Ranting Mourinho danced around the dressing room imitating me: ‘Ooh I mustn’t get hurt... I mustn’t get dirty’

IF he says another word I’m going to explode. Just one more word. What does the guy want from me, anyway? Why’s he picking on me? That’s not normal. It’s madness. Huh, what do I know what it is? Whatever, it’s really unfair.

It’s half-time and I’m sitting in the dressing room at Real Madrid. And Jose Mourinho, our manager, is ranting. And ranting. Especially at me.

But I ran my socks off. I played really well. Honestly. I’d admit it if I hadn’t. We were leading 3–1 against Deportivo La Coruna. Our opponents took the lead after 16 minutes but we turned the game around. Within 21 minutes Cristiano Ronaldo had scored twice and then Angel Di Maria added a third. But instead of praising us, me included, I’m getting another roasting.

Mourinho’s had it in for me over the past few weeks, too. But now? All of us had shown character. I was in control of my game. The passes were getting through.

OK, I admit, in the last few minutes before the half-time whistle I slackened off a little. Once or twice I just trotted as I ran backwards. I was only on it about 80 or 90 per cent. But I wasn’t playing badly.

I try to switch off. Allow the criticism to bounce off me. Because I can feel the anger beginning to bubble up inside.

‘You think two passes are enough,’ Mourinho (above) screams. ‘You’re too refined to go in for the tackle. You think you’re so good that 50 per cent is enough.’

He pauses. Stares at me with his dark brown eyes. I stare back. We are like two boxers eyeballing each other before the first round. He’s not showing any emotion, just waiting for my reaction.

How I loathe him at this moment! Although in truth I love Jose Mourinho. He alone is the reason why I went to Real Madrid from Werder Bremen in 2010. I didn’t choose the club, I chose him. I wanted to play for him and no one else.

And this is the man who at this very moment is tearing strips off me. Ten minutes of the half-time break are over and Mourinho still isn’t finished. I’ve had enough now. ‘What do you actually want from me?’ I snap back at him. ‘I want you to play as well as you can,’ Mourinho yells. ‘I want you to go into tackles like a man. Do you know what it looks like when you tackle? No? Let me show you.’

Mourinho stands on tiptoes, thrusts his arms down by his sides, purses his lips and minces around the dressing room. ‘That’s how you tackle. Ooh, I mustn’t get hurt. And absolutely mustn’t get dirty,’ he shouts while repeating his Ozil tackle parody.

‘If you’re so great, why don’t you get out there and play yourself?’ I scream now, ripping off my jersey and hurling it at his feet. ‘Here. Put it on. Off you go.’

Mourinho just laughs spitefully. ‘Oh, are you giving up now?’ he asks. ‘What a coward,’ he says harshly, moving to within just a few centimetres of me. ‘What do you want? To crawl under a nice, warm shower? Shampoo your hair? Be on your own? Or do you want to show your team-mates, the fans out there and me what you’re capable of?’

Now Mourinho’s talking very calmly. He’s no longer hot-tempered and loud but controlled, which makes me even madder. How can he compose himself while I’m on the verge of losing it? I’m so p **** d off. I’d love to chuck my boots at his head. I want him to stop. To leave me in peace finally.

‘Do you know what, Mesut? Cry if you like! Sob away! You’re such a baby. Go and take a shower. We don’t need you.’

Slowly I get up, slip out of my boots, grab my towel and walk silently past the manager to the showers, without dignifying him with so much as a glance. Instead he lobs one final provocation in my direction. ‘You’re not Zinedine Zidane, you know. No! Never! You’re not even in the same league!’

Those last words of his are like a stab to the heart. Mourinho knows exactly what he’s saying. He knows how much I admire that player. He knows the Frenchman is the only footballer I truly look up to.

‘You’re not Zidane!’ Mourinho’s words resound in my head for long afterwards. I’m now on my own in the dressing room. Pepe and Ronaldo score in the second half to make it 5–1 against Deportivo, while I stand in the shower, lost in thought.

I’ve never been b ******** like that by a coach before. I’ve never been so shaken in my conviction of what’s right and wrong. What has happened here? Why did Mourinho make me look such a fool? What was he trying to tell me?

That evening, I started posing myself major questions like I’d never done before.