Dubrovnik, Days 7-9

---

Greetings from Dubrovnik!

I hope all the week 1 kids made it home safe and sound, and that you’re all enjoying the beginning of hell week – I know how much you were all looking forward to it.

Day 7: The travel day actually went blissfully without incident (at least on our end – I haven’t heard anything from the other group but can only assume that’s a good thing). We all woke up at an early but reasonable time (7:00), got some breakfast, and hit the road. We were in the airport by 9:15, which gave us an hour to kill before the first group had to go through security and the second group was to get picked up. The kids killed time in the expected ways: playing cell phone games, exchanging money, and thumbing through the Croatian newspapers. Eventually we all said our good-byes and made our way to the arrivals area where we were to get picked up by a van/bus/truck/something motorized with 14 seats. Actually, now that I think about it, I guess I can’t really say it went totally without incident. Deciding that it would be infinitely easier for the driver to spot us than vice versa, we planted ourselves outside the arrivals area at 10:20 for a 10:30 pick-up time. 10:30 passed. Nothing. 10:35. 10:40. 10:45. I’m digging through my bag to find a phone number to call. Finally at 10:50 an older man who spoke a shockingly large amount of English came up to us and said, “America water polo? I have been here an hour, why not find van?” He then led us to a totally nondescript white van parked in the far back corner of the parking lot right next to the chain-link fence. Not only did it not have a sign, you couldn’t even see it from the gate. Personally, I found it a little dubious that he actually expected us to a) find the van, and b) once found, immediately assume that that was our van. Regardless, we hopped in and headed to the pool. We didn’t know it at the time, but this was a sign of things to come.

Thankfully, it wasn’t the only sign of things to come. We pulled up at the back of the pool facility, which, from the outside, really could be almost anything. There’s no modern façade, no elaborate sign or neon lights, just a big off-white building block that could house anything from a Croatian Costco to the final home of Indiana Jones’s Lost Ark. There are a few stall vendors selling the usual knick-knacks and ice cream, but really the only hint at what’s housed within is the water polo advertisement located above the back door. Inside though? The most beautiful indoor pool facility I’ve ever seen. One pool, 50m x 25m, tiered stands on either side, offices at one end, locker rooms and gym just below the floor level with entrances beneath the stands, so you can walk out from your locker room sanctuary to the roar of the crowd echoing down on you from the ceiling and walls. If the Jadran pool had the heavy, yellow-lighted dankness of an old inner-city boxing gym, the Jug pool has the bright, white-and-blue sterility of a state-of-the-art peak-performance athletic academy. The Jug deck is spotless, its chairs and nets pristine, and its paint hasn’t yet been eroded by the chlorine in the air, but its walls haven’t seen as many teams come and go, its floors absorbed as much sweat, its ceilings and stands echoed as many early-morning and late-night whistles. It has a gift shop and projection areas and underwater cameras, but it doesn’t have an equipment room lit by a single noisy yellow bulb, a room so cramped with balls and weights and belts and bags and black-and-white pictures that all the spongy wet masses of caps – some decades-old – hang down from the missing planks in the ceiling like heavy, hibernating swamp spiders, overgrown and bloated with time. It may have a coaching staff of former national team players, all decked-out in crisp white logoed polo shirts, but it doesn’t have Ivo, the septuagenarian pool manager with wet eyes and a single gnashing snaggletooth, overlong and rotting, who rattles on in a dialect of Serbo-Croatian so mushy I suspect Americans aren’t the only ones that have trouble understanding him, totally cognizant of the fact that the only words he uses that you understand are “water polo” but so excited by the simple prospect of talking about the sport that he doesn’t care how many of the specifics you linguistically understand, all that matters is that you’re united by that common bond. I guess you could say that if the Jug facility is what every program wants, the Jadran facility is how it gets there. (And don’t forget: Jadran will have its own Jug-like facility – complete with “café bar” – next May.)

Upon entering, we went up into the stands, where we could stand in awe of the entire facility. The kids changed, and we went down to the deck to meet Kontic, our Croatian Milos, whose English is more labored but also more earnest, more eager to improve. While Milos was lean, lanky, and smooth, more the businessman than the player-coach, Kontic is blunt and straight-forward, with thick wrists and hands; if Milos’s weapon of choice would be a stiletto, Kontic’s would be his fist. This results in a trade-off: a much more hands-on handling of our water polo practice structuring, but a less smoothly-run operation off the pool deck. Milos is the guy who makes sure our end-of-training round-robin tournament has an engraved “trophy” to commemorate our experience; Kontic is the guy who makes a player go over his hips 15 times in a row in order to work on gripping the water with his lower leg. While I talked with Kontic for a while, the kids got in and warmed up. After that, it was all “technique” work – drills designed to fix certain issues in a player’s fundamentals. (I must say, it was pretty cool to see how much overlap there is in our training emphases.) They were in the pool for around a half hour, then we checked into the hotel. Instead of private vans, Kontic had said he’d provide us all with bus pass cards for the week, which was totally fine with me (even preferable), since the bus system isn’t difficult to figure out, and it would give us more freedom in our timing and choice of activities, but as Monday was a holiday and he therefore couldn’t get the cards, we would have to purchase one-way bus passes from the hotel to get back to and from the pool in the afternoon. We made it safely to the pool in the afternoon for our 5-7pm practice for more technique work. The excitement of this practice was that, around an hour in, our group was finally completed with the arrival of Danny and Dom – Danny in a traffic-guard-orange hat pulled backwards (possibly the most efficient way I’ve ever seen to scream “I’m American!”), and Dom in a Brazil water polo training shirt. Both looked a little skinnier and a little wearier than I remembered, but that seemed to dissipate pretty much as soon as they got in the water. You could feel the collective relief; the group was complete. After more technique work, we went to the “hypermarket” across the street, where the kids stocked up on water and “sour spaghetti,” before we got a taste of what the rush-hour bus system is like in a city with a popular mass transit system. After two buses passed, it became clear to me that there was no way we were getting all of us on one bus, so we split up and, after a sweaty twenty minutes, met up back at the hotel for dinner.

I believe I described the Jadran food earlier as “good” and “filling.” It was both of those: not a lot of variety, but enough to keep the kids sated. Well – and I’m sorry to the Group 1 kids reading this – the Dubrovnik “restaurant” blows the Herceg Novi one out of the water. Multiple pasta dishes and meat choices, fresh-baked pizza, chicken skewers and tuna steaks right off the grill, the Croatian version of a salad bar, and at least four trays of different types of dessert including flan, rice pudding, and raspberry tarts… I don’t think a meal has passed when we didn’t go back at least three times.

So concluded our first day in Dubrovnik. What we had experienced that day: plentiful, tasty food, tricky transportation, and, most importantly, absolutely excellent water polo instruction… well, all of those would continue to hold true.

Day 8: Morning practices were scheduled to be 10-12 every day of our trip, so Kontic told me the first day that he would meet us at our hotel at 9:15 to give us our cards. 9:15 passed. 9:20. 9:25. At 9:30 I gave up. We bought more bus passes and ran to the bus station. Thankfully, we made it to Jug with a good 8 minutes to spare. Apparently the cards still hadn’t come in and Kontic had called my room at the hotel, but as we were all waiting in the lobby, I didn’t hear the call. No matter – we had got a good night’s sleep, we had the whole group together, and we were ready for some water polo. Since it was a morning training, it was technique work. We swam a bit, then worked on moving in a zone and shooting after moving. We also worked with a South African team that is here and trains at the same time we do. Their coach is Croatian, originally from Split, so they come over here to train whenever they can. This year, they brought around 20 boys (like our Herceg Novi group) and 15 girls. The boys are around our boys’ age, and I know Kontic thought joint training sessions would be ideal. We seemed to be a bit faster and more skilled, but they were significantly larger, so, as that pretty accurately summarizes quite a few of our games back home, I was excited to see how we would fare against them when we played them later.

After training, we went back to the hotel for another four-course lunch and a bit longer break between practices: whereas normally we’re scheduled to train at Jug from 5-7, Kontic had arranged for us to play a little three-team round-robin with Gusar (another local club) and the South African team at Gusar’s pool in Mlini from 7-8:30. The boys slept and went down to the beach, then the van picked us up to head to Gusar. The van took us on a winding, two-lane road along a coastal mountain, then dropped us off at the top of a path that led down along the sea to a small dock-city. At the base of this path, right in the water just off the coast, was a beautiful sunken 25m pool. Pictures are attached, but basically it was right next to the end of the dock, built into the sea (there were actually fish swimming around in the “pool”). On the dock side, there were a few levels of stands, with floodlights mounted high on a light pole for night games and a big circular barbeque pit near the end of a row of small shops. On the other side, there was the sea, with big gleaming white boats docked in the cove and white, red-roofed houses and shops sprouting up in clusters like red-topped mushrooms along the coast and tree-covered mountain side across the way. After the kids warmed up outside in the sea, we played the South African team for two twelve-minute running halves. We didn’t keep score, but it wouldn’t have been close – we countered them hard, and they didn’t score their first goal against us until well into the second half. Then we got a break while the South African team was dismantled by the Gusar club team. Dusk was starting to fall and the pool lights were warming up. We could smell the beginning of a barbeque pit, and the dark mountain side was being gradually overcome by the small dots of yellow lights coming through windows and open doors. People sat down in the seats along the pool, bringing with them pet dogs and children not yet old enough to spend the last waning hours of daylight in the streets with their friends. It was our turn to play Gusar. The lights were on and the barbeque was going. The boats were dark along the dock except for one that had small bulbs strung along its second deck like a strand of Christmas lights. Gusar was good, with a thick-necked 2m man and right-handed driver with long hair and an elastic arm. We struggled to keep him off the scoreboard, but we stayed in the game on counters and man-ups, moving the ball quickly. At the end of the dock, a band was warming up, lit up by its own narrower floodlights and testing the levels of its amplifiers. The stands were full now, but the people were largely quiet, as if they just happened by and decided to watch a bit. The long-haired player took a shot outside 5m but barred out. The band started to play a few bars of vaguely recognizable American music. Led Zeppelin maybe? No, more recent. Chase made a nice turn at 2m, but there was a crash right there. We’d been playing a long time, almost 40 minutes straight. Danny came out, said “I think it’s Metallica.” That’s what it is. The 2m man drew an ejection, the long-haired player scored. I looked around. The water was dark except for the strand of Christmas lights and the reflections of the pool and band lights on the shallow ridges of the calm sea. Across the cove, you could just make out the cliff edge against the cloudless sky. The band was playing another song now, another American one, I think it was Steve Miller. I looked at the stands. Men stood in twos and threes, in the corner, eating barbeque. Husbands reclined in their seats, their arms around their wives’ bare shoulders, heads tilted in. Boys took a page out of the husbands’ book (or is it the other way around?) and put their arms around their girlfriends’ barer shoulders. Andrew stole the ball, passed up to Chase, who found Adam on the other side for a goal. A small murmur of appreciation from the crowd. The dogs were sitting down, settled in, like their masters. A nice way to spend a Tuesday evening. The clock hit 8:45 and the ref blew the whistle, signaling the end. A smattering of clapping from the crowd, like the tinkling of a passerby’s pocket change in the open guitar case of a roadside rock star. Thank you, Dubrovnik, for showing me a side of water polo rarely seen: water polo so intrinsic to a cultural identity that it can transcend its pressurized roles of talent-evaluator, character-definer, college-admitter, and become, simply, daily enjoyment.

Day 9: Wednesday started much like Tuesday; that is, with us waiting for someone who didn’t show up. This time, we were waiting for a bus driver. The bus was supposed to pick us up an hour earlier so that we could get a little work done in the Jug gym before practice. 8:45. Nothing. 9:00. 9:10. 9:20. Sigh. Okay, time to buy another bus pass. We got over to Jug at 9:45, where we met by a none-too-happy Kontic. I had figured Kontic had forgotten about opening the gym up for us, and had therefore not told the bus to pick us up early, so I hadn’t bothered to call him since I assumed he wouldn’t be there in the morning anyway. I told him what happened, and he said that the bus driver called him and said that we weren’t there. This reminded me quite a bit of the earlier van driver’s claims to have been at the airport for an hour waiting for us. Kontic realized by our faces that we were clearly as upset as he was, and therefore had indeed been in front of the hotel at the specified time, and so he relented. I should say now that I don’t want you to think badly of Kontic. He has been nothing if not hospitable, structuring personalized practices based on our weaknesses, organizing for national team players to come show us drills, staying late with us to make sure we get everything done… even the minor transportation issues I blame the bus driver, not him. Obviously it’s in his best interests to make sure we have a good time, so he’s going to be friendly, but you just get the feeling that he is genuinely just a good guy. Anyway, Wednesday was our first “Excursion Day,” and, at Kontic’s suggestion, we decided to go to the island of Lopud, just a 50 minute boat ride away and possessed of (couldn’t be!) real sand beaches! Two of them! Our technique work was with Maro Jokovic, a 6’8” left-handed 23-year-old who started playing with the national team when he was 16 and is now one of the best (if not the best) left-handed players in the world. And there he was, a soon-to-be Olympian, showing us how to do things as basic as changing directions and the proper way to fake with a ball. This is why we came here. We go through the technique work, take some pictures, then work on man-ups and man-downs with the South Africans, who struggle mightily with a 2-pop (Cory has probably scored a dozen goals on them by now).

After practice, because the boat was scheduled to depart at 1:30 and the dock was a 10-minute walk from the pool, we didn’t go back to the hotel and instead decided to eat some local fare. Kontic showed us one of his favorite places nearby, where he translated the menu for us and translated our orders for them. If I learned anything from our last boat outing, I learned that a group of high-schoolers can’t go very long without food (nor can I, actually), so while the kids ate, I went to the market and picked up snacks. Since we still had to buy tickets, I told the kids to meet me outside the market at 1:05. I think you know where this is going. The kids finally showed up at 1:15. Uh-oh. We started speed-walking down to the dock when serendipity extended her hand and we ran into Kontic just getting on his Vespa. He looked at his watch and told me to get on his bike (is that what to call it?) with him so that I could buy the tickets while the kids ran to the boat. “Ride on Vespa” has now officially been checked off my bucket list. I ran to the ticket counter, where the girl working the counter smirked at me and extended her index finger. “One?” I smiled apologetically. “Umm… no. Thirteen?” Four minutes later (with two minutes to spare) we all boarded the boat.

The boat ride was pretty uneventful, except for the fact that our group is dwindling. First, it was Jon, whose poison oak (which he came in contact with a little before we left on the trip) slowly worsened until finally he had to get some prescriptive medicine from a doctor, who told him to stay out of the sun. Then, on the boat ride over, Chris, so good about training around his injury and paying attention to all the things he is missing, came down with the 24-hour flu. So when we arrived on Lopud, we split into two groups: 1 group was Chris, Jon, and I, and we took it easy; the other group was everyone else, who went to the other side of the island, where there was a less-populated beach. (This is why there aren’t very many pictures). Since I hadn’t eaten, the three of us sat down at a table at an outdoor café, and I ordered some food, which I ate as slowly as humanly possible in order to keep the table (it was shaded and right next to a little alcove where Chris could lie down). By the time I was done, the lunch crowd was gone and we were practically the only ones still sitting there, so, since I wasn’t worried about being kicked out anymore, Jon and I played cards at the table while Chris lay on some chair cushions in the alcove. Eventually, the photographic interests of the blog overcame me, and I followed the other group to the other side to see if I could get a few pictures before we came back.

There’s only about a mile between the beach on one side of the island and the beach on the other, but that mile is anything but flat. To go from the Lopud side, the first half of your walk is on a steeply-inclined path that is marked out in the midst of tall grasses, dilapidated houses, and the crumbling remains of oft-destroyed cinderblock walls. There is also absolutely no shade. This changes quickly, however, as the second half is on a pretty steep jungle-staircase that winds down under a thick canopy of trees. It’s like in two steps you go from a quiet moment in Saving Private Ryan to a quiet moment in Jurassic Park. This is one of those walks during which a part of you notices how pretty it is, and how nice the shade is (even with all the humidity), but this is tempered by the other part of you that is thinking “you’re going to have to climb back up here on the way back.” The stairs dropped right down onto the beach, where I met up with the rest of the group, just about to head back. Dripping with sweat and not looking forward to the prospect of immediately turning back around, I told them I was going to get in quickly, then I’d meet them back on the other side. I think they were looking for an excuse to stay, because they immediately followed me into the water and started what has apparently become the go-to game: sea-wrestling. After I was sufficiently cooled off, and they were sufficiently tired from wrestling, we walked back to the Lopud side (a walk made much easier by doing the descending part in the sun instead of the ascending). Once back, we found Jon and Chris playing cards. Chris looked better already, so he risked drinking a little bit of water while the rest of us ate about 5 scoops of gelato (sorry Chris).

About 20 minutes later, we noticed a crowd forming at the dock, so we “got in line” in order to get a decent seat on the boat. We soon realized, however, that Croatian boat lines work exactly like Croatian buffet lines; that is, although they might resemble lines in visible shape, relative position means absolutely nothing, and the person behind you has no qualms about cutting you with his 18-person entourage of family, friends, and well-wishers. For awhile I was worried about making it onto the boat before it reached capacity, then I realized that the people taking the tickets weren’t even pretending to count how many were going on. Basically, if you had a ticket, you were getting on the boat, even it meant you had to be lashed to the mast. We were fortunate, though, as we managed to find what can best be described as a stool for Chris right next to the boat side (others were clogging staircases and doorways), from where we got a perfect view of the slowly-setting sun before we, to savor how nice the night was, walked all the way home. Once home, we had a pretty subdued dinner, a quick team-meeting, and then we all turned in for an early night and a well-earned rest.

---

Photos

Photo 2
The Jug pool. Ugly, isn't it?

Photo 3
Group 2 picture outside Gusar's pool... so close to complete.

Photo 4
Okay guys, 1 lap... I'll see you in 6 hours.

Photo 6
A few hours later, a band was playing on the platform right under that light pole

Photo 7
It's really unfortunate that we can't find cool places to play.

Photo 8
The team with Maro. I bet you can pick out which one he is.

Photo 9
Drink your milk, Nico

Photo 10
On the way to Lopud

Photo 12
The healthy group on Lopud