◉ 026 | My Pape. My Hero.

I was twelve.

Thirteen maybe.

Played tennis on a basketball court

with my friend Damir.

Concrete surface.

No net.

Our playground never had a tennis court.

Both racquets were mine.

So were the balls.

I loved them.

Then they came.

Danijel Vušković and Mario Meštrović.

Older than us.

Danijel was tall.

Mario was big.

They walked over,

took our racquets

and started playing.

Fuck.

Every time Mario lost a point,

he’d smash my racquet against the concrete.

I asked him not to.

He said nothing.

I watched them play

and waited for my things

to be returned to me.

They didn’t.

Every time I spoke,

another smash.

Concrete.

Strings crying.

I was on the edge of tears myself.

Then Damir said,

“Sorry, I have to go home,”

and left.

I felt betrayed.

Alone.

They kept playing.

Danijel started smashing the other racquet.

Mario began yelling

and mimicking Goran Ivanišević.

It was getting darker.

I said I needed to go home.

Asked for my racquets.

They laughed.

I stood in front of Mario.

“Give me my racquet.

I’m going home.”

I tried to snatch it.

He hid it behind his back,

grabbed my arm,

twisted it,

and started singing Jenu noć.

It hurt.

Then he shoved me away.

“We’re not done yet,” he said.

“Fuck off.”

Danijel knew it went too far

but said nothing.

It was almost night.

They finally finished,

threw the racquets down,

and threw all the balls

over the fence

as far as they could.

Thank God, I thought.

At least I got my racquets back.

Scratched.

Bent.

Bullied —

same as me.

I picked them up

and ran down the hill.

That’s when I saw my dad,

driving up,

searching for me.

He stopped.

He saw something was wrong.

I told him —

the smashed racquets,

the twisted arm.

My father has always hated injustice.

At work they called him Kalimero.

I saw his blood boil.

“Who?” he asked.

Right then,

the two of them were coming down the hill.

“The big one,” I said.

He turned the car,

full gas,

then braked hard —

stopped right in front of them.

I’d never seen him like that.

They panicked.

Mario yelled,

“I’ll get my dad!”

That made my father explode.

“I’ll beat you and your dad together,

you fucking pussy.”

Not a threat.

A shield.

Mario’s voice cracked.

“Please don’t, barba.

We’re sorry.”

“Go home and hide,”

my dad said.

Danijel stood there,

silent.

Thirty years later,

I still remember every detail —

the sound,

the fear,

the way his anger

became my safety.

I felt protected.

I felt seen.

I felt proud.

My pape.

My hero.