The entire stadium was in chaos—Suke felt was truly a devil's home ground.They cursed the opponents, cursed their own team, cursed the referees—they cursed anyone and everyone!
These fans were too energetic. From kickoff until now, they hadn't shut up for a second.
Suke shook his head, choosing to ignore the off-field noise. He wanted to focus entirely on the match.
The same old tactic: wait for the chance to make a forward run.
So Suke lingered near the defensive line, ready to sprint at any moment.
As soon as he saw Modrić with the ball, their eyes met—and the chemistry clicked.
Modrić immediately launched a long pass.
Suke took off at full speed.
Suke's acceleration was shocking—almost unnatural.
Zhakavić had just finished cursing at the fans. When he turned his head, Suke had already vanished!
Zhakavić turned and sprinted to chase him down.
But he couldn't keep up. Fortunately, Suke made a slight error when receiving the ball—it stopped not forward, but slightly sideways and about two meters in.
That forced Suke to adjust his run laterally. Taking advantage of the opening, Zhakavić charged in and knocked Suke to the ground.
Suke was hit hard—hard enough that his whole arm trembled as if it might be broken.
"Damn, that had power!"
Grimacing from the pain, Suke got up and rotated his arm—no dislocation.
If it had dislocated, he would've had to use his recovery card.
Since it was a 50/50 ball, the referee didn't call a foul.
Suke could only accept it.
Zhakavić looked at Suke getting up and grinned. "Welcome to the meat grinder!"
The Bosnian Premier League was nicknamed The Meat Grinder, and this "bloody derby" was its most brutal match.
But Suke didn't back down. Again and again, he tried to break through. Again and again, he was knocked down.
Physically, Suke was at a disadvantage in these rough encounters.
But he gritted his teeth, yelling as he charged forward, got knocked down, got back up, and charged again. Only one word described it all:
Coach Van Stoyak rubbed his temples as he watched Suke play what looked more like wrestling than football.
"That guy's a damn stubborn mule!"
And it wasn't just Suke—Modrić was also constantly fouled.
In fact, Modrić had been fouled even more than Suke.
At the 15th minute, Modrić was taken out by a crunching tackle that swept both him and the ball.
He didn't say a word—just got up, neck stiff, glaring at the guy who hit him, eyes full of fire.
Modrić turned and demanded the ball.
Once he got it, he dragged it with his foot, tilted his left shoulder as if breaking to the left.
Feeling his marker shift weight, Modrić tapped it with the outside of his foot, spun the other way.
He could have just dribbled past him—but instead, Modrić paused, waited for the defender to catch up, then rolled the ball through his legs.
It was a humiliating nutmeg.
Modrić had a temper too!
But the result wasn't ideal—he was knocked down again.
Still, Modrić got up, neck stiff—you knock me down, I humiliate you.
The two were clearly locked in a personal battle.
Van Stoyak rubbed his temples again. Suke was already giving him a headache. Now this Croatian genius was acting just as headstrong.
One was a stubborn mule.
The other—a silent stubborn mule.
Finally, Van Stoyak couldn't take it anymore.
"Pass the ball! If you want to wrestle, I'll set up a match for you back home!" he roared from the sidelines. "Pass it! Pass the damn ball!"
Suke and Modrić finally snapped out of it at the coach's furious shout.
They were still pissed off inside, but seeing the coach's face, they knew when to take things seriously.
Modrić stopped trying to humiliate defenders and began stringing together passes to connect the midfield.
Suke also stopped wrestling and started making quick lateral runs to drag defenders around.
Watching Suke flit back and forth, Zhakavić was visibly annoyed.
Just then, Suke dropped back to receive a pass from Modrić.
Zhakavić stuck close, but Suke passed it off to the right to Biliar.
Biliar stopped the ball, looked up toward the far side.
The opposing fullback instinctively stepped up—partly to intercept, partly to block a long ball.
Biliar still looked toward the far side—but suddenly cut the ball forward with a strong push.
It wasn't a dribble move—it was a pass.
From behind the fullback and center-back, Suke burst forward at an angle, seizing the ball and charging toward the end line.
The fullback had no choice but to abandon Biliar and chase Suke.
Biliar moved inside. On the left, Boame quickly advanced.
Modrić also pushed up to the top of the arc.
Near the end line, Suke stopped the ball. The fullback was right behind him.
Before the defender could tackle, Suke sharply cut inward toward the box.
He was so close to the line that the fullback lunged in to poke the ball away.
But Suke tapped it sideways with his right foot, then lightly nudged it forward with his left.
The ball slipped right along the line—threading through the tiniest gap.
A gorgeous La Croqueta.
Van Stoyak applauded from the sideline.
Suke had already gotten past the fullback. Before the center-back could close in, he fired the ball across the box.
As he did, Suke shouted:
Biliar, locked in a battle with Zhakavić, instinctively lifted his leg.
The ball rolled right between both their legs.
At the far post, unmarked, Boame stared at the open net.
He calmly tapped the ball in.
"Boame, number 21 for HŠK Zrinjski Mostar, finishes off a perfect cross from Suke!"
"That gives HŠK Zrinjski the lead in this bloodbath of a match!"
"They've looked impressive today—energized under their new tactics!"
"Number 99, Suke—this little center forward keeps surprising us!"
"In the previous game against FK Željezničar Sarajevo, he was brilliant in the second half. And now, starting today, he's already delivered a key assist with dazzling footwork that carved up the defense!"
"Many fans wondered before the match: without Kosović, could Zrinjski still pose a threat?"
"Well, Suke just answered them: Yes! They still pack a punch! That's HŠK—a team known for defense, but with deadly attacking power!"
Suke sprinted over to Boame and jumped on his back.
Boame wasn't thrilled about it, but since Suke had just assisted him, he tolerated it.
Suke rode on Boame's back, fist-pumping the air.
"C'mon, keep screaming! You bastards!"
"You filthy pigs—your faces, your bones, your very DNA reeks of filth!"
Suke kept screaming insults at the crowd.
Boame had wanted to celebrate, but when he saw the murderous glares from the stands, he carried Suke away quickly.
But Suke kept twisting around, still yelling.
Even Modrić couldn't watch anymore. He ran over and covered Suke's mouth.
Suke looked satisfied, clearly enjoying the vent.
He gestured to Modrić that he'd stop.
When Modrić finally let go, Suke grinned like a man unburdened.
Boame frowned. "You went too far with the insults."
Suke turned to him. "Yeah? But didn't it feel good?"
Suke waved his hand dismissively. "Why hold back? That bunch of pigs deserve it."
In the commentary booth, Basodachi saw Suke provoking the fans and said, "Suke is taunting the crowd—it seems there's bad blood between them. For Banja Luka's players, things are about to get even tougher."
He didn't say much more about the fans—being an old-school commentator, he knew exactly what kind of people they were.
On Banja Luka's side, the players looked dejected.
The goal came out of nowhere. The match had been balanced—until Zrinjski suddenly shifted gears and broke them down with rapid-fire combinations.
Zhakavić, in particular, was furious. Suke's constant movement was driving him mad.
Follow him? He couldn't keep up. Don't follow? Suke got free space.
Zhakavić was stuck in a losing position.
"You idiot! You can't even guard that midget! You're trash!"
"Pig! Go home—you're a disgrace!"
"You're an embarrassment to Banja Luka!"
Listening to the torrent of abuse from the stands, Zhakavić's forehead veins bulged. He turned around and shouted:
"Bunch of filthy pigs!"