"Watch out for that shorty No. 99, he's really fast!"
Boskjenoch was drenched in cold sweat as he turned and shouted.
Suke's sudden forward run had given them a real scare—it instantly broke through their defensive line.
The guy wasn't using any fancy technique—just pure speed, powering straight through them.
And when faced with such a naturally gifted player, Boskenochi knew there was little he could do. The difference was fundamental, something he couldn't make up for with effort alone.
All he could do was try to keep up and stay alert.
But Boskjenoch was an experienced player. He was caught off guard the first time—but it wouldn't happen again.
At that moment, Modrić pushed the ball forward once more.
Suke was immediately ready to burst forward.
At the same time, Boskjenoch preemptively turned and started to sprint—but just as he was about to launch, Suke stopped the ball.
"Not running?"
Instinctively, Boskjenoch halted and stepped forward to apply pressure.
But Suke instantly accelerated again.
"Trying to trick me?!"
Boskjenoch stretched out his long leg—it was either the ball or the man, one had to stay behind.
His intention was crystal clear.
In a flash, Suke used his lightning-fast footwork to touch the ball repeatedly, slipping it right through Boskjenoch's legs while jumping lightly over him—another successful dribble.
Boskjenoch was beaten again.
His face flushed red with embarrassment, and he turned and roared, "Get him!"
He reached out and yanked Suke down hard.
"Ahhhhhhhhhh!"
Suke was pulled off balance and sent flying, landing hard on the ground.
"Foul!!!"
The whole crowd of Mostar Zrinjski fans erupted in rage.
It was an obvious foul. Even in the rough Bosnian Premier League, that kind of move deserved a card.
And Suke had clearly beaten his man—this could've led to another one-on-one chance!
That only fueled the crowd's fury.
"Red card!!!"
Boskjenoch was visibly nervous.
He never expected to be humiliated so badly by such a little guy.
It was only five minutes into the half, and he'd already been dribbled past twice—and now, he might get carded.
The referee ran over and pulled out a yellow card.
Boskjenoch finally sighed in relief—at least it wasn't red.
But deep down, he was extremely frustrated.
Suke brushed himself off and got up, picked up the ball, and tossed it straight to Modrić.
Modrić placed it at the free-kick spot, preparing to take the kick.
Suke joined the others near the edge of the penalty area, ready to pounce on any rebounds.
Modrić took a deep breath, ran up, and smashed the ball.
The ball curled toward the near post.
Smack!
The opposing goalkeeper reacted quickly, swatting the ball away with one hand—but it dropped right back into the penalty area.
"It's mine!"
Suke shouted, surging forward.
His speed and explosiveness gave him the edge—he was closest to the ball.
He lunged and toe-poked it—
Clang!
It smacked off the crossbar and flew over the line.
"Damn it!"
Suke couldn't help cursing. What luck.
Two solid chances—and still no goal.
He stomped the ground in frustration.
Once again, Sarajevo Željezničar had dodged a bullet.
At this point, their expressions turned grim.
Right at the start of the second half, their defensive structure had crumbled—all thanks to that short center-forward.
From underestimating him to taking him seriously, they were now completely frustrated by Suke's ridiculous pace.
Especially defenders like Boskjenoch—built for physical duels, fine against a brute like Kosovic, but up against someone as slippery as Suk? They were completely at a loss.
The game resumed, and Suke continued to wreak havoc up front.
His relentless activity made Mostar Zrinjski's attacks surge like a tidal wave.
"Pass it to me!"
"Let's keep it up!"
Suke waved his arms, shouting: "Come on! Feed me the ball!"
Boskjenoch was getting more and more irritated.
On the sideline, coach Van Stoyak wore a smile that hadn't faded since Suke's first breakthrough.
He could feel it—the tide of the game was turning in their favor.
But assistant coach Vandil had his doubts.
"Suke's forward runs are definitely giving them trouble, forcing them to focus on him," Vandil said. "But that just paints a target on his back. It'll get harder and harder for him to make those runs."
Vandil noticed the opposing fullbacks had begun tucking inside—it was clear they were preparing to double up on Suke.
But Van Stoyak kept smiling. "That's not the point."
"What do you mean?" Vandil asked.
"What was the task I gave Suke?" Van Stoyak asked.
Vandil: "To drop deep, link up play, and organize the attack."
He paused—then looked surprised. "Right! He hasn't been dropping deep—just making runs!"
Van Stoyak: "That's just part of the plan."
"I've always told my players to play with their heads, but most don't get it. Suke does."
"Hide your weaknesses, play to your strengths—Suke has an extraordinary sense for this."
"He knows he's small and not good in physical duels. So instead of dropping deep and getting bullied, he kept running behind, making everyone believe he's an 'in-behind' striker."
Van Stajak pointed to the pitch. "Look at Boskjenoch."
Vandil looked.
Suke and Boskjenoch were level with each other.
Every time Suke faked a sprint, Boskjenoch would flinch.
Suke twitched—B=Boskjenoch twitched.
Suke moved again—Boskjenoch flinched again.
The whole thing was comical.
Boskjenoch couldn't even focus on the ball—he was constantly watching Suke.
"Suke's pace really is a headache," Vandil admitted. "He's too fast for these lumbering defenders."
"But that's not his biggest weapon," Van Stoyak smiled. "It's all just setup. He's using his speed to make people think he's an in-behind striker—to hide his real goal."
"Which is?"
"To drop deep and link up."
Van Stoyak's eyes lit up. "That's the real plan. To free up Modrić. If Suke had started dropping deep from the beginning, they would've tracked him hard, killed the rhythm. But now it's different."
Vandil froze, then clapped his hands. "I get it! He baited Sarajevo Željezničar into thinking he's a runner—then switches gears and drops into midfield!"
"And once Suke starts linking up with Modrić again…"
Vandil's eyes sparkled. He clapped again and exclaimed, "What a cunning little guy!"
Now when Suke dropped deep—should the defenders follow?
If they did—Suke would spin in behind and exploit the gaps.
If they didn't—he'd help Modrić dominate midfield, creating a numbers advantage and unlocking the defense.
Either way—the Željezničar defense was in serious trouble.
The game ticked into the 60th minute.
Suke's constant sprints had pulled the defense narrower and narrower.
The flanks were now wide open.
Suke sensed the time had come.
He glanced at the tall Boskjenoch and grinned, "I'm done playing with you."
Then strolled back into midfield.
Boskjenoch: "???"
He didn't know what Suke meant—but watching him retreat from the backline was a relief.
That guy had been like a fishbone stuck in his throat.
Suke walked away unmarked.
At that moment, Modrić was being double-teamed again.
He tried to turn and switch play—
Then a familiar voice rang out: "Luka! I've got you!"
Modrić was overjoyed.
You're finally here!
Without hesitation, he poked the ball forward—to Suke.
Unpressured, Suke dribbled laterally while scanning the field.
The two wingers were getting into good positions.
Suke locked eyes with Boame.
He passed it toward Boame, then cut back inside.
Boskjenoch considered shifting right—but saw Suk returning and froze.
Boame tried to take on defenders but couldn't find space.
"Send it here!"
Suke called again.
Boame saw him approaching and quickly passed it.
Suke faked another forward run—Boskjenoch flinched again.
Then Suke spun backward and made a short layoff with the inside of his foot.
The ball rolled to Modrić, who had surged forward.
Modrić didn't hesitate—he chipped it with precision.
The ball soared over the entire backline, now pulled out of shape—and landed in the left channel.
The Sarajevo Željezničar defenders had leaned heavily to the right—the sudden switch completely disrupted their line.
Left winger Bilyar sprinted into the space, took a touch inside, created space, and fired—
Whoosh!!
The ball ripped through the goalkeeper's gloves and into the net.
62nd minute—Mostar Zrinjski scores again! 2–1 lead.