The first of three tales and reflections on games/trips that all happened within a matter of weeks of each other in the autumn of 2013, where all three matches were World Cup Qualifiers, so move over Go West, we are heading East.
Part One
SRBIJA V HRVATSKA, World Cup Qualifier, Beograd,
6th September 2013
My first ever day in the Balkans included the mother of all football matches, an International between Serbia and Croatia, and needless to say this wasn’t a friendly. It’s slightly ironic that in the early days of holidaying abroad, my sister was the one who regularly headed to Yugoslavia as it was then, and the resorts she visited were exclusively in Croatia as it is today. I was a regular on the other side of the Adriatic, I still am, always enjoying my second home, Italia, but for periods of time I learn to plunder new and fascinating lands on my small list of countries I want to still visit.
The intrigue for this region started from a serious desire to fully understand the ongoing war as Yugoslavia broke up in such an acrimonious way. I consumed articles and books on the subject, determined to get behind the facade of the populist narrative being trotted out in the press. It was a truly depressing passage of modern European history, bad enough from the comfort of my home, but truly horrendous for those living the nightmare as Tito’s land tore itself apart. The need to continue to understand all the goings on has brought me to read a thoroughly in depth and fascinating book, “The Politics of football in Yugoslavia” by Richard Mills. The troubled cobbling together of regions governed for long spells by the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and the Ottoman’s is partly to blame as well as that all too frequently sad rational for division, religion.
Sport can have healing qualities though, and while UEFA/FIFA pander to one or two nations being “kept apart”, with a particularly low key, and petty refusal of Spain to play Gibraltar, but more understandably Armenia v Azerbaijan, and more recently Serbia v Kosovo. Armenia and Azerbaijan were once drawn in the same group, and these remain the only two qualifiers never to have been played. In part three of these tales I will be in Armenia to expand on that extraordinary quirk. It is perhaps commendable that despite the recent war, Serbia v Croatia has never fallen into that category of not wishing to play one another. Yes, any such games would be high security, and high profile, and so when the 2014 World Qualifiers pitted them together, coupled with my new friend from Macedonia, an ardent fan of Partizan and Serbia, there really was a chance to be at the game in Belgrade. I have often marvelled at how random encounters, and shared passions have started some of the most amazing friendships man could ever encounter.
Katarina and I had chatted online for a good number of years before this game, a common enthusiasm for Partizan and Eurovision being the topics from the outset. We had never met, but arrangements had been put in place for tickets to be acquired, and to meet ahead of the game, as well as then whisk me south to Macedonia where Scotland would play a few days later, before going on a magical little tour of the country. Part two of this story takes us to Skopje and beyond.
In the days leading up to flying off, uncertainty reigned as to whether it was wise to attend the game. All sorts of potential threats and hazards seemed to be making a fraught experience move into the realms of utterly dangerous. There were to be no away fans, as had been the case for the first encounter in Zagreb, but even so, all sorts of mayhem was being rumoured, and understandably Katarina was getting jittery.
When the dust settled, it was all systems go, and that initial encounter with my new friend, her brother Slavko, (who by trips end would become a great friend too), along with his girlfriend took place at the appointed hour outside my hotel in a local taxi as we sped off into the evening across Belgrade towards the Marakana. Minutes into the journey, my first problem arose, looking to minimise my travelling accoutrements for the game, my passport was amongst many things I had locked away in my suitcase back at the hotel. It now became obvious that everyone had been told to bring their documents, I guess making it easier to flush out any enthusiastic Croat mad enough to try to get in etc. We decided that resplendent in my white Serbia away shirt, coupled with some blagging, we’d get me in!
Katarina and Slavko spoke to the chief policeman at the initial document check, whose facial expressions never changed during their discussions, making it difficult for me to know whether the pleading was being successful, but eventually I was pushed through. I thought we were home and dry, but what I hadn’t reckoned on was the next line of checks just ahead of entering the stadium taking exception to the key-fob on my hotel room key. It was a chunky piece of metal granted, but there was no reception at night in the hotel, entry was purely with a second key. The policeman even suggested I put it under a stone nearby and get it after the game, which I flatly refused to do. Katarina and the rest were already through this check looking on unsure what the issue was. I was undoubtedly holding up the queue in some capacity but a word between two coppers resulted in a stiff old shove in my back and I was in the stadium, and what a view greeted my arrival! The Marakana, nearly full by this stage is a wonderful sight to behold.
The atmosphere was building, and upon finding our seats it became apparent that speaking anything other than Serbian might cause an issue, even in the “gradinata” opposite the main stand. We were away from the two ends acting as home to the “ultras” of Crvena Zvezda (Red Star) to our right, and the “Jug” lads from Partizan to our left. Even in supporting the national side, don’t ask these two fierce rivals to intermingle for the common good. Occasionally little fights would break out at the CZ end in particular as potential rogue Croats were outed. It was a hostile atmosphere.
When the teams came out for the anthems the stadium was rocking. I have absolutely no doubt that amongst the many songs and chants throughout the night were many a naughty one, hostility towards the visitors had been equally as shocking in Zagreb, this would be no different. Having been at Hampden for the European Championships play off in ‘99 between Scotland and England, the drowning out of God Save the Queen had been the most vociferous I had come across, until the Croatian anthem endeavoured to pipe up. The wall of noise made sure not one single note of the anthem was caught from the stands, and if ever the Croatian players needed reminding of the torrid 90 minutes to come, this was it.
That said, Croatia were well clear of Serbia, 9 points ahead in second place but still trailing Belgium by some margin, so the outcome of this encounter wasn’t unduly going to affect the group placings, but Serbia needed the points more to edge further away from Scotland, Macedonia and Wales. Looking back on it now, what a group, two World Cup Semi-finalist/ finalists five years later, and Euro Championships Semi-finalists in Wales just 2 1/2 years later! Serbia had lost narrowly in Zagreb, and so the motivation to even that score was prevalent. But let’s be honest, when Serbia plays Croatia, little excuse is needed for a powder-keg experience.
The home team, swept on by the incredible atmosphere were first out of the traps, and a young Aleksandar Mitrovic blasted against the post just minutes into the game. Tosic, a constant threat, stung the palms of the keeper who just managed to get enough on the ball to divert it away from the outstretched leg of the onrushing Mitrovic. These early chances just added volume to the already incredible noise in the stadium. It stayed goalless until the break, with Croatia eventually settling down and looking an increasing threat. That moment of quality that such a powerful team possesses came shortly after the break when a wonderfully threaded pass by Srna sent Mario Mandzukic clear and one on one with the keeper his powerful strike thundered into the bottom right hand corner of the net. Croatia’s lead lasted barely ten minutes when Mitrovic rose to beautifully head home the equaliser, and sent the stands in raptures once more. It was the first ever International goal for Aleksandar Mitrovic, who is still leading the Serbian front line to great effect.
The game then deteriorated into fractious fouls, Matic was shown red for two yellows in quick succession as Modric seemed to be targeted, but as Serbia broke, Simunic clattered the forward who had yet to break across the halfway line in one of the most cynical challenges I have ever seen. Rightly he was shown a straight red card, and let’s just say he didn’t enjoy his trip towards the tunnel, as anger reached vengeful proportions from all sides of the stadium. Petrovic had a great opportunity to grab a late winner, but his weak header was easy for Pletikosa in the visitors goal. It ended 1,1, honours even on a night of high drama, where the action in the stands was as memorable as the game. The two nation’s haven’t played each other since.
Prior to the game, having arrived in the morning, I had spent a wonderful day with Magdalena, another Serbian friend I had got chatting with via an online photography club, and she introduced me to many of the city’s sights and parks that day. We walked and walked so much the poor girl got a blister on her heel. The day after the game was another opportunity to get to know a little more about Belgrade as well as Katarina and Slavko. We toured around Kalemegdan, a huge park, fortified area of the city dating back to the Ottoman occupation with wonderful views of the Sava river, the city and further along at the point where the Danube meets the Sava. That night we ate in the fabulous Skadarlija area, famous for its bars and restaurants, feasting on a sumptuous meat festival that is Serbian cuisine. Sitting outside, washing it all down with local beer and wine, with a Balkan soundtrack adding to the giddy immersion.
These were wonderful days, ones I remain grateful for to this day, but it was all too short, and before a calendar year was out I was back in the city for another 4 days of furthering my burgeoning Beograd love and enjoying the experience from the rich tapestry of incredibly friendly Serbian life. The whole open, warm way of the people reminded me of Argentina, both lands are similar in that the majority have big hearts. The walk along the two river’s to Zemun, and the meal on one of the many river restaurants looking across on Kalemegdan was one of the highlights from the return trip. The sporting joy was plundering the Partizan club shop as I had lucked out on the fixtures and in order to see a game during that second visit I was back in the main stand at the Marakana, sitting on my hands as CZ thumped FK Cukaricki 4,0 where the eight visiting fans arrived late and sloped away well before the end too, amid the endless cacophony of song from the sizeable home crowd.
That inaugural few days in Belgrade ended with a trip to Tito’s grave, a poignant and beautifully tranquil setting of park land and mausoleum. Tito may have had his faults, like any leader, but he steered divergent regions in one direction and he was loved throughout Yugoslavia. In keeping it all together, he had achieved an act of genius.
We sped south out of the city, down the motorway towards Skopje, headed by signs for Nis and another off to Smederevo, home of Sartid aa they were known at the time, who I had written about for Dundee when they met in the Intertoto Cup. Just before the border we stopped at a roadside restaurant as this unassuming place sells one of the best Burek in Serbia. It was my first ever chomp of the legendary warm pastry filled with cheese around the edges. It was not my last either, even managing to grab one in Sezana, Slovenia in 2018, the last time I stepped on the edge of Balkan territory. Post snacking we were across the border into Macedonia, where part two of Go East will expand, and exude the warmth of welcome just as much as Serbia did.
I have met a number of Serbian people subsequently, and many of them are good friends to this day, Irena and Aleks (he played for Partizan) on the Faroe Islands, Magdalena, Katarina and Slavko, everyone of them treasured.
A desire to return to Belgrade grows wilder within me, and once this pandemic finally blows through I want to add the most important missing name to my footballing CV, and watch Partizan play at home.
Football Adventures with James Rendall 