“Those who have something piss us off.” This is how the psychofans of Ruch Chorzów start [FRAGMENT REPORTA¯U]

The author of the report is an investigative journalist from the Katowice branch of “Gazeta Wyborcza”, who has been observing the activities of Ruch Chorzów fans for 20 years and following subsequent attempts to dismantle gangs associated with the club.

“This book relates the history of their militia called Psycho Fans – only those who had proven their usefulness in setups, beatings, robberies and daring thefts were admitted to it. The perfectly organized Psycho Fans traded drugs on a large scale, benefited from illegal gambling, had on account of a fatal beating, and at the same time they controlled the management of the Ruch Chorzów club. They were feared by fans of other clubs, gangsters, dealers, and they had their followers among the policemen. At one point, they actually shook the entire Silesia,” we read in the description.

DEATH FOR DEATH

My neighborhood is haziel. Rows of buildings made of blackened brick, gray courtyards, broken benches, trampled grass and rust. A tenement house is a family home, a yard is a square, a child is a mess, and a haziel is a toilet. He drives shit.

In my neighborhood, people drink from plastic cups at the gate of a family house or straight from the tap in a square covered with dogs.

My neighborhood could live, but somehow it can’t. It died along with the mines, steelworks and factories. Our fathers are no longer gods to us. We saw that they were weak, helpless like children and that they could no longer give us anything. Our mothers are cleaners, shop assistants, bartenders, janitors and orderlies. They sew at night. They hide water bottles for our fathers or drink with them.

In my district you won’t hear the words: hope, success and future. Life is here and now. What will happen, no one knows. You can get punched in the face here and now. Either you cut or you are cut – there is no other option.

In my district, broken shop windows are counted. Fresh putty and new steel grates everywhere. There’s no shame in stealing. Everyone has stolen something and will steal something again. Because everyone does it, and most often those who have a lot. Somewhere up there, at the top, they are juggling millions. In my neighborhood it’s all about killing the guy in the store. No sin.

The worst thing is not poverty, but boredom. If nothing is happening, there is nothing to talk about. So we go to the district and break shop windows. We’re making noise for someone to call the dogs. The female dogs are leaving, and we are already quietly cutting up the shop in another place.

Or we jump on the tram and make cattle. We scream, we hang on poles, we jump on seats. People stiff with fear, there is something to remember. Or we make a carousel. You have to find the drunk guy. One of us grabs him by the back of his jacket and gives him a carousel. When he falls, we start kicking him. By the time the loser gets his act together, his wallet is gone.

In my neighborhood, women sit in their windows. They put pillows on the windowsills and rest their big tits on them. – Who raised you like that, you idiots? – they ask.

Stupid bastards. We raise ourselves. All you need is a few boys from neighboring families who stay together. It’s a team, and there are a lot of them. The teams know each other, we go to the same schools, we play on the same fields, we sit on the streets and in the stairwells. Each of us has the entire pack behind us. We sit down every day and talk. Talking kills boredom.

There are no names in my neighborhood. Buddies are Bolo, Gray, Fat, Strong, Monkey, Kozioł, Kizia, Fuks… Those who have something piss us off. Because we don’t have branded clothes, shoes or the latest phones. You could walk up to the one that has it and punch it in the face. He would have to download. Loser, whore, banana, dick.

In my district, people don’t dream about anything, maybe only football. Our club, our team, which we support, under its colors we gather. There is a beloved team and there is no better one. The team is sacred, like an altar in a church.

In my district, the scarf is also sacred. It costs a tenner, but there is no way out. The whole team wears scarves and you have to too. You start going to matches early, first to your own stadium, then older fans take you on away games. Then you discover the hierarchy – you know who’s in charge and you keep an eye on yourself. You see he can afford clothes, a phone, a car. And that’s what you want too. Go to matches, take actions, cut opponents’ flags, scarves, banners, and then burn them in the stands, hide them in houses, provoke them, chase them with the police.

In my neighborhood, policemen’s female dogs call each other with roosters. Here on the walls of CHWDP! F*ck the police! The police are the worst whores, they pick on everything. They won’t say anything normally, they just grab their dicks straight away.

– So what? – they ask.

– And shit.

We rhyme about dogs:

He was born in a tram, pressed against the door, his brain was left in the validating machine along with the tickets. The mother poisoned herself, the father hanged himself when they saw what an imbecile he was (…) when you see him, take him for your shoes.

There is a scythe with dogs. There will never be consent, the police may attack us. A fan of a team from a neighboring city is also an enemy. Whore, slut, cocksucker. They are beating our people, we have to unwind. And there’s no fucking joke. Harm begets harm, this spiral cannot be straightened.

Well, how? Bruise for bruise, kick for kick, tooth for tooth, death for death. This will be passed down from generation to generation.

It’s the same everywhere. Cwajka in Chorzów, Bobrek in Bytom, Zandka in Zabrze, Lipiny in Świętochłowice.

My neighborhood is fucked. And I’m fucked. And I guess we all do too.

October 24, 2017

– We’ll fuck you up!

– No kidding. Fuck us! The adrenaline is so intense that I don’t even fully understand what’s happening.

First things first. We are in Ruda Śląska, familoki at Królowej Jadwigi Street. We, the guys from Ruch, in Górnik Zabrze. We arrived in several cars. We are supposed to paint over the frog symbols. In the trunks, in addition to paints and brushes, there were machetes, metal batons and baseball bats. Just in case.

There was supposed to be no one. We have our own intelligence service, like MI6 or Mossad. Even better. We hack into the accounts of leaders of other hooligan groups in Silesia on the Internet and install GPS transmitters under their cars. We know what they talk about, where they live, where they work, what kindergartens they take their children to, what the names of their girlfriends, wives and lovers are. And in which pubs they meet before matches.

An interview is essential. The guys know everything.

And suddenly he was. Fuck, who will believe it? That he goes here where we paint? That he would be alone. That it will fall into our hands. Just him? Such a big deal!

Dariusz, a fucking football bigwig from Górnik Zabrze.

Between the family cars of his Audi. He’s driving slowly, he certainly doesn’t know we’re here. A dozen blue boys. With whom the Miner has a scythe.

To the car and f**k after him!

We’re driving between buildings, who is he?! I think we lost him. Fuck him, that’s hard.

And suddenly he drives out of a side street, straight into our car.

And we hold metal batons and baseball bats. And we already know we have it.

He’s still trying to put it in reverse, but the gearbox seems to be damaged. He also already knows that he is ours. But he opens the car door and starts running. We jump out and run after him. A few of our guys stop next to the Audi, they break the windows and break the headlights. The rest were running amok, like hounds.

We catch up with him on Queen Jadwiga. He must have tripped over something because he fell. And he won’t get up again. He is hit with fists and batons. Kick wherever possible, all over the body. He tries to cover himself with his hands and they hit him in the paws. He’s barely moving when one of us jumps on his head to spice things up.

“It’s done,” we hear. Sign to retreat. How long could all this last? Eighteen seconds?

We load into the cars and drive down Królowej Jadwigi Street. He’s still lying there, not even moving, looking like he’s already dead. And shit. What to worry about?

We know that the dogs from Ruda Śląska will start chasing us first. So, just for fun, we headed towards Bytom.

The bigwig from Torcida lies on Queen Jadwiga. It’s worth celebrating with hot dogs at the gas station. With spicy mustard and thousand island sauce.

October 26, 2017

Everyone already knows that the Internet is outdoing itself with details.

Apparently a grocery store clerk saw us. She was counting the goods in the back room. She testified that she casually looked at the surveillance feed and stared at the screen without saying a word, as if frozen. When we left, she called an ambulance.

She told the dogs that one of us kicked him in the head so furiously that the others had to drag him away. I don’t remember it because it was only seconds.

Apparently, when the ambulance arrived, he was no longer breathing, no pulse could be felt, but the paramedics made his heart start beating again. They put him unconscious in an ambulance and rushed him to the hospital. On the way, they had to resuscitate him a second time. Until they reached the hospital in Blachownia. It’s near Częstochowa.

October 31, 2017

Shocking. He is dead. He did not regain consciousness in this Blachownia. Apparently in the death certificate the doctor wrote: “brain stem damage.”

A slight kink. We wanted to beat them, scare them, teach them a lesson, humiliate them, show them who was in charge. But not kill.

And what now? Will there be trouble? Will the police get involved? Or maybe – as our people say – the matter will fall apart, like with everything we have done so far?

And if not?

After all, he’s from Torcida, so he deserved it.

Torcida. Górnik Zabrze fans. Two emotions – hatred and revenge. And this Darek? He was arrested for attacking Gypsies, for participating in a hooligan rally, and for selling stimulants. But he didn’t slack off at the gym. And a character, he never talked to the police. He was at every Górnik Zabrze match. Cossack.

He wasn’t expecting us. He was taking his girlfriend to Ruda Śląska. And the city is divided between Górnik Zabrze and Ruch Chorzów. Everyone can see who rules, even on the walls of buildings – club symbols are the limits of influence. Wearing your team’s emblems is risky and can get you in the face. The victims lose scarves, T-shirts and sweatshirts. Nobody counts broken teeth.

But Queen Jadwiga is the frog’s territory.

On a closed fan forum, someone writes:

“Years ago, you fucked up Rummy in a similar way. The scores are settled.”

And good. Football Poland must know that Darek was fucked by Ruch Chorzów fans.

Cover of the book ‘The Heavenly Wars. In the middle of the most brutal gang of hooligans’ by Marcin Pietraszewski Promotional materials Agora Publishing House