"That guy is definitely a pro, and a high-level one at that."
Mulinar leaned in and said, watching Modric's departing figure.
Suk turned his head and smiled. "How can you tell?"
"I couldn't keep up at all!"
Mulinar shook his head. "His passing vision is crystal clear. That's a quality honed by years of professional play. Plus, he handles the ball quickly, rarely looks down, and is constantly scanning the field."
"I watched him. In the moments before receiving and passing the ball, he checked his surroundings a full eight times."
Suk was surprised. "You had the time to notice all that?"
"I had to!" Mulinar shrugged. "My brain couldn't keep up with the pace, so I just stopped thinking and started playing. See a man, pass the ball. Can't go wrong with that."
Suk laughed and gave a thumbs-up. "A pretty good method."
Mulinar gestured with his chin towards the field entrance and asked, "Do you know who that guy is?"
Suk smiled. "It's pretty easy to guess."
"You really know?" Mulinar was surprised.
Suk shook his head. "You're really slow. There are only so many people in all of Mostar Town, and even fewer young people. Among them, there are only two who can play ball like that!"
"Which two?" Mulinar played along.
Suk counted on his fingers. "One is the Croatian genius currently playing for Mostar Zrinjski..."
Mulinar cut in, "Luka Modric? Hmm... I've seen him play. His talent is enviable, for sure. Who's the other one?"
Suk pointed to himself.
Mulinar tilted his head. "What does that mean?"
Suk said indignantly, "Me! The other one is me!"
Mulinar stared blankly for a moment.
Suk shot the guy an annoyed glare, but unexpectedly, he blurted out...
"So you're saying he's Modric?"
Suk's eyes widened. 'Is that the main point here?'
'Shouldn't you be complimenting me?'
Mulinar just stroked his chin thoughtfully. "That explains it. His skill is already way beyond this level. If he had been serious, he would have wiped the floor with us long ago."
"Hey!" Suk waved his hand. "I played well too!"
Mulinar ignored him and continued wistfully, "It feels so good playing with him. It's like you don't even have to think."
Suk didn't want to talk anymore and just turned to leave.
...
Meanwhile, Modric had returned to his dorm at the club.
He took off his hooded tracksuit. His hair was plastered limply to his scalp, and his body was slick with a light sweat.
Despite the sticky feeling, what he felt more was an inner sense of relief and satisfaction.
Yes!
He had just played a deeply satisfying game of soccer.
Even though it was a six-a-side game, the overall teamwork gave him a sense of exhilarating freedom he hadn't felt in a long time.
It was something his club couldn't give him.
He tried hard to play this kind of soccer at his club, but it was always difficult to achieve.
He didn't know where the problem lay.
However, this experience had left him a little shaken...
'Maybe I really should make some changes.'
Walking over to his desk, Modric picked up a pen and paper and began to write furiously. Perhaps it was the joy in his heart that made the pen fly across the paper as if it were dancing.
"Dear Teacher, in my last letter, I wrote about the difficulties I'm facing with the team. I don't understand why they can't read my thoughts and intentions, which causes us to constantly miss opportunities. The game I once dreamed of has soured. I used to blame my teammates and even question the Head Coach, but today, I discovered that might not be the case..."
Modric adjusted his posture, recalling scenes from the game, and continued writing.
"It was a magical experience. They were a group of strangers; I had met them all for the first time, and we had never trained together even once. But this group repeatedly managed to pull off passing combinations that thrilled me. I thoroughly enjoyed that feeling—the ball zipping back and forth between our feet, penetrating the opponent's defense. Using passes! Using teamwork to tear open their back line."
"There, I met an interesting guy..."
As he wrote this, a slight smile touched the corners of Modric's mouth.
...
「One week later, in a two-story detached house in Zagreb, the capital of Croatia.」
In a courtyard surrounded by lush plants, a middle-aged man of about 40 was sitting in a lounge chair, patiently reading a letter. An occasional smile would grace his lips.
"Our first meeting was on the Old Bridge in Mostar. He was banging two iron basins together to attract attention, getting ready to collect money for a diving performance. To be honest, it wasn't the season for diving, and I suspected he was a fraud. But surprisingly, he actually jumped. I had to admire his courage."
"Then later, during a run, I ran into their team training. It turns out that guy is also a professional player, currently in the Bosnia and Herzegovina Second League. He's only 150 centimeters tall and looks extremely short, but he's the top scorer in the Second Division League. What an interesting thing."
Reading this, the middle-aged man's expression turned slightly surprised, and he even let out a soft, "Oh?"
Clearly, this was also beyond his comprehension.
His interest piqued, the middle-aged man continued reading, figuring the rest would be about that little boy.
"That guy said he's a forward who makes runs from deep. I don't know the specifics, but his passing, vision, and game awareness are all outstanding... pretty much like mine!"
This time, the middle-aged man sat up a little straighter. He was genuinely interested now.
As the coach who had trained Modric since he was a child, he knew exactly what kind of talent Modric possessed.
The most crucial of these were the vision and game awareness of a top-tier midfielder.
And Modric's assessment of the young boy surprised him.
'A 150-centimeter-tall forward with top-tier vision and game awareness?'
The middle-aged man grinned slightly. 'What kind of freak has been raised here?'
Further down in the letter, Modric described their passing combinations in great detail, so vividly that it felt like being there.
To be even more specific, Modric had even drawn a diagram showing the tactical movements.
The middle-aged man studied the crooked tactical diagram with great interest, picturing the game in his mind.
He had to admit, Modric's feeling was correct.
The little guy's positioning was perfect—not too aggressive, not too passive, just right. He always stood in the most stable position to link up the rhythm of the passes.
If he also had excellent dribbling and decent speed, he would be a great prospect for an attacking midfielder.
But a height of 150 centimeters...
The middle-aged man shook his head slightly.
'That's a real handicap.'
Although height isn't as critical for a midfielder in soccer, 150 centimeters was indeed too short.
"He'll probably still grow, right?" the middle-aged man mumbled to himself and went back to the letter.
In the letter, after his long discussion, Modric began to state his resolve.
"Teacher, I desperately want to come home, but not like this. I want to return as a victor. I will prove everything to them! And I'll also prove that you, Teacher, were the one who was right all along. I promise! With love, your Luka!"
The letter ended there. The middle-aged man put it down and slowly let out a breath.
"A letter from Luka?"
A woman came out of the house carrying two cups of coffee. She handed one to him, then sat down opposite him and sighed. "He's only 16. What the Mostic brothers did was too much."
The middle-aged man sneered. "They want to erase my influence at Dinamo Zagreb as much as possible."
The woman sighed. "They're spreading rumors in the media. Aren't you going to fight back?"
"There's no need to fight back! The results will prove everything!" The middle-aged man, the former Head Coach of Dinamo Zagreb, Bešić, said confidently. "They're clearing out the team for me. I'm glad someone is willing to play the role of the villain."
The woman said, "But they also want to take the team for themselves!"
Bešić waved his hand. "It's not that easy. Especially not for two one-track-minded idiots. They don't know a damn thing about soccer. They might be decent public speakers, but they're definitely not qualified coaches. The results will tell the whole story. Once they've wrecked the club enough, it will be time for me to rebuild."
"So how long will that take?"
"About a season, I guess!" Bešić's tone was uncertain.
The woman sighed again. "That poor child, Luka. He has to stay in Bosnia and Herzegovina alone for a whole season. He's not a very social person; I wonder if he'll be bullied."
"He's doing just fine." Bešić picked up the letter and smiled. "It seems he's even made a friend."
The woman said in pleasant surprise, "Really? That's wonderful news."
"Alright, we should get ready for the party tonight. Even though you're not the Head Coach anymore, you still need to maintain these connections. Besides, Mr. Muster is a strong supporter of yours. We should show our gratitude."
Hearing his wife's words, Bešić gave a wry smile. "A party? I really don't like those things."
"Stop complaining. We need to go try on our formal wear."
With that, she pulled Bešić inside the house.
On the table in the courtyard, the letter lay pinned under a coffee cup, trembling slightly in the gentle breeze.
...
「Tuesday, at a pasture in Mostar Town.」
"Luka, you're here so early!"
Modric tilted his head to look at Suk, his face a picture of astonishment.
Suk sat right down next to Modric and started putting on his soccer cleats.
Modric snapped out of his daze and asked nervously, "How do you know who I am?"
"It was easy to guess!" Suk pointed around them. "Everyone here knows."
Modric: "!!!"
Mulinar was the first to raise his hand in greeting. "Good afternoon, Modric."
"Hello, Luka!"
"Your passing is amazing!"
"I watched your game last week."
"It was a shame, you had a chance to win!"
"Sarajevo is strong too. Tolister's performance was just too dominant."
"Keep it up! Beat them next time, warriors of Mostar! Hahaha!"
Modric was clearly a bit overwhelmed.
Just then, Suk, now fully dressed, stood up and tugged at his own hooded sweatshirt. "You should take that off. It's pretty hot!"
Modric was silent.
Suk asked curiously, "Why are you always wearing that? Does it have some special meaning?"
Modric was silent for a long time before he mumbled, barely audible, "It makes me feel safe..."
"What?" Suk didn't hear him clearly.
Modric quickly said, "I just like wearing this outfit."
"Alright." Suk nodded. He understood personal quirks; it was a matter of personality.
"Get ready!" Suk held out his palm and smiled. "The party's about to start."
Modric's spirits lifted. He raised his hand, and the two gave a light high-five!
SLAP!