The Kick – Monique Kostelac

The Kick

Monique Kostelac

My eyes burned as my lungs filled with the smoke of the countless flares erupting around Maksimir stadium. Ear-piercing whistles filled the air and patriotic chants that stemmed from century old rivalries echoed across the stands. Dozens of Dinamo Zagreb fans laid strewn across the playing field, enduring the flurry of whacks and kicks from police batons and Red Star Belgrade fans. Canary yellow seats that had been ripped up from the South End by the Delije flew across the stands, as Zagreb locals attempted to bypass the police barricade that prevented them from even trying to defend their own territory.

Since Tito died ten years ago, football started becoming more about politics than unity. It was a form of expression. A way for people to voice how they felt and what they wanted. For the Croatians, it was a chance to enforce a movement to finally break free from the reign of Yugoslavia and become an independent country—something our ancestors had fought to obtain for centuries. Only a few weeks ago, a poll was held to see what people wanted for their country and a resounding number of Croatians and Slovenians voted out of Yugoslavia. Naturally, the Serbian government wasn’t thrilled and wanted to do everything in its power to stop Yugoslavia from falling apart. The Delije resonated with this, as did the predominantly Serbian police force present at the game. I should’ve seen this coming. It was the first game between the two biggest teams in Yugoslavia—of course something was bound to happen.

Not even the water bottle I had snuck in with me was enough to soothe the unnatural chemical reaction occurring in my body. I could barely hear or see anything because of the smoke bombs, yelling, whistles, and the sun’s glare. I hadn’t been to a game in years and I decided to come to what was probably the most politically charged game in the history of Yugoslav sport. I should’ve listened to my brother, Niko, when he suggested we turn around and go home after seeing fights breaking out in the streets surrounding the stadium. I insisted we didn’t, thinking it was just the usual hooligan shenanigans. It wasn’t unusual for the Delije, the hardcore supporters of Serbia’s biggest team—Red Star Belgrade—to cause trouble and face off with the Bad Blue Boys, the firm of dedicated Dinamo Zagreb supporters. The Bad Blue Boys weren’t exactly angels when they went to Belgrade either. That was just football.

Our attention had turned from the game to the Delije ripping up the seats only ten minutes earlier. The police did nothing to stop them from tearing up our stadium and it infuriated all of us. When we tried taking matters into our own hands, we were doused in pepper spray and attacked by swinging batons. I tried sneaking through the crowds, being much smaller than the other Dinamo fans, but Niko grabbed me before I had the chance.

‘Are you crazy?’ He yelled, with the addition of a profane insult which affectionately described me as a ‘donkey lunatic’. ‘You’re going to get yourself killed.’

‘Just because I’m a girl…’ I replied.

Before he could argue with me, we noticed a few of the Dinamo players making their way across the field. They had originally been forced off the field by the managers for their own safety. I don’t think our captain, Zvonimir Boban, would have been too impressed with seeing his own people being beaten up for doing nothing wrong. He and a few of his teammates strolled across the field and helped battered Dinamo fans back up to their feet. Men who I assume were on the Dinamo board attempted to get Boban and the other players off the pitch, but it was to no avail. Boban was on a mission, and he wasn’t letting a couple of suits get in his way.

‘Isuse,’ Niko commented.

‘Are they going to hit the players too?’ I questioned, curious to see what would unfold next.

If they could have, they would have. What came next was something I knew would be a symbol for Croatian independence for years to come. The stadium became electric. We became revitalised. I wasn’t sure whether it was a morale boost, or a moment that filled our veins with fire.

Boban’s kick divided the stadium, and the nation. The Dinamo Zagreb captain saw a fan being beaten by a police officer and decided enough was enough. Surrounded by his own people rolling around the field writhing in pain, Boban charged up to a police officer, who hovered over a fan’s curled up body, and roundhouse kicked him. He jogged a few steps in the opposite direction, just in case the officer came swinging at him. He was ready to go back for more until he was shielded by his teammates and coach, who protected him from any members of the police force. I could just hear the profanity desperately being yelled across the field as the officials told the cops to leave the players alone.

It was no longer about the Bad Blue Boys and the Delije. It was no longer about Dinamo Zagreb and Red Star Belgrade. It wasn’t even about Zagreb and Belgrade. It was Croatia and Serbia. It was a war of ideologies. It was a battle of religions. It was centuries worth of rivalries and ethnic tension finally reaching the surface.

I felt water drops on my arm. The red fire truck that was often tucked away in the corner of the stadium snuck out and had begun hosing down whoever was in its range of fire.

‘Ana, follow me,’ Niko ordered, grabbing my arm and pulling me down the aisle which had begun to clear out. ‘They found a way out.’

I followed after him, ducking and weaving between fights, flares, and projectiles. The tear gas began wafting up towards us, stinging our eyes. We found our way into the tunnel which was filled with murmurs and cries. Parents held their sons and daughters close, wondering how a family day out could go so wrong. They just wanted to cheer on their beloved Dinamo in a blockbuster game and share the pastime with their kids in hopes that it would become a family tradition for years to come. Instead, they realised their kids would remember they were there at the beginning of the end of Yugoslavia.

Minutes later, we found ourselves out and away from the stadium. Police cars and ambulances raced past as Zagreb locals watched on, trying to figure out what they had just heard. A stranger on the street handed us two water bottles and ordered us to keep dousing our eyes until the stinging stopped. Along with half a dozen red-eyed Dinamo supporters, we hopped on our tram, praying it would just speed through the city and take us home.

Home.