Levent Mercan and Fenerbahçe's 'Joker': When One Player Has to Live in Three Positions

A night at the Olimpico, floodlights cutting a long yellow streak across the turf, and I sat in my usual corner of the press stand, the place I have occupied for over twenty years. The match drifted into its final minutes. On the away side, a player came on to do something strange. His name on the team sheet sat on the left flank, but the place he occupied after the whistle was central midfield. I wrote that moment into my notebook, beside a scrawl about damp grass and studs thudding down the tunnel.

The screen flickered constantly, but the ball still rolled to its old rhythm. Weeks later, word from Turkey confirmed what I had sensed that night: İsmail Kartal calls Levent Mercan Fenerbahçe's "joker". People use the word as a compliment. I read it as a technical note, and as an unanswered question.

I am nearly sixty, but the kick-off whistle makes me young again for ninety minutes. In those ninety minutes, I learned more from one versatile player than from an entire carefully drawn tactical board.

The heartbeat of a club when the calendar thickens

Fenerbahçe — the yellow-and-navy club that Turks affectionately call "sarı-lacivertliler" — is entering a phase in which the fixture list leaves no room for rest. Anyone who has followed a big club through a European season knows the feeling: midweek is Europe, the weekend is the domestic league, and in between come flights, recovery sessions, and nights of broken sleep. A thickening calendar is a current that changes how a club operates, from meals and sleep to the way minutes are shared on the pitch.

Amid all that, the Fenerbahçe coaching staff chose to strengthen depth from within the squad rather than search the transfer market. The name selected for that job is Levent Mercan — a young player earmarked for a flexible role: left-back, left winger, and central midfielder. Three positions, three different physical natures, one human being.

What is striking is that the plan did not arrive in silence. It was spoken aloud, named, called a "joker". To me, the way a club announces its intentions matters no less than the intentions themselves. A club plays football, and it also manages the expectations of its fans, its dressing room, and its own players.

I have followed dense fixture cycles across many seasons, from the years I sat in Belgrade writing on a typewriter to the Serie A seasons compressed by a pandemic. And the lesson is always the same: when the calendar thickens, the clubs that prepare in advance survive, and the clubs that react late pay the price. A rotation plan announced before the hard phase begins is a sign of control, not of panic.

Three positions, three physical systems

To understand why the "joker" role is a puzzle, I have to talk about a player's body. A left-back lives on short, repeated accelerations along the touchline. A left winger lives on dribbles, crosses, and one-on-one duels. A central midfielder lives on aerobic volume — running, scanning, screening, passing, positioning. Those three jobs do not use the same muscle groups in the same way, nor do they demand the same kind of spatial awareness.

A left-back must remember that the goal is behind him. He must know when to drop, must not leave gaps, and must accept that his best work is rarely noticed. A left winger is the opposite: he must dare, must dribble into crowded areas, must accept losing the ball in exchange for one moment. A central midfielder is the rhythm-keeper — not the hero, but the one who makes the right decision at the right time.

A player who can fill all three is a rare gift, but it is also a silent strain. When you must remember three sets of instructions, you easily lose automaticity — the most precious thing a top player owns. Automaticity is when you no longer have to think, when your body knows what to do before your head gives the order. A versatile player often trades that automaticity for adaptability. At a training ground, I once came across a player crying over a misplaced pass. He was not feeling sorry for himself; he knew he had chosen the wrong position in a familiar situation. Versatility has a price.

With Levent Mercan, coach İsmail Kartal trialled him in midfield late in the Roma match — a European-calibre opponent, a stage not meant for gentle experiments. That is the detail that caught my eye most. A coaching staff does not test something important in a big match unless they believe in it. Or unless they badly need an answer. Using a player out of position in the closing minutes of a major game is low-risk integration: wrong and the damage is small, right and you gain a new option.

But I want to go further. Those three positions differ not only physically; they differ psychologically. A left-back needs a defensive instinct and must accept that his mistakes can lead to goals conceded. A left winger needs an attacking instinct and must accept losing the ball more than others. A central midfielder needs the ability to orchestrate, to know when to raise the tempo and when to slow it. Asking three different players to live inside one person is a beautiful ambition, and also a gamble.

Why "from within"

In modern football there are two ways to fill a gap: buy, or develop. The second is cheaper, slower, and quieter. When a club says it will strengthen depth from within, it is saying something about itself — about its budget, its registration limits, or simply its faith in the people it already has.

I have no data on Fenerbahçe's wage bill or financial position, and I will not guess. But I know one thing for certain: the "from within" solution is the cheapest lever of all levers. It does not increase amortisation, does not inflate the wage bill, does not create a new contract that must be defended in front of the press. It asks only one thing: a human being willing to learn three trades at once.

There is a line I keep in my notebook: A contract is only paper; a team is signed by the rhythm of feet. A new contract can be announced at a press conference, but a new role is confirmed only through each run at the training ground, each minute of trust, each time the staff call your name in a position that is not your own. Contracts come and go. The rhythm of feet stays.

In many years of watching matches and training sessions, I have noticed that the most successful clubs are not the ones that buy the most, but the ones that develop from within the best. It is a rarely mentioned law, because it is quiet. Developing a versatile player from your own squad is a statement about identity: we believe in the people we have. But it can also be a statement about circumstances: we cannot buy right now.

Load management: the arithmetic of tired legs

When the calendar thickens, the first thing threatened is the legs. Not the spirit, not the tactics — but tendons, muscles, and soft tissue quietly accumulating fatigue. A big club in a European season can play three matches in seven days. Multiply those three matches by eleven positions and you have a load problem with no perfect solution.

The "joker" role is one solution. If one player can cover three positions, the staff can rotate three men in three different places using only one name. That is efficiency. But that efficiency concentrates load on one pair of legs. And legs do not know how to negotiate.

I once wrote a series during the pandemic, when stadiums stood empty and I could hear the breathing of the match. In those days I learned that players do not only tire in their legs. They tire in their heads, because they must remind themselves of the rhythm when no crowd keeps time. A versatile player carries an extra cognitive burden: every match, he must remember who he is. The pandemic taught me that applause is also a position on the pitch — and a player without a clear place also lacks that applause.

Load studies I have read over years of following clubs show one thing: injury risk does not rise linearly with minutes, but with change. When a player switches roles constantly, his body must adapt to different running patterns, different turning patterns, different acceleration patterns. That adaptation is a form of stress that no statistic sheet measures.

Versatility as an asset

There is a trend I have watched for many years: football increasingly favours versatility. But I want to say plainly what I think, because I believe in calling things by their true names. I dislike homogenisation. I miss traditional wingers — men who did one job, but did it so well no one could imitate them. When every winger drifts inside, we gain efficiency but lose variety. Football becomes more predictable, and a predictable sport is a less beautiful one.

The "joker" role is another version of the same story. It elevates flexibility, but sometimes undervalues mastery. A player who fills three positions may be second-best in all three. That is the small tragedy of modern football: we reward adaptability, and sometimes forget to reward mastery.

Yet for a club wrestling with the calendar, flexibility can save a season. I do not deny that. I only want to say that it has a price, and that price is rarely recorded on any statistical sheet. When we call a versatile player an asset, we usually mean his value to the club. We rarely speak of his value to himself — of the chance to become the best in one single position.

I believe versatility is a precious skill, but it should not become a trap. A young player needs to be developed, not merely used. Using a talent to plug three holes is a short-term fix. Developing that talent into a star in one position is a long-term investment. The two paths must be weighed, and clubs usually choose the short one because of the pressure of results.

What happens at the training ground

I am a man of the training ground. I love mornings when the turf is still wet with dew, when studs thudding down the tunnel is the first sound of a day. There I see what television never shows: a player staying behind after training to take corners alone, a coach bending to pick up a ball, a hand-clap no one asked for.

If I could stand at Fenerbahçe's training ground in these weeks, I would not look at the tactical board. I would look at where Levent Mercan stands in the split-squad drills, and I would listen to which teammates he calls by name. A versatile player must also learn how to call names — he must know who he is talking to in each position. A left-back needs to hear a central midfielder one way, and a left winger another.

Everyone talks fast these days, but football needs people who listen slowly. I have been in this trade for over forty years, and I believe the most trustworthy things are not what is said, but what is repeated every day at the training ground when no one is watching. Those small habits are where a club's truth lives.

Over many years of watching Fenerbahçe and other big clubs, I have always paid attention to how the staff divide training time. A player earmarked for multiple positions keeps a different schedule: he must do defensive and attacking drills, fitness and positional work. It is a workload only players with unusual physical foundations and a hunger to learn can bear.

The dressing room and trust

There is one dimension no statistical sheet ever touches: how a player feels when the staff name him publicly. When İsmail Kartal says Levent Mercan is the team's "joker", he is not merely describing a tactical plan. He is sending a message to the dressing room: rotation players matter as much as starters.

That is subtle management. During a congested phase, when substitutes may feel abandoned, publicly elevating one of them can reduce friction inside the dressing room. It tells everyone: if you accept this job, you will be acknowledged.

But I also know the other side. When you publicly call someone a "joker", you place an expectation on his shoulders. If he succeeds, it is the team's glory. If he fails, it is his burden alone. A young player is not always ready for that weight.

Throughout my career I have watched many young players crushed by expectations made public too soon. I have watched talents shine for one season and vanish, not because they lost their gift, but because they lost the calm needed to grow. That is why I always view stories like this with caution, even as I keep faith in people.

The contrarian view: when "joker" is diplomatic language

Now I must say what I believe matters most, and perhaps what many do not want to hear.

The word "joker" sounds lovely. It conjures a player a club cannot do without, a strategic card. But in press rooms, beautiful words often shelter less beautiful truths. A player called versatile may also be a player who has not won a starting spot in any single position. Flexibility can be a gift, but it can also be a signpost: you may not belong anywhere.

I have no data on Levent Mercan's minutes, and I will not invent a figure. So I offer this as a question, not a conclusion: is the "joker" role a promotion, or a polite term for someone without a fixed place? Only the starting lineups can answer.

There is a second, subtler risk. When a club announces it has a "joker", it tells everyone — including opponents — that it has only one. If Levent Mercan is the only man covering those three positions, an injury to him leaves a hole in all three at once. One player's versatility can become a whole team's weakness. That is the paradox of dependency: the more you trust one person, the more fragile you are when he is absent.

The news of this plan also names no source. No official is quoted, no direct citation appears, no confirmation is given. That does not make the plan false, but it reminds me of an old principle: a coaching staff's intent becomes fact only when confirmed by a lineup. Until then, I treat it as unverified, not as policy.

And there is one more thing I want to say, even if it discomforts me. Rotation stories are often released before a club enters a hard phase. They prepare fans for a scenario: if the club drops points in a rotated match, people have already been told it was part of the plan. I am not saying anyone is deceiving. I am only saying football is a trade of expectation management, and good stories usually have two layers.

One more point on positional dilution. When a player must fill three positions, he may become second-best in all three rather than best in one. At the elite level, the gap between the best and second-best in a role can be the gap between a trophy and a barren season. That is why I remain wary of overly flexible solutions: they solve today's problem, but sometimes create tomorrow's.

The league picture and Fenerbahçe's ambition

A club with a thickening calendar and a Roma fixture is a club competing on several fronts. That places Fenerbahçe among the leading clubs of its domestic league, not mid-table or relegation-threatened. Its ambition demands a squad deep enough to withstand the pressure of multiple competitions.

When a club chooses an internal solution, it implicitly claims its depth matches its ambition. That is a statement about itself, and it may be right or wrong. Only results on the pitch can verify it. But I have always liked clubs willing to trust their own people, because that trust, when repaid, creates something money cannot buy: cohesion.

I have travelled through many leagues, from stadiums in South America to pitches in Europe, and I have learned that each league has its own rhythm. The Turkish league has its own — passionate, volatile, emotional. A club there must contend not only with opponents but with the atmosphere around it. In that atmosphere, a versatile player can be a pillar, or a victim.

What I will be watching

So what will I watch? I will watch the times Levent Mercan is named in the lineup, and I will count not goals, but the number of positions he occupies. If within a few weeks he appears in at least two of those three roles, the "joker" is real, not just a soothing line. If he stands in one place only, the story has been inflated.

I will watch the minutes, because load is the silent enemy of every versatile player. I will watch whether a second "joker" emerges, because a club with only one flexible card is more fragile than it thinks. And I will watch the matches in which Fenerbahçe rotate — not to see whether they win, but to see whether they keep their rhythm.

Football is a ritual. Every season is a chain of repeated rituals: warm-ups, handshakes, whistles, applause. I write about those rituals because I believe we understand a club through its rhythm, not only through its points. And that rhythm, for Fenerbahçe this season, is being kept by one player who must divide his body among three positions.

I am nearly sixty. I have seen great clubs, great players, and afternoons when the Olimpico turf was so silent I could hear my own breathing. I do not know whether İsmail Kartal's "joker" plan will succeed or fail. But I know one thing: clubs that find a way to rotate without losing themselves tend to go further than clubs with only eleven good names. The open question is whether one pair of legs can sign three contracts at once — with left-back, with the left wing, and with central midfield — without losing itself. And if he does lose himself, whether the club can still hear its own rhythm, or hears only the studs of a man running forever without knowing where he belongs.