Derby

Derby

There are derbies that divide nations. In Turkey, Galatasaray versus Fenerbahçe is not just a football match, it is a state of being. It is a place where people don’t simply play football; they suffer, shout, and live every second of it.

Yet, far from those fiery stadiums, there once existed another kind of derby.

It began in 1964 in İzmir, a city on Turkey’s western coast, where the sea is calm and life seems a little lighter. There, among factories and working men, a match was born that may have been more beautiful than every Champions League final put together.

Rakispor versus Sarapspor.

One team was made up of workers from a raki distillery, the other of men from a winery. Raki, a strong anise-flavoured spirit of over forty percent alcohol, is not something you rush. You sip it slowly, letting conversation grow more honest as the world softens around you.

And that is exactly what they did.

They drank before the match. During the match. And, most likely, after it as well. In fact, turning up sober for kick-off was almost against the rules.

I can picture the scene. A football pitch under the afternoon sun. Men who had already spent hours together around the table. Their conversations continued even as the ball began to roll. Someone set off on a sprint, only to decide halfway that walking wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

Yes, football was played.

But above all, it was enjoyed.

The ball flew in every direction except the right one. Defenders became strikers, goalkeepers forgot they were goalkeepers, and along the touchline people sat at long tables with food and glasses in hand, watching something that had long since stopped being just a match. It had become a celebration.

A yearly tradition shared by the workers from the raki and wine factories.

Eventually, as beautiful things often do, it disappeared. What remained was the story.

And perhaps, a lesson.

Rakispor versus Sarapspor was about coming together. About laughter. About remembering that football is only a game, and that the life surrounding it matters just as much.

During major tournaments we chase perfection. Players who know exactly what they are doing. Coaches who have planned every detail. Statistics that explain every movement.

Yet somewhere deep down, you hope someone forgets.

That he stumbles.

That he laughs.

That, for a brief moment, he no longer knows exactly where he is.

Because in that moment lies something we have lost: the soul of football.

Perhaps that is why this story continues to be passed around, from one table to another, from one generation to the next. It reminds us of a time when winning was not what mattered most. When a misplaced pass was not a disaster, but a reason to laugh. When your opponent was not your enemy, but someone you would raise a glass with after the final whistle.

And when football, if only for a little while, was exactly what it was meant to be.

That soul is not found in control. Nor in perfection.

It lives somewhere back there, in İzmir, in 1964, where the match had already begun long before the referee blew the whistle—and where, in the end, no one really knew who had won.

Source: Varagids