When the Coach Left: Serbia and the Lesson of Resilience in Women's Volleyball

The third set had just ended 15-25 in favor of Poland. But in the stands, nobody was talking about the score. All eyes turned to the coaching bench, where Zoran Terzić, the architect of Serbian women's volleyball for two decades, was clutching his chest and walking toward the tunnel. An assistant whispered something to the captain. The Serbian girls looked at each other, saying nothing. In that moment, the match was no longer about tactics or points. It became a story about a team that had to stand up on its own amid an emotional storm. I have sat in the commentary booth for 40 years, witnessing hundreds of matches. But rarely have I felt as choked up as I did then. Not because of the departure of a legend, but because of how the women on the court handled it. They didn't panic. They didn't look toward the bench for instructions. They just looked at each other, nodded, and walked out for the fourth set with quiet determination. This was the bronze medal match of the European Women's Volleyball Championship. Serbia, three-time continental champions, arrived as a top contender. They had lost to Türkiye in the semifinal - a defeat attributed to fatigue after a long campaign. Poland, on the other hand, were at their peak with a golden generation, led by Magdalena Stysiak, one of the best spikers in the world today. For Serbia, this was not just a medal match. This could be Zoran Terzić's last game as head coach. Twenty years, three European titles, an Olympic medal - he had lifted Serbian women's volleyball from obscurity to the top of the world. For Poland, this was a chance to prove they were no longer a team of the past. But no one anticipated the incident in the third set. Terzić, known for his composure and sharp tactics, suddenly clutched his chest and sat down. After a brief discussion with the team doctor, he stood up, shook hands with each assistant, and left the court. The arena fell silent. Even the Polish players stopped and watched. A rare moment in elite sport, when the boundary between two teams dissolved before a medical emergency. But the match had to continue. And in the third set, Poland exploited Serbia's disarray to the fullest. Stysiak erupted with powerful spikes, the Polish block read perfectly. Serbia lost their rhythm and fell 15-25 - a rare scoreline for a big team. However, what impressed me most was not the collapse in the third set, but how Serbia rose in the fourth. Without Terzić on the bench, his assistant simply said: "Just play." And they played. Tijana Bošković, who scored 29 points in the match, began piercing the Polish block with sharp-angled spikes. But more importantly, the others - Uzelac, Kurtagić, Tica - also started to speak up. The match data tells a fascinating story. Serbia is not a one-star team as many believe. Alongside Bošković's 29 points, Aleksandra Uzelac scored 15, while middle blockers Kurtagić and Tica each contributed 12. In total, the non-Bošković players scored 39 points - more than the star's contribution. This shows Serbia's squad depth, a factor often underestimated when discussing this team. Poland, in contrast, relied almost entirely on Stysiak. She scored 28 points - nearly 40% of the team's total. When Stysiak was blocked in the fourth set, Poland had no Plan B. This was a tactical weakness Serbia exploited fully. In the fourth set, Serbia deliberately served to Stysiak's position, forcing her into more defensive duties and reducing her attacking efficiency. The fourth set ended 25-18 in Serbia's favor. What mattered was how they won: not through spectacular plays, but through solidity, discipline, and collective spirit. Every time Poland scored, Serbia answered with a textbook combination. Bošković no longer had to carry everything. Uzelac made delicate tips, Kurtagić and Tica took turns blocking at the net. The fifth set was a display of composure. Serbia led 8-5, but Poland leveled at 9-9 thanks to two aces from Stysiak. At that moment, I saw something special in the Serbian girls. They didn't panic. They called each other together, spoke briefly, then continued fighting. Bošković delivered two spikes through the Polish block, sealing a 15-12 win. Serbia took bronze. Looking back at the whole match, I realized: this victory came not from Terzić's tactics, but from what he had built over 20 years. He didn't just teach them how to play volleyball; he taught them how to face adversity. When he left, they didn't collapse because they had been trained to stand on their own. That is the greatest legacy of a great coach. Meanwhile, in the final played the same day, Türkiye and Italy produced a classic. Melissa Vargas of Türkiye and Paola Egonu of Italy both scored 28 points - a remarkable coincidence. But interestingly, both teams had supporting players shining: Türkiye had Zehra Güneş with decisive blocks, Italy had Myriam Sylla with clever tips. This shows that at the highest level, victory always comes from the collective, not the individual. But there is another story the media often overlooks. While all the spotlight was on Bošković - and she deserves it - players like Uzelac, Kurtagić, and Tica receive little attention. They scored a combined 39 points, more than Poland's Stysiak, yet their names rarely appear in headlines. This is not just Serbia's problem, but a global issue in women's volleyball: we focus too much on stars while ignoring those who build collective strength. I used to sit in the stands clapping alone for female players; now I sit at the commentary booth so others don't have to clap alone. But I still feel uneasy reading articles that talk only about "Bošković's team" or "Stysiak and the rest." Volleyball is a team sport. Victory never comes from one person. And when we only celebrate the star, we inadvertently erase the stories of women who contribute quietly. There is another angle to Terzić's departure. Many see it as a disadvantage for Serbia. But I believe it may have been an unintended catalyst for their victory. Without bench direction, the players had to make decisions on the court themselves. Bošković, accustomed to receiving sets as per the coach's plan, called for the ball more herself. Uzelac, who usually waited for the system, created her own opportunities. That freedom, even for one match, unleashed their potential. The court doesn't ask about gender; it only asks if you dare to stand up. Serbia stood up. They didn't need a coach on the bench to win - they needed what he had taught them over 20 years. As for Poland, this defeat is a costly lesson: a team that relies too heavily on one star will always be fragile. Equality doesn't mean everyone finishes the same; it means everyone has a fair starting line. In women's volleyball, every player - star or not - deserves recognition. As I left the arena that night, I remembered the stories of Vietnamese female players I have followed for seven years. They face similar struggles: lack of investment, lack of media coverage, lack of recognition. But they still stand up, still fight, still dream. Serbia today, Vietnam tomorrow - the journey of women's volleyball is long, but every victory, no matter how small, is a step forward. And I will keep telling those stories, until no one has to clap alone.