Anis Mehmeti didn’t exactly glide his way up the ladder. It was all a bit stop‑start, a bit messy, the kind of path where you’re never fully sure if the next step is up or down.
Big academies, quick exits, a spell in non‑league that would’ve finished off plenty of players. But he stuck at it. Stubborn, sharp, a bit unpredictable, same as the way he plays now.
He’s not polished. Not tidy. He’s the sort of winger who’ll lose it twice then beat three men the third time, and suddenly the whole ground wakes up.
Ipswich haven’t just added another body out wide; they’ve brought in someone who can jolt a flat match back to life, even if he’s been quiet for half an hour. That’s the edge he carries.
Mehmeti’s early years were all over the place. Fulham, Spurs, Norwich in, out, moved on, nothing sticking long enough to feel settled. It’s the kind of path that either knocks the confidence out of you or builds something a bit harder underneath.
When Norwich let him go, he ended up at Woodford Town. Non‑league. Cold nights, bobbly pitches, barely any noise except a few shouts from the touchline. But that’s where he toughened up. No shortcuts, no fancy facilities, just football stripped right back.
Wycombe took a punt on him in 2020, and suddenly things started to click. He went from “maybe he’ll make it” to “this lad can actually win you a game.” Goals, swagger, that little bit of chaos defenders hate dealing with.
Bristol City gave him the next step, and he didn’t shrink. Over 120 games, plenty of moments, and a growing reputation as someone who can hurt teams from anywhere across the front line.
By the time Ipswich came calling, he wasn’t a gamble; he was a problem waiting to happen.
Mehmeti plays like someone who’s had to scrap for every inch. There’s no neatness to it, no waiting around for the perfect moment.
He just gets it and goes, even if the touch isn’t perfect or the angle’s tight. It’s all instinct with him, sharp feet, quick decisions, a bit chaotic in a good way.
He drifts in off the left because that’s where he feels most dangerous, chopping inside, rolling his man, having a swing.
But he’s not stuck to one trick. Sometimes he’ll go outside just to see if the full‑back’s awake.
Sometimes he’ll drop into a pocket for no real reason other than he feels something might open up. It’s unpredictable, and defenders hate that.
There’s a street football edge to him. Little shifts, awkward angles, touches that don’t look coached but somehow work.
He’ll lose it twice, then the third time he’ll glide past two players like it’s nothing. You can’t teach that. You just live it long enough, and it sticks to you.
And when he’s confident, he changes the whole feel of a match.
He plays with that “give it here, I’ll sort it” energy. Ipswich haven’t had many who can flip a game like that, someone who doesn’t need the pattern or the perfect setup, just a bit of space and a defender who blinks.
His biggest strength? Honestly, it’s the way he just goes. No pause, no thinking about shapes or patterns or any of that coaching‑manual stuff.
He gets the ball, and he’s off, like he’s been waiting all game for someone to give him half a yard. It’s not neat, but it doesn’t need to be; it puts defenders on their heels straight away.
And he hits the thing clean. Really clean. Doesn’t matter if the touch before was a bit scruffy or if he’s slightly off balance. One shift, bang, keeper scrambling.
Sometimes it looks like he’s rushed it, but that’s kind of the point; he doesn’t give anyone time to set themselves.
He works too. Properly works. Chases stuff he’s got no right to win, presses when everyone else is catching their breath, nicks little loose balls that shouldn’t even be there. It’s not pretty, but it turns games in ways people don’t notice until after.
And he’s brave in that slightly reckless way attackers need to be. He’ll try the thing that gets groans when it doesn’t come off, but when it does, the whole place lifts.
That’s the gamble he lives with. That’s the bit defenders can’t read. You can’t coach that kind of stubborn creativity; it’s just in him.
He drifts. Properly drifts. When the game goes flat, or he loses a couple of early duels, he can vanish for a bit. Not hiding, just floating, waiting for something to spark. Ipswich will want him, forcing himself back into it instead of waiting for the moment to arrive.
Decision‑making is… yeah, it’s a mixed bag. He’ll beat a man brilliantly, then run straight into the next one like he didn’t even clock him.
It’s part of the chaos that makes him fun, but it’s also the bit that drives managers up the wall.
Physically, he could do with a bit more bite. Championship full‑backs will lean on him, shove him, test him early.
If he adds a bit more strength, not loads, just enough to hold his ground, he becomes a real problem.
And the end product needs sharpening. The flashes are there, the almost‑moments, the “that was close” stuff.
But Ipswich will want numbers. Goals, assists, the stuff that wins matches. He’s got it in him; it just needs to be dragged out more often.
Mehmeti gives Ipswich something they’ve been missing: a winger who can create danger without needing the whole team to build it for him. Just a raw, individual threat that comes out of nowhere and wakes everyone up.
He adds a bit of chaos to a side that can sometimes look too patterned. When teams sit deep and the match gets stuck, you need someone who can break the script. Mehmeti does that one touch, one run, and suddenly the whole thing feels different.
He forces defenders into horrible choices. Double him, and you leave gaps. Leave him one‑on‑one, and he’ll take your full‑back apart. That kind of gravity changes how teams set up before the whistle’s even gone.
And if Ipswich are serious about pushing for automatics, he’s the sort of player who can swing the tight ones. Not every week he’s not that type, but enough. Enough to matter. Enough to drag you over the line when the season gets heavy, and everyone’s legs are gone.
