Chapter 96: Get Past Him!

Slaven Belupo was stunned! They remembered that Dinamo Zagreb didn't play like this last season! And there wasn't nearly this much defensive pressure. From the very beginning of the match, they were subjected to wave after wave of attacks from Dinamo Zagreb. Especially from the number 7 on the left wing! That little rascal who shared a name with Davor Šuker was driving them absolutely crazy! "Laušić! Mark him!" Laušić was sweating profusely, eyes locked on Šuker. He heard his teammate's shout but didn't have time to respond. This kid named Šuker was too agile, with explosive speed. Even a brief lapse in attention could get him beaten. So Laušić concentrated fully on watching Šuker's feet. Šuker, for his part, kept lightly nudging the ball forward, testing his opponent. He slowly dribbled forward down the wing. His teammates were moving into position, but he showed no sign of passing. On one hand, his teammates were all closely marked. On the other, Laušić was a bit slow for a fullback, and Šuker was confident he could beat him. Suddenly, Šuker poked the ball forward, feinting a drive past. Laušić's body tensed, and he immediately moved to follow. But Šuker slammed to a stop. Laušić couldn't steady himself in time and stumbled. Taking the chance, Šuker slid the ball sideways, used his explosive burst, and instantly blew past Laušić. Laušić, off-balance, stretched his left leg desperately in an attempt to intercept—his last show of resistance—but it was useless. "He beat him again!" Commentator Kraushević exclaimed in admiration. "We've seen this scene repeat countless times. Laušić, the fullback known for his solidity in the Croatian league, has become Slaven Belupo's biggest weakness!" "The young Šuker! What an incredible performance!" Šuker's latest dribble earned thunderous applause from the Dinamo Zagreb fans. But what happened next left them wide-eyed. Šuker dribbled along the edge of the penalty area, weaving forward. Slaven Belupo players tried to pinch him from both sides, but Šuker danced through them like a butterfly flitting among flowers, gracefully navigating through traffic and cutting across the entire box. "Another dribble! Another one!! Ohhh—my God!!" Kraushević clutched his head in disbelief. He had thought beating Laušić was impressive enough. But he hadn't expected Šuker to slice from left to right across the top of the penalty area like that. "A through ball!! Davor Šuker makes the run!" Kraushević jumped to his feet. Young Šuker had torn apart the entire Slaven Belupo defense and slipped in a perfect through pass amid the chaos. Davor Šuker made a sharp run forward—could he finish off this brilliant play with a goal? He was laser-focused as he cut diagonally inside. He shaped to shoot with his right, drew a sliding tackle from the defense, then cut the ball back and fired with his left. The shot wasn't powerful, and the ball wasn't fast, but it was incredibly well-placed. It rolled neatly into the far corner. "GOAL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!——" "Another goal!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!——" "Perfect execution!!! A stunning link-up between young Šuker and the veteran Davor Šuker!!" "This match has been full of surprises! Bešić!! Where did this guy find such a gem?!" Commentator Kraushević could barely contain himself. Anyone who saw a run like that across the box would be stunned with excitement. In the Croatian league—known for its rugged style and lack of effective dribblers—Šuker's performance was a breath of fresh air. "Dinamo Zagreb leads Slaven Belupo 3–0!!" After the goal, Davor Šuker didn't celebrate alone. He ran straight to young Šuker. "Good job, kid!!" He wrapped Šuker in a tight hug, rubbing his head joyfully. That run had left even him in awe. One man had single-handedly thrown the entire defense into disarray, moving with such grace that he looked like a butterfly dancing through a thorn bush. Šuker smiled brightly. This was his debut for Dinamo Zagreb, and so far, it had been a perfect one. "This guy..." On the sidelines, even coach Bešić looked at Šuker in shock. In training, Šuker had been impressive, sure—but never this jaw-dropping. From the opening whistle, he'd been tearing apart Slaven Belupo's defense and had already earned a penalty. Then, with slick combination play, he helped set up another goal. And now, with raw individual skill, he'd shredded their defense again. He was outshining even Davor Šuker. On the south stand, bus driver Krediwači couldn't stop laughing and clapping. Next to him, Poletić stared wide-eyed, his jaw nearly hitting the ground. Seeing that, Krediwači looked even more smug. "Well? I told you, right? This kid's got more than just speed!" Poletić whipped his head around and asked, "How old is he?" Krediwači: "Not even 18 yet!" SMACK! Poletić slapped his own thigh and jumped to his feet, shouting toward the pitch. "Little Šuker!! Brilliant play!! Keep going!! Beat him again!!" When the game resumed, Šuker once again took the ball on the wing. He faced off with Laušić once more. Šuker quickly assessed Laušić's position and the supporting defenders behind him. Even if he beat Laušić, he'd face more pressure right after. It wasn't worth forcing it. So he decided to pass. But suddenly, a chant erupted from the stands. "Beat him!!" "Beat him!!" "Beat him!!" Dinamo Zagreb fans were fired up. They urged Šuker on, hungry for more dribbling magic. "Go for it, little Šuker!" "You can do it! Believe in yourself!" "Dribble! Dribble!" "Take him on!!" Their roaring support sent Šuker's heart pounding. He snapped his head up and stared at Laušić. Laušić flinched, fear in his eyes! 'With the crowd hyping me up this much, how can I not beat you?' Šuker shifted to a side-on stance, left foot forward, right foot behind, tapping the ball lightly—classic dribbling posture. Laušić was on edge. Suddenly, Šuker lunged forward, and Laušić chased. But Šuker just feinted with his body—he hadn't even touched the ball. "Damn it!" Realizing too late that Šuker was retreating to attack from the other side, Laušić angrily slid in. HISS!! The fans gasped. That was a vicious slide! But Šuker had seen it coming, flicked the ball over, and leaped past the challenge. WHOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA—— Dinamo Zagreb's fans erupted. "Beautiful! Gorgeous!" "Go!!!" "Little Šuker!! Little Šuker!!" Šuker bolted along the end line. Center-back Božić desperately chased. "Get past him!!" The fans roared again. Božić just slammed into Šuker, sending him flying! Screw this! Šuker felt like his arm was going to pop out of its socket—the guy was aiming for him, not the ball. Božić roared over him, shouting vulgarities. But Dinamo Zagreb's fans weren't having it. "You bastard! You butcher!" "Piece of crap! I'll tie your guts in a knot!" "Foul! Red card!" "You disgusting idiot! I'll kill you!" They rained insults down and started hurling trash at Božić. He finally backed off under the barrage. Then, the applause returned. "Little Šuker! That was amazing!" "Don't be afraid! This is our turf!" "Get up and get him again!" Šuker grinned as he stood up. Man, these fans really know how to hype you up! Božić picked up a yellow card for his rash move! That's a huge problem for a center-back. "Slaven Belupo's left side has completely collapsed!" Commentator Kraushević shook his head. Slaven Belupo might not be a top team, but their defense was usually rock-solid. Even against stronger teams, they could sit back, hit on the counter, and sometimes even win. But never had they been this thoroughly dismantled. One wing destroyed, and Dinamo Zagreb had them dancing to their tune. Luckily, the first half ended soon after. After 45 minutes, Dinamo Zagreb led Slaven Belupo 3–0. The entire half had been domination by Dinamo. In Dinamo Zagreb's locker room— "Hey! That was awesome!" "We played great—keep it up in the second half!" "Hahaha! We blew up their left side!" "Šuker! You were incredible!" Srna threw his arm around Šuker's neck and ruffled his hair. The locker room was full of laughter. It looked like their debut—Dinamo Zagreb's season opener—was firmly in the bag. Coach Bešić entered, clearly satisfied. But he didn't praise them right away. "Overall, good job—but there are still problems." "When the fullbacks push up, the defensive mids need to cover. Your awareness of that is still lacking. Slaven Belupo couldn't exploit it, but stronger teams will. They'll find those holes and hit us on the break!" "Also, your movement was great, but remember to stay in position—know your role, your zone," Bešić said, glancing at Šuker. "And stop dropping all the way back into our half!" Šuker scratched his head sheepishly. Old habits—he liked to drop deep to help defend. But in Bešić's system, Šuker was the attacking commander up front. He could press and intercept around midfield, but no deeper. A few counters had broken down because Šuker was too far back to join them in time. "In the second half, keep playing like this. And also—" Bešić turned—"Mandžukić, go warm up. You're coming on next half!" Mandžukić shot to his feet, his eyes full of fire, and headed out to warm up. He'd been waiting for this moment!