Why Darko Miličić Knocked Out a Horse and Punched Holes in Walls: An Interview That Will Resonate

Darko Miličić uses the word "bust" frequently, which is surprising. I expected him to avoid it, or at least look sad when we mentioned it, but he doesn't even stumble over it, doesn't pause. It doesn't get stuck in his throat. No, Darko is direct. He's open. Honest. When he approaches you, all 7 feet and 300 pounds of him, he looks like a garage door. Yet, within the first ten minutes, he uses the word "bust" five or six times, often with ironic undertones, the article states, adding: He jokes about his memorable awfulness, about being the second pick in the 2003 NBA draft, ahead of Carmelo Anthony, Chris Bosh, and Dwyane Wade, and right after LeBron James. He pretends to talk to them, throws his hands in the air, and tells them that, statistically, someone from that group had to be a nightmare, so, fine: "You guys be the best, and I'll be a historical stain." Then he bursts into laughter. Darko doesn't mind, he doesn't mind being one of the biggest punchlines in league history. He's somehow... completely okay with it. And, during one of our drives through Novi Sad, Darko's hometown in Serbia, I tell him I didn't expect him to be so accepting of the catastrophic assessments of his career quality – this is how ESPN began its story about Miličić.

Darko was 18 when the Detroit Pistons drafted him. Before that, he lived in Serbia during the 90s, meaning he witnessed his country, and his father, a soldier, fighting in several Balkan wars. He also endured the NATO bombing that devastated his city, forcing him, his parents, and sister to spend days in the basement, listening to all the sounds, including explosions, coming from above.

Once, during the war in Bosnia in the early 90s, he was watching television with his family when they reported that around 15-20 Serbian soldiers had been killed that day. The announcer also read the name Milorad Miličić. Darko, who wasn't even ten years old at the time, still vividly remembers seeing his father's picture on the screen. "Mom, why is Dad on TV?" he asked. His mother didn't answer. She just started to cry. And so did Darko. But about five minutes later, the announcer said there had been a mistake, that some names were incorrect. "I'll never forget that feeling. Suddenly – he's gone. And then suddenly he's back."

Milorad returned home. And, among other things, he taught Darko how to play basketball, showing him shooting techniques on a hoop near the hill where their house stood. However, it wasn't because either father or son had a particular love for the sport. It was more about biology. "My father taught me basketball because there were people beyond the village who would say, 'You're tall, why don't you try?'" Darko says, shrugging. "I wasn't the one asking to play basketball."

Still, it turned out basketball was something he was genuinely good at. And with family encouragement, which sometimes leads to teenage inertia where kids stick to a hobby for six years even if they're only mildly interested, Darko kept playing. He moved to Hemofarm, a professional club in Vršac, as a 14-year-old. Basketball became his purpose, even if it wasn't his passion. When scouts started coming, Darko saw the NBA as a way out – of financial insecurity, of the constant noise, of Serbia – more than it was the fulfillment of some childhood dream. He grew to love the sport enough. Everyone he knew rooted for him to leave. Everything was laid out before him. And who wouldn't walk through a door that was, well, simply open?

When Darko played in the NBA, or rather... didn't quite play, he would return to his apartment after yet another game spent on the bench, and vent his anger on the notoriously thin American drywall. Memphis was the worst. Darko's wife, Zorana, who was already living with him then, called it his "crisis period." The team was losing. Darko was furious. And the apartment walls looked like Swiss cheese. The pattern repeated: he'd come home, punch the walls, go to sleep. In many cities, he met local construction workers who would come, patch the holes quickly, and paint them with whatever color they had. "You know there's pure white, then off-white, then grayish? That's what the walls of my house looked like," Darko recalls.

He always had outbursts. He calls them "That's when I go crazy." Mile Ilić, who met him as a teenager, recalls something about Darko's moodiness. He would stop practicing in the middle of training, or wouldn't help clean up the gym, and the coach would then punish the entire rest of the team. "In those moments, you just start to hate him, because you start suffering because of him," Ilić says. "And it would last for five or ten minutes, and then he would become completely normal again."

Once, when Lazar was five or six, Darko took him to ride a large horse. Horses had always been part of Darko's family life; his parents had a farm, there were always animals around, and even now, despite being as big as a small jeep, Darko enjoys riding. He likes that Lazar is interested in something his father enjoys. These days, Darko rides a horse named Astor, who is 12 years old "and truly very, very big." They acquired him specifically for Darko from a stud farm in Novi Sad. Darko finds peace in riding.

One day, while Lazar was in the saddle and Darko watched from the side, the horse beneath the little boy bolted. Everything was fine until the horse started to rear, Lazar began to slip, and then suddenly the boy fell from the saddle, hanging upside down, alongside the horse. Darko screamed. One of Lazar's legs remained caught. His body dangled, hitting the horse's flanks. His small head swayed near the hooves as the horse galloped. If the boy had fallen, he would have been trampled. Darko and another man jumped over the fence, ran in, and started shouting. They managed to calm the horse after a few seconds, but even though it truly submitted, Darko felt himself shaking. He picked up his son, hugged him. Lazar was crying. Darko was so scared for his child, and so angry, that he turned and punched the horse in the head (I checked with Radoslav Bursać, who owns the stud farm; the horse is fine). As Darko tells this story, at a table laden with Serbian meat dishes, he laughs nervously. I think it's because he knows that none of it – the terrifying parental fear and animal violence – sounds particularly good. But he tells the story because he sees a lesson in it.