An Unfinished EuroLeague Night: When Efes Finds Light Again and Zvezda Drowns in Silence

People call me a writer on the grass verge. I only know how to record the breath of the ball before it rolls. Tonight, that ball does not roll on green grass but bounces on the hardwood floor of the EuroLeague, where Anadolu Efes travels to the fortress of Crvena Zvezda — also known as Kızılyıldız, the Red Star. A match that seems to be just the 668th milestone in Efes's history in European competition, yet it carries layers of sedimented emotion that no scoreboard can touch. I came to Belgrade not to watch basketball. I came to hear the sighs of a city too accustomed to farewells. Crvena Zvezda enters this match with two losses in their first two rounds. No victories. No joy. Only an 81-80 defeat to Hapoel IBI — a one-point margin, a gap small enough to believe things can still change, but large enough to erode faith day by day. Anadolu Efes is different. They just beat Real Madrid 94-84 at home. A victory over the giant of European basketball. A victory that quenches the thirst after the uneasy early days of the season. When the final whistle sounded in Istanbul, I imagined the Efes players celebrating — but in my head, the stadium was empty, only memory was never empty. Efes's story in the EuroLeague began in the 2026-02 season. More than two decades. 667 games before tonight. 350 wins. 317 losses. A 52.5% winning rate — not a glamorous number, but it tells a story of persistence. Of a Turkish club that chose to stay, chose to fight, while many other clubs came and went like passing guests. Two EuroLeague championships in 2026 and 2026 are proof of that maturity. But titles are never the whole story. They are mountain peaks, while life lies in the valleys between those peaks. Tonight, Efes enters their 668th EuroLeague game on the road. In European basketball, playing away is always a different world. Not just geographical distance, but atmosphere. It's packed stands screaming at you in a language you don't understand. It's referees who hear the noise and unconsciously lean toward it. I learned to listen to the court with my heart, because reason has said too many dull words. And in basketball, the heart of the court beats to the rhythm of the crowd. Crvena Zvezda is not a small club. They are part of the soul of Belgrade. But this season's start is an open wound. Two games, two losses. And the 81-80 defeat to Hapoel IBI is particularly painful. One point. Just one point. The distance between victory and defeat is sometimes measured by the final breath of a shot. I have witnessed such moments throughout my career. The ball leaves the player's hand, flies through the air, and in that moment, an entire city holds its breath. If it goes in, you are a hero. If it misses, you are the villain. But often people forget that the player had to run for 40 minutes before that final shot was taken. I once wrote that a touch of the ball is an unfinished poem. The ball rolls away, but the writer stays. And tonight, when Efes and Zvezda face off, I wonder: who will be the one who stays after the final whistle? Efes comes to Belgrade with the mindset of someone who has just found themselves again. The victory over Real Madrid is not just two points in the standings. It is medicine for the spirit. It is proof that they can still stand against the biggest clubs in Europe. But basketball is a sport of repetition. One victory does not make a season. One moment does not define a career. I often spend many hours in the stadium not just to watch the game, but to hear the silences before and after the whistle. That is where I find the real stories. Not the goals, but the eyes of a substitute player when he knows he won't get on the court. Not the great play, but the drop of sweat on the coach's hand as he grips the tactics board. Those details never appear on television, but they are the soul of the game. And in tonight's match, there will be such silences. There will be a Zvezda player sitting on the bench, watching his team fight without being able to do anything. There will be an Efes coach standing on the sideline, trying to transmit energy through his eyes. There will be a referee blowing his whistle and an entire stand screaming in protest. I once lived in a Moscow hostel room with no windows. That was 2026, when I was sent to Russia to cover the World Cup. I remember the quarter-final between Croatia and Russia in Sochi. Luka Modric — a small player, unimpressive in stature — ran 12.8 km and dribbled past three players, then scored from outside the box. After the match, I skipped the official press conference, followed Modric into the tunnel. I saw him crying alone, even though his team had won. That night, I wrote an article reconstructing Modric's tears as a declaration of pain and liberation. The Moscow hostel room had no windows, but every night I saw the World Cup shining through the crack of my pen. Since then, I understand that sport is not just victory and defeat. It is flesh-and-blood people, with pasts, desires, and inner conflicts. And when I write about basketball, I also try to write that way. In basketball, there is a concept called net rating — an index that evaluates a team's overall efficiency by calculating the point differential per 100 possessions. Efes just had a game with a positive net rating against Real Madrid. Zvezda was the opposite. But the net rating of one game does not speak to the net rating of an entire season. And two games — whether won or lost — cannot shape a 34-round season. That is the blind spot of collective memory. We tend to exaggerate what just happened and forget what has taken place over a long period. Efes beats Real Madrid, and suddenly they are title contenders. Zvezda loses two games, and suddenly they are a club in crisis. But the truth lies somewhere between those two extremes. I spent five years digging through the silences between football matches to write soul biographies for anonymous people. And when I did the same with basketball, I realized that patience is the most precious quality of a writer. Because the real story is not in what happens during the 40 minutes of play. It is in what happens before — in the locker room, on the bus, in closed training sessions. Efes has spent more than two decades in the EuroLeague. They have witnessed how many generations of players come and go. They have lived through seasons of glory and seasons sunk in darkness. 350 wins is not a huge number if you compare with Real Madrid or Barcelona. But it is an honest number. It tells the story of waking up every morning and continuing to fight, even when you know not every season ends with a trophy. Zvezda is at the beginning of a similar journey. They are a club with deep history, but in the EuroLeague, they are still searching for their place. Two early-season losses could be the start of a tragic story, or they could be the first chapter of a transformation. I don't know. And honestly, I don't want to know. Because the most interesting thing in sport is not knowing the outcome in advance, but witnessing how people react to the unpredictable. In basketball, there is something called a possession — each time a team controls the ball and tries to score. A EuroLeague game usually has about 70-80 possessions per team. In each of those possessions, dozens of decisions are made in an instant. Pass or shoot? Drive or retreat? Attack or hold? Those decisions are never recorded in the stats. They only exist in the moment, then disappear. That is why I never start an article with the score. The score is just the final result of a chain of moments. And those moments are the real story. An Efes player may have missed an important shot at minute 35, but he kept fighting. A Zvezda player may have made a defensive error, but he didn't give up. Those moments don't appear on the scoreboard, but they shape the person. I once worked with a basketball coach in Lyon on a documentary project. He told me something I never forgot: "In basketball, you can play perfectly for 39 minutes and lose everything in 60 seconds." That is the nature of this sport. It does not forgive complacency. It does not allow you to sleep on your laurels. And Efes, with their victory over Real Madrid, may face the greatest temptation: complacency. When you just beat one of the strongest teams in Europe, it's hard to stay focused for the next game. Especially when that game is on the road, against a team hungry for their first win. Zvezda will fight like animals cornered. There is nothing more dangerous than a losing team. Because they have nothing to lose. And in sport, when you have nothing to lose, you can play with a freedom that winning teams never have. I have witnessed this throughout 17 years of observing the sports industry. Champion teams are not the teams that play the most beautifully. They are the teams that know how to adapt. Know how to switch from hunter to prey — and back — depending on circumstances. Efes proved they have that ability when they won the EuroLeague twice in a row in 2026 and 2026. But the memory of those victories doesn't score points in tonight's game. In the world of European basketball, there is a truth seldom spoken: teams don't just compete with each other on the court. They compete with their own history. Efes competes with the memory of failed seasons. Zvezda competes with the pressure of a city waiting. And sometimes, those battles are harder than the actual games. I once heard a story about a young Zvezda player who spent his entire childhood dreaming of wearing his hometown club's jersey. When he finally achieved that dream, he realized the pressure of that jersey was heavier than he thought. Every time he failed, he didn't just fail for himself. He failed for an entire city, an entire generation of fans who believed in him. Stories like that never appear on television. They are not recorded in stats. They only exist in the silences — the moments before the game begins, when players stand in the tunnel and hear their hearts beating. And when I write about Efes and Zvezda, I don't write about two clubs. I write about two collectives of flesh-and-blood people, with dreams and fears. With wives, children, fathers waiting for them at home. With debts, promises, memories that cannot be erased. In basketball, there is an index called player efficiency rating — PER — measuring a player's overall contribution. But no index measures the loneliness of a player when he is injured and has to sit out. No index measures the patience of a substitute when he knows he won't get on the court. No index measures the pain of a coach when he is fired after years of dedication. That is why I write. Not to record scores, but to record what is not recorded. To capture moments before they vanish. To remind that behind every number, there is a person. Tonight, when Efes and Zvezda step into Efes's 668th EuroLeague game, I will not sit in the press area. I will go up to the stands, where the crowd screams and flags flutter. I will blend in, to feel the pulse of the court. And when the game ends, I will follow the players into the tunnel, to see the eyes of the winner and the loser. Because victory and defeat, ultimately, are just two sides of the same coin. And that coin is minted with sweat, tears, and dreams. Efes's story in the EuroLeague did not begin tonight. And it will not end tonight. But in 40 minutes of play, a new chapter will be written. A chapter whose ending we don't yet know. A chapter that could bring Efes closer to the championship dream, or could help Zvezda find light in the darkness. I don't expect a perfect game. I expect a real game. With mistakes, moments of brilliance, drops of sweat falling on the hardwood. With stories untold. With people unknown. Because in basketball — as in life — what matters is not whether you win or lose. What matters is how you fought. And what you left behind after the final whistle. The cheers echo in my head. The stadium is empty, but memory is never empty. I will remember tonight forever, not because of the score, but because of what I saw between the numbers. The silences. The stories. The people. And in my hostel room in Lyon, with no window looking out to Belgrade, I will write it all down. Not to record the game, but to record what the game left in me. Because that is the job of a writer. Not to describe the world, but to make it a little more understandable. 668 games. 350 wins. 317 losses. Those numbers will continue to change. But the stories behind them will remain forever. And that is why I keep writing. Keep digging. Keep searching for the silences between the noises. Because ultimately, basketball is not a game of numbers. It is a game of people. And those people — whether in Istanbul or Belgrade, whether winning or losing — deserve to be remembered. A touch of the ball is an unfinished poem. The ball rolls away, but the writer stays. And I will stay, to continue writing the story of Efes and Zvezda, not with scores, but with what I saw in the eyes of the people who fought. Tonight, the EuroLeague becomes a stage of emotions once again. And I, once again, become a spectator of miracles.