Chapter 315: National Team Debut

Words : 1377 Updated : Oct 15th, 2025

This was the Croatian national team's first friendly match after their overhaul. Naturally, it attracted immense attention from football fans. Croatian National Television broadcast the match live, while legends like Davor Šuker and Zvonimir Boban were present to watch the game in person. The president of the Croatian Football Federation was also at the home stadium to cheer for the national team. At this moment, the entire Croatian nation was watching the national team with bated breath. In a country with a population of only four million, football was perhaps the only thing they could truly take pride in. The titles "Eastern European Iron Cavalry" and "Checkered Army" were hard-earned from their dazzling performances in international competitions. They cherished these titles dearly and would never allow them to be tarnished. After veterans like Davor Šuker retired from the national team, Croatia missed out on both the Euros and the World Cup over the following four years. But now, they didn't want to miss out again. From this moment on —They would rise again! After a week of national team training, the final squad list was released. Some celebrated, some were disappointed. But for the fans, that wasn't what mattered. The players they cared about all made the cut. Šuker, Modrić, Srna, Mandžukić, Vukojević — a group of talented young stars had formed a brand-new Croatian national team. So how would they perform in their national team debut? That was a question every Croatian eagerly anticipated. On July 22nd, the Croatian national team hosted their first friendly at the Maksimir Stadium. Their opponent: Turkey. The stadium was packed to the brim. Croatians from all over the country, and even those who had moved to Western Europe, returned home to support the team. Throughout the stands, Croatian fans waved flags and shouted passionately. Veterans like Boteči and Kredivači also wore the new Croatian jersey — the number 9. That's right! Number 9! Šuker! After Davor Šuker retired, four years passed before another "Šuker" emerged. Though the playing styles differed, the impact was just as powerful. At the orphanage, the old director organized an outing to the stands to watch the match. Even before the game began, the whole stadium was electric with joy. Fans across the venue chanted one name — "Šuker!" ŠUKER!!!!!!ŠUKER!!!!!!ŠUKER!!!!!! The deafening chants made the old director's heart race, tears welling up in his eyes. In his memory, that mischievous, troubled child had grown up to become someone truly remarkable. With teary eyes, the old director made the sign of the cross with his gnarled hands over his chest. "God bless him..." "Bless this child Šuker!" He repeated the prayer over and over. Next to him, the kids from the orphanage shouted with all their might: "Šuker! Go for it!!!""Our orphanage's pride!!!""Šuker!! Šuker!! We're all here watching you play!!" Dikamoci took a deep breath. He, too, felt immense joy and pride for his friend. Ever since Šuker made it big, life at the orphanage had drastically improved. He never forgot them, sending large sums of money every month — more than they could even spend. The orphanage had since become a model facility, and even children from other orphanages tried to join them. Dikamoci couldn't accept them all, but did his best within his means to help as many as he could. Taking a deep breath and clenching his fist, Dikamoci whispered, "Do your best, Šuker!" Buzz!!! The stadium speakers emitted a sharp sound, quieting the crowd slightly. "This is Maksimir Stadium — Croatia vs. Turkey is about to begin!" "Let's shout the names of our Croatian warriors!!" "Croatia's national team captain, Darijo..." SRNA!!!!!!!!!!! —Tens of thousands roared in unison. "Goalkeeper, Stipe..." PLETIKOSA!!!!!!!!!!! —The stadium erupted. "Midfielder, number 10, Luka..." MODRIĆ!!!!!!!!!!! —The cheers intensified further. Even more loud whistles followed. Clearly, Modrić was a fan favorite. One by one, the players' names lit up on the big screen. Their names echoed throughout the stadium via the fans' cheers. Then finally, the DJ's voice rose several octaves: "And now, the superstar we've all been waiting for!!" "He plays for AC Milan. He belongs to Croatia!!" "He won the UEFA Champions League with a dazzling performance, was the Man of the Match in the final — guys, with all the power in your lungs, scream his name! He's number 9!!!" In that instant, a surge of emotion, pride, and recognition exploded from every corner of the stadium. From all directions, Croatian fans leapt to their feet, raised their arms, and with thunderous passion, bellowed the name they'd waited so long to cheer: ŠUKER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! — The roar swept across the pitch, echoing through the air in wave after wave. In the VIP suite, Davor Šuker's breathing turned heavy. His eyes widened, hand over mouth, struggling to contain his emotions. This was the legacy he had passed down — and the new Šuker had lived up to it. Look! Just how much these Croatian fans loved him. As the deafening chants continued, the players began entering the pitch. Each held the hand of a child mascot, and with their entrance, the cheering reached a new peak. The camera zoomed in on each Croatian player. Particular attention was given to number 10 Modrić and number 9 Šuker — without question, the most anticipated players. Clad in the iconic red-and-white checkered jersey, they now bore the hopes and spirit of 4 million Croatians. They were no longer fighting for clubs or corporations — They were fighting for their country. Modrić's gaze was sharper than ever. Mandžukić stared ahead, his expression solemn. Vukojević was full of fighting spirit. "When the sun kisses his homeland,""When the wind blows through his oaks,""When God takes his beloved,""His heart still beats for Croatia." As the national anthem ended, the stadium once again exploded in wild cheers and chants. The announcer's mic switched over to the commentators' booth. Veteran Croatian commentator Klaušević shouted with all his might: "Guys, cheer louder, shout stronger — let's send these young warriors off with the highest level of support before they march into battle!!" "I hope you'll shout till your voices are hoarse, clap till your hands are red — don't stop! I'll be shouting and clapping with you the whole match!" At this moment, the big screen displayed the starting lineups. Croatia (4-4-2):GK: PletikosaDF: Srna, Šimunić, Kovač, PranjićMF: Rakitić, Vukojević, Modrić, KranjčarFW: Mandžukić, Šuker Turkey (4-4-2):GK: RüştüDF: Sabri, Asik, Gökhan, BaltaMF: Topal, Altıntop, Turan, TuncayFW: Nihat, Kamzi Though it was a friendly, both teams fielded strong lineups. After all, this was the foundation for their run at the Euros — testing was essential. On the Turkish side, Tuncay kept his eyes fixed on Šuker. In the Champions League group stage last season, his Fenerbahçe lost to AC Milan. At the time, many media outlets compared him to Šuker — and he was utterly criticized in contrast. Tuncay wasn't convinced. He thought the team gap was too wide. Now, back on the national stage, the playing field was level. He didn't believe he'd lose to Šuker. He frowned. The most irritating thing was — this guy hadn't even looked at him. Truth was, Šuker had already forgotten who he was. Tuncay had made no impression on him. "Good luck!" A chubby little ball boy in front of Šuker turned and clenched his fist in encouragement. Šuker smiled and patted his head. "Can I have your jersey after the game?" the little boy asked eagerly. "I'm your fan — I've watched every game of yours. I really want your jersey!" Šuker smiled and patted his head again. "We'll see how you do — cheer for me!" "Just watch me!" The boy shouted with excitement. Šuker nodded with a grin. "Watch me crush them!" The boy grew even more excited. Players shook hands and took their places. The ball boys left the field. A Turkish jersey-clad boy walked over and eagerly asked the little Croatian ball boy: "Mateo, did you get the jersey?" "Of course!" said the boy proudly. That 12-year-old boy was Mateo Kovačić.

Chapter 315: National Team Debut

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