Chapter 10: A New Attempt

Words : 1433 Updated : Sep 17th, 2025

Chapter 10 of "The All-Around Center Forward" introduces the scene: Suke sat beside Oripe, chatting while watching the match. "Henry's impact on the offense and defense... Keep going!

Suke sat beside Oripe, chatting while watching the match. "Henry's impact on the offense and defense is strong, but I think the real key to Arsenal's success is Bergkamp!" Oripe hit the nail on the head with one sentence. Dennis Bergkamp, known as the "Iceman" during his time at Arsenal, was originally a center forward. Under Wenger's guidance, he often retreated from the penalty area and took on the role of a wide midfielder. A wide midfielder is different from a winger. Wingers position themselves on the same attacking line as the center forward, playing level with them. When they have the ball, their task is to break through down the flank and operate near the touchline—all in the service of scoring goals. This is currently the most popular role on the wings, nicknamed "Little White Shoes." This old nickname comes from the past when the touchlines were marked with white chalk, and the wingers, running along them, would get their shoes dusted white. Players like Robben, Ribéry, and future stars like Mbappé belong to this type. In comparison, wide midfielders have more responsibilities. Although they are also expected to make forward runs and score, that's not their main focus. Wide midfielders mainly support and sometimes lead the attack, linking up play. On defense, they are expected to track back actively. Position-wise, they stay deeper than center forwards, narrowing the gap with the midfield to establish tighter passing connections. At this moment, Bergkamp was clearly playing as a wide midfielder, giving Suke a deeper understanding of that role. Arsenal's attack remained fluid and compact, while Liverpool, due to their overly aggressive offense, began to lose momentum. Taking advantage of this, Arsenal launched a series of relentless attacks. They pressed high, constantly troubling Liverpool with smooth and penetrating passes that left the defense spinning. "Beautiful!" Oripe squinted in appreciation. "When will we be able to play like that?" Suke turned to look at Oripe and said, "We can try." Oripe replied, "We only have one core. Honestly, Milinar alone can't sustain that kind of fluid attack. We simply don't have enough ball carriers." "Rosen has good ball distribution and control from the back. He can link up with Milinar. I can also drop back from the striker position to organize and support the attack," Suke said seriously. Oripe looked at him in surprise. "You? Drop back? Organize?" Suke had always been a poacher-type striker—a forward who thrived on converting chances into goals. Now this guy wanted to drop deep and play a creative role? "Trust me! I used to do that in the youth academy. We need to play more as a unit, and this will also free up Milinar to attack more." Milinar had always made sacrifices to support Suke's goal-scoring—pulling wide, drawing defenders, and creating space. Now, Suk was offering to swap responsibilities or alternate roles with Milinar. "A collective attack will confuse the opponent's defense more. It's no longer just me trying to break through—it's an all-out press. We use our numbers to launch fast counterattacks. As for scoring, Milinar and I can both do it, and this will also create more chances for our wingers." Oripe stopped watching the game and turned to Suk. "You want to play as a 'False Nine-and-a-Half'?" Suke was surprised. "You know about that?" Oripe rolled his eyes—did this kid think he was some amateur? He didn't have a coaching license, but he had been through plenty of training sessions. The reason Oripe described Suke as a nine-and-a-half was because Suk couldn't play as a classic false nine. Both false nines and nine-and-a-halves involve the striker dropping deep. The number nine represents the center forward, but both roles add other responsibilities to that traditional position. A false nine acts more like a pivot, using physical strength to hold up the ball and create chances for others. But Suk didn't have the body for that. So, if he dropped deep, he had to drop completely—hence the "nine-and-a-half," which suited him better. Still, there was a question: How good was Suke's passing? So far, Oripe hadn't paid much attention to Suke's passing and organizational skills. Maybe he could do it. It was certainly a shortcut to improving the team's overall strength. "Try it tomorrow!" Oripe decided on the spot. Suke nodded excitedly. The two turned their attention back to the Arsenal vs. Liverpool match—it remained just as fierce. Oripe watched purely for enjoyment, savoring the intensity. Suke, however, looked beyond the match itself—his eyes were on the land where football reigned supreme. Top leagues, elite clubs, titanic clashes between giants. All of this electrified Suke's nerves. This was his dream stage. In the end, after 90 minutes, Arsenal beat Liverpool 2–1, thanks to Bergkamp's brilliant midfield performance. After the match, the two went back to their room to get ready for bed—tomorrow would be a busy day. A Quiet Night The next day, Suke woke up early, quickly washed up, grabbed a small metal basin from the kitchen, and rushed out. Morning in Mostar was peaceful. Birds chirped in the trees, and the weather was exceptionally fine—clear skies and golden sunshine. Suk ewalked briskly, humming a tune and hopping along to a nearby pasture. He passed through the fence and entered a shed where an old man with a thick beard was busy milking a cow. "Grandpa Kresvić, one basin of milk, please!" The old man looked up at Suk. Without a word, he took the basin and scooped some milk from the bucket under the cow. Suk took it carefully, moving like the milk was sacred—he didn't want to spill a single drop. Kresvić straightened up, stretching his sore back, and smiled. "Still not growing, little Suk? I'm waiting to use you in an advertisement banner!" Suk, focused on the milk, replied casually, "I'll grow, I'll grow. I won't even charge you a sponsorship fee!" Kresvić burst out laughing. He was very kind to Suk, who, like him, was a Croatian-born boy . He always gave Suke milk for free, sometimes even inviting him over for meat to help with his nutrition. Both had lived through those turbulent years—they knew too well the pain of that era. Kresvić had lost his family in the war, and his grandson had gone missing during the escape. Maybe, in treating Suke well, he hoped someone, somewhere, would do the same for his lost grandson. Suke carefully carried the milk home. Back in the kitchen, he poured it into a clean pot to boil it—fresh milk had to be boiled before drinking. After it boiled, Suke poured it out. He then took some bread slices from the fridge, toasted them, added ketchup, and had his breakfast with the milk. After eating, Suke jumped down from the table and walked to a supporting beam in the room. There were three markings on the beam, each only 1–2 cm apart, with the third being particularly deep. Clearly, this was his height chart. Suke stood back against the beam, legs together, chest out, head up, and used his hand to measure his height. Looking back with hope, he saw that his hand still lined up with that deepest third mark. "Still not growing!" Suke sighed in frustration but quickly slapped his cheeks and perked up. He'd faced this disappointment before. He still believed he would grow—he was just a late bloomer. Meanwhile, Oripe was still dreaming. In his dream, he stood on the coaching bench at Highbury Stadium, commanding like a general, basking in cheers and glory. He had fame, money, and beautiful women. Just as he was about to enjoy a romantic moment with a model— BANG!!! "Wake up! Wake up!" Suke kicked the door open. Oripe woke up, dazed, shifting from dream to reality. He blinked, then glared at Suke with rising fury. "You little brat! I'm going to kill you!" Oripe roared and lunged, but Suke dashed away before he could get close. With his plump figure, Oripe couldn't keep up. He leaned on the wall, panting, glaring daggers at Suke. He snorted, yawned, and asked, "What time is it?" Suk: "7 AM." Oripe paused. "Today's Saturday?" "Yep." "Training is at 2 PM?" "Exactly." Another long silence. Then came another roar from inside the house— "Damn you! I'm going to kill you! This is for ruining my Saturday!" Crash! Bang! Boom! The house was lively early in the morning.

Chapter 10: A New Attempt

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