In the city of Sombor, in northwest Serbia, ten lanky teenagers switch off playing games of 3 on 3 on a ramshackle basketball court next to an elementary school. In the distance, a gigantic mural—painted in different shades of blue, lemon yellow, and white, and in the shape of a man dribbling a basketball—looms large as the teens shuffle, shoot, and score amongst themselves. The court is in sketchy condition: one of two rims is missing, so games are halfcourt. But it’s sacred nonetheless—because it's where that big man on the wall first learned the tricks that carried him far away, to an American city a mile above sea level, and on a basketball adventure that no one from this town could have ever imagined.
That man is Nikola Jokic, and he’s the golden boy of Sombor. It’s an untraditional place for a NBA champion to be from, but of course Jokic has never been like other professional basketball players, in terms of his physical attributes, his style of play, and even his relationship to the game. He’s ever-calm, seemingly lacks an ego, and isn’t interested in any form of NBA fame or fanfare.
And when I visit, it’s about twelve hours before Jokic and his Nuggets tip off their series-clinching Game 5 win against the Heat. I took a bus from Belgrade, Serbia’s capital, past miles of farmland, littered with rusty Yugoslav-era cars, tractors, greenhouses, and sheds to come to Sombor, for the biggest game of the pride of Sombor’s life.
I head through the gates toward the kids playing ball, and after an introduction and a bit of friendly trash talk—they’re excited to hear that I’m from near Miami—I join in. Promptly, a kid named Nikola knocks down a jumper, looks me in the eye, and says “That’s why we have the same name!” He and his friends are 15 and 16, and have grown up watching Jokic since he entered the league half their lifetimes’ ago.
The most talkative is six-foot, baby-faced Ilija. What is it like, I ask, to see the world’s best basketball player strolling around his city? “We don’t ask him for pictures. We just let him live like normal,” Ilija says. A woman at the tourism office had told me something similar earlier in the day: Sombor is proud of Jokic, but when he’s back in town, they let him be.
Earlier that morning, out on a run, I’d looked for signs of Jokic around the town. While I hadn’t expected to see a statue (not yet, anyway), I’d imagined Nuggets flags in windows, maybe, or well-wishing banners in the square, or a shop selling Jokic-related merch. But after 30 minutes of running—by the City Hall, along the main street, past betting shops, and an unofficial Nike store—I hadn’t seen a single sign. Even the local Cafe Joker Card has no connection to Jokic, a waitress informed me with a smile that suggested she’d gotten that same question before. I saw kids wearing Batman and Spider-Man t-shirts, but none of the Joker. And on a gameday, with an NBA championship on the line, I still hadn’t laid eyes on a Jokic jersey. I hadn’t even seen one for sale.
Now, at the courts, I ask Ilija what’s up. He assures me that Jokic is very important to him and his friends, even if they aren’t wearing his jersey: “Everyone sees that you can make it. Because of him. We all want to play basketball now.”
To better understand this place, I’ve gotten in touch with local resident Srdjan Vlaskalic, who’s become an unofficial ambassador for all things Jokic. His family’s been in Sombor for centuries; his father went to school with Jokic’s. At Vlaskalic’s office near City Hall, I’m immediately approached by another man in a vest, khaki pants, and Converse All-Stars. Stevan Segrt is an octogenarian military veteran who never seems to stop smiling, and quickly shares a story about the time he met Jokic in town.
“I was at the cash register at a store near where Nikola lives. I didn’t want to disturb him, but I eventually went up and told him ‘You're a dragon!’” says Segrt. Jokic laughed, although a bit confused with the unfamiliar nickname, and the two took a selfie together. Throughout the playoffs, Segrt has been waking up religiously at 2:30am for Nuggets’ tip-offs. His friend, Ivana Barać, says, “He calls me during the games and makes me explain what’s happening at that exact moment so that he knows I’m watching.” Vlaskalic chimes in: “He’s made me send photos of my laptop as proof.” Segrt says he appreciates how Jokic talks—polite and low-key, like a nice person you meet on the street in Sombor.
After our chat, Vlaskalic and I head out for a tour of the city, and make a quick stop at DreamCatcher Stables—the place where Jokic stables his beloved horses, and iconically accepted his second NBA MVP trophy. But our next stops make it clear that while Joker-mania is not as all encompassing as I’d expected, it is acute in the places that really matter.
The first is KK Joker, the local basketball club where Jokic played as a kid. (It was then called KK SO Koš—the team changed its name after its prize alum went supernova.) Players compete on a court under the watchful eyes of three massive images of Jokic, and the words “MVP NBA.” The club’s old logo—a winking court jester—has been restylized to incorporate Jokic’s number 15, and today, the team is run by his father, Branislav. In April this year, KK Joker made history when it was promoted to Serbia's top basketball league for the first time. But it’s in the club’s locker room where Jokic’s influence manifests most clearly: there are exactly 15 spaces—one of which is emblazoned with "MVP" and stays empty for whenever Jokic returns. In this gym, the Joker is also the king.
Finally, it’s almost gametime. At midnight, after a much-needed nap, I walk to the city’s official watch party. Inside the sports hall, a projector and a DJ are set up on stage, beer and snacks laid out, and fluorescent lights in Serbia’s national colors shine on the walls. Maybe 200 fans are gathered for a chance to witness history together. Many, I’m happy to see, wear Jokic jerseys and Nuggets T-shirts.
Scattered among the locals, Joker fans have made pilgrimages to Sombor for what they hope will be a monumental day in Serbian sports history. Dusan Grkovic and four friends, players on the national ice hockey team, decided at the last minute to drive from Novi Sad, a city about two hours away. “This hasn’t ever happened and might not ever happen again. So we had to get here,” says Grkovic. Carlos Salgado, from Portugal, had just arrived by bus from Subotica, a city about an hour away.
During the game, each time Jokic steps on the floor, cheers erupt all around, as they do when his wife, Natalija—also a Sombor native—appears on screen. Hometown pride is in the air, but at halftime, the Heat are up seven. In the line for the bathroom, I run into Ilija, the teenager I met playing basketball, who’s a bit worried, and admittedly, pretty tired. It’s nearly 4:00am.
After a sloppy fourth quarter, and a near last minute slip-up, Jokic, Denver, and Sombor are crowned NBA champions. Ilija and his friends stand with their hands on each other’s shoulders, chanting “MVP” as Jokic receives that trophy from Commissioner Adam Silver.
By 5am, the crowd has emptied out. Tuesday is a work day. On his way out, I ask Ilija about what he told me earlier, about not asking for pictures with Jokic when he’s back in Sombor. Would that change now that he’s an NBA champion? “No, definitely not. He’s the best in the world and we love him. But really, nothing else changes,” he says.
In Sombor, Jokic is a hero—but he’s not an icon. He is appreciated and loved, but he’s not worshiped. His wizardry on the court here is legend, but people show their respect by letting this giant of a man maintain some privacy. And so, this summer, when Jokic retreats to his hometown, and eats at his favorite restaurants and watches his horses run at the track, people will congratulate him. And then they’ll let him be.
