From pitch decks to dugouts – The Lucien DelMare story

📝 Lucien DelMare – Chapter 1: Just Breathe

“Sometimes, you have to step away from your own voice just to hear it again.”

I needed quiet.

Not a sabbatical. Not burnout. Just… silence.

After sixteen marketing campaigns in eight months for clients who all wanted to be unique but asked for the same thing, my mind felt like fog.

Creativity had turned into a checklist. Branding into a spreadsheet.

So I left Holland.

Not back to Belgium. Not to Ibiza. Not to Bali.

But to a place where no one knew my name, and the salt was in the air — not in the pitch deck.

Opatija.

A town that smells like faded glory and freshly grilled fish.

Where restaurant chairs still creak, and waiters see everything but say nothing.

By the sea, but not touristy in August. Just quiet enough for someone who needs to think.

I rented a flat above a wine bar, overlooking boats that never seemed to go anywhere.

In the early mornings, I rode my bike — climbing the coastline, legs burning, head empty.

Afternoons were for espresso in my sweaty shirt, salt on my forehead, listening to Croatian conversations I didn’t understand.

Perfect.

I was there for two weeks.

On day five, the owner of the place where I ate brancin every night told me his brother was the chairman of a local football club.

“You should come watch a friendly,” he said.

“It’s a bit of a mess… but a beautiful one.”

I said yes, because I always say yes to chaos.

There was nothing to expect, nothing to prove.

Just a quiet evening, in a quiet town, watching strangers chase a ball under flickering floodlights.

Chapter 2: A stadium carved into the cliff

“It wasn’t on the map. It wasn’t even in Opatija.”

The restaurant owner called it a “training match”, but it felt more like a pilgrimage.

He picked me up in an old Fiat Punto with a squeaky clutch and a sticker of the Croatian flag slowly peeling off the rear window.

He didn’t speak much English. I didn’t speak much Croatian. But football does what branding sometimes can’t: it shortcuts the need for language.

We drove east, hugging the coastline like a ribbon, cliffs to our left, sea to our right. And then—

Kantrida.

A stadium dug into the stone, flanked by the Adriatic and a sheer vertical wall. A postcard from a different era.

14,438 all-seater.

Empty today. Just a handful of locals leaning on the railings. The sound of boots on gravel. Some kids kicking a ball outside the gate.

It didn’t look like a place where things grow.

It looked like a place where things survive.

There was no speaker system. No announcer. Just two teams and a wind that carried every misplaced pass like a reminder.

I sat on the fourth row with a paper cup of lukewarm coffee, watching shadows stretch across the grass.

And next to me — a man with a notebook.

Older. Elegant, in that slightly-worn way. Noticed everything, said nothing. Until the final whistle.

He turned to me and asked, in a French-accented English:

“You are not from here, monsieur?”

I told him I was just visiting. Resting. Watching.

He nodded once.

“You are watching differently.”

“Come by the office tomorrow. If you want.”

He walked away before I could respond.

Someone else told me later he was the chairman.

Chapter 3: The Office Above the Pitch

“You watched differently,” he’d said.

I hadn’t slept much that night.

Not from worry. From movement.

My mind had started sprinting again. Sketching. Mapping. Outlining the kind of project that starts with a stray coffee and ends in a press release.

The next morning I walked down the coast.

Same espresso bar. Same salty breeze.

Different purpose.

I found him — Mr. M., they called him — sitting at a large wooden table in the west stand. A place that smelled like old tactics boards and wet nylon.

He offered me tea. I asked for coffee.

Then, without introduction, he pulled out his phone.

Scrolled.

Held up my own Instagram account.

“I’ve seen your work. You run a creative agency in Holland, yes? Branding, storytelling, campaigns?”

I nodded.

“We need help. Not just with image. With structure. Leadership. With—how do you say—direction.”

He paused. Looked out over the field. You could see the sea from there.

“I’m old. The club needs something new.”

He wanted me to help lead — not coach — but shape. Share the wheel.

I said I wasn’t looking for that.

He said, “You came looking for something.”

Touche.

“But,” I said, “if I’m doing this, I don’t come alone.”

I laid it out clearly:

– My creative marketing agency would need to relocate.

– I’d need office space close to the stadium.

– A space for my team, small for now, but with room to grow.

– We’d need legal support for the business transition.

– And a clear agreement: football and branding, intertwined.

He nodded once. No hesitation. As if he already knew.

By that afternoon, he had shown me a half-abandoned office two streets up from Kantrida.

Sunlight through none existing windows.

A cracked wall.

A view of the pitch.

I stood there and said yes without saying it.
 

And from that moment, things moved quickly.

Within a week, I had listed my house in the Netherlands for rent

And convinced part of my creative agency to come join me in Croatia. Not everyone — just the ones who understand that real work begins where comfort ends.

We now operate from that same dusty office, two streets above the stadium.

Surrounded by boxes, chipped coffee mugs and Wi-Fi that needs three resets before it holds. But we’re there

And we look out over the pitch.

In between the work we still do for our Dutch clients — campaigns, content, strategy — we’ve started building something new.

There are still a few weeks before the season kicks off

So we’re using this time to do what we do best: positioning, redefining, redesigning.

This club needs to become Croatian pride again.

Not just in the logo, but in the stadium, the streets, the schoolyards, the city’s heartbeat.

We want to launch the new identity at the start of the season.

Bold. Honest. Distinct.

Not like a club trying to be something

But like one that always was. Just slightly forgotten.

Settling in

The first week was full of dust.

Dust from the old office, dust from boxes, dust from habits that had turned to stone years ago.

But we were in. Two streets above Kantrida.

The desk was set. The Wi-Fi worked (most of the time). The espresso machine was the first thing to come alive.

Time was short.

The new season was already knocking

And we had to decide: what can you do in just a few weeks?

So we started with what we knew: image.

We drew new lines through the old logo.

Placed colours side by side on the balcony in the morning light.

Talked about typography like we were talking about passing lanes.

The shirt design was stripped back to something that felt like a flag.

Something people could recognise — or at least look twice at.

And we knew: if the story makes sense, it has to land.

So we got to work on social media immediately.

Not for likes. For tone. For recognition.

My team handled that. That was their language.

My job was elsewhere.

I had to step inside.

First, with the club leadership — a string of meetings with faces that mostly seemed to hope I wouldn’t screw it up.

Then the team.

A wild mix.

Boys with flair. Boys with grease on their boots.

Some uncertain. Some loud. One with a stare like he’d seen it all before.

I wanted to see them. No speeches. No hype.

So I arranged a training match. An internal friendly. Squad vs squad.

And that’s what it became: themselves.

Exposed. Overcompensated. Rediscovered.

Final score? 5–3.

Didn’t mean much, but it said a lot.

Our fullbacks ran themselves into the ground.

Midfielders stood still like billboard cutouts. The passing was loose and rushed.

But Shehu, Ajayi and Zabec gave us flashes. And that’s something.

It was messy. Chaotic.

But honest. Real.

Above all, it showed us one thing: we’re not complete.

In the coming weeks, we’ll be looking for players who can make this group better.

Not more expensive. Just better.

Next week, the real friendlies begin.

That’s when we’ll start to see what we actually are.

Or what we might become.

PS:

We’ll soon be presenting the full NK Opatija rebrand: new logo, home kit and visual identity.