Crvena Zvezda v Partizan Belgrade

The Belgrade Derby: A World Phenomenon

Crvena Zvezda 0-2 Partizan Belgrade (26:11:11)

The taxi ground to a halt with the floodlights of the Marakana rising in the distance, writes Andy Hudson. A single policeman tried to control the traffic from six different directions; the angles of his hands lost amidst the steam billowing from his mouth. “You should take them to a whorehouse after the match; that’ll relax them and is what everyone should do here at least once,” the taxi driver mumbled to the lad in the passenger seat. Three of us sat shivering in the back seat, English only speakers and oblivious to the Serb delights the taxi driver had in mind for us for afterwards.

With time still on our side we made our way back towards the centre of town and a traditional Serbian restaurant called Mala fabrika ukusa, 2km away from the stadium instead of the place we were originally heading to which was set in the shadows of the Marakana. There was to be no pre-match pies for us; honey glazed pork served with horseradish ice-cream was knocked back with pints of Jelen before we braved the icy cold for the walk to the stadium.

We left the restaurant and hurried off in the direction of the ground. After turning two corners we could see the huge floodlights looming across the skyline, yet before we could see them, we knew what direction we were heading in; we followed the distant noise coming from the already packed Marakana. There wasn’t much talking amongst the home fans as we made our way under and over roads; across a small park; all the while getting closer to the stadium.  A nervousness hung in the air; similar to any other city on derby day.

A huge floodlight looms across the Belgrade skyline. As does the cities biggest tree. 

As we cut up along Ljutice Bogdana, one of the few streets that separate the Marakana from Stadion FK Partizan, we could hear flares going off in the stadium. My heart raced. The air had the smell of bonfire night and cutting through was the sight of people racing to the security gates. We had VIP tickets for the West Stand and headed up the stairs from reception. The section we were in was heaving with not a spare seat and plenty of people packed into the back rows. We quickly decided not to waste too much time trying to get our seats, with the throng of people crammed in it would have been foolish to try and get in. We had a word with one of the club staff who took us back downstairs and explained to security that we were to be in the stand amongst the Zvezda masses.

The greatest firework display I’ve ever seen then sparked to life to my left, in the North Stand, home of Delije, the Heroes. Three stands of the Marakana burned with red flares while fireworks exploded over the stadium. Smoke drifted across the pitch as the players emerged from the tunnel, densely obscuring the view:

The South Stand, home of Grobari and a second Partizan fan-group, Južni Front, seemed to be doing nothing. They were merely waiting. As soon as the Delije fireworks were coming to an end, they started their own

The match kicked-off with the whole stadium singing. The atmosphere could have powered a small country. Everyone in the North Stand was stood with scarves held aloft, more impressive than anything that could be mustered on the Kop at Anfield. The smoke hung in the stadium air, obscuring my view of the Partizan fans over to my right. From my standing position just next to the North Stand, stood in a packed gangway where every fan was singing, all if could see was red and white. Flares continued to go off several times a minute, with the firemen on the track behind the goal kept busy by the large number hurtling towards the pitch.

An explosive start to proceedings

Lovely flag, but where are those flares?

Ah. 

I’d heard stories about how intimidating the atmosphere could be; how violence rippled across everything and that even for a neutral there’s an edge that can be troubling. Yet I never interpreted any of this for violence in any way; it was far simpler than that: this was passion. While some may disagree with me on this point, but flares being thrown on an athletics track where they are collected and quickly put out is a lot different to fists being smashed against another fan’s head. Not once did I feel threatened; neither before the game nor during.

Zvezda enjoyed the best of the opening exchanges though chances were at a premium. Flares in front of the South Stand caused a fire on the athletics track and then a fire was started at the front of the stand when pitch covers were set ablaze by the Partizan fans.

With every attack the noise increased and then three quarters of the Marakana went crazy with excitement as the referee awarded Zvezda a penalty. With the home club having taken the precaution of removing the plastic seats from the South Stand, the track filled up only with flares as Evandro stepped up to eventually take the spot kick. With many home supporters around me either peering through their fingers or turned with their backs to the pitch due to nerves, the Brazilian screwed his penalty wide of the post to cause the only period of silence amongst the Delije. That silence was only to last a moment as the noise suddenly increased to drown out the celebrating Grobari . Meanwhile, a few seats were being hurled onto the track from the East Stand, where one of the fractured Partizan fan groups, Zabranjeni, were congregated.

As half time arrived I made my way to the club shop to buy a hat and to thaw out my body. Despite the red hot atmosphere, it was the coldest I had ever felt at a football match. Meanwhile, down on the pitch, most of the Partizan players shivered in their dugout having seen their path to the tunnel blocked by a cascade of flares thrown by Delje.

With no let-up in the atmosphere, the game drifted somewhat during the second half. The real quality was with the fans. A huge red and white flag covered much of the North Stand – those not under the flag held aloft flags. As Delje started up a rendition of Od rođenja mog, many fans around me passionately joined in, some with tears in their eyes.

That love song to Zvezda, with the translated words of:

Ever since my birth,
there hasn’t been a day without your name,
not a day, not a year,
Red Star.
Only with you,
will I remain forever,
Red Star.

It was meant to stir their red and white heroes on to victory. Yet it was Partizan who would go on and break Zvezda hearts.

Anyone got a light?

With twenty minutes remaining, Zvonimir Vukić beat two defenders and fizzed in a low shot to break the deadlock. Then Marko Šćepović collected a long through ball and, having raced beyond his marker, slotted past the home ‘keeper to send the South Stand into raptures. Ken and Chris, who were in the West Stand but down near the South Stand, standing amongst a mixture of home and away fans, observed later than as Partizan celebrated they thought fights were going to break out around them; the moment passed without violence.

As the final whistle attempted to pierce the noise of the crowd, both the North and South Stands were still in full voice, the air around the stadium was that of dejection; similar to at a party that has quickly, and unexpectedly, run out of booze. We headed back to the centre of Belgrade to join the Saturday night revellers in the Three Carrots pub. As the other lads left late on to go to the airport, I left for the hostel, ready for another three days in the city.

I spent a lot of time talking to Zvezda fans during those days. The inevitable question would arrive immediately after they found out I had been to Marakana: “So, who do you support?” It was a question I had heard many times since my arrival; every stranger who met each other, whether they were both Serbs or Serb and English, had asked the other person that. By the end of my first pint after the match I had perfected a confident answer; the confidence growing not just as a result of the impression left on me by the Marakana support, but by the derby hurt glowing in the eyes of the person talking to me. “I’m Zvezda, who do you support?” A grin would sweep across the face before the reply: “Zvezda! Me too. We’re the best team. What did you think of our supporters?”

One Zvezda fan summed up their feelings of what makes the Eternal Derby so special: “The Belgrade derby is a world phenomenon. The standard of football is low but everything else is top class. That’s why it’s the biggest. We have the best atmosphere; the loudest chanting; the most tension, switching between love and hate”.

Sunday resembled one huge hangover, not just in my head but also across the city. Shoppers shuffled along the street looking down; coffee shop couple talked in hushed tones; the Red Star Belgrade fans, numbering many more than Partizan, were hurting. I passed through the usual sights during those days and spent time at a newspaper that produced a profile on me and my observations of the derby. Talk was already of the return fixture and revenge, though by the time it rolls around, Partizan could have secured a sixth successive title. Whatever happens over the course of the season, the greatest atmosphere at any football match in Europe will be in Belgrade, screaming from both the North and the South Stands.

I'll chuck in a few Serbian dinar if you hold both clubs scarves aloft....

....will this do?

Aye lad. #DoublePageSpread

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Like this? Nick Coppack was at The Eternal Derby last season. 

Partizan Belgrade v Red Star Belgrade

Making the grade 

Partizan Belgrade 2-0 Red Star Belgrade (16:03:11)

Forty-eight hours after discovering Manchester's two sides would meet in an FA Cup semi-final at Wembley, United fan Nick Coppack flew to Serbia to witness a truly explosive derby...

Belgrade still bears the scars of a 77-day bombing campaign carried out by NATO air forces in 1999. Buildings, reduced to empty shells at the time, stand in a permanent state of disrepair, reminders of the latest chapter in Serbia's bloody history. As I pass another crumbling structure, the sun piercing its open heart, my taxi driver recalls: “It felt like aliens were attacking. We couldn't see the enemy and we couldn't hear them. Bombs would just fall from the sky – you'd feel the explosion, duck for cover and pray. If you could open your eyes and walk again afterwards, you were lucky and thanked God.”

You'd think a football match would pale by comparison, then. But no. On the morning of the Serbian FA Cup semi-final first leg, a game that's pitted the two giants of Serbian football – Partizan and Red Star – against each other, an official from one of the clubs tells me: “Tonight is not a football match. Tonight is war.” For a brief moment, I smile. But he's not joking.

In 1999, a 17-year-old Red Star fan died when he was hit by a burning flare, launched by Partizan supporters from the other end of the stadium. Ten years later, in April 2009, when the two sides met in the league, police made 95 arrests, as violent scenes before, during and after the match overshadowed Partizan's 2-0 victory. Fire fighters had to intervene at the final whistle as Red Star fans set alight part of the north stand.

Outbreaks of violence have become so prevalent at this fixture that last October the mayor of Belgrade, Dragan Dilas, called for the derby to be played behind closed doors. It was an idea that gained plenty of public support but ultimately didn't come to fruition.

Make no mistake: Partizan against Red Star stirs the emotions like few other occasions in world football. Those intrinsically involved know this well, and ahead of this latest meeting Red Star manager Robert Prosinecki (one of the finest footballers to emerge from the former Yugoslavia and a member of Red Star's hallowed 1991 European Cup-winning side) appeals for order in his pre-match press conference.

"I would like to see a capacity crowd and rival fans cheering their teams without fighting each other or causing any sort of trouble,” he says. “No matter who wins we hope it will be an afternoon to remember for all the right reasons.”

I arrive in Belgrade on Tuesday afternoon, just after Prosinecki's press conference and a little more than 24 hours before kick-off. The journey with Swiss Air from Manchester – a two-legged affair broken up by a transfer in Zurich – is painless. Enjoyable, even. My return flights cost me £171 (taxes included). A taxi to my hotel in the heart of Belgrade takes about 20 minutes and sets me back the equivalent of about £11. For £2, the airport bus is considerably cheaper (although the taxi fare is still a bargain by British standards) but takes longer and is far less comfortable.

On my first night in Belgrade I figure that in order to stomach a game known around the world as the Eternal derby I'd best get a good meal down me. Luckily, Serbian cuisine is made to measure. Meat and cheese figure prominently on menus and I eat vast quantities of both at a quaint restaurant on Skadarska, a cobbled street that feels as if it's in rural Serbia rather than bustling Belgrade. In each of its restaurants, musicians play rousing traditional folk songs to accompany your meal. Mine, two giant courses and a pint of Niksicko Tamno – a gorgeous, syrupy dark local beer – causes £12 worth of damage to my wallet.

Over another drink in Republic Square – sprawling outdoor coffee shops and al fresco dining are all the rage in Belgrade – I mention to my waiter that I've travelled from Manchester for the derby. He can't believe it. “Why?” he asks, aghast. “It's nothing special. Your football is much better.” Maybe so, I tell him, before explaining that the Belgrade derby has long been a fixture that's fascinated me. “Good luck then,” he says. “But be careful. Keep a low profile.”

On matchday morning I wake early and head to the ground to collect my ticket. Stadion Partizan and Red Star's home, the Marakana, lie 2.5 miles out of town. If the rival sets of supporters – Partizan's Grobari (“The Grave Diggers”) and the Delije (loosely, “Brave Men”) didn't have a reputation for settling differences a little more vigorously, you'd probably say the stadiums are within spitting distance of each other. Both boast rich histories yet neither structure (by Western European standards, at least) can lay claim to modern facilities. Ostensibly, like much of Belgrade, they hark back to the past, character oozing from their cracked, crumbling and graffitied façades.

Make time to visit both grounds (taxis are cheap and convenient but trams 2, 7 and 9, as well as trolley buses 40 and 41, will also get you near enough). The Marakana, once able to hold in excess of 100,000, now has a capacity of 55,000 although averages fewer than 10,000 most weeks. “If we're not playing Partizan, people aren't bothered,” a Red Star employee tells me. “Ticket prices are low [from £2 up to £10 for the VIP treatment] but Serbians can be lazy – they'd rather watch reality TV.”

The Marakana is impressive, though, and imposes by sheer virtue of its size. Its museum is well worth a visit, too, and contains countless trophies and tributes to Red Star's finest achievements. Ultimate respect is paid to the 1991 European Cup-winning side, a team containing the likes of Prosinecki, Darko Pancev, Dejan Savicevic, Vladimir Jugovic and Sinisa Mihajlovic. The museum also houses a respectful tribute to the Manchester United side decimated by the Munich air crash in 1958, a day after facing Red Star in Belgrade.

That match was actually played at Partizan's home (Red Star's floodlights, however tall, were deemed insufficient), a smaller ground that, in recent years, has hosted both Europa League and Champions League football. Like its big brother down the road, though, it lacks good looks... aside from a bold glass front at the stadium's north end that's as much of a contrast in architecture as Yugoslavia's performances were at the 1986 (did not qualify) and 1990 World Cups (quarter-finalists).

The Marakana - home of Red Star Belgrade

Or if you prefer: Стадион Црвена Звезда

It's at Partizan's home where this Belgrade derby, the 170th, takes place. And three-and-a-half hours before kick-off, at a time when, in England, only the keenest fans and odd car-park stewards are visible, the streets around Stadion Partizan are heaving, Mainly, mind you, with those entrusted to keep the peace. As well as regular police, the riot squad – dressed like a Serbian approximation of RoboCop – stand guard in fours on almost every street corner for a one-mile radius. And then there are the camouflage-clad “special forces” - steely stares permanent, powerful guns at the ready.

“They expect trouble,” my taxi driver tells me as he drops me a short distance from the ground. “See these buses? They are for the police. There aren't enough in Belgrade so they bus reinforcements in from nearby towns and cities.” At the last derby, 5000 police were in attendance.

Mercifully, they aren't required on this occasion. Or, perhaps more accurately, their role is about prevention rather than cure. Their heavy presence, if not heavy handed, is certainly persuasive. The derby passes off without any major flashpoints.

Heavy presence, if not heavy handed

Partizan Stadium aka "Fudbalski Hram" (The Temple of Football)

That's not to say I feel safe strolling the streets prior to kick-off. I've walked through Stanley Park in Liverpool with Manchester United fans, braved the “chicken run” at Upton Park and been chased through the streets of Dubrovnik by angry bottle-hurling Croatia fans. But I've never felt as tense or on-edge as I do here. Young men – at least 95% of the crowd are male – huddle in small groups on the road and in nearby parks, hooded and surly, almost uniformly dressed in black. No colours, no chants, no hint of any allegiance. The tension is extreme.

Only once inside, after negotiating at least two lines of body searches, do fans belt out their anthems. And early. An hour before kick-off, each end – Partizan in the south, Red Star in the north – is half full, as fans jostle for vocal supremacy. Officially, Red Star have an allocation of roughly 7000, but with tickets in Serbia going on general sale there's nothing stopping fans buying seats in one of the stands alongside the touchline and either crossing the line of segregation or, as is the case here, unofficially extending the away end into the northern ends of both the east and west stands. Tickets, even for the derby, can be obtained on the day and should cost you no more than £10 at face value.

Fireworks crack and fizz constantly in the build-up to kick-off and fans crank up the volume when the teams appear. Led by a man with a megaphone, the home support chants incessantly and gestures towards the other end of the ground. I can't understand Serbian, but I'm willing to bet they're not wishing their opponents good luck.

Partizan's Grobari (“The Grave Diggers”)

Then come the flares. In a choreographed display of colour, the Delije unfurl streamers, wave white balloons and set off flaming red beacons. Partizan fans respond by bouncing up and down in unison. The ground shakes.

I'm sat in the press area, at the top of the east stand and close to the hardcore Grobari. And with so much to look at in the stands, I almost miss the first goal after four minutes. Prince Tagoe, one of two Ghanaians to appear in the game, shows great reactions to divert Milan Smiljanic's long-range shot past Red Star goalkeeper Sasa Stamenkovic from the edge of the penalty area. Advantage Partizan.

The passion off the pitch extends onto it. Every tackle is committed and strong, every over-hit long pass chased as if it were inch-perfect. Referee Milan Karadzic dishes out 10 yellow cards and, in separate incidents, he and one of his assistants are involved in a shoving match with Red Star players.

The home side go into the break 1-0 up. Refreshingly, there are no half-time penalty shoot-outs, raffle draws or stadium announcers wishing happy birthdays. Instead, fans chant and chat over the top of cheesy Euro-pop, many snacking on pistachio nuts sold by the street vendors outside.

Within four minutes of the restart, Partizan double their lead. Again the goal comes via Prince Tagoe's head and again the Grobari celebrate wildly. So much so, on this occasion, that the game has to be halted for five minutes as smoke from several flares engulf the arena and render the pitch unplayable. Fire fighters are positioned at both ends and are kept busy all night, extinguishing flares thrown onto the running track that surrounds the pitch.

The match ends 2-0, although both teams have more than their fair share of chances to find the net. Partizan's press officer later tells me I've been lucky enough to witness the most open and entertaining derby in years.

At the final whistle, the home side run to the south stand to celebrate with their most vociferous supporters, some of whom vault the barrier to join the party or request pieces of kit as souvenirs. One fan obtains his hero's shirt, only for another to wrestle him for it and, after emerging victorious, toss it into the crowd.

The Delije aren't kept inside the ground or herded away via special routes to minimise the threat of violence. Instead, as it did before kick-off, self-preservation dictates a necessity for everybody to exhibit outward neutrality: Partizan fans struggle to suppress smiles, Red Star fans frowns.

Meanwhile, I'm left to reflect on an exhilarating evening. I've watched football on four different continents but have never witnessed the sort of tension and fervour as I did in Belgrade. It's certainly not a fixture for the feint-hearted – Partizan v Red Star is one of football's most fiercest rivalries and matches can be extremely dangerous – but if you maintain a low profile and keep your wits about you a trip to Serbia to watch the Eternal derby is something you'll never forget.

I'm almost tempted to describe it as a once-in-a-lifetime experience, but that would be a lie: after all, they'll do it all again when the second leg takes place at the Marakana on 6 April. Fancy it?

Same again on 6 April chaps

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