Istanbul Derby

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Als Interkontinentales Derby werden die Begegnungen im Fußball zwischen den beiden erfolgreichsten und populärsten Sportvereinen der Türkei, Fenerbahçe und Galatasaray, bezeichnet. Nach dem Abpfiff des Istanbul-Derbys in der Türkei zwischen Galatasaray und Fenerbahce (Endstand: ) kam es noch auf dem Rasen zu einer großen. Das traditionsreiche Derby in Istanbul zwischen Galatasaray und Fenerbahce endete im völligen Chaos. Die Spieler lieferten sich nach Schlusspfiff eine wilde​. Karte von Istanbul mit den ehemaligen und gegenwärtigen Heimspielstätten von Fenerbahçe und Galatasaray. Fenerbahçe: Şükrü Saracoğlu Stadı (seit ). Verrückte Kartenflut in heißem Istanbul-Derby. Peter Bielefeldt. | ​07 Uhr. Schiedsrichter Halil Meler verteilt ein Meer an Karten im Istanbuler Derby​.

Istanbul Derby

Bericht: Istanbul-Derby abgesagt. Galatasaray Istanbul. Das Süper Lig-Spiel zwischen den Istanbuler Klubs Galatasaray und Fenerbahce findet nach türkischen. Das Derby zwischen Fenerbahce und Galatasaray hatte gestern wieder einiges zu bieten: Vier Tore, zwei Platzverweise und stolze zehn. Vor seinem ersten Istanbul-Derby wurde er von seinem türkischen Co-Trainer Ahmet Akcan gefragt, ob sein Kühlschrank gut gefüllt sei, denn.

Istanbul Derby Video

Das lauteste Fußballstadion der Welt - Galatasaray - Besiktas Vlog - ViscaBarca Aufgrund einer Schlägerei zwischen Casino Spielothek Hildesheim beiden Mannschaften wurde das Spiel in der Ryan Donk Celal Ibrahim. Bülent Demirlek. Beliebte Bildergalerien. Die Strafen variieren, je nach Vergehen, von Geldstrafen bis zu Stadionsperren. Tore:, Dalian Atkinson 4. Istanbul Derby

More singing, more chanting, and then a rush of bodies--this is a clearing out, a very defined mass rush away from something. Over a wall of shoulders draped in red and yellow, there is a man's face beaming with what can only be described as idiot excitement.

It is the face of a dad as he guns a new car down a hill with the kids in the back at easily thirty miles over the speed limit.

It is the face of a budding pyromaniac, or the smile on a bar patron's face when the first pint glass has been thrown across the bar, and every piece of unbolted material will rain sideways through the air in the flash-fire of a fight.

It is the look of a child who figured out that the sockets are filled with electricity, and is trying to talk their sibling into making the same discovery with their finger.

This man is pointing down toward a gentle hissing from the floor. He is giggling, and puts his fingers in his ears. Voices rise. The firecracker explodes, and splits the air in the car and floods the space with white smoke.

Ears ring. To the left there is a kid, maybe twelve or so, smiling the same idiot's smile and laughing hysterically as tiny, sound- hairs lay down dead in his ears forever.

He looks ecstatic. The subway disgorges Galatasaray fans directly into a long tunnel — let's call it a chute, like the ones in large cattle slaughterhouses — that after a blind turn to the left puts you on a beeline for Türk Telekom Arena.

There is the stadium in front of you, shaped like a Swedish coffee table like every other modern football stadium in Europe, and a long corral of fences on every other side.

The tops are angled in to prevent someone scaling the fence and throwing rocks at the opposing team's buses.

While they wait, they buy corn and kebab off a vendor, munching, pacing shadows on the ridgeline testing out various rocks for weight and talking to other fans as they pass.

Someone has climbed into a half-finished apartment building adjacent to the subway chute, and is dropping red flares on improvised parachutes down.

They hang burning in the air, and float down to the road below on a lazy trajectory. Occasionally someone will spark up a flare on the ground, a chorus of cheers going up with each one.

The police massed over in the corner pay slightly more attention when this happens, nervously spitting sunflower seeds to the ground and fidgeting with their tear gas cannons and riot shields.

One cop buys a pack of sunflower seeds off a kid and looks at him and tells him "Don't let me see you again. There is something deeply odd and tense about a group of soccer fans amassed with no other to rage against.

On the other, Galatasaray fans stabbed two Leeds United supporters to death in during the UEFA semifinals, had a match abandoned due to rioting as recently as last year, and staged a series of running skirmishes with the Spanish police after a match with Real Madrid in , and stormed the studios of a Turkish TV station whose commentators predicted an early exit for the club.

Then remember that not even Turkish soccer fans or any other angry mob would travel to Bristol, Connecticut for love or money.

That other — the thing to stab, beat, scream at, throw flares at, and exist to antagonize — is only here in the form of the team, its coaches, and that bus, the bus speeding at a robust clip from left to right and tracking across the ridge line, the bus currently clacking and clicking with the sound of carefully chosen rocks thrown by Galatasaray fans.

The team bus is obvious: a blue and yellow luxury coach outlined against the gray sky. It gets a solid spray of road shrapnel, but just to be sure the rock throwers pelt the buses accompanying it just in case they're using decoys.

On the way into the stadium there are a few of those Dalek-looking police vans with the people plows on the front of it. A kid, no older than ten and wearing a Galatasaray jersey, smiles and kicks it as he walks by.

The stands do not fill up immediately for the same reason they do not start totally full at college football games: the stragglers are outside trying to put as much alcohol as their system as possible.

Walking in you pass the empty shells of booster rockets tossed clear by orbiters bound for the stadium.

There are Efes Malt tall boys, and bottles of Tuborg. A bottle of Johnny Walker Black sits tossed aside by a throng of riot police. Security guards deliver grippy pat-downs at the gate.

At noon it was in the seventies in Istanbul, but the temperature took a dive sometime in the last hour. A cold wind is hacking from left to right.

The sun is gone entirely. Up a flight of stairs, and another, and still another until the stadium opens up and shows you its ribs, its skeleton, all of it built to contain, control, and channel something monstrous, bloody, and angry.

U-shaped bands of metal line the back of every row to prevent rolling human stampedes down the stands. A net hangs over the empty visiting fan section to prevent flares, seats, or the unimaginable from being thrown into or onto human heads.

On either side there are metal gates you could not drive a car through. You might not think Turkish soccer fans would ever get a car into the upper deck of a stadium.

For the right occasion, they could. There is more singing. The occasional flare goes off, red smears held up in defiance of attempts to get fans from doing all the things they clearly want to do so very badly: to light off flares, to spend the entire match telling Fenerbahce to sodomize themselves and their mothers, to find something in their way wearing the wrong colors and to let it know just how much they fucking love their team, and how much hatred they by rule have for you.

The sportsmanship and fan conduct announcement appears on the jumbotron hanging from the edge of the stadium roof. It is booed lustily.

The Turkish flag replaces the list of all the things Galatasaray fans will immediately do the opposite of for the next two hours.

The legend is that the red flag represents the crescent moon and stars seen in a pool of Turkish warriors' blood.

This is a line from the anthem's full lyrics:. They don't have to sing that part here. The two teams come out holding the hands of small children dressed like soldiers: a tiny elementary school aged commando, a pacing helicopter pilot too short to ride a roller coaster.

A forest fire of flares explodes from the Ultraslan Galatasaray fan section amidst the singing. They have set them off directly in front of of a line of luxury boxes, the exact people behind the sportsmanship announcements and attempts to sanitize the game experience.

All anyone in that section can see is smoke, and flame, and the raised middle fingers of men in Galatasaray jerseys with bandanas wrapped around their faces.

Every time a yellow card pops out against a Galatasaray player or with each missed crime against Galatasaray, the crowd shake their fists.

If there is a gesture unique to Turkish soccer, it's this: a looping circle made violently in the air as if it were hitting an invisible speed bag with real, blood-deep anger.

There is an invisible line somewhere in the world, somewhere between Bulgaria, Greece, and Turkey, where people stop cupping their mouths to boo, and instead start shaking their fists like they're trying to knock someone out.

We are all decidedly over that line, and deep in fist-shaking territory. The first half's ten minutes stretch into a small eternity.

There is shirt-tugging, shoving,the bump of chests if it's particularly intense. The referee starts spitting out yellow cards like a malfunctioning ATM, and the crowd starts chanting, among other random profanities, "Let Didier Drogba fuck you.

He's screaming at defenders, glowering in the back of simmering arguments, and generally looking like someone seconds away from unsheathing a broadsword and bringing it down on the back of the referee's neck.

He has the unique superpower of visible, ambient anger emission: Volkan sweats rage droplets, and fine waves of fury and piss-rage wobble off him like heat waves on a baking summer highway.

He missed two games in the UEFA Euro Championship for shoving Czech Jan Koller to the ground, and in choked Galatasaray right back Sabri Sarioglu during a tussle that ended with both players eating red cards.

It takes ten minutes for the game to devolve into a chain of sliding fouls interrupted by periodic attempts at soccer. Drogba rockets a shot off the post and raises his hands to his ears like he can hear the sound of his only chance at scoring boiling away in the heated disorder of the game.

Players, at a certain point, lose all power to perform and become pawns of an idiot fury. Honestly, he can't be blamed for a grotesque foul committed against Felipe Melo.

The screeching, bloodthirsty dervish controlling the match did it. He was merely a vehicle for it, a pawn. Felipe Melo celebrates with a huge, lionfaced expression at the home fans.

When Volkan emerges from his sulkstorm of anger to argue with a ref, he's given a yellow card, probably just to make him feel like he's not being left out of anything.

The game ends, and leaving the stadium a Galatasaray fan is unhappy with the way the team won. In the tunnel back through the human cattle pen and down into the subway, more flares go off, held up by Galatasaray supporters and flooding the hallways with acrid gray fog.

Some Ultraslan members run past, then stop, look back, and then keep running in the universal pose of "Ohfuckitsthecops," but there's no one in pursuit, and no one to pursue.

No one seems to know why they're running, or where they're going, or why they're doing it like fifty cops should be in pursuit, firing tear gas canisters into the fans' asses and clattering along with their riot shields.

The cops have stayed back, though. The stampede never happens, and the fans press through the turnstiles and gates without a hint of disaster in the air.

Soccer is about whatever you want it to be about, and tonight for Galatasaray fans it was to be about a fight that never really happened.

In children's books, cities have always come sliced longitudinally for easy viewing. I'm thinking of one in particular from a Richard Scarry book of a city.

It is not one city in particular. The top layer are the tops of the buildings, topped with old zigzagging television antennae and little chimneys coughing out squiggles of charcoal line smoke.

The middle are windows of businesses. There is a bored anthropomorphic cat looking out the glass panes of a publisher.

There is a dance studio, and below it a restaurant, and two other talking animals lounging at a cafe. Someone peers out of their apartment window, looking at nothing in particular in the street, where a preschooler's checklist of people in your neighborhood drawn as bears, dogs, and cats do the work of the twelve or so professions a four year old knows and believes in.

The garbageman takes the trash away. Lamb Shish with Rice. Lean tender cubes of lamb skewered and grilled over charcoal served with rice, salad, and fresh naan bread.

Tender lamb chops seasoned and grilled over charcoal served with rice, salad and fresh naan bread. Sea Bass Fish. Marinated sea bass fish grilled over charcoal served with salad, and fresh naan bread.

Grilled Chicken. Marinated chicken cooked on the grill served with fresh salad and naan. Grilled Chicken with Rice.

Marinated chicken cooked on the grill served with rice, salad, and fresh naan. All our Burgers are serves with salas and sauce. Zinger Burger. Pepperoni Plus.

Cheese, Tomato, Mushroom, Turkey and Pineapple. Four Seasons. Cheese, Tomato, Mushroom, Turkey and Pepperoni. Chicken House. Cheese, Tomato, Chicken, Mushroom and Sweetcorn.

Chicken Tikka. Hot Shot. Hot Spicy. Hot Vegetarian. Green Vege. Flames Pizza. BBQ Chicken. Garlic Bread Plain. Garlic Bread with Cheese.

Garlic Bread with Cheese and Mushroom. Garlic Bread with Cheese and Fresh Chillies. Garlic Bread with Cheese and Sweetcorn.

Istanbul Platter 1. Istanbul Platter 2. Istanbul Platter 3. Ice Cream. Where you can treat yourself to some tasty local food and enjoy one last moment of calm before your crazy matchday experience begins.

You'll meet up with Besiktas supporters groups to learn their chant and get immersed in their local fan culture before heading to the stadium together.

Where you'll see one of the loudest and most insane football atmospheres on Earth! After the game, your host will be happy to give you the best nightlife tips.

Or help you get back to the hotel and recover after a truly crazy day! Istanbul is a city of many stadiums and clubs If there's another good football game in town, our host will be happy to give you more insight and take you there.

Unfortunately, even the finest and craziest adventures must come to an end. But the new friends and fantastic memories you've made will last for a lifetime.

It's time to pack your bags, check-out, and say goodbye to the majestic city of Istanbul. But don't forget to stay in touch with your fellow travelers - you might meet them on another Homefans sooner than you think!

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Created with Sketch. More Photos Image. Duration 4 days. Tour Type Specific Tour. Group Size 15 people. Languages English. Overview Considered one of the capitals of football, Istanbul is home of three giants in Turkey: Besiktas, Fenerbahce and Galatasaray.

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Da ein geregelter Kartenvorverkauf sowie Kartenkontigente für die Vereine nicht vorgesehen waren, campierten die verfeindeten Fanlager vor dem Stadion, um am Morgen die Eingänge und Blöcke zu besetzen. Borussia Dortmund. Personen, die keine gültige Eintrittskarte für das Spiel besitzen und vorzeigen können, werden nicht Michael Hager in das Umfeld des Stadions gelassen. Häufig fallen auch Journalisten den Ausschreitungen zum Opfer. VfL Wolfsburg. Istanbul - die Perle am Bosporus. Jetzt Sky bestellen In neuem Fenster Pokerstars Slots.

The currency of loyalty can be exchanged in any number of directions for Turkish soccer fans. It can buy improv engineering, as in the incident when ticketless Galatasaray fans were caught attempting to tunnel into a match against Schalke in their home stadium in Germany.

The simplest exchange of all: emotion given in the name of violence. A match between Galatasaray and Besiktas collapsed into total chaos after Galatasaray midfielder Felipe Melo was red carded — and that was after notable, Worldstar-quality street fighting between Besiktas supporters and Galatasaray crews before the match.

The derby between Galatasaray and Fenerbahce ended with police protecting Galatasaray players with riot shield, and with a Galatasaray supporter stabbed in the street.

There will be security. There are so many reasons to have that security, and not all of them have to do with soccer.

Every street in Istanbul smells like roasted chestnuts. You never see anyone buy one, much less a bag of them. People do scarf down simit , the pretzel-ish bread somewhere between a sesame stick and pretzel, all sold by the same red carts advertising the low, low price of one Turkish Lira.

The men are on the street all day and the simit business is run by the government, so it's assumed they work for the government.

They might not, or they might, because it is really hard to get away from the idea that the government wants their authority to be known.

The white military tower overlooking Taksim Square in the distance has a guard peering out on each corner. There are police in Minis — Istanbul is a peppy hatchback town for the most part, and even the police prefer them — and mysterious government types in Ford Focuses.

They crackle to life when their unmarked lights go off, and people clear the way for them without a single honk. In larger intersections and in Taksim square there are big police riot busters with extendable ram-plow arrangements rigged to the grilles.

Their windows are covered in wire mesh, and the sides are reinforced with plate metal. According to locals, they can move a lot faster than you might think they can.

It's hard to know precisely where the security apparatus ends and the fog of rumor begins. Turkish has a hypothetical tense, a way of saying something that is said to be true.

The simit men might be police, or at least it is said that they could be. The police might be fully licensed to fire tear gas from their paintball guns full of CS pellets at the Galatasaray match on Sunday.

What is known is that the police are out and out in numbers. Their target: a peaceful bunch of people in suits and ties holding a few signs and walking at a creep along the Shore Road, a lawyerly group probably outnumbered by the cops, and incapable of taking a chestnut cart, much less fifty cops ready to start zip-tying people at the wrists and tossing them into waiting vans.

For all the security displays, Turks do a great job ignoring all the flexing. The Twitter ban crumbled online before it ever died in the Turkish courts.

The YouTube ban — also struck down in court shortly after the Twitter band ended — was circumvented by many with VPN and other online widgets cloaking the location of the user.

Most used it for extremely apolitical purposes, like watching the video of a cat dressed up like Bane. Actual quote on the matter: "I couldn't watch Bane Cat.

What kind of bullshit is that? The cats and dogs of Istanbul are its best rebels. Cats wander freely through the fences of military installations, eating and shitting and pissing where they like in between long suspicious stares at passersby.

Just behind the military museum behind the big scary military apartment building you definitely should not take a picture of, a ring of statues rolls clockwise through Turkish history.

There is a statue of Attila the Hun, and Timur the Lame, and then Ataturk, huge and bronze and gesturing in the general direction of a blood-red Turkish flag.

A dog sprinted across the park, circling and setting down in the grass to gnaw a bone he'd found somewhere.

Two other dogs followed in tow, waiting with all the intensity of a thousand suns for the hound to drop it. He ignored the soldiers and the signs and the other dogs and everyone else, gnawing on a meal at the feet of the father of the nation.

Turkish beer is awful. It is brewed with sugar, and at best tastes like the ghost of some horrid and defunct Midwestern piss-punch, but Turks drink it.

They drink Raki, and horrible Efes beer, and overpay for Tuborg because hell, it's not Efes, and like everyone else shell out for American whiskey for the right and wrong reasons.

Wrong: it's expensive and fashionable, and right: it's good, and will get you moonshot drunk in a very short span of time. Turks drink shots, too, doled out on barrels outside shot bars in cluster bomb fashion.

You can have a walking beer on Saturday nights as long as you're not causing a problem. Based on the level of ruckus in Istanbul on a Saturday night, "problem" would be somewhere north of openly attacking strangers, and south of "one person riot.

And there is a cutoff for booze sales, and there are the periodic attempts to limit where people can drink, but to be in the midst of a city that is avowedly Muslim and stumble into a hornet's nest of shot bars full of Iranians who flew in just to get trashed clear and legal, locals pregaming two days early for a soccer game, and tipsy expats asking all the wrong people for hash There is the knowing you get from reading, and being told, and then there's seeing a Galatasaray fan leveling what's left of a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black before entering the stadium.

Ataturk deposed a king and built a nation, and he died of cirrhosis at the age of A lot of Turks have taken this not as warning, but as an indication of productivity through medication.

A group of Galatasaray fans walking down Istiklal, maybe seven or eight guys you'd call bros or possibly dudes, meander toward the Metro stop in Taksim Square.

One carries an open bottle of Jack Daniels. They share it, passing it back and forth with grimaces in between verses of a chant. The subway runs right to the new stadium, an improvement on the old method of delivering Galatasaray fans to the stadium.

Fans used to ride en masse in buses, and shoot flares and firecrackers out of the windows as they went. The call to prayer begins to wind its way down from a minaret somewhere.

They take the moment to top off their Cokes with the remainder of the Jack before getting on the subway. He is missing the index finger from the first knuckle on his right hand.

His pockets are stuffed with firecrackers — not babyish state-legal firecrackers you find in the grocery store parking lot, but the monstrous illegal chinese pipe-crackers that could take a hand off.

Or a finger. They might be able to take a finger, or specific, raki-holding fingers off, too. The age range of those participating is astonishing: old men are chanting along, and smashing their fists into the roof of the train to keep the beat along with guys in their twenties pounding on the windows.

The men who would be taciturn boosters or yelling down in front! He giggles and tosses one out into the cavernous space of a metro station.

Everyone on the train starts to giggle, and their voices rise in a single escalating pitch:. The explosion is loud, loud enough to be a real bomb, or at least a real something going off, because while Turkey is not Israel or Iraq, it is closer to the part of the world where things randomly explode, or at the very least froth over into protests involving helmeted death police and clouds of tear gas more often than they do in the United States.

No one else seems bothered, not even the random police standing on metro stations. They do not flinch. More singing, more chanting, and then a rush of bodies--this is a clearing out, a very defined mass rush away from something.

Over a wall of shoulders draped in red and yellow, there is a man's face beaming with what can only be described as idiot excitement.

It is the face of a dad as he guns a new car down a hill with the kids in the back at easily thirty miles over the speed limit.

It is the face of a budding pyromaniac, or the smile on a bar patron's face when the first pint glass has been thrown across the bar, and every piece of unbolted material will rain sideways through the air in the flash-fire of a fight.

It is the look of a child who figured out that the sockets are filled with electricity, and is trying to talk their sibling into making the same discovery with their finger.

This man is pointing down toward a gentle hissing from the floor. He is giggling, and puts his fingers in his ears. Voices rise.

The firecracker explodes, and splits the air in the car and floods the space with white smoke. Ears ring.

To the left there is a kid, maybe twelve or so, smiling the same idiot's smile and laughing hysterically as tiny, sound- hairs lay down dead in his ears forever.

He looks ecstatic. The subway disgorges Galatasaray fans directly into a long tunnel — let's call it a chute, like the ones in large cattle slaughterhouses — that after a blind turn to the left puts you on a beeline for Türk Telekom Arena.

There is the stadium in front of you, shaped like a Swedish coffee table like every other modern football stadium in Europe, and a long corral of fences on every other side.

The tops are angled in to prevent someone scaling the fence and throwing rocks at the opposing team's buses. While they wait, they buy corn and kebab off a vendor, munching, pacing shadows on the ridgeline testing out various rocks for weight and talking to other fans as they pass.

Someone has climbed into a half-finished apartment building adjacent to the subway chute, and is dropping red flares on improvised parachutes down.

They hang burning in the air, and float down to the road below on a lazy trajectory. Occasionally someone will spark up a flare on the ground, a chorus of cheers going up with each one.

The police massed over in the corner pay slightly more attention when this happens, nervously spitting sunflower seeds to the ground and fidgeting with their tear gas cannons and riot shields.

One cop buys a pack of sunflower seeds off a kid and looks at him and tells him "Don't let me see you again. There is something deeply odd and tense about a group of soccer fans amassed with no other to rage against.

On the other, Galatasaray fans stabbed two Leeds United supporters to death in during the UEFA semifinals, had a match abandoned due to rioting as recently as last year, and staged a series of running skirmishes with the Spanish police after a match with Real Madrid in , and stormed the studios of a Turkish TV station whose commentators predicted an early exit for the club.

Then remember that not even Turkish soccer fans or any other angry mob would travel to Bristol, Connecticut for love or money.

That other — the thing to stab, beat, scream at, throw flares at, and exist to antagonize — is only here in the form of the team, its coaches, and that bus, the bus speeding at a robust clip from left to right and tracking across the ridge line, the bus currently clacking and clicking with the sound of carefully chosen rocks thrown by Galatasaray fans.

The team bus is obvious: a blue and yellow luxury coach outlined against the gray sky. It gets a solid spray of road shrapnel, but just to be sure the rock throwers pelt the buses accompanying it just in case they're using decoys.

On the way into the stadium there are a few of those Dalek-looking police vans with the people plows on the front of it.

A kid, no older than ten and wearing a Galatasaray jersey, smiles and kicks it as he walks by. The stands do not fill up immediately for the same reason they do not start totally full at college football games: the stragglers are outside trying to put as much alcohol as their system as possible.

Walking in you pass the empty shells of booster rockets tossed clear by orbiters bound for the stadium. There are Efes Malt tall boys, and bottles of Tuborg.

A bottle of Johnny Walker Black sits tossed aside by a throng of riot police. Security guards deliver grippy pat-downs at the gate. At noon it was in the seventies in Istanbul, but the temperature took a dive sometime in the last hour.

A cold wind is hacking from left to right. The sun is gone entirely. Up a flight of stairs, and another, and still another until the stadium opens up and shows you its ribs, its skeleton, all of it built to contain, control, and channel something monstrous, bloody, and angry.

U-shaped bands of metal line the back of every row to prevent rolling human stampedes down the stands. A net hangs over the empty visiting fan section to prevent flares, seats, or the unimaginable from being thrown into or onto human heads.

On either side there are metal gates you could not drive a car through. You might not think Turkish soccer fans would ever get a car into the upper deck of a stadium.

For the right occasion, they could. There is more singing. The occasional flare goes off, red smears held up in defiance of attempts to get fans from doing all the things they clearly want to do so very badly: to light off flares, to spend the entire match telling Fenerbahce to sodomize themselves and their mothers, to find something in their way wearing the wrong colors and to let it know just how much they fucking love their team, and how much hatred they by rule have for you.

The sportsmanship and fan conduct announcement appears on the jumbotron hanging from the edge of the stadium roof.

It is booed lustily. The Turkish flag replaces the list of all the things Galatasaray fans will immediately do the opposite of for the next two hours.

The legend is that the red flag represents the crescent moon and stars seen in a pool of Turkish warriors' blood.

This is a line from the anthem's full lyrics:. They don't have to sing that part here. The two teams come out holding the hands of small children dressed like soldiers: a tiny elementary school aged commando, a pacing helicopter pilot too short to ride a roller coaster.

A forest fire of flares explodes from the Ultraslan Galatasaray fan section amidst the singing. They have set them off directly in front of of a line of luxury boxes, the exact people behind the sportsmanship announcements and attempts to sanitize the game experience.

All anyone in that section can see is smoke, and flame, and the raised middle fingers of men in Galatasaray jerseys with bandanas wrapped around their faces.

Every time a yellow card pops out against a Galatasaray player or with each missed crime against Galatasaray, the crowd shake their fists.

If there is a gesture unique to Turkish soccer, it's this: a looping circle made violently in the air as if it were hitting an invisible speed bag with real, blood-deep anger.

There is an invisible line somewhere in the world, somewhere between Bulgaria, Greece, and Turkey, where people stop cupping their mouths to boo, and instead start shaking their fists like they're trying to knock someone out.

We are all decidedly over that line, and deep in fist-shaking territory. The first half's ten minutes stretch into a small eternity.

There is shirt-tugging, shoving,the bump of chests if it's particularly intense. The referee starts spitting out yellow cards like a malfunctioning ATM, and the crowd starts chanting, among other random profanities, "Let Didier Drogba fuck you.

He's screaming at defenders, glowering in the back of simmering arguments, and generally looking like someone seconds away from unsheathing a broadsword and bringing it down on the back of the referee's neck.

He has the unique superpower of visible, ambient anger emission: Volkan sweats rage droplets, and fine waves of fury and piss-rage wobble off him like heat waves on a baking summer highway.

He missed two games in the UEFA Euro Championship for shoving Czech Jan Koller to the ground, and in choked Galatasaray right back Sabri Sarioglu during a tussle that ended with both players eating red cards.

It takes ten minutes for the game to devolve into a chain of sliding fouls interrupted by periodic attempts at soccer.

Drogba rockets a shot off the post and raises his hands to his ears like he can hear the sound of his only chance at scoring boiling away in the heated disorder of the game.

Players, at a certain point, lose all power to perform and become pawns of an idiot fury. Tour Type Specific Tour. Group Size 15 people. Languages English.

In a city with so many people, huge football clubs follow naturally. Itinerary Expand All. Day 1 - Welcome to Istanbul. Day 2 - Gastro city tour and Match day.

Day 3 - Stadium tours and Free time. Day 4 - Time to say Goodbye. Insurance Flights Single room available for surcharge. Tour's Location Created with Sketch.

Based on 1 review. Very Good. This was amazing! Thanks to Homefans I went to a lifelong dream of mine: the Intercontinental derby Galatasaray against Fenerbahce!

I had a blast the whole weekend and Homefans arranged everything for us. Our tour guide was the best ever, he made the experience even better.

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Istanbul Derby International

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