Chapter 31: No One Came to Support Luka

The match was intensely fierce. The Bosnian league is known for its physicality, and both teams were fighting hard for crosses, making the duels in the penalty box even more brutal. Bang!A cross from Biljal was contested and cleared by the opposing tall center-back, Boskjenoch. During the contest, Kosovic also jumped but was completely overpowered and knocked down. And this wasn't the first time. Since the start of the match, this had happened several times already. Suke watched, mouth slightly open. In his view, the 192cm Kosovic was already quite tall. But this guy named Boskjenoch must be over 195cm tall and was built like a tank. More importantly, his ability to judge the ball's drop point and his awareness to break up plays were outstanding. That's the main reason why Kosovic couldn't win any aerial duels. On the sidelines, coach Van stoyack had a grave expression. Since the beginning of this season, many teams had begun to deploy tall center-backs specifically to counter Kosovic. But he hadn't expected FK Željezničar Sarajevoto actually sign Boskjenoch. "Boskjenoch, 33 years old, last played for Lokomotiva Zagreb in the Croatian league, and has been called up multiple times to the Croatian national team." Hearing the assistant coach's introduction, Suke was slightly stunned. So he was a former Croatian international? A defensive rock from the same generation as Davor Šuker? No wonder Kosovic was so passive. Croatian defenders are chosen through a rigorous selection process—anyone who makes it into the national team is top-tier. Although his form may have declined with age, Boskjenoch was still not to be underestimated. Van stoyack furrowed his brows and shouted, "Hold the line!" The match continued. FK Željezničar Sarajevo played a straightforward, aggressive style—pushing down the flanks and swinging in crosses, looking to create chances that way. But Mostar Zrinjski had their own tall center-back, Mashaovich. This guy was dominating the air, winning aerial duels repeatedly. "Come on! Bring it! You bastards!" Mashaovich barked at the opposing striker in a stream of trash talk. Normally, Mashaovich was an easygoing guy—but on the field, he was a beast. Then there was left-back Haskovich—quiet but sneaky. He had plenty of dirty tricks up his sleeve: pulling shirts, spitting, stepping on toes, sneaky elbows—everything in the book. Mostar Zrinjski's foundation was defense. Even in the entire Bosnian Premier League, their backline was among the best. The core of their ironclad defense was the "Four Guardians": Haskovich, Mashaovich, Hachich, and Krelpich. On the attacking side, Kosovic kept jumping for headers. Every time, it felt like he was just a little bit off—but just off enough to never win a clean header. In midfield, Modrić was solid. Although slim and wiry, Modrić was extremely active on the pitch, his "ultra endurance" trait starting to shine. He covered the field from left to right, back to front, providing endless support to the front line. The only problem was the right winger. Oliveira, the team's vice-captain, ran a few sprints early on—then just started strolling on the flank. His pale face showed he clearly had a wild night the day before. In the 31st minute, Mostar Zrinjski cleared the ball with a header by Mashaovich, landing it at Modrić's feet. Modrić turned and drove forward at high speed. At the same time, Kosovic and Biljal followed up, with Oliveira trailing a bit behind. Modrić looked for a passing option but saw no clear path. If it were Suke, he'd drop back to receive it, Modrić thought to himself. Still, he dribbled a few more steps and unleashed a long-range shot just outside the box. The ball curled beautifully toward the far post, like a scimitar slicing through the air, landing perfectly in the corner of the net. Swoosh!!!Goal for Mostar Zrinjski! Modrić scores with a long-range strike! "Hell yeah!!!" Suke leapt up in excitement. The timing and precision of that shot were perfect. That's the magic of young Luka Modrić! Wow!!!!!!!—— The home fans erupted in joy. A tense, frustrating match was finally broken open—and it was their team that scored first. After so many fruitless attempts, it was Modrić who delivered the breakthrough. It was his second goal in four matches. Since the start of the season, Modrić had gradually adapted to the Bosnian Premier League, producing eye-catching performances. "Well done!" Kosovic ran over and gave Modrić a big hug. He had been bottled up inside from constantly losing to the opposing tall defender—but Modrić's goal was a huge emotional release. Coach Van stoyack finally exhaled and gave a quiet nod of approval. He also lightly applauded Modrić's brilliant display. On the other side, Boskjenoch pointed at Modrić and said, "Block number 8's long shots—don't let him shoot!" Modrić's earlier attempts had already made Boskjenoch wary. He had warned his teammates before—but they still let him shoot. These idiots have rocks for brains, he cursed internally. He believed he had done his job—he wasn't taking the blame for the goal. "Mark number 8—stick to him!" The experienced head coach of FK Željezničar Sarajevo immediately recognized the key issue. Even if they neutralized Kosovic, Modrić was still a huge threat. Most of Mostar Zrinjski's build-up play came through Modrić. As long as they shut him down, they could control the midfield. After the restart, Modrić quickly felt the pressure. Every time he received or passed the ball, he was hounded—his passing lanes were blocked. He was even forced to pass backward multiple times. With Modrić under constant pressure, Mostar Zrinjski's passing rhythm fell apart. "No one's supporting Luka!" Van stoyack immediately spotted the problem. But both wingers were attackers—Kosovic was a target man. There was no one up front who could support Modrić—and the back line couldn't help either. In short, Mostar Zrinjski's entire midfield orchestration relied on Modrić. Now that he was neutralized, the team's tempo broke down. Van stoyack was worried—but the good news was they were still leading. If they could just hold on a few more minutes until halftime, he could make a substitution. "Suk! Go warm up!" Van stoyack shouted. Suk immediately jumped up and started warming up along the sideline. He had been waiting for this chance for a long time. Most fans focused on the game, not noticing Suk. But some were paying close attention. "Suke! Let's go!" "Is he going on?" "Give it your all!" "You got this!!" In the stands, his old teammates Mlinar, Oripé, and Bakic cheered for him. Their voices didn't stand out—but Suke noticed, and excitedly waved to them. Watching him warm up, Mlinar rubbed his hands nervously. "Why am I getting nervous?" "Me too," Bakic wiped his sweaty palms. "Hope Suke does well." "Just play like normal. This is the Premier League, not the Second Division. You think he's gonna score?" Oripé licked his dry lips. He said that—but deep down, he hoped Suke would shine. "We're still ahead. There's no pressure—he's got this!" Suddenly—an uproar!Wow!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!—— Hundreds of Mostar Zrinjski fans clutched their heads in frustration. Mlinar quickly looked toward Zrinjski's half, seeing the referee point to a set-piece spot—and Boskjenoch charging forward again. FK Željezničar Sarajevo had won a free kick in the attacking third. Tension rose among the home fans. When the #10, Vukochech, sent in a perfect cross into the box, Boskjenoch soared above the crowd and thundered a header into the net. In under five minutes, the score was tied. "It's even now!!" Oripé clutched his head. Mlinar and the others looked grim. Getting subbed in under these circumstances... is that really a good thing?