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Zdravko Logarusic-Special Guest-Sharuko On Saturday

THEY say there is no city like Harare and it’s probably true — it has the fascinating romance of Havana, the suffocating beauty of Hawaii and a golden touch of Harlem.

It has the intoxicating mystery of Haiti, an eternal connection to Hamburg, a slice of Hanoi and a certain reassuring reminder of Hamilton.

What major cities, in the world try to sell to tourists as their one star attraction, Harare has a combination of all these, in its huge basket.

The best climate in the world, by a considerable mile, where virtually no winters exist, and the sun blazes its way, through the clouds, all year round.

 The best air quality in Africa and, for such a huge city, it’s quite amazing, you virtually feel the purity of the oxygen, as it enters into your lungs, and nourishes your spirit.

It is as mystical as it is mythical.

There is even a hidden beauty in its chaos, especially on its streets — the endless shouting from its touts, the daredevils found in its kombi drivers, for whom the Highway Code is a book full of Satanic verses.

Men seemingly born to break every rule on the road, once they are on the wheel, who believe other road users are either not important or simply don’t exist.

They live, and at times die, by their strange habits.

It’s almost like they have become a cult, consumed by their madness, gripped by their hysteria, fascinated by their craziness and fueled by their irrationality.

But, what Harare lacks, in terms of order, on its bustling streets, it provides lots of comforts, in other charms of its attractions and, once you get into its embrace, it’s difficult to let go.

Its residents call it the Sunshine City, it has its challenges, with many of them self-inflicted wounds, where those who swore to provide leadership, for the capital’s residents, have been found wanting.

But, I have to make it clear that, in more ways than one, I really fell in love with Harare.

It embraced and charmed me in a way that no other African city, where I worked, during my 12-year adventure on the continent, has done.

Accra and Kumasi in Ghana, Nairobi in Kenya, Dar es Salaam, with its seaside, in Tanzania, Khartoum in Sudan and Luanda, in Angola.

None of them made such a huge impression on me, the way Harare did.

I am told I am not the only expatriate coach who ended up having this amazing love affair with this city’s amazing gifts.

They told me one of my predecessors, whose name, and the team he created, are still celebrated to this day, even ended up marrying a local woman.

It was my pleasure, in my last assignment, as coach of the Warriors, to provide a reconnection, with his memory, by drafting his son into the squad, for the matches against South Africa and Ethiopia.

A fine young man, who is as professional as they come, he represents the next generation of Warriors.

They told me his father wasn’t the only expatriate football coach who ended up falling in love and marrying one of the local women.

A maverick Dutchman, who came with a massive profile, after having guided the Super Eagles to a dream run at the ’94 World Cup finals, in the United States, also did the same.

Of course, I didn’t follow their example, even though ‘The Herald’ newspaper had painted me, as a man who loved women, by publishing extracts of a report, carried by ‘The Standard’ newspaper, of Kenya, related to my sacking at Gor Mahia.

“Female fans expressed their anger on social media after the club announced it had fired the Croat tactician on allegations of absconding duty,’’ read the report in ‘The Standard.’

“Anjella Nancie posting on Gor Mahia FC’s Facebook page said if he was ‘fired because he was sleeping with their alleged girlfriends/whores then that’s a misplaced revenge. Shouldn’t you be dumping your girlfriend instead?’

“Mombasa-based Dee Marie Kay was also disappointed because, ‘I thought he would come to Mombasa so I take a photo with him on the beach).’”

THANK YOU, TO EVERYONE, WHO BELIEVED IN ME

I have decided to write this letter, not to deal with all that crazy stuff, but to address real issues related to the time I spent as Warriors coach.

You might wonder why I chose this platform, of all spaces, given this is a blog run by one of the people, who made my life difficult, during my stay in Harare.

Well, for the sake of trying to ensure that my message reaches the widest possible audience possible, I found myself with very little choice but to go for the blog, with the widest reach, in terms of the constituency, which I am addressing.

So, forgive me folks, for going into bed with the devil, on this one.

Since I left Harare, and returned home, I have been having this feeling that it was a bit unfair that I never said goodbye, to the people who believed in me.

A fine constituency of people, who appreciated the challenges I faced, who were prepared to view things without being poisoned by an element of hate, or influenced by a cloud of bias.

The people who refused to be sucked into the web of hatred, largely spun by a group of journalists, driven by an agenda to only get rid of me, simply because they didn’t like me.

The people who chose to see the light, in the darkness cast by these journalists, who drew this picture of doom and gloom, simply because they wanted to hammer home the message that, under my guidance, the Warriors were going nowhere.

The people who decided to see an island of hope, which we were trying to build, in the raging ocean of hopelessness, which these journalists were trying to paint, as a picture which now represented the deplorable state of the Warriors.

People who were prepared to see an oasis of promise, which we had managed to drill, in this desert of lifelessness, which these journalists were trying to portray, as being the sorry state of our Warriors.

The people who appreciated that it takes a good team, and a very good coach, to find a way to hold a team like the Desert Foxes of Algeria, as was the case when we drew against them, at the National Sports Stadium, in that 2021 AFCON qualifier.

People who respected the fact that only a very good coach, like me, would have rung the changes, at halftime, with each of the players we sent into battle, making a big impression, in the game.

The people who never thought a Warriors coach would come along and give a player like Perfect Chikwende a run, in the starting XI, of a very key Nations Cup qualifier, as was the case in that match in Botswana.

And, a people who never dreamt that one day, someone like Chikwende would be celebrated, as the hero of the Warriors, and their country, after scoring the priceless goal, which took the team to the Nations Cup finals.

These are the people I am missing, as I sit on the shores of the Adriatic Sea, here in Zadar, the city with a global reputation of being the one with the most beautiful sunset in the world.

It’s where I have retreated, since my premature return home, after ZIFA fell prey to the wishes of a vicious cartel of critics, led by a group of assassins disguised as journalists, who never wanted me to get this job.

Here, far away from their madding crowd, I am trying to find my peace again, after what has been a turbulent time for me, since I accepted the poisoned chalice, to become coach of the Warriors.

The other day I attended a mass at the city’s St Donat Church, which used to be called the Church of the Holy Trinity.

It’s a ninth century bastion of Roman Catholicism and, for the first time in an age, I felt at peace with myself.

I also took time to pray for Robson Sharuko, who was my biggest critic, the one who never accepted that I was good enough to coach the Warriors, and relentlessly led the crusade, to ensure I was sacked.

My contacts in Zimbabwe had already told me about him, before I arrived for my official unveiling.

They had told me he has a pen, which vomits hatred, disguised as criticism, and has been a pain in the back for many foreign coaches, including a Polish colleague, who even tried to have him banned from entering Europe.

His alleged crime, according to my Polish colleague, who also coached the Warriors, was that through his relentless criticism of coaches from Europe, Robson had committed crimes against the white community.

I’m not really sure about that but, when I was still working in Ghana, I also heard how he came close to being deported, from Accra, in July 1997.

His crime, I was told, was writing that, ‘’a rumble in the jungle probably best describes Zimbabwe’s forgettable first training session here.

“On a small cleared field, in the middle of a dense forest just opposite the University of Ghana, the Warriors found themselves sweating it out at a training session, that could easily have passed for a game between ancient tribes, who lived in the forest.’’

Wow, surely, that’s not only provocative but can result in deportation.

However, I still pray for him, when I attend mass here, because I am not a man who carries grudges.

 THE AMAZING MESSAGE I RECEIVED FROM MY FORMER PLAYER

But, not everyone believed I was the worst coach to ever take charge of the Warriors and, in a way, it provides a ray of relief, during such tough times.

You can’t talk about winning just one of my 14 matches, without mentioning the reality that I made history, by becoming the first foreign coach, to help the Warriors reach the AFCON finals.

Without mentioning that I was the only national team coach, in Africa, if not in the world, without the privilege of having a facility car to use.

Without mentioning that, at US$7 000 per month, I was probably the lowest paid national team coach in the world.

Surely, a set-up, in which the coach gets eight times less, in earnings, per month, when compared to his player in South Africa, as was my case, is not a healthy environment.

How do you tell such a player that he isn’t doing what is expected, when he considers you to be a pauper, who is receiving peanuts, in the very first place?

But, for me, it wasn’t about the money but the love for the game and the Warriors.

Last week, I received something, which cheered my battered spirits, when one of my former players sent me a message, which was as touching as it was inspirational.

He told me that a long, long time ago, he still remembers how playing for the Warriors used to make him smile, and he would always battle to try and win matches, to help the fans forget some of their challenges, for a while.

He told me how failure would make him shiver, with every newspaper the vendors would deliver, bringing all the bad news on his doorstep, including some reports, which were absolute crap.

He said he can’t remember if he cried, when he read that I had been fired, but something touched him deep inside because, as far he was concerned, this was the day the music died.

So, he sang a song for me and, it went like this, “Bye, bye, my Croatian Coach, you are such a good guy, it’s something no one can deny, including even those good old boys who drink whisky, which is dry, singing this will be the day they will all die.’’

He asked me if I read the book of love, if I have always had faith in God and whether I believed in rock and roll.

And, if so, can I turn to music to try and really soothe my soul?

He said he knew I was really in love with the team because he saw how I used to push them even when they ran out of steam, in our collective quest to realise our dream.

Now, he told me, the southern summer has just arrived and it’s been some kind of helter skelter and, just like me, some birds have left to try and find another shelter.

Soon, he said, they will be back in the World Cup qualifying trench, chasing the ball on the grass, running to a defence-splitting pass, praying for guidance, from their new-look bench.

How he would have loved to see me in Ghana, with him playing the role of the gunner, supported as usual by a wing runner and hoping to score a stunner, for the sake of his daughter Anna.

He said they have been talking among themselves, about all the spirited effort they were putting on the field, only for the opposition, somehow, to refuse to yield.

He told me they have been cursing their misfortune, wondering whether they have become a golden generation, which finds itself trapped, in a bad space.

In the past, he told me, during such times, they would turn to Khama the nimble, Khama the quick and Khama the flash and he would wave his magic, with just one defining trick.

He said he had a nightmare the other day, in which he saw himself trying to go past the opposition defence, which had erected a solid defensive fence.

Somehow, he told me, he kept seeing hell in the background, as he struggled to break from the shell, erected by Satan’s spell.

And, the children were screaming and the football lovers were crying, not a word was being spoken and even the church bells were all broken.

And, frighteningly, the three Men he admires most — The Father, The Son and The Holy Ghost — had already caught the last train headed for the coast.

In a way, he told me, the message was clear — this was the day the Warriors died.

Then, he woke up, shivering,wondering and crying. After I finished reading his message, I then realised he had played around with the lyrics of a classic song, which was released exactly 50 years ago, by American singer and songwriter, Don McLean.

Don wrote the song to mourn rock and roll stars — Buddy Holly, The Big Bopper and Ritchie Valens — who perished in a plane crash in 1959.

I’m not sure whether I deserve to be missed, on the same level as the trio but, all the same, it’s always good to be appreciated.

Especially, by those you worked closely with. I will never forget the Warriors, will forever miss beautiful and sunny Harare and, God willing, like Arnold Schwarzenegger in “The Terminator,’’ I will be back.

To God Be The Glory!

Peace to the ZIFA Chief, the Big Fish, Zlatko Dalic, Igor Stimac, Tomislav Ivic, Sinisa Mihajlovic, Zlatko Kranjcar, Ante Cacic, and all the Croatian boys still in the struggle.

Come on Warriors!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Khamaldinhooooooooooooooooooooo!

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You can also interact with me on Twitter (@Chakariboy), Facebook, Instagram (sharukor) and Skype (sharuko58) and GamePlan, the authoritative football magazine show on ZTV, where I interact with the legendary Charles Mabika, is back every Wednesday night at 9.30pm

This imaginary farewell note was written by our Senior Sports Editor, ROBSON SHARUKO, using words he believes former Warriors coach, Zdravko Logarusic, would have used, in a parting shot, to local football.