From Croatian grandmothers to roaring “doms” in the United States and Canada, the phrase Uvijek Vjerni—Always Faithful—sits at the heart of how supporters live the game. It’s stitched into jerseys, carried across flags, and amplified by a diaspora that turns W
On matchdays, Croatia’s supporters don’t just watch. They gather—often in unlikely places—and they do it with a kind of certainty that makes even rivals feel slightly confused.
For many fans, it starts long before kickoff. In Split, Marin Gabela, 29, says it’s the love of being the underdog that carries them through. “We’re a small country with a big heart,” he says. “And we love to be the underdog. We’re not fearful of anyone.”
That breezy confidence is harder to explain on paper. Croatia has a population of barely four million, with a limited talent pool. Yet the team has finished back-to-back World Cups in second place in 2018 and third place in 2022. Now, as supporters head to North America for the 2026 edition, many aren’t arriving to hope they belong. They’re coming expecting it.
The phrase that seems to glue it together is “Uvijek Vjerni” — “Always Faithful.” It has been stitched into jerseys. inked on biceps. and splashed across flags wherever Croatia’s chequered-shirted stars play. To follow the national team is to witness a strange unity: ultras who tear into each other during club weekends end up sharing the same red-and-white checked jerseys. In Zagreb, the beer brand Ozujsko flows freely. In Split, locals often prefer their wine cut with water—a refreshing “bevanda”—as they spill onto the streets.
And then there’s the grandmother effect—one that feels distinctly Croatian. even if the rest of the world can’t always picture it. Somewhere in the mix. a Croatian grandmother is cheering for Luka Modric with the same intensity she’d show for a handball player or archer wearing the country’s colours.
Supporters tie that faith to more than football. For 40-year-old supporter Ante Kvartuc, the meaning runs deeper. “We’re a strong, religious, Catholic country,” he says. “But we’re not just faithful to God. It’s in our DNA to take care of each other.”
At the previous World Cup in Qatar, the phrase became something you could see—scaled up and dragged through the streets. The group connected to “Uvijek Vjerni” (now up to around 25,000 members) created a 200m (650ft) long national flag and paraded it through the city of Doha to support their team.
This time around, the football will land in Dallas (near Arlington), Toronto and Philadelphia, where the three group games are scheduled to take place. Around those matches, you can expect Croatian presence to feel less like a visiting crowd and more like a temporary continuation of home.
Vigo Mavrovic, 20, works as a photographer for HNK Rijeka, the 2024-25 national champions. “We are distinctive, loud and proud,” he says. He knows the economics don’t look equal—“Most of the Croatians attending the World Cup will be wealthy because it’s so expensive”—but he argues the backing at home is still strong. He’ll be watching with friends at the pub or in a house with his Maraska Pelinkovac. a traditional Croatian bitter herbal liqueur. “until early in the morning.” In his view. the squad isn’t packed with a single star. “This squad does not contain a star player — they’re all good, rather than great,” he says. Even so, he believes.
Lovre Nikolac, a part-time podcaster and student based in Dubrovnik, shares that mix of optimism and realism. He points to the emergence of 19-year-old Tottenham Hotspur centre-back Luka Vuskovic and hopes Manchester City’s Josko Gvardiol’s return—after a fractured leg since January—will slot smoothly into the defence. When he thinks about what Dubrovnik will look like during the matches, he laughs at the difference. “A lot busier than the winter!” he says. He adds that foreign exchange students in the city have started supporting Croatia. “so maybe the tourists will follow us too.”.
A typical matchday for Nikolac starts with coffee and tactical discussions about the game, then beer. Still, he’s particular. He says he will not drink Karlovacko because “I hate that.”
The tone of fan life is loud, he says, sometimes even too nationalistic. But when Croatia play, he insists they behave. “We’ll just throw beer,” he adds, then clarifies—“although not in the same way as the English.”
What makes it feel different is the variety. There are brash, firecracker-throwing ultras tied to Croatia’s top clubs, including Dinamo Zagreb, Hajduk Split and Rijeka. Then there are supporters like Marin. who tracks the national team closely from his home and only goes out when the night’s outcome matches what he hoped for.
Even his family has a special kind of matchday. “When the national team play now, it’s the most important day for my grandmother — and she never watches football (otherwise),” he says. He describes his own role in sport too: he is a director of futsal side MNK Hajduk Split.
In that worldview, every tournament is a chance not just to enjoy football but to prove something. “We look at every game and every tournament as a chance to prove and position ourselves,” Marin says. “And maybe boost our tourist season!” He contrasts that expectation with countries where winning is assumed. “It’s different for us, compared to say, Spain, who are expected to win at every tournament.”.
For Marin, the emotional proof is already stored in memory. When Croatia beat Brazil on penalties in the quarter-finals in 2022. he was in Zagreb for what he calls “the craziest day of my life.” “Every single person was out of their apartment and on the streets. ” he says. “It was like an earthquake had hit us. That’s the only way I can describe it.”.
That sense of momentum has only grown since 2018. Half a million people welcomed the team back to the capital after it finished as runners-up to France at the 2018 World Cup. Since then. locals say football pride has expanded—so much so that they talk about removing the word “corruption” from daily discussions about the sport. shifting attention toward what happens on the pitch rather than off it.
The strongest chapter of Croatia’s story, though, doesn’t belong only to Croatia. It lives in the diaspora. With roughly four million Croatians scattered across Europe, Australia and North America, the sporting passion travels with them and doesn’t fade with distance.
There is a material reason people left too. While wages have risen, Croatia’s shift to the euro in 2023 has made everyday life “markedly more expensive,” pushing many to leave in search of better opportunities and financial security elsewhere.
For Croatians settled in the United States and Canada, the 2026 tournament comes with an extra charge: it feels like a “home” World Cup. In Toronto, the Croatian presence is huge.
Ante—who manages the influential croatiansports.com website from Los Angeles—describes how he turns a community centre. known as a “dom. ” into a loud meeting place. For every match, the venue hosts upwards of 2,000 compatriots. People are invited up on stage to discuss tactics, experiences, or their role in the community. Sometimes people from other backgrounds are asked along as well. but only if they remain respectful. because the dom is connected to a nearby church.
“We have doms all across the world and these are like home bases for us,” Ante says. “So when we play, it’s not just a match, it’s a global gathering of people.”
He says the diaspora doesn’t feel separate from Croatia. “The diaspora, we are just as strong. It’s not separate,” he says. “When the national team plays, it activates it, and I don’t know if there’s going to be anything quite like it all around the world.”
To him, being a fan is more than cheering. “Being a fan is not just supporting the team; it’s expressing our entire identity,” he says. “It’s magic. it’s high-energy. but it’s very deep-rooted for me.” He calls it a “rare earth human element.” If you see one group of them. he says. it’s hard to forget. “Those who visit for the first time are amazed by the atmosphere and our positivity.”.
Croatia have often been cast as football’s plucky overachievers. Even after earning genuine global respect, they’re refusing to soften expectations now. The phrase Uvijek Vjerni keeps pulling supporters back to the same promise—togetherness, pride, and a refusal to shrink from big moments.
Whether it’s Lovre, Vigo, Marin (and his grandmother), Ante, or millions more, the result is the same: when the national team plays, it’s not just a fixture. It’s a shared identity that keeps showing up—Always Faithful.
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