How a sports celebration became a battleground for everything we refuse to resolve
Everything was ready.
The city.
The square.
The logistics.
The stage.
The quiet, rare feeling that for once, something in Croatia had been planned in advance.
The Croatian Handball team was coming home with medals. Zagreb was prepared to welcome them properly. No chaos. No improvisation. No Balkan freestyle planning where someone brings a generator at the last minute and hopes for the best.
It was organised. Agreed upon. Approved. And then (just when it seemed too functional to be true) the plot twist arrived. The players said they wouldn’t come if their favourite singer, Marko Perković Thompson, wasn’t allowed to perform.
At which point, handball politely stepped aside and let Croatia do what it does best: turn a celebration into a referendum.
Consent, But Make It Complicated
The city said no. Not dramatically. Not impulsively. But clearly.
For reasons that have been discussed, analysed, footnoted, debated, denied, reaffirmed, and recycled for the last thirty years.
The city declined.
So the city did the most reasonable thing possible under the circumstances: It cancelled the entire event.
No singer, no welcome.
No compromise.
No alternative location.
Just… cancelled.
An adult decision. Rare. Uncomfortable. Decisive. And that should have been the end of it.
But this is Croatia. So naturally, it was only the beginning.
Enter: The State
At this point, the story could’ve become a quiet national disappointment. A collective shrug. A missed moment. A “what a shame” we’d mention briefly next to the weather forecast.
Instead, the Government stepped in like a parent who disagrees with the other parent’s rules and announces: “Don’t worry. Daddy said yes.”
Suddenly, the welcome was back on.
Same city.
Same square.
Same space that had just been deemed inappropriate for exactly this purpose.
Different authority.
Despite the city’s ban.
Despite the cancellation.
Despite the fact that everything had already been organised once.
And just like that, we learned an important civic lesson: In Croatia, the local government sets boundaries. The State brings a stage.
The Square Fills, History Shows Up Uninvited
The event happened.
The crowd came.
The singer sang.
The flags flew – not the neutral, cheerful kind you wave at sports events, but the kind that arrive carrying context, ideology, and unresolved trauma.
Totalitarian symbols appeared, as they always do when we insist they’re “not the point.” ZDS and HOS insignia found their way into the frame, because symbolism in Croatia has excellent GPS.
The handball players stood there – medals on their chests, sweat still in their bones – while the square slowly transformed from a sports welcome into a cultural battlefield.
It wasn’t about handball anymore. But it was framed as if it were.
Which somehow made it worse.
And the Winner Is… Not Handball
Here’s the uncomfortable truth: The biggest winner of the night wasn’t the team. It wasn’t the fans. It wasn’t even the Government.
It was Marko Perković Thompson.
He got:
- A massive crowd.
- State-backed legitimacy.
- A prime stage without having to negotiate with the city.
- And a moment framed as “unifying,” despite being deeply polarising.
Handball became the vehicle. The players became the backdrop. The medals became stage decorations.
From a branding perspective, it was flawless. From a sporting one, it was devastating.
When Sport Becomes a Hostage Situation
Handball was my first love.
- I trained as a girl.
- I watched every championship.
- I screamed at the TV.
- I cried when we lost.
- I believed in it the way children believe in fairy tales.
The handball was clean. Structured. Earned. You didn’t need to know anyone’s politics to enjoy it. You didn’t need to wear symbols. You didn’t need to make statements.
You just needed a ball, a team, and lungs strong enough to shout.
Watching it now (standing awkwardly in the shadow of ideological theatre) feels like watching your childhood friend being used as a prop in someone else’s argument.
The Most Balkan Part of All This
The most Balkan part isn’t the disagreement. It’s the insistence that this was still about sport.
- That the singer was “just a singer.”
- That the symbols were “isolated incidents.”
- That the square was “just celebrating.”
We have perfected the art of denial through repetition.
If you say “this has nothing to do with politics” loudly enough, while waving political symbols, eventually you convince yourself you’re being neutral. And if someone objects, they’re told they’re ruining the celebration.
As if the celebration hadn’t already been rerouted through three layers of power struggle.
Who Actually Lost Here?
Not the Government. Not the singer. Not the people who came for reasons unrelated to handball.
The losers were:
- The city, whose authority was publicly overridden.
- The mayor, who received death threats for enforcing a decision.
- The athletes, whose achievement was hijacked.
- And the rest of us, who just wanted one uncomplicated moment of pride.
I’m Not Outraged. I’m Heartbroken.
This isn’t anger. Anger is loud. This is quieter.
It’s the sadness of realising that even our victories are unsafe. That nothing can arrive without being repurposed. That sport, of all things, cannot be left alone.
I wanted to celebrate handball. Instead, I watched adults fight over a stage while pretending the ball still mattered.
A Small, Radical Suggestion
Next time – and there will be a next time, because our athletes keep winning medals despite us – let’s try something new.
- Let the city decide what happens in the city.
- Let the Government govern instead of producing events.
- Let athletes be athletes.
- Let singers sing where they belong.
- Let history stay where it’s supposed to be discussed – not danced around with medals as decoration.
And let handball – my first love, and still one of the few things that ever felt clean – remain a sport.
Not a message.
Not a battlefield.
Not a substitute for conversations we’re afraid to finish.
Just handball.
That would be the real victory.
Erika Matic is a Croatian writer reflecting on culture, power, and the quiet grief of watching sport, joy, and common sense get caught in the crossfire of unresolved history. She writes for people who still believe some things should be allowed to stay simple.
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