Alimpijević to Sportal: "Kalinić's Retirement is a Loss for Serbian Basketball" /VIDEO/

Alimpijević and Kalinić share a friendship, and the Serbian national team coach paid tribute to a career spanning 17 years.

Nevertheless, he wished him good luck in his new role, as Kalinić will be an assistant coach to Ibon Navarro at Crvena Zvezda.

As a reminder, an exclusive interview with coach Dušan Alimpijević will be available tomorrow at 7 PM on our YouTube channel, and the full interview can be read on Sportal.rs.

The coach discussed the eternal rivals, the challenges facing Serbian basketball, as well as Nikola Jokić, Bogdan Bogdanović, and Dušan Vlahović's epic welcome at Beşiktaş. He also revealed what awaits Serbia in the decisive World Cup qualifiers, among many other topics.

Nikola Kalinić shared a message on his Instagram account, encapsulating his career in a few sentences and thanking everyone who was by his side during his 17-year journey.

Nikola Kalinić's strength was never in points. Nor in speed. Nor in jumping. Not even in raw power. It was in his attitude. In his heart. In his mind. In his "cojones." And in the special respect he earned over the years from teammates and opponents alike. That's why he was special.

That's why the news that Nikola Kalinić announced his retirement with a short message hit me hard. At 34 years old. And he's not going far – he's staying courtside as an assistant coach for Crvena Zvezda, the club he returned to twice and whose jersey he wore in three different periods of his career.

Only he knows what he carried with him in recent months. He even spoke publicly about some of the family drama. And so, we can only guess how difficult it sometimes was to step onto a packed court two or three times a week, put on the jersey, and try to give your all.

And then be criticized. Sometimes justifiably. Sometimes brutally. Sometimes without measure.

There's an old sports adage: whoever buys a ticket has a right to an opinion. I must admit, I've never fully agreed with it.

Yes, you have a right to an opinion. You have a right to say someone played poorly. That they made a mistake. That they're no longer good enough. But I don't think that for ten or twenty euros, you've bought the right to trample on a person. To insult them. To vent all your frustrations on them.

Whether it's a footballer, a basketball player, a volleyball player, or anyone else who has dedicated their life to sports. But I won't dwell on that.

When I heard Kalina wouldn't be playing anymore, images started flashing through my mind.

The Serbian national team jersey. Vojvodina. Radnički. Zvezda. Fenerbahçe. Valencia. Barcelona. And Zvezda again.

Corner threes. Steals. Fast breaks. Layups. Dunks.

And, of course, that one over Bourousis.

Madrid, 2014. World Cup Round of 16. Serbia against Greece. Kalina soars over one of Europe's best centers of that era and dunks as if to show the whole world who this young Serbian team was.

I'll remember that as long as I live. But even more, I'll remember what doesn't make the highlights. What isn't written in the statistics. Good positioning. Reading an opponent's intention. Closing a defensive gap. Helping a late teammate. Guarding a player he shouldn't, by all basketball rules.

Talking to the referee. Talking to a teammate. Talking to the coach. Sometimes he was a coach on the court. Sometimes a captain even when he wasn't wearing the armband. Sometimes a fan leader dressed in a jersey. And most often — the teammate you want by your side when things get tough.

How much of that was there? It's countless.

At 203 centimeters, he was formally a "small forward." A three. A four when needed. But anyone who watched Kalina knows how irrelevant that was. He could guard practically anyone. From a point guard to a center. He could attack a smaller player with his back to the basket. A taller player face-up. Bring the ball up. Organize an offense. Go to the corner. Drive to the paint.

He didn't care much for positions. For that basketball bureaucracy. If a head needed to be put in somewhere – he put his head in. If a body was needed – he gave his body. If a foul needed to be made – he made it. If responsibility needed to be taken – he didn't look around for someone else.

It was a beautiful career. From Novi Sad and Vojvodina, through Radnički from Kragujevac, to that brilliant season with Crvena Zvezda in 2014/15. Then five years at Fenerbahçe. And the pinnacle – the EuroLeague title in 2017 with Željko Obradović.

Then Valencia. His first return to Zvezda. Two years at Barcelona. And then another return home. To Zvezda. Where, it turned out, he would end his playing career.

I'm no basketball expert. I can't explain how Nikola Kalinić defended the pick-and-roll, when and why he switched, how he attacked a mismatch, or how he read the weak side of the defense. There are far more qualified people for that. I just watched him.

For a long time. And deeply respected the way he played basketball. That's why I'll miss that volcanic energy.

That moment when everything stops. The crowd goes silent. The coach has no more solutions. The team starts to panic. The offense is falling apart. And Kalina steps into the low post.

He raises his hand. And asks for the ball. Give it to me. Not because he's the best scorer. Not because he's sure to make the shot. But because someone has to.

Similarly, on the other side, an opposing center, over two meters tall, drives full force towards the basket. Someone has to stand in front of him. Kalina stands. Maybe he'll get dunked on along with the ball. Maybe he'll commit a foul. Maybe he'll fall.

But he will stand. And he will show his teeth.

You can have talent. You can train with the best coaches in the world. You can learn systems. Tactics. Pick-and-roll. Pick-and-pop. Zones. Off-ball movement. Defense. You can learn how to talk to the media. How to listen to the coach. You can train to be faster, stronger, to jump higher, run better.

Almost everything in sports can be learned. But there's something that cannot. Something you're born with.

I don't even know what it's called. Some say – aura. Others – charisma. Some say – he has heart. Some – he has a head. Some simply say – he has guts. Some say – he's not afraid.

And some just say: "Everyone follows him."

Probably all of that is somewhat true. And very few athletes embody all of that in one person. For me, Kalina was like that. And that's how I'll remember him. Not by the number of points. Not by shooting percentages. Not by efficiency ratings. Not even by trophies.

For such players, you can forget their misses. Forgive their bad games. Forget some foolishness, a technical foul, a turnover, or a move they shouldn't have made.

Because something greater remains. A feeling remains. And you find a special place for them in that drawer of memories, which is, I suppose, why we fell in love with sports in the first place.

And truly, no joke, I can put Nikola Kalinić on that short list of athletes about whom I'll one day be able to tell my grandchildren: "Your grandpa watched this guy live. You should know what a character he was."

Thank you, Kalina.
And good luck courtside.

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