"That guy must be a professional footballer, and a high-level one at that."
Mlinar leaned in, watching Modrić's departing figure.
Suke turned his head with a smile. "How can you tell?"
"Completely couldn't keep up!"
Mlinar shook his head. "His passing is so precise and clear—that's the kind of awareness you only get from years of playing professionally. And when he has the ball, he barely looks down. He's constantly scanning the field."
"I counted—he looked up eight times between receiving and passing the ball."
Suke looked surprised. "You had time to notice that?"
"Had to!" Mlinar shrugged. "My brain couldn't keep up with the pace, so I stopped using it. Just passed to whoever I saw—it worked."
Suke laughed and gave a thumbs up. "Solid method."
Mlinar nodded toward the entrance of the pitch. "Do you know who that guy is?"
Suke smiled. "Should be easy to guess."
Suke shook his head. "You're so slow. This is Mostar—there aren't that many young people here. Out of all of them, only two could play like that."
"Which two?" Mlinar played along.
Suke counted on his fingers. "One is currently playing for Zrinjski Mostar—a Croatian prodigy."
"Modrić? Luka Modrić? I've seen his matches. He's got enviable talent. Who's the other one?"
Suke pointed at himself.
Mlinar tilted his head. "What do you mean?"
"Me! The other one's me!" Suke said indignantly.
Suke rolled his eyes—only for Mlinar to blurt out:
"You're saying that guy was Modrić?"
Suke's eyes widened—Wasn't that obvious?Shouldn't you be complimenting me instead?
Mlinar, meanwhile, rubbed his chin in thought. "Makes sense now. His skills are way above our level. If he went all out, we'd be toast."
"Hey!" Suke waved. "I played pretty well too, you know!"
Mlinar ignored him, still thinking aloud. "Playing with him was so smooth. Like I didn't even need to think."
Suke was speechless and simply turned and walked away.
Elsewhere, Modrić had already returned to his club dormitory.
He pulled off his hooded tracksuit. His hair clung to his scalp, damp with sweat. Despite the stickiness, he felt mostly exhilarated.
Yes—He had just played a truly satisfying match of football.
Though it was six-a-side, the coordination and rhythm were the kind he hadn't felt in ages.
Something he could never quite recreate at the club.
He tried, of course. But somehow, it never clicked.
Now, that experience had him questioning everything.
Maybe… he really needed to make a change.
He sat down at his desk and grabbed pen and paper, scribbling furiously—his hand almost dancing on the page from his excitement.
"Dear teacher,In my last letter, I spoke of the difficulties in the team—I couldn't understand why no one seemed to grasp my intent or read my plays. It made everything frustrating. The matches I once looked forward to had become tedious. I blamed my teammates, even questioned the coach.
But today… maybe it's not like that after all."
Modrić adjusted his posture, replaying the game in his mind as he continued.
"It was a magical experience. I was with strangers—we had never trained together. Yet we connected. Our passes clicked. The ball flowed across the pitch, slicing through defenses as if guided by instinct. That's the football I love: team effort, strategic passing, coordination.
There, I met someone interesting..."
At this point, Modrić's lips curled into a faint smile.
One week later, Zagreb, capital of Croatia.
In a two-story house surrounded by plants, a middle-aged man of about 40 reclined in a lounge chair, reading a letter. From time to time, he smiled.
"We first met at the Old Bridge in Mostar. He was banging two iron pots to get attention—planning to collect money by doing a diving stunt.Honestly, it wasn't the right season for diving. I thought he was a scammer. But to my surprise, he actually jumped. That kind of courage impressed me."
"Later, I ran into him again during a training run. Turns out, he's also a pro—plays in the Bosnian second division.He's only 150 cm tall, which looks tiny, but he's the league's top scorer. Fascinating, isn't it?"
At that, the man let out a surprised "Oh?"
Clearly, it was unexpected.
Curiosity piqued, he kept reading.
"He said he's a forward—likes to make deep runs.I'm not sure how true that is, but his passing, vision, and game sense? Outstanding. Pretty much like mine!"
Now the man sat up straighter, clearly interested.
As Modrić's childhood coach, he knew Luka's greatest strengths—vision and awareness, both elite-tier.
That Modrić would describe someone else ?
A 150 cm forward with elite playmaking instincts?
The coach grinned. What kind of monster is this kid?
Modrić even included a hand-drawn diagram to explain their passing sequences in detail. Despite the childish sketches, the coach could visualize the whole match from it.
And Modrić was right.
The boy's movement was flawless—never excessive, never lacking. Always perfectly positioned for the next play.
With speed and dribbling, he'd make a fantastic attacking midfielder.
That was a serious handicap.
Even if midfielders weren't judged too harshly by height, 150 cm was tiny.
"Maybe he's still growing," the man muttered, and kept reading.
The letter went on for pages, then ended with a heartfelt resolution.
"Teacher, I miss home very much, but I don't want to return .I want to come back as a winner—to prove everything to them.And to prove that you were right all along.I promise.Love, Luka."
The man sighed and put down the letter.
A woman emerged from the house with two cups of coffee. She handed him one and sat across from him with a sigh."He's only 16… the Mostecic brothers really went too far."
The man—former Dinamo Zagreb head coach Bessic—sneered. "They're trying to erase my influence at Dinamo."
"They're even smearing you in the press. Aren't you going to fight back?"
"No need. Results will speak for me." Bessic sounded confident. "They're doing my dirty work—cleaning house. Let them play the villain."
"But they want to take over the club completely."
"Not that easy. They're a couple of stubborn fools who know nothing about football. Good at speeches, maybe—but not coaching.When they drive the club into the ground, that's when I'll return and rebuild."
"How long do you think that'll take?"
"One season, probably." His tone was uncertain.
The woman sighed again. "Poor Luka. All alone in Bosnia for a year. He's not good at socializing. What if he gets bullied?"
"He's doing well," Bessic smiled, holding up the letter. "Sounds like he even made a friend."
"Really? That's wonderful!"
"Alright, we should head to the evening banquet. You may not be the coach anymore, but we still need to maintain our contacts. Mr. Mostec is still backing you—we should thank him."
Bessic sighed. "Banquets… not my thing."
"Stop whining. Time to try on your suit."
She dragged him inside.
Outside, the letter lay under the coffee cup, fluttering gently in the breeze.
Tuesday, a pasture in Mostar.
"Luka, you're here early!"
Modrić turned to see Suke, surprised.
Suke sat down next to him and began lacing his cleats.
Modrić hesitated. "How do you know who I am?"
"Easy guess!" Suke pointed around. "Everyone here knows."
Mlinar waved. "Good afternoon, Modrić!"
"Your passing's incredible!"
"Saw your match last week."
"Bit of a shame—you could've won!"
"Sarajevo's strong too. Torist was a beast."
"Good luck! Beat them next time! Mostar's warriors—hoorah!"
Modrić was overwhelmed.
Suke stood up, tugging on his hoodie. "Take that off, it's hot."
"Why do you always wear that thing?" Suke asked. "Sentimental value?"
Long silence. Then, softly, "It makes me feel safe..."
"I just like it," Modrić quickly corrected.
"Okay." Suke nodded, respecting it. Everyone had their quirks.
"Get ready," Suke said, holding out a hand. "Party's about to start."
Modrić's eyes lit up. He raised his hand.