The club was losing money faster than someone who loses money very quickly, so the team bus was laid up for the visit to Veternik. It was only on the other side of town, so a fleet of bicycles were borrowed from local residents and the team set off to a ticker-tape parade – well, a few disgruntled locals threw rubbish at them as they cycled by. I had obtained most of the bicycles, and ensured that we were one short. As the man responsible for the error, I followed behind in a horse-drawn cart, relaxing on a pile of rotting vegetables as the driver told me in broken English of the scene up ahead. He muttered: “Agghhh, shit hit him. He wobble. Man angry, empty piss pot on them, small child spitting”. I figured we were getting into Veternik territory. The night before, Angel told me of a previous manager at Novi Sad who had lost the first game against Veternik. The fans had stripped him naked, painted him with hot tar, and dragged him through the streets tied to a donkey. The police had found him in a ditch the next morning, with one of his testicles removed. The offending gonad was in a paper bag, in his mouth. Realising who he was, the police officer simply moved on. He had lived, but had to leave town. I feared for Boris. She reassured me; it had been a home game. For an away game, he would keep his full complement of testes!