Himna Torcide - Noas Draga Opet U Se Napiti -

They drank to remember, they drank to forget, and mostly, they drank because tomorrow, they would climb the concrete steps of Poljud stadium to do it all over again.

Bepo sat in his usual corner, his scarred knuckles tracing the rim of a liter of white wine mixed with sparkling water—the classic bevanda . Across from him, the younger generation of the Torcida, boys with fire in their eyes and the club’s crest tattooed over their hearts, were already three rounds deep.

It started as a murmur from the back booth, a low, rhythmic chant. But within seconds, it swelled into a roar that shook the dusty bottles on the shelves. It wasn't just a lyric about getting drunk; it was a hymn of defiance. To them, "Noas" was more than a pub; it was a sanctuary where the weight of the world—the long shifts at the shipyard, the rising costs of living, the heartbreaks—was washed away by the white jersey and the collective soul of the North Stand. HIMNA TORCIDE - NOAS DRAGA OPET U SE NAPITI

"Tonight," Bepo rasped, his voice like gravel under a boot, "we drink for the ones who can't."

As the chorus hit its peak, Bepo stood up, his glass raised high. He remembered the away trips to muddy fields in the nineties, the flares that lit up the Adriatic night, and the brothers he’d stood shoulder-to-shoulder with in the rain. "To the White!" someone yelled. "To the White!" the tavern screamed back. They drank to remember, they drank to forget,

The neon lights of Split’s old tavern, "Noas," hummed with a low, electric frequency that matched the restless energy in the streets outside. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of roasted meat, spilt wine, and the kind of anticipation that only precedes a Derby day.

Outside, the bells of Saint Domnius began to toll, but they were drowned out by the choir of the tavern. They sang until their throats were raw, drinking until the line between the individual and the crowd blurred into a single, pulsing entity. In that small, smoke-filled room, they weren't just fans; they were the heartbeat of a city that refused to be quiet. It started as a murmur from the back

The tavern’s owner, a man whose loyalty to Hajduk Split was as old as the stone walls themselves, slammed another tray of glasses onto the wooden table. The sound triggered it—the spontaneous combustion of a song. “Noas draga, opet ću se napiti...”