March’s Descent Into the Fog
There is a moment in every chaotic season when the fog does not lift. It thickens. February’s thaw gave birth to cautious hope, and March flirted with revival, but in the end it came swinging like a sledgehammer to the knees of belief. What began as a tightrope walk above disarray became a freefall. Not into crisis, Beşiktaş already lives there, but into something colder. Indifference. Instability. And that most dangerous of beasts, aimlessness.
On the Pitch
Home loss to Gaziantep, 1–2 was a gut check. A team that had not won away in half a year came to İstanbul and left with three points. Beşiktaş took the lead, but the performance was anything but convincing. Pressing lacked conviction, transitions fell apart, and when the momentum shifted, no one responded. The most troubling part was how familiar it all felt. What’s worse, we’re now on a trend of turning historically easy fixtures into scare-tunnel nights. It has been a long time since Beşiktaş won away to Gaziantep, either.
Away loss to Konyaspor, 1–0 became a new low in a season already crowded with disappointments. For the first time in Süper Lig history, Beşiktaş lost to a team reduced to nine men. Two dismissals should have opened the door. Instead, they revealed how lost this squad is when asked to think. Static possession, no vertical threat, and a midfield that played like strangers. There was time, there was space, but no plan or quality.
Home win to Galatasaray, 2–1 offered brief redemption. It was a night when the crowd lifted the team, and for once, the team responded. The league leaders arrived with an unbeaten streak, but Beşiktaş played with the purpose of remaining the only invincible league winners in history. It was not a dominant display, but it was spirited and defiant enough to replicate the shocker against Fenerbahçe at home. Beşiktaş lined up in what could best be described as a 4-6-0; less a tactical innovation, more a reflection of having no forwards capable of battling league-elite defenders. The plan was to flood the midfield with dynamic bodies, a setup that disappears entirely when facing lesser sides. For ninety minutes, there was identity. Maybe even belief. The visitors’ long-range equalizer and Beşiktaş’s eventual winner could be summed up simply: Gedson taketh, Gedson giveth.
Home loss to Göztepe, 1–3 in the Turkish Cup quarter-final was more than an upset; it was an unraveling. Göztepe, now majority-owned by the London-based investment firm Sport Republic, have yet to inherit the full identity or infrastructure of their ownership group. But signs are emerging, as they are now punching above their weight, much like Southampton once did, without the burden of a survival battle, at least for now. We started brightly, but the same old issues returned: a needless red card, a lack of finishing, and a collapse in control. Göztepe had a hat-trick scorer. Beşiktaş had early momentum. One mattered. The other did not.
Away draw to Kasımpaşa, 1–1 was rescued at the last breath. Beşiktaş conceded early, went down to ten before halftime, and never found control. A late penalty salvaged a point, but the chaos remained. The front line was disconnected, with the ghost of his former self from Rome wandering beside a frustrated Rafa Silva. Muci flickered without focus. Oxlade-Chamberlain and Gedson remained a dysfunctional pair in midfield. For the second match in a row, the same who-shall-not-be-named was sent off. An avoidable draw against a mid-table İstanbul club, led by an owner once openly at odds with the legacy of Süleyman Seba.
The Illusion of Effort
Some players run in circles so fast that fans mistake it for progress. But effort without consequence is just choreography. Rashica and Gedson are prime examples. They press, sprint, and gesture, but in zones of the pitch where quality matters most, they vanish. No precision, no composure, no final ball. And because they look busy, they avoid blame. But football is not about looking involved. It is about deciding games.
Oxlade-Chamberlain is another case. He moves like he still wants it, but rarely where it counts. His pedigree suggests he should be a calming presence, a reference point. Instead, he floats through matches like a man trying to remember who he used to be. His effort is genuine. His impact is minimal. Would it really be a shock if Wrexham picked him up should they reach the Championship? He no longer looks like a starter for a side chasing promotion, but for a newly promoted team in need of experienced rotation, his fragile frame and flashes of technical ability might just fit the bill.
Even Mert, once the most dependable man on the team sheet, is not exempt. Post-Euro burnout, mounting pressure, and fatigue have all chipped away at his reliability. He still makes saves. But the aura of certainty is gone. And that might be the most dangerous loss of all.
The Man in the Middle
Solskjær still smiles. He speaks calmly. He praises his players in public. And in a league that devours coaches on a whim, that posture earns respect. But soon, he will learn what this country does to men who play too nice for too long. Turkish refereeing will persistently test his patience. Supporters will test his sincerity. He will learn that harmony is not always a virtue when mediocrity hides beneath it.
So far, fans back him. They want this to work. They want to believe in process, in clarity, in patience. But even the most forgiving eye can see what this squad is missing. Rafa Silva might be the only one worth building around. The rest? A collection of short-term patches and long-term disappointments.
Ole cannot afford to miss with his transfers next season. Because if performances remain stuck in limbo, he will be dragged into the exhausting theatre of Turkish football discourse, where every match is dissected through the narrow lens of formation and starting eleven choices. He will be asked, week after week, why this player started, why that one did not, and why it still looks the same. The questions will not get smarter. The pressure will not get lighter.
Rebuild, or Restart?
The transfer policy continues to swing between desperation and daydream. Many arrivals saw snow for the first time last month. Some are too young to lead. Others too finished to follow. The balance is wrong. The scouting is suspect. There is no domestic backbone. Loan deals are thrown around like cheap bandages.
Til Bauman’s arrival may change that. A retired goalkeeper now heading up video scouting, armed with structure and systems, pulled from a culture of planning in Dortmund. It sounds promising. But we have heard this before. Systems do not solve rot. People do.
If the goal is to rebuild, start with courage. If it is to restart, be honest about the wreckage.
See you in May.