“The Biggest Name of Them All” - published by Aethlon (US)

“The Biggest Name of Them All,” a tale of a famous Yugoslav football star from the 1950s, was published in September by Aethlon, a US literary sports journal.





The pair of albino brothers aside, among the rest of the black faces there
was only this one other white. The man was vaguely guessed as Macedonian
perhaps. No, Montenegrin, he said. An Albanian—or more properly Shiptar—
from down in Ulcinj near the border. Not many eighty years olds were so
upright and firm. In fact at one time Chika Churovic had lived a couple of
streets away in our neighborhood. It soon turned out we knew fifty people in
common.

— I would say one hundred, Chika Churovic corrected, smiling broadly
like older men rarely smiled.

At first sight the man had appeared unapproachable and forbidding. Well
dressed and a strength of character one immediately felt. The fullness of feeling
in speaking of the past and about those who had been dear to him—his young
orphanhood, his mother, proven friends and relations—only confirmed the
impression later.

Such numbers of mutual acquaintance, now mostly dead. One was in
a wheelchair with his wife the same, their junkie son having OD-ed in his
twenties. This man had been the trener, the coach of Footscray JUST soccer club,
where for many years Mr. Churovic had been a stalwart.

As the conversations unfolded slowly dozens of other mutual friends and
acquaintances emerged.

Former club president Chika Ante who founded The Vineyard steakhouse
in Acland Street. Old Mr. Jankovic in our street who passed away only last year
at one hundred and three. (Chika Churovic had heard Mr. J. had had a German
wife.) Our tenant Vlajko killing himself on the road rushing to get his rifle
after being beaten up by Hasan the security man at a Gertrude Street bar. The
muscle Hasan was still around the traps, Chika Churovic revealed, even in his
mid-seventies a powerhouse.

There was much to wonder at and much to mourn.

Chika Churovic was close to all these men, regardless of race or creed. In
the 60s and 70s the Yugoslav ideal had reigned strongly and all had found a
place under the JUST tent.

Inevitably, the most famous name in Yugoslav football soon came up.

In youth Chika Churo had been a player himself; one of his sons had even
worn Australian colors. Back in the old country Chika Churo had been an avid
fan of Partizan, founded by the then Yugoslav general Franjo Tudjman, who
after the disaster of the breakup of the country became the first president of
independent Croatia. Chika Churo had caught trains and even planes to see
Partizan play.

With football such a large part of the life, by the second meeting the
brightest, most remarkable star was dealt like a joker from the pack at the café
table.

— One name stands above all others in our football, right Chika Churovic?

— …. Well, Sekularac.

Ah, yes indeed. None other. The incomparable.

The old stories from forty and more years ago were elicited. One could
never tire of them.

The events themselves featuring Seki were now sixty and more years past,
but those former tales continued to gush so many decades later. A pleasure to
have them recreated by another source.

At a match in Brazil between the respective national teams of the era Seki
had turned to tell the great Pele.

— You are the king of the blacks; I of the white race, Sekularac informed
the young star.

There was no record of the other’s response. Likely the Brazilian was as
flabbergasted as the rest of us.

Seki had won the right to speak like that to the great Pele. A famous story
that had been told by numerous Yugoslavs of the time, though the place of the
meeting had not been known previously.

Had Seki been English, German, anything but Yugoslav, there would have
been no end to the fanfare, many had held.

At that famous meeting of black and white grandmasters—not in Rio;
another Brazilian city; perhaps Sao Paolo—one hundred and sixty or seventy
thousand people had packed the stadium, Chika Churovic informed. The
number was still a world record. What was the MCG or any other global arena
by comparison?

Seki in a more famous game still, against the Russian national team.
Again, in the tellings of forty years ago it had never emerged where this famous
match had occurred. Somehow it had been assumed it was played in Belgrade
sometime in the fifties or early sixties, perhaps a decade or so since the brave
Yugoslavs had stared down the threat from Stalin and won for themselves a
measure of independence. The Third Way. The Non-Aligned Movement. In that
period Serbs, Croats and Shiptars cheered the same teams.

Numerous hearings of this famous tale of which one could never tire as
a youth, even a youth who had had no interest whatsoever in the round ball
game.

So many years later Chika Churovic’s authoritative manner sealed the
matter.

The 1956 Olympic football final, Melbourne. The decider for gold against
the Russians.

Sekularac takes the ball away from so many Soviet attackers in the Yugoslav
defensive half. A technical supremo showing great flair and control. Signature
dribble. Feints left and right. A scorching run across the ground leaving hapless
opponents floundering in his wake.

After the dazzling dance through the penalty box at the end Seki rolls the
ball to the defending goal-line, where the stadium was brought to a collective
drawing of breath as the man stopped dead.

Having beaten eight or nine men with such remarkable maneuvering, such
élan and grace, a moment’s deserved pause like at the completion of a favorite
aria at the opera.

Possibly Seki needed to catch his own breath too. The fullness of the
crowd’s appreciation raining down upon the audacious sprite.

A foot raised onto the ball like a ballerina, one had pictured the famous
moment.

Chika Churo revised that image by having the tearaway drop onto his
haunches to actually sit upon the leather. Something like a smoko playing to
the mass of fans across the tiered stands. Unscripted sporting vaudeville of the
most extravagant kind.

What did it matter that Seki failed to see the sly Ruski creeping up behind
like a thief, a contemptible pick-pocket? Swing of the leg. Goal to the Russians.
1:0.

(Did Seki land flat on his face when his seat was rudely kicked from
beneath him?)

Russian gold at the expense of the better team. The great star and brash,
arrogant showman to blame.

In none of the earlier reports was the outcome of the game revealed, much
less criticism of the villain. It was only the brilliant, reckless taunt that had
featured.

Gumption beyond all compare. Something from the children’s playground
enacted on this great stage.

Again in the initial telling of Chika Churo’s the same questions had hung
unasked. There had been no time or opportunity.

After the breathless moment, after that gargantuan gall, the ultimate
outcome had been inconsequential.

Olympic gold? Who gave a rat’s for that!

Forty and more years ago the story was first heard. Heard from fans and
also from men who had had no interest in football and never attended a match.

A German opponent had once asked Seki for a gift of his pair of boots. Why?
the star had responded. Well, it might bring some luck, some of the prowess, he
was answered. It’s not the boot that make the player. It’s.... Seki knocking his
temple like Chika Churo demonstrates at the African cafe in Footscray.

The disaster of knocking down the ref in the game at Nis, in southern
Serbia, remained. Inevitably that had to come too.

Seki was wild and reckless, right? Totally undisciplined?

There was no express agreement from Chika Churo, who would not add
his own word to the common reservation on Sekularac.

On the park at Nis a dispute had developed with the referee. First a hand
placed on the official, followed by a blow of some description.

Down the man went to the turf, with a name thereby forever immortalized
in the annals of sport.

Tumbas, Chika Churo pronounced. Pavle Tumbas. A nobody by this means
finding a place in the history of the world game.

Was it the end of the career? Was Seki the same player afterward? It needed
follow-up with Chika Churo.

A surprise that had not been previously revealed was the great Seki’s
ancestry.

The man belonged to none of the Yugolav ethnic or religious groups,
Chika Churo announced. The igrac sva vremena, player of all time, had been a
Macedonian gypsy.

Another remarkable layer to add to the myth.

No more perfectly apt lineage could be imagined for such a star, a kind of
Hollywood script having him hail from the caravans and gambling dens of the
Roma.

Something of the wild dance before the campfire in that genetic inheritance,
brawling and knife-fights over card games and beautiful women. In forest
clearings across the Balkans Seki’s ancestors had told stories and shared the
pickings of the day. A talent scout had spotted the boy kicking a bundle of rags
across a field perhaps, recruiting him to famous Red Star Belgrade.

(One could not trust Google for the less colorful record.)

Twilight years saw Seki playing in Latin America and the Bundesliga,
followed in the early ‘80s by one of his last involvements in the game as the
trener at Footscray JUST.

Not surprisingly, there was little noteworthy from that latter period. A
second wife and child; poker games in the JUST canteen after training; a man
of correct and dignified bearing, Chika Churovic noted.

How did the team fare under the former maestro? Had there been
championship honours? The Greek and Italian teams had dominated that era.
Even Maltese George Cross often figured more prominently than our JUST.

The thread was never taken up again, Ramadan intervening and an illness
in the family at Chika Churo’s.

Last report had Seki living in retirement in current day Serbia.



NB: In the official record Dragoslav Sekularac was surprisingly assigned a
Montenegrin paternity; his father had worked in Macedonia. Surprising news
for Chika Churo, and one would have thought of some interest. Not in fact the
case as it proved.