March 2002
Neum Port, Bosnia and Herzegovina
Along the narrow coastal strip of the Dalmatian coast, port construction had always favored the longer shorelines of neighboring countries. Bosnia and Herzegovina was left with just 24 kilometers of coastline—and a single harbor: Neum Port.
It was the only real gateway for the country's fishermen and fleets.
Under the night sky, stars twinkled overhead, and a bright moon cast a pale glow amid the countless lights. But that faint shimmer barely touched the vast, swallowing darkness of the sea.
A lone lighthouse stood defiant on the endless black water. Its weak beam was the only light piercing the night, flickering like a beacon guiding sailors home.
Soon, a low, resonant whistle cut through the silence.
Whoosh~~~~~~~~!
The ship's horn rolled across the waves, echoing toward the shore.
In an instant, the sleepy port sprang to life.
Floodlights snapped on from high poles. Workers and sailors jolted awake, scrambling out of bunks.
"They're back! Fleet's docking!"
"Up and at 'em, boys—time to work!"
"Hustle! Get those barrows ready!"
One by one, the men rose, pulling on heavy bib overalls and rain boots with practiced ease. They grabbed single-wheel barrows, gripped the handles tight, and poised to charge.
These dockworkers—sun-baked skin, wild hair, sharp eyes—stared hungrily at the approaching boats.
But one figure stood out in the crowd.
A kid, maybe 150 centimeters tall, with yellow-toned skin and jet-black hair. Skinny and small, he wore oversized bib waders, the suspenders knotted high on his shoulders to hike them up as much as possible. Even then, the crotch sagged comically low, making him look like a pint-sized cartoon character.
No one batted an eye. The little guy belonged here.
Round head, chubby cheeks—he looked twelve or thirteen—but his gaze was steely, fixed ahead like he was ready to carve his way through the grown men.
As the fishing boats eased into dock, shouts from the foremen rang out. The workers surged forward like a breaking wave.
"I'm in!"
"First come, first served!"
"Slowpokes get nothing!"
Barrows rattled as men pushed hard. In a port without machines, muscle was king.
Every fleet return was payday: one trip meant 10 marks; a few more could equal half a month's wages.
The fastest broke ahead into the lead pack. Surprisingly, the boy was right there with them.
His legs were short, but his steps quick and nimble. He darted through gaps, avoiding clashes with the burly workers, keeping pace with the frontrunners.
They reached the boats first.
The boy zeroed in on one and yelled, "Kovačević! Load me up—quick!"
A head popped up from the deck—a young guy around 25, sailor's cap tilted. He grinned wide. "Hey! Suker, long time no see!"
"Long time. Now hurry and load!"
Suker waved him off impatiently.
Kovačević shrugged, turned, and shouted, "Captain! Suker's here—get ready to load!"
A bearded man chuckled. "Guys, Suker's rushing us again!"
Laughter rolled across the boat.
Suker's round face flushed with annoyance, but the crew moved fast. They popped the hold covers, sorted the catch roughly, and shoveled heaps into his barrow. Suker slapped a wooden lid on top, spun, and bolted for the delivery point.
He was agile, but still a kid—undeveloped, weak. The loaded barrow slowed him to a crawl, dropping him back into the trailing group.
Staring at the distant lights ahead, he muttered curses under his breath: "Stupid port—why's the drop-off so damn far?"
He grumbled, but his short legs pumped harder. Under the weight, his pace tanked. After one trip, he was dead last.
*Splash!!*
He reached the delivery line—ten numbered troughs, 1 through 10. A recorder sat opposite each one. Finish a dump, get your name logged.
Suker's moves were smooth: jam the wheel against the board, hoist the handles, tip the fish in, then sprint back.
"Suker! One trip!"
The recorder noted it quietly.
In under an hour, the catch was cleared.
Dawn broke over the port. Merchants happily took the haul for resale; locals showed up to buy fresh fish for market. The place buzzed with energy.
On the far side, workers lined up for payout. A supervisor handed out cash at the front.
"Sesić, 15 trips—150 marks!"
A Bosnian Muslim worker grinned, counted the bills, pocketed them, and walked off happy. Half a month's pay for one morning.
"Svejković, 13 trips—130 marks!"
A Croatian-descended guy next.
One after another, they collected.
Soon, short Suker stood in front.
The supervisor glanced down, pulled bills. "Suker, 10 trips—100 marks!"
Suker's eyes widened. "No way! I did 12. You shorted me two!"
"It's logged as 10," the man said flatly.
"He messed up!" Suker shouted. "You can't cheat wages—or no one'll work here again!"
The supervisor's face hardened. Workers behind grumbled impatiently.
But Suker didn't back down. Small as he was, his voice carried, drawing a crowd.
More onlookers gathered. The supervisor sighed, leaned in cold: "It's 10. Want to keep this gig? Take it and beat it."
Suker stared at the money, then snatched it. He flipped the supervisor an international middle finger, spun, and stormed off.
Smart move—push too hard, and he'd lose more than cash. Maybe get roughed up.
With Suker gone, the line moved on.
He slumped on some steps at the port's edge, staring at the bills. "Twenty marks short. That's ten whole milks..."
"Harun, that cheap bastard—why pick on me?"
His head drooped, mood sinking.
"Better less money than no job at all."
A voice from the side.
Suker looked up—Kovačević, tossing him a milk carton.
Suker's eyes lit up. He caught it, twisted the cap, and chugged.
Kovačević eyed him up and down. "Still haven't grown, huh? I was over 170 cm at 16."
"I'll grow!" Suker wiped milk from his lips. "Late bloomer."
Kovačević grinned. "Who'd believe this 150-cm shrimp plays pro in the Bosnia Third League?"
Suker wagged a finger. "Top scorer, actually."
Kovačević raised a brow. "Goals this season?"
"Eight so far."
"League's around round 12 now, right?"
"Eleven rounds—eight goals."
Kovačević gave a thumbs-up. "Not bad, kid."
Suker smiled. "A guy like me's still grinding. Ever think of coming back to football?"
Kovačević laughed. "Football? I'm 25, stuck in third tier. Call it amateur everywhere outside the Super League. I don't want to scrape by playing and working docks."
"I still miss your passes—those long, flashy ones."
Kovačević sat beside him. "I quit for good. Right choice. Wish me luck."
Suker shrugged. "Fine. Good luck."
Pause. Then Suker grinned slyly. "As ex-teammates, do me a solid?"
"What?"
Suker's baby face turned fierce. "Testify for me. I wanna report Harun for child labor!"
Kovačević's jaw dropped. "You serious?"
"That jerk shorted me big. I want double payback."