Chapter 7: Give Me Money!

The arrival of the Croatian prodigy brought a spark of excitement to the home matches of Zrinjski Mostar.Originally, the games had an attendance of about 600, but that number suddenly spiked to over 900—nearly filling the entire stands. Most of the locals from the Mostar area were drawn in by the hype around the so-called "Croatian prodigy." Suke, driven by curiosity, also bought a ticket to watch Modrić's debut in the Bosnian Premier League. From what Suke remembered, Modrić played with grit and relentless running. Though slender, he carried the burden of midfield offense and was the organizing core of a team, showcasing exceptional distribution and control. But in this debut match, Modrić's performance was somewhat disappointing. With the title of a prodigy, people expected him to dominate the match and deliver a spectacular performance. However, over the full 90 minutes, Modrić's display was average. He occasionally showed flashes of brilliance, but also wasted chances with wild shots. Overall, he didn't quite give off the aura of a "superstar." From Suke's perspective, compared to the future Modrić who would handle the ball with clean precision and tempo control, the current version felt a bit... rushed?Yes! Restless!Suke wasn't sure if it was just his impression, but Modrić's passes often lacked accuracy. Sometimes he'd pass to inexplicable spots or play the ball too fast for his teammates to catch up. To be fair, Modrić's sense for finding open spaces was still sharp—but his teammates just weren't on the same wavelength. Under those circumstances, Modrić ended his debut without a goal or an assist. Although Zrinjski Mostar won the match thanks to a goal by their towering striker Kosopeć, the game itself was rather dull. After the match, Suke saw Modrić quietly packing his things and walking off alone—not leaving with the others. It felt kind of lonely. The hype around the "Croatian prodigy" quickly faded. In Mostar, people are easily excited by new things—but just as quick to forget. From Zrinjski Mostar's second game onward, the attendance dropped to around 700, and by the third game, it was back to normal levels. People stopped talking about the so-called prodigy and moved on. Meanwhile, Mostar Wanderers also played two matches in those two weeks. Suke didn't get any results in either game. Opponents had started tightly marking him—some teams even assigned a man solely to shadow him. This was true "star treatment," and it showed how dangerous Suke had become. Part of Suke felt pleased by this recognition. After all, if no one targets you, you're probably not a threat. But on the flip side, scoring had become much harder. Despite his sharp football instincts, Suke simply didn't have the physicality to break through defenders yet. His skinny frame was still a liability. So, he began chugging milk like crazy and upping his nutrition intake. In a restaurant in Mostar... Suke sat at a table, devouring a huge steak. The steak was bigger than his head, dripping with juices and tender to the bite. Combined with a rich sauce and a bowl of rice—it was a perfect meal. Suke took a bite of steak, then a spoonful of rice, chewing happily. Goalkeeper Bakic, bald-headed, rested his chin on his palm, watching him with curiosity. He couldn't figure out how such a small body could hold so much food. Chomp! Chomp!"Next match... I swear I'll make that damn fouler pay!" Suke growled between mouthfuls. Bakic shook his head. "He's not a fouler. His name's Dilak. . And he never fouled you. You just couldn't beat him in a duel." Gulp gulp gulp...Suke downed a glass of milk, licked the milk mustache clean, then shot Bakic a sideways glance. "Whose side are you on? Go play for the other team next match, and I'll shoot you into pieces!" Then he mumbled, "If you hadn't let in that extra goal, we wouldn't have lost." Bakic looked a bit embarrassed. To be fair, even while heavily marked, Suke still managed to set up a scoring chance and assisted Mlinar for a goal that gave them the lead. But in the second half, Bakic's "butterfingers" returned. Two fumbles led to two goals, and they ended up losing. "Fine, my bad. Want to find a new keeper?" Bakic shrugged. Suke snorted, "With the tiny salary our club offers, who the hell would even want to come?" Most of the Wanderers' players were locals from the town or surrounding villages. Most weren't even real professionals. Though officially registered with the football association, they all had day jobs and played part-time. Mlinar was a carpenter who ran a woodshop in town. Bakic ran this restaurant—he was a cook, and his goalkeeping was about as "good" as his food. In other words: decent... but not for winning games. Their coach, Oripe, was the local PE teacher, moonlighting as the football team's manager. Honestly, Suke doubted if Oripe even had a coaching license. His ideas were completely out of touch with modern football. In today's game where pace and transitions are king, Oripe was obsessed with fitness—believing stamina was the only path to victory. He preferred mules over racehorses—players who could grind and grind. His tactical philosophy: "Run them into the ground, and the win is ours!" Suke scraped the last of the rice with steak juice and muttered, "Whatever... let's try again next season. No chance of promotion this year." The Bosnian second division had only just been formed. There were only seven teams playing a triple round-robin format. That meant just 18 games per season. They were already at Round 14. With only four games left, they trailed the top team by 15 points. Even winning all four and the leaders losing every match wouldn't be enough. In short, they were stuck in the second division again next season. "Next season might be even worse. Captain's not playing anymore," Bakic sighed. Suke's eyes widened. "He's quitting? Why?" Mlinar was their midfield brain, the only one who could reliably pass to Suke. Without him, their attack would collapse. Who would feed Suke the ball? "He's 35, what do you expect?" Bakic shook his head. "Next season, it's your team." "My ass it is!" Suke snapped. "My contract's up this season—I'm gone!" Bakic was speechless. But he believed him. Contracts in this league were all one-year deals, offering no restrictions. Whether a player stayed was entirely up to emotion or loyalty. If Mlinar really quit, Suke probably would leave. "Where you gonna go? A 150 cm striker? Who wants that?" Bakic said. Suker mumbled, "Sarajevo. Gonna sign with Sarajevo Ranger. I've scored so many goals against them—they know I'm good. And it's a big city. Better coaches, better system. They'll get my value. So... so..." The more he spoke, the less confident he sounded. Bakic just sighed. In Bosnia's football world, the ideal was tall, strong, fast.Take away Inzaghi's fame and throw him into this league—he might not even find a team. Suke slumped, dejected. Why was it so hard just to play football? He looked at his reflection in the restaurant's glass, sitting on a bench—his legs couldn't even touch the floor. That just made him feel worse. Plop! Suke jumped down from the bench and stormed out. "Hey! What about the bill?" Bakic called after him. Suke turned back into the kitchen and returned with two large metal bowls, then marched out of the restaurant. "Lemme borrow these—I'll go earn some cash and pay you tonight!" It was now April, and Mostar was warming up. Under the midday sun, everything felt cozy and alive. Tourism season had begun, and each day brought new visitors, boosting the local economy. This made the town noticeably livelier. Mostar's biggest attraction? A historic bridge. In fact, the town was named after it. The Neretva River ran through Mostar, splitting it in two—and connecting both sides was the iconic Stari Most (Old Bridge). The bridge had a graceful arch and rose over 10 meters above the river at its highest point. It was a beautiful landmark and the town's top tourist draw. Both sides of the bridge were packed with visitors. The weather was perfect today—clear skies, a great day for water fun. BANG! BANG! BANG! Suddenly, a loud clanging sound shattered the calm. Tourists turned toward the noise, brows furrowed in annoyance—but then, curiosity took over. They saw a boy, maybe 13 or 14, furiously banging two iron bowls together, trying to get their attention. Once everyone was looking, the boy spoke in broken English: "Give me money!" Then he pointed down at the river from the tall bridge and declared: "Jump!" The crowd stared in surprise. The kid looked young and scrawny. Then they looked down at the water, a full 10 meters below—just the sight of it made their stomachs drop. Was this little guy seriously going to jump?