Die-hard Ultras / Hardcore Supporters
in Fans ·
On this day, April 10, 1992, we lost Pucko. He passed away in the back of his 4th Brigade Jeep, held by a close friend, and he was nothing short of a legend in my city and on my streets. For two days straight, they fought tooth and nail just to hold onto that vehicle in a total wasteland. The guys on the other side knew exactly who was inside that Jeep, but it didn't matter—the love, the brotherhood, and the sheer respect his squad had for him was tougher, bolder, and more intense than anything they could throw at them.
Out on that field in the Midwest, the heart of my entire generation—my whole eighties cohort—just stopped beating. It feels like our youth was cut short, just like it was for all of us; stolen and lost. We remember him today with nothing but pride. Damir Ivančić was our leader and our friend, the kind of guy so many of us grew up looking up to. He gave everything for the freedom of this country, giving his very life in the process.
What's up, Pucko!
I can't see the image you're referring to! You didn't attach anything. If you want me to rewrite some content, drop the text here and I'll get on it.
Someone's falling in love. Your first thought is probably that cute little teddy bear from those old childhood books, maybe some sunshine streaming through a window or a kid getting sick at home. But for us, hanging out in the bleachers at the local high school stadium, that whole concept meant something completely different. Messing with him about his "feelings" was basically like jumping off the roof of the gym—and honestly, I still think he would’ve walked away with fewer bruises if he’d actually taken the leap.
That generation right before mine? They were built different. Those guys were terrifyingly strong, and I’m telling you, they didn't know the first thing about fancy gyms or protein shakes. They just had some heavy scrap metal they rigged up at the local shipyard and that was plenty. Nowadays, I look at these kids who look like they were carved out of granite, but there’s nothing inside them. No heart, none of that raw, God-given power those old-school guys possessed.
Honestly, if you knew what he was like, you’d understand how he could just grab some self-righteous wise guy by the throat and lift him off the ground, just to tear into his face. I don't even need to say it—the guy was bigger and stronger than any of them. He could take down two or three guys at once with nothing but slaps. He had those heavy lumberjack hands, and when he swung, it was like watching Mike Tyson—fast, brutal, and devastating, fueled by pure adrenaline rather than just muscle. Back in the mid-eighties, he was basically the unofficial leader of the NFL Ultras. The North Side crowd didn't really care for formal leaders, but everyone respected him. You’d see him standing there on the northeast side alongside the rest of the crew, looking like a line of generals ready for war. And honestly? They were exactly that, much to the pride of us idiots from the neighborhood.
That whole mess that eventually dragged me—someone way younger than them—into their orbit started one morning when Rajko Dimić, some ambitious young PE teacher, decided to go head-to-head with Unknown. He was trying to call him out for leaving needles and broken glass all over the playground, and since he was acting like such a wide-eyed idealist back then, desperate to scrub his field clean, he clearly had no idea who he was actually lecturing. Unknown just got fed up with his preaching and was trying to shut him down when our girls finally showed up for gym class.
Dubravka was honestly way too developed for her age to be stuck in seventh grade; she looked more like a high schooler. When Medo let go of Rajkov's throat and caught sight of her, he looked like he’d been struck by lightning. Rajko was struggling just to survive those bear-like hands, and then she stepped in and absolutely leveled Medo with a heavy wrench to the head.
Love really does take the strangest turns. It’s such a random phenomenon, and I’m convinced that’s exactly how this ignited—just out of nowhere. Unknown was standing there with this goofy, dazed grin on his face, the kind you see when someone is so overwhelmed they’d probably kiss the very person beating them up, while Dubravka was screaming loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear about what a total animal he was being.
Look, I ended up like this because Dubravka was my best friend and the anchor of this whole massive romance. Back then, people didn't exactly have smartphones glued to their hands, so I was basically a walking messenger service. I’d carry notes back and forth, grab some wildflowers—probably swiped from some kid's school project—and lug around sandwiches from the local farmer's market, which I'm pretty sure were also stolen from kids playing at the park. I carried everything that wasn't nailed down just to prove my love. Eventually, Dubravka gave in; I managed to sneak onto their section of the bleachers, and Rajko finally got the whole field to himself.
Eventually, all that passion results in a little piece of America that grows up to be a woman, a mother, and who knows how much a local neighborhood romance between two totally different people can actually shape the world.
But look, I’m not telling you this because of love or because of Unknown; this is really about Pucko. Even though those two were inseparable—like brothers, always together—I’m bringing this up because of a specific moment burned into my brain that came flooding back last night while I was watching the game at the stadium.
My neighbor Žare was an incredible guy and an absolute beast on the soccer field. I swear, if he’d had any "connections" at a place like the LA Galaxy, he would’ve been a club legend—not just some local fan favorite—but instead, he’s remembered as "Weeping Žare" after that incident on the waterfront, whereas I remember him purely for his skill with the ball. Anyway, to make a long story short, one morning Pucko, for reasons known only to him, snatched a ladybug away from Žare and chucked it onto the roof of the gym. Within minutes, Žare’s father—a small, stocky, gray-haired man—showed up on the playground and confronted Pucko.
I have never seen anything like it in my life. This guy, who was heads and shoulders taller and stronger than the kid, took off his belt and absolutely laid into him like he was nothing. Pucko didn't even fight back; he just covered his head with his hands in silence. Meanwhile, Unknown and Unknown just stood there on the sidelines like it had nothing to do with them, watching their friend take a beating with total indifference. Last night, watching Ivo Bego try to swing at Zdravko Mamić, and seeing how Mamić—who is taller and bigger than that old man—tried to strike him back, those images flashed before my eyes and I almost teared up.
After all these years, it finally clicked for me. That scene from the late eighties and what happened last night at the stadium—it’s clear now. Zdravko Mamić is a thug. Maybe Pucko was a thug too, but he was a thug with a code, with upbringing and honor. My Pucko had all of that; he might have been a troublemaker, but he was a man who respected his elders, the people who can be a father or a grandfather to you.
On my way home, I stopped by the mural we dedicated to him in our old neighborhood and gave it a little wink. To the good old Pucko, the hooligan from my section, the guy who taught me so much about life. Because in the end, all you leave behind are deeds like that and stories that shine through eternity. As for that jerk from last night, all he’ll leave behind is a news clip about a time of completely twisted values—a harsh, ugly era where our grandfathers are digging through trash cans and feeling ashamed of their own honorable pasts.
That’s how legends are made in a city, and that’s how a city’s shame is born. The fans are proud of my Pucko, but even Zdravko Mamić’s own family isn't proud of him. We, who lived through the eighties, are proud of my guy; today, nobody feels anything for that other one.
LONG LIVE PUCKO,
may you rest easy in the America you loved so much.
Taken from Facebook