lighter in Kadıköy.
- Pretending you didn’t hear your own fans swear at your entire bloodline after a misplaced back-pass.
And then there was military service.
For a certain generation of Turkish footballers, compulsory military duty wasn’t some neat PR photoshoot where players folded camouflage jackets for Instagram likes before returning to luxury SUVs. No. This was peak Turkish institutional chaos. A strange parallel universe where millionaire footballers who’d played against Batistuta and Zidane suddenly found themselves being screamed at by a furious corporal because they’d returned late from çarşı izni.
Which brings us to Emre Aşık and one of the greatest collections of military-service football stories ever casually dropped on Turkish television. And naturally, it involves Sergen Yalçın. Because of course it does.
“We told the commander we’d be back by midnight…”
Turkish football in the 1990s existed in a permanently sleep-deprived state. Players smoked. Defenders ate kebabs before training. Half the league looked like nightclub owners. The other half were nightclub owners.
So when Emre and Sergen were given weekend leave during national service, returning at the agreed hour was never realistically on the cards. According to Emre, the pair had promised they’d be back around midnight. They arrived closer to 5am. Already, you can hear the incoming disaster music.
Back at the barracks, an increasingly furious commander had apparently been waiting for hours, slowly transforming from “mildly annoyed military officer” into “Ottoman Janissary possessed by rage.”
When the pair finally arrived, they were greeted with the sort of fury normally reserved for enemy invasions or someone insulting a commander’s mother. The commander launched into a full theatrical military meltdown.
“Where have you been?!”
“I’ve been waiting here for you since the evening!”
“You think this is a joke?!”
The beautiful part of Turkish football culture is that players always believe charisma can solve any situation. It usually does. Just not here.
The Atatürk Incident
Then came the moment where the story fully crossed into Kemal Sunal film territory. The commander marched them in front of a bust of Mustafa Kemal Atatürk and delivered the ultimate guilt trip.
“Are you not ashamed in front of Atatürk?”
Now, in most countries, this is not a sentence professional footballers ever expect to hear after a night out. But this was Turkey. The lines between national identity, football, military culture and absurd comedy have always been gloriously blurred.
Emre said the pair immediately panicked and began apologising directly to the Atatürk bust itself.
“Sorry, Atam…”
At this point, the commander decided apologies were insufficient. Punishment was required: Push-ups.
Naturally, Emre had recently undergone surgery and managed to escape most of it.
Which left Sergen. Poor, doomed Sergen.
One of the most naturally gifted footballers Turkey has ever produced. A man capable of splitting defences with passes that looked physically impossible. Reduced to doing military punishment drills at sunrise because he’d stayed out too late.
Turkish football heritage.
Turkish Football’s Ancient Hazing Tradition
What makes these stories even better is the wider context Emre describes.
The military-national team environment apparently operated on the same principles as an old Galatasaray or Beşiktaş dressing room: seniority ruled everything.
Youngsters were routinely targeted with practical jokes, intimidation rituals and what Turks lovingly call “kemik kırma” culture. Literally “bone-breaking.” Not actual violence. More the spiritual breaking of newcomers through relentless psychological warfare.
Think less modern safeguarding seminar. More “survive this and you’re one of us.” It was football’s version of mandatory street education. And Turkish football in that era was filled with alpha personalities: Bülent Korkmaz, Suat Kaya, Bülent Uygun. Players who looked like they’d either win a derby or run a small trucking company near Bursa.
The atmosphere sounded less like a national team camp and more like a prison film where everybody eventually becomes friends.
Then Came Ali Gültiken
Just when you think the stories can’t become more Turkish, in walks Ali Gültiken. After Emre and Sergen’s punishment ordeal, the players decided it was time for revenge. A new arrival needed to be stitched up.
Ali was warned beforehand:
“Don’t joke around with this commander.”
“He’s a psychopath.”
“Whatever he says, just do it.”
Ali entered the room terrified. The commander stared at him.
“So… you’re Ali?”
“Yes, commander.”
“I hear you’re good with a football.”
And then came one of the greatest sentences in Turkish football storytelling history.
“Show me some kick-ups.”
There was no football. Ali looked confused. The commander clarified “Pretend.”
So Ali Gültiken — grown man, professional footballer, international athlete — began performing imaginary kick-ups with a non-existent ball in front of military officers; Chest control, Shoulders, Head juggling… The full routine. With an invisible ball.
At this point, Turkish football stops being sport and becomes surrealist theatre. And honestly? That’s why people still love these stories.
