For 62 minutes in Saint-Étienne, Croatia produced football of rare poise and elegance—a performance Ivan Rakitic would later call “a thing of beauty.” It was, until it was not. The artistry of Ante Cacic’s team was ultimately overshadowed by an ugliness that has become an unwelcome leitmotif of this European Championship: supporters tearing down what their players so carefully built.
On the
pitch, Croatia were majestic. Luka Modric, the conductor of this symphony,
dictated the tempo with a grace and intelligence that seemed beyond Czech
comprehension. Ivan Perisic’s crisp, low drive and Rakitic’s audacious chip
over Petr Cech spoke of a team not just in control but revelling in its
superiority. Even the 14 minutes after Milan Skoda’s header seemed destined to be
little more than a footnote.
Then came
the flares—a torrent of bright red arcs that fell like fiery omens into the
goalmouth Cech was guarding. One, two, then perhaps fifteen erupted, spilling
smoke and panic. A steward fell, clutching his ears as a flare exploded nearby.
Mark Clattenburg halted the match, while a Croatian PA announcer pleaded with
the visiting fans to “leave the stadium and don’t embarrass our country.”
Darijo Srna, tears still fresh in memory from the funeral of his father only
days earlier, implored the supporters with all the weight of personal grief and
national pride. But reason was already lost to chaos.
For as long
as the game remained just a game, Croatia were too clever, too fleet of foot,
and simply too good. Modric’s departure with a tentative hand on his groin had
seemed a mere precaution. When Rakitic’s goal doubled the lead—gifted by a
Czech side that repeatedly surrendered possession under minimal
duress—Croatia’s path appeared clear, the performance a testament to their
fluidity and technical excellence.
But football matches are not played solely on the turf. The psychic rupture caused by those flares—the knowledge that family and friends were caught in the same unruly cluster of Croatian fans—permeated the players’ focus. What followed was a slow erosion of composure. Srna’s earlier show of stoic courage gave way to glances of concern toward the stands. Domagoj Vida’s raised arm in the 94th minute was less an act of malice than of frayed concentration, a symptom of collective distraction. Still, it was enough for Clattenburg to award a penalty, dispatched with chilling calm by Tomas Necid.
Rakitic’s
post-match fury was edged with sorrow. “It’s happened before,” he lamented. “We
were playing beautiful football. Then everything changed.” His words, addressed
more to the world than to the guilty few, rang with both apology and
indictment. “We have to say sorry to Uefa, to the Czech Republic, to everyone
who loves football.”
This match,
for all its moments of technical excellence, thus stands as a stark study in
fragility. Croatia had built something close to perfection, only to see it
undone by forces ostensibly on their own side. Their fans—whom coach Cacic
denounced as “sporting terrorists”—managed in mere minutes what the Czech
Republic could not in an hour: they dismantled Croatia’s serene authority,
infected it with anxiety, and left behind a team visibly shaken, a captain
publicly broken, and a reputation in tatters.
As for the
tournament, it must reckon now with the uncomfortable truth that some of its
most exquisite football might be shadowed by the ugliest of human behaviours.
Croatia’s players deserve better; the question is whether their supporters will
ever allow them to show it.
Thank You
Faisal Caesar
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