"That guy definitely plays professionally, and at a high level."
Mlinar leaned closer, watching Modrić's departing figure.
Suker turned his head and smiled. "What makes you say that?"
"I can't keep up at all!"
Mlinar shook his head. "His passing is very precise; it's a quality developed through years of professional matches. Also, when he handles the ball, he's fast and rarely looks down. He's observing the whole time."
"I noticed that he looked around eight times during the gaps between receiving and passing the ball."
Suker was surprised. "You had time to watch all that?"
"No choice!"
Mlinar shrugged. "My brain can't keep up with the pace, so I can only play without thinking—just pass to whoever is open."
Suker smiled and gave a thumbs up. "A very good method."
Mlinar nodded toward the entrance of the field and asked, "Do you know who that guy is?"
Suker smiled. "It's easy to guess."
"You really know?" Mlinar was surprised.
Suker shook his head. "You're really slow. There are only so many people in the entire town of Mostar, and even fewer young people. Among these young people, there are only two who can play football like that!"
"Which two?" Mlinar played along.
Suker counted on his fingers. "One is the Croatian genius currently playing for Zrinjski Mostar."
Mlinar interjected. "Luka Modrić? Hmm, I've seen him play, his talent is indeed enviable. Who's the other one?"
Suker pointed to himself.
Mlinar tilted his head. "What do you mean?"
Suker was annoyed. "Me! The other one is me!"
Mlinar was stunned for a moment.
Suker glared at the guy, annoyed, but the guy blurted out.
"You're saying he's Modrić?"
Suker's eyes widened. Is that the point?
Shouldn't you be praising me?
Mlinar stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I knew it. His ability is already beyond this level. If he were serious, he would have crushed us long ago."
"Hey!" Suker waved his hand. "My performance was also very good!"
Mlinar ignored him and continued to sigh. "It's so comfortable playing with him. It feels like you don't even need to use your brain."
Suker didn't want to talk anymore and turned to leave.
On the other side, Modrić had returned to the club's dormitory.
Taking off his hooded tracksuit, his hair stuck limply to his scalp, his body slightly sweaty.
Despite the slight stickiness, he felt a sense of inner comfort.
Yes!
He played a very comfortable football match.
Although it was a six-a-side game, the overall teamwork made him feel a long-lost sense of joy.
This was something the club couldn't give him.
Although he also tried hard to play this kind of football at the club, it was always difficult to achieve.
He didn't know where the problem lay.
However, this experience made him waver a little.
Perhaps he really should make some changes.
Coming to his desk, Modrić picked up a pen and paper and began to write furiously. Perhaps the joy in his heart made the pen in his hand fly quickly, as if dancing on the paper.
"Dear teacher, in my last letter I mentioned the team's predicament. I don't understand why they can't understand my ideas and intentions, which always makes us miss opportunities. The game I once longed for has also become terrible. I once complained about my teammates and questioned the coach, but today I realized that things may not be like this."
Modrić adjusted his sitting posture, recalling the scene of the game, and continued to write.
"This was a very magical experience. They were a group of strangers. It was the first time I met them, and we had never trained together before, but such a group was able to play passing combinations that pleased me time and time again. I really enjoyed that feeling—the ball shuttling back and forth under my feet, while also penetrating the opponent's defense, using passing! Using teamwork to tear apart the opponent's defense."
"There, I met an interesting guy."
Writing this, a slight smile appeared on the corner of Modrić's mouth.
A week later, in Zagreb, the capital of Croatia, a two-story detached house.
In a yard surrounded by plants, a middle-aged man of about 40 years old was sitting in a deck chair, patiently reading a letter in his hand. Occasionally, a smile appeared on the corner of his mouth.
"Our first encounter was at the Old Bridge of Mostar. He was banging two iron basins to attract attention, preparing to collect money for a diving performance. To be honest, it wasn't a diving season at the time. I suspected he was a liar, but unexpectedly, he really jumped, and I admired his courage."
"Later, during a running training session, I ran into their team training again. It turned out that the guy was also a professional player, currently playing in the Bosnian and Herzegovinian Second League. He is only 150 cm tall and looks extremely short, but he is the top scorer in the Second League, which is really interesting."
Seeing this, the expression on the middle-aged man's face was slightly surprised, and he even made an 'Oh?' sound.
Obviously, this was also beyond his comprehension.
Out of interest, the middle-aged man continued to read, thinking that the following would be about the little boy.
"That guy said he is a forward-type center forward. I don't know exactly how, but his passing, vision, and overall awareness are very outstanding... about the same as me!"
This time, the middle-aged man straightened his back slightly. He was really interested.
As the coach who had trained Modrić since he was a child, he knew very well what kind of talent Modrić had.
Among them, the most crucial are the vision and overall awareness of a top midfielder.
And Modrić's interpretation of the little boy surprised him.
A center forward with a height of 150 centimeters, possessing top-notch vision and a natural talent for overall awareness?
The middle-aged man slightly grimaced, wondering what kind of freak this was.
Below the letter, Modrić detailed their passing coordination process, with details so thorough that it felt immersive.
To express it more concretely, Modrić even drew a tactical movement diagram.
The middle-aged man watched the crooked tactical diagram with relish, while also outlining the game in his mind.
It must be said that Modrić's feeling was correct.
This little guy's positioning was just right, without any prominence or deficiency—just standing in the most stable position, connecting the rhythm of the pass.
If coupled with excellent dribbling and considerable speed, then he would be a good seed for an attacking midfielder.
However, a height of 150 centimeters...
The middle-aged man shook his head slightly.
This is a real handicap.
Although the midfield position in football doesn't consider height factors that much, 150 centimeters is indeed too short.
"He should still develop!" the middle-aged man murmured, continuing to look down at the letter.
In the letter, after a long speech, Modrić started to express himself again.
"Teacher, I really want to go home, but not like this. I want to go home as a victor. I will prove everything to them! At the same time, I will also prove that you are the right one. I guarantee it! Yours, Luka!"
The letter ended here, and the middle-aged man put down the letter and slowly exhaled.
"A letter from Luka?"
In the room, a woman came out with two cups of coffee, handed one cup over, and then sat opposite and sighed, "He's only 16 years old. The Mostec brothers are going too far."
The middle-aged man sneered. "They want to eliminate my influence in Dinamo Zagreb as much as possible."
The woman sighed. "They are spreading rumors in the media. Aren't you going to fight back?"
"No need to fight back! Results will prove everything!" The middle-aged man, who was the former coach of Dinamo Zagreb, Bešić, said confidently. "They are helping me clean up the team, I am very happy to see someone willing to play the role of this villain."
The woman: "But they also want to take the team for themselves!"
Bešić waved his hand. "It won't be that easy. Just relying on two stubborn fools? They don't know anything about football. They may be good speakers, but they are definitely not qualified coaches. Results will prove everything, and when they have destroyed the club almost enough, it will be time for me to rebuild."
"So how long do we have to wait?"
"About a season!" Bešić's tone was a little uncertain.
The woman sighed again. "Poor Luka, he has to stay alone in Bosnia for a season. He is not a good socializer, I don't know if he will be bullied."
"He is doing well." Bešić picked up the letter and smiled. "It seems he has also made a friend."
The woman said in surprise, "Really? That's really good news."
"Okay, we should also attend the evening banquet. Although you are no longer the head coach, these connections still need to be maintained, and Mr. Moster is still strongly supporting you. We should express our gratitude."
Listening to the woman's words, Bešić smiled bitterly. "Banquet? I really don't like this kind of thing."
"Don't complain. We should go try on the evening gown."
After speaking, she dragged Bešić into the room.
On the dining table in the yard, the letter was pressed under the coffee cup, shaking gently with the breeze.
---
Tuesday, a ranch in the town of Mostar.
"Luka, you came so early!"
Modrić tilted his head to look at Šuker, with a look of astonishment on his face.
Šuker sat directly next to Modrić and began to put on his shoes.
Modrić came back to his senses and said nervously, "How did you know who I am?"
"It's easy to guess!" Šuker pointed around and said, "Everyone here knows."
Modrić: "! ! !"
Only to see Mlinar raise his hand to say hello first. "Good noon, Modrić."
"Hello, Luka!"
"Your passing is great!"
"I watched your game last week."
"It's a pity, there was a chance to win!"
"Sarajevo is also very strong. Tolister's performance is too strong."
"Come on! Win them next time, the warriors of Mostar! Hahaha!"
Modrić was obviously a little confused.
At this time, Šuker stood up, dressed neatly, and tugged at his hooded robe and said, "Take it off, it's so hot!"
Modrić was silent.
Šuker was curious. "Why do you always wear this dress? Does it have any special meaning?"
Modrić was silent for a long time before whispering, "It makes me feel safe..."
"What?" Šuker didn't hear clearly.
Modrić quickly said, "I like wearing this dress."
"Okay." Šuker nodded. He understood personal quirks. This is a matter of personality.
"Get ready!" Šuker stretched out his palm and smiled. "The party is about to begin."
Modrić's spirit was lifted. He stretched out his hand, and the two lightly high-fived!
Pa!