Story of a city on the evening of a war.

At first the Dempsey jersey draws some double-takes. Some palpable disbelief. A few smirks and tongue-in-cheek nods, like I'm playing with fire. Hope you know what you're in for.

In Bosnia, football is deeper than religion. It's identity. Sarajevo has only a little of what could be called street art, but it's filled with graffiti. Ugly scrawls like prison tattoos mainly marking territory, name'dropping for what in England would be called firms, or in America simply gangs, dedicated to football teams, with larger clubs having several competing ones. In many cases identifying with the team is secondary to your supporter affiliation, your barra brava. In Mostar I thought the "Red Army" tags I saw everywhere were holdovers from the Croatian War, or the Serbian forces from the onslaught of the early Nineties. War'cries still audible from decades ago. The truth is the same basic idea, but wrong timeframe. The Red Army is the supporters group for FK Velež, one of Mostar's two football teams. I know this because I met one of its footsoldiers. My hostel owner's nephew who drove a small group of us around Herzegovina explained that FK Velež is the club for Mostar's Bosnian supporters, traditionally unapologetically left-wing (he openly expressed his deep love for General Tito, the Communist leader of Yugoslavia who died a good decade before he was born). Velež is the bloody rival of HŠK Zrinjski, Mostar's other football team- this one supported by Croats and the extreme right-wing. A city's people divided by loyalties only ostensibly about the football on the field, but more'so a way to suggest the War is more dormant than truly completed, aggression merely sleeping. The frequent riots and clashes between the two groups, the fact that he changed out of his Velež shirt when crossing into a Croat and Zrinjski neighborhood to avoid instigating a fight, pretty much supports this.

Everywhere I go in Sarajevo, I see Vedran Puljić. His image is stenciled all throughout the city like an obscure Che Guevara. In the Baščaršija, on buildings across from the cathedrals, south of the Miljacka River, and sprayed huge on a heartfelt if artistically-lacking mural upon the city's Olympic stadium. He's dead, of course; no living person stirs such genuine loyalty or iconography in a free society. He was a supporter of FK Sarajevo, 24 when he was killed, apparently by police, during massive hooligan rioting between two firms in 2009. Couple that allegiance with the implied open rebellion against police authority, a romanticized subversiveness, and you not only spawn a dangerous legend, but announce to the observant visitor what it is the people around you hold dear.

So yeah. I knew what I was in for. Maybe not the same as traveling to an away game at Azteca (no bags of urine raining down from above) but every second I had on a US soccer jersey on the day they were playing the Bosnian national team, I was, by definition, the enemy. Because empty name aside, there's no such thing as a friendly. 

Game day was my fifth and planned final day in Bosnia, a country I've been strangely protective towards since it came into existence in the early Nineties, and that I'd only come to love more when actually visiting it. The elderly hostel owner had taken to me immediately, playfully chiding me for Americanizing how I pronounce my last name, away from the traditional Polish inflection. I was welcomed back from an overnight trip to Mostar like a prodigal son, with kisses on my cheek and a proud announcement she'd not only kept my same bed reserved but made sure my other four dormmates were now women. "Like a harem. Just for you." The city's bars were simple but absurdly fun. Tall tables set out along the sidewalk, even on the opposite one across from the actual bar, people huddling around with an open sky above and the city around, a palpable enjoyment of summer and the optimism such heat brings. On my second night out I met 3 members of the US team I'd be watching in a few days who had just arrived in Sarajevo from their various European clubs. I wished them luck in the game before giving them advice on bars around the city. An hour later, we then met Bosnia's star player, Edin Džeko, and watched as cars double-parked abruptly in the narrow street so kids could run out from the passenger seats for a picture with him. The food, the scenery, the breathtaking women, everything a perfect payoff for the twenty years of anticipation toward finally coming to Sarajevo. So it was difficult for this city, filled with everything I'd come to love so quickly, to be against me, even if it was just for the evening.

The cab never shows so the four of us walk the mile and a quarter uphill to the stadium. The American, British, and German girls with me all adopted Bosnian gear, my lone US shirt lost in surrounding royal blue and yellow, rivers of Džeko jerseys weaving through the bullet'ridden streets stronger and faster than the Miljacka. We arrive at the overflowing stadium shortly before kickoff, but still with time to pregame at one of the two adjacent bars, since we recognize our hostel owner's son at one of the tables. As we got closer to the stadium, to gametime, the novelty factor of the Dempsey jersey wore off and rather than smirks from the occasional passerby, it was stares from packs of scalp'shaven men, whispers and neck'cranes and more whispers. We finish our bottles of Sarajevsko and start off toward the stands, saying goodbye to the dorm owner's son and to an older man in full yellow and blue gear who'd been speaking to me exclusively in Bosnian and laughing at jokes I could guess at but not comprehend. I offer my hand with an "I think you'll win 3-1... We'll at least get one... Good luck," and he returns the shake with a smiling "See you after the game" and when I try to pull my hand away he won't allow it and then repeats, this time minus the smile "See you after the game." I nod a deadpan goodbye and enter the stadium with the girls, and we take some of the only remaining seats which are the rows to the front, less'valued because of the ambulances and sideline boards obscuring the view. Not to mention you're that much closer to the giant metal fences of chainlink diamonds, the old pens banned decades ago in England after 96 supporters were crushed to death at Hillsborough. Walking down to the front, my back is to the Bosnian crowd behind me, my DEMPSEY nameplate drawing even further attention as the only American supporter in our entire fenced'in quarter, one of only about 20 or 30 in the entire stadium of twenty'four thousand. 

When the Bosnian team takes the field there are flares, and chants like penned'thunder from throughout the ground after each of their two opening goals. The Bosnian fans, and yes my accompanying German, English, and American contingent, stand to drum on the plastic seats in celebration. I just grin the appreciative smirk of the outsider, my loyalties too rooted to join in or to be pleased with the scoreline, but seeing the people of a city I love so happy is an acceptable consolation. At halftime a number of fans go to the section's concession table which is two men pouring paper cups of Pepsi from a 2'liter. When the US scores a harmless goal ten minutes later ("We'll at least get one") there's little distraction from the continued buzz of Bosnian domination. But the second US goal that comes just 4 minutes later is met with anger and immediate looks towards me from the fans around. I don't celebrate externally, I'm reckless but not an idiot. It stays at two'all for almost half an hour, which seems like the perfect scoreline, everyone leaving with at least an exciting game, but then Jozy Altidore scores two more American goals within three minutes, the first an absolutely filthy free kick, and the final consolation goal by Džeko doesn't lighten any moods or make my walk home any safer. It ends 4-3 to the US and despite taking my jersey off after the fourth goal to salvage a little anonymity on the walk back down the hill to the city center, I still get a few "Have a good night Dempsey"s from disappointed Bosnian fans. But thankfully far less stares and pointing mumbles.

I manage to find some of those other elusive American supporters afterward and my celebration goes too long. I miss both my alarm and early morning flight, making it to the check-in counter 15 minutes too late, but just in time to see a contingent of the US team checking-in beside me to redisperse back across Europe. The conversation with my cab driver back to my hostel starts with the game, but quickly shifts topics to the city, the women, the film festival that's about to start and the round'the'clock parties it brings with it. He recommends I stay to experience it and the only thing holding me back from doing that is reality, not emotion. Because I no longer feel an outsider, not the enemy of last night's expired conflict. Still an American and still my Sarajevo and in my last few hours in the city before my overdue departure, these two designations find a proud harmony.