Chapter 322: Big Daddy!

Words : 1207 Updated : Oct 15th, 2025

UEFA Euro Qualifiers – Round One. In the past four years, Croatian football had been eerily silent. Many searched for signs of a new dawn, but with repeated setbacks, they all came to a standstill. Then came Blažević, who led Croatia into the World Cup semifinals and proudly declared to the world that they were the Eastern European iron cavalry—the Checkered Army!That was the first time the Rhapsody of Victory echoed globally. Baric, however, failed! To Bilić, Baric wasn't as bad as the media painted him. At the very least, he had thought seriously about how to save the Croatian national team. But he was a victim of a generational gap. The old players were too old. The young ones too green. Then came Kranjčar—who also failed! His downfall came from indecisiveness, an inability to read the game, and a lack of leadership. As a result, Croatia failed to qualify for the 2006 World Cup. Now, it was Bilić's turn. He rubbed his hands together, feeling a flicker of nervousness. As a member of Croatia's Golden Generation, he had once worn this very jersey on a journey to the World Cup semifinals. He had been through storms—pressure should be second nature. But he was wrong. Being a head coach was nothing like being a player. As a player, all he had to do was perform well and stay fit. In other words, he only needed to manage himself. Now, as head coach, Bilić had to manage everything. He had to oversee the entire squad, attend to every player's emotions and mentality, and ensure the team performed at its peak. Their first Euro qualifying opponent? Russia. A formidable side—and this was Bilić's debut with the senior national team.A far cry from managing the U21s—this was big-league pressure. In 1998, then-manager Blažević had shouted "Crush Germany!" before the World Cup quarterfinals. And they really did—crushing the Germans 3–0! Even now, that moment sent chills down his spine. He admired Blažević's boldness and courage.He didn't dare shout "Crush Russia!" himself. The team bus rolled through Moscow toward the hotel. Inside, it was noisy and rowdy. Šimić turned and saw Šuker and the others chatting like they were headed to a picnic—not a competitive match. Did these guys not know what nerves were? Šimić leaned in to listen. Mandžukić asked, "Luka, what did the coach want with you just now?" "Nothing much," Modrić replied modestly. "He just wants me to take on more responsibility." Mandžukić grinned, teasing, "You mean he asked you to help organize the paperwork?" They used to joke Modrić was built more for an office than a football pitch. Modrić raised his middle finger. "Mario, show some respect. You still need me to feed you goals!" Mandžukić pulled Šuker in. "He's trying to steal your thunder as attacking core! You gonna take that? I wouldn't." Šuker shot Mandžukić a side glance. This guy knew how to stir the pot. He patted Mandžukić's shoulder. "Remember!" He pointed at Modrić and then himself. "We're both your dads! Call us 'papa'!" The bus arrived at their Moscow hotel, located in a central area, close to the stadium. Naturally, the Croatian team's arrival stirred interest from Russian media. But Bilić, following his "talk less, do more" approach, refused all interviews until after the match. Before the battle: zip it. As they were about to check in and assign rooms, the players paired up quickly—each finding a roommate. All except Mandžukić, who stood alone and helpless. "You guys are cruel!" he shouted in protest. Šuker retorted, "You're cruel. Your snoring could wake the dead. I once stayed two floors above you and still couldn't sleep!" Mandžukić's snoring was legendary—a sonic weapon threatening team rest. When Šuker used to room with him, he had to buy soundproof earmuffs. In the end, Mandžukić had to room with one of the coaches. The coach wore an expression of pure dread. Mandžukić wasn't happy either. But soon, his mood changed. "Mario, come to my room later," Bilić suddenly called out. Mandžukić's eyes lit up. First Modrić got summoned—and entrusted with more responsibility. Now it was his turn? Was Bilić about to increase his tactical role? Mandžukić walked off, smugly raising his brows at Šuker and the others. In Bilić's room. A standard twin—two single beds side by side. The space was modest. Bilić sat on one of the beds, holding a file, and motioned to the other bed. "Sit down." "Sure thing!" Mandžukić sat down eagerly, eyes full of hope. Bilić scanned the file and sighed, then looked up. "You'll need to make some sacrifices for the next match." Mandžukić immediately tensed. "What kind of sacrifices?" He grew anxious. Was he being moved to another position? He had played on the wings before, but it never worked out. Surely Bilić wasn't crazy enough to try that again? "No need to panic," Bilić waved his hand, sensing his unease."It's just a tactical adjustment. You're still the center forward." Mandžukić breathed a sigh of relief. "I watched your games with Dinamo Zagreb, and we've tested it in training—it's viable," Bilić continued."You'll play as a target man. A wall in front." Mandžukić immediately understood. "You want me to brawl up front?" Bilić nodded. "Exactly. We're up against Russia. They're experienced defending aerial attacks and big strikers. Trying to batter down the door with a classic No. 9 won't work.We need to activate the wings—especially Šuker on the left!" "I need you to support Šuker, feed him balls, draw defenders away.Of course, you can still score yourself..." Bilić paused. Mandžukić's eyes were sparkling. What was this? He had expected resistance to this change. That's why he called Mandžukić in for a heart-to-heart. The team was still new. They weren't that close yet. He wanted to be careful with feelings. But this guy looked thrilled? Mandžukić was thrilled! Absolutely pumped! This wasn't just being a target man. This was being a DAD. A big daddy! Mandžukić strutted out of Bilić's room, smug. As he neared Šuker's room, he heard laughter from inside. The door was open. Inside, Šuker, Modrić, and a few others were joking around. Fellow players like Šimić, Pletikosa, and Kovač were all there—good vibes everywhere. Mandžukić knocked. "Ahem!" Everyone turned. "What's with the pose?" laughed Vukojević. Šuker added, "Leaning against the door frame? You think you're some model now?" Mandžukić barked back, "Show some respect." He pointed at Šuker. "Especially you!" Then came the bombshell: "Call me daddy!" The room went silent. Šuker froze. He turned stiffly to Modrić. "What... did he just say?" Modrić was equally stunned. "He said... you should call him daddy." With explosive strength, Šuker leaped from the bed, sprinted over, and tackled Mandžukić to the floor. "Getting bold, huh?!" he growled, sitting on top of him. Mandžukić scrambled, "You said it yourself! The passer is the daddy! The scorer is the son!" He paused, realization dawning. "So that makes me... your granddaddy!" Šuker roared in fury. "You wanna die?!!!"

Chapter 322: Big Daddy!

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