Tenth day of the month of Ramadan. The weather is too hot. We are speaking with Ali on sea view balcony of coffee house. We are trying to become cooler there.
Although everybody is fasting in our neighbourhood in the month of Ramadan, the coffeehouse is open in afternoon. Some of the resident go to garden of the mosque. Some others go to the balcony. So the conservation of residents continues. Moreover, in winter Ramadans, the coffeehouse owner burns stove and people gather around it altough he doesn't sell anything.
It is the coffeehouse of Ali's father. His name was Yusuf, The Bayraktar. God rest his soul. Yusuf, The Bayraktar used to speak with his wife, Pembule, on the balcony in Romanes. They were completely speaking in Romanes. It's was a great excitement for us to watch them. We used to feel as we were hearing a foreing language. We were jealous of them to speak Romanes so fluently.
My father didn't speak Romanes in our house although he knows to speak Romanes very well. He didn't want us to learn Romanes. He believed that we could be accepted by the society if only we get assimilated. This was the reason why he was trying to keep his Gypsy identity as a secret. However, it was a futile effort...
Someone touches on my back. "Metin uncle, let's make a football match this evening with you. Let's organize a team for us as the team of musician. It's for just fun" Erdinç said. Erdinç... He is brother of my bride. He is 35 years old, portly and a virtuoso of clarinet. "Erdinç, we can't play with you. All members of our team are bigger than 50 years old." i said. Then i looked Ali. He is one my childhood friends. He is working in Germany. He is in Samsun for holiday now. He is also portly and play football very well. He said: "Let's play. It would be a nice match. Ok, we are preparing our team."
***
After tarawih prayer, i look for the members of our team. Ahmet Hoca, the imam, wants to play with us. We determined the members of the team, me, Erdoğan, Ali, Uncle Faruk, Berkan and Ahmet Hoca. The field is close to our house. We would wear our forms and go to the field. I come to my house. I wear Galatasaray uniform. I wear sneakers of my grandson. I looked at myself in length mirror. Yes, it depends on me. I said myself ironically "I am still young..."
I go out with whimpers of my wife. She thinks that i am too old to play football. We start to go to the field. We laugh ourselves looking at eachother. There have been a lot time we last played football.
Uncle Faruk, he is our young scorer with his white beards (59 years old)... Erdoğan, 58 years old. He is a 150 pound giant. Ahmet Hoca, the imam, is 60 years old. It is wonderfull team. It would be a nice match.
Ahmet Hoca, the imam, was appointed to our mosque from Havza 5 years old. He told us that he was anxious when he first came to the neighbourhood. He was also influenced by prejudices targeting our people. However, he changed his ideas about us as he knows us personally. He is retired after he works 2 year as imam in our mosque. Then he said "I couln't leave this neighbourhood. I couldn't leave my friends here." He rents a house near the mahala. He lives together with us now.
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