Ode to Yusuf Dikeç, The Silver Shooter

In Châteauroux, where the world’s eyes align,

The 2024 Games, under Paris’s shine,

Yusuf Dikeç steps, at fifty-one years,

A Turkish marksman, defying all fears.

No goggles, no gear, just a T-shirt and ease,

One hand in his pocket, he aims to please.

With glasses so plain, and earplugs discreet,

He faces the target, his calm heart’s beat.

The 10-meter air pistol, a test of control,

Where precision is king, and focus the soul.

With Şevval by side, they fire as a team,

Their shots chasing glory, a silver-hued dream.

The crowd sees a legend, no tech to adorn,

Yet memes crown him hero, his legend reborn. 

“Like Bond or a hitman,” the internet cries,

His nonchalance sparkles in globalized eyes.

“Success takes no pockets,” his motto once said,

Yet one hand tucked in, he’s still forged ahead.

Against Serbia’s might, they fall just one breath,

But silver’s their prize, no stranger to death.

A gendarme retired, with grit in his core,

Five Olympics he’s walked, and he’ll walk one more.

For LA in ’28, he sets his next sight,

To swap silver for gold in the warm Western light.

Oh, Yusuf, the natural, with aura so grand,

You’ve etched your cool mark on the Olympic land.

With a pistol, a pocket, and a steady gaze,

You’ve shot through our hearts, set the world ablaze.