Diving from the old bridge is a specialty of Mostar Town.
The town’s young men perform dives in the summer, but few people dive this time of year. The weather isn’t warm enough, and the Neretva River is rapid and freezing cold.
This was not a good season for diving!
But for Suk, who was short on cash, nothing was more lethal than being poor.
Besides, he needed enough money to ensure he got proper nutrition.
Before the tourists could even react, Suk was already holding a metal bowl, a sweet smile on his face as he began to make his rounds.
The tourists couldn’t bring themselves to dislike the boy, who had a naturally approachable air about him. Most felt pity, while some were simply curious.
Suk weaved through the crowd, continuously collecting Marks.
Some gave 5 Marks, others 10 Marks. Young couples tended to give even more...
Suk happily ran around collecting money. It was only right to get paid for a performance.
When he encountered tourists who still looked confused, Suk would repeat himself.
"Give me money!"
"Diving!"
Soon, Suk stopped in front of a teenage boy. He looked left and right but didn’t see the boy’s parents.
The boy wore a hood, the zipper pulled up so high it covered his mouth and nose, revealing only a pair of dark eyes.
Suk scratched his head. Not wanting to give up, he repeated, "Give me money!"
"Diving!"
The boy remained unmoved.
Suk mimed a diving motion, pointed under the bridge, and said with more emphasis,
"A diving performance!"
The boy still didn’t speak.
"Is this guy a mute?" Suk muttered irritably.
Just then, the other boy suddenly shot back, "You’re the mute!"
Suk froze for a second. The guy was speaking Croatian.
Bosnia and Herzegovina is located on the Balkan Peninsula, bordering several countries, and its internal language system is complex.
But the most commonly used languages are Bosnian, Serbian, and Croatian.
Unable to figure him out, Suk asked, "You a local?"
The boy fell silent again.
’Weirdo!’
Suk cursed inwardly and walked around the boy to continue collecting money.
The boy turned to watch Suk, showing no intention of leaving. A flicker of curiosity shone in his lively eyes.
He wanted to know if this little pipsqueak in front of him could actually dive or was just scamming people.
If it was a scam, he wouldn’t hesitate to call the police.
In his opinion, the latter seemed more likely.
After all, this wasn’t a good time of year for diving.
Soon, under the boy’s watchful gaze, Suk finished collecting a round of money. He folded the cash, stuffed it into his pocket, and then began to strip, leaving only a pair of swimming briefs.
Clad only in his briefs, Suk’s skin was fair, the ribs on either side of his chest clearly visible. Topped with a large head, he was clearly just a child who hadn’t finished growing.
He folded his clothes, found a spot near the edge of the bridge where the crowd was thick, and pointed to the tourists, saying, "Help me watch these."
The tourists smiled and made "OK" gestures.
Meanwhile, the boy behind him now had a look of complete surprise.
’He’s really going to jump?’
But before he could process it, the atmosphere around them suddenly grew lively.
Suk grabbed the iron railing with both hands, nimbly vaulted over to the outer ledge of the old bridge, raised his hands high, and shouted to the tourists on both sides, "Follow my rhythm."
With that, Suk began to clap slowly.
CLAP! CLAP! CLAP! CLAP! CLAP!
The surrounding tourists smiled and clapped along. They loved this kind of atmosphere.
Led by Suk, the sound of the clapping gradually became uniform and more rapid, like a dense drumbeat.
Some tourists even started shouting and cheering loudly.
CLAP-CLAP-CLAP-CLAP-CLAP-CLAP-CLAP-CLAP-CLAP!
Stop!
Like a band conductor, Suk clenched his fists, and the surroundings fell silent.
Then, they saw the skinny boy take a deep breath, push off forcefully with the balls of his feet, and leap upwards. He traced an arc through the air in a perfect swan dive—head down, feet up—and plummeted straight toward the icy river.
"AHHHHHHH——"
"He jumped!!!"
"My God!!"
The bridge erupted in gasps as everyone rushed to the edge.
The hooded boy also hurried forward.
At this time of year, one mistake could be fatal.
SPLASH!
Water sprayed everywhere as Suk disappeared beneath the surface.
A ripple appeared in the swift-flowing river and quickly vanished, along with any trace of Suk.
"No way..."
"Where is he?"
"Should we call an ambulance?"
The crowd began to whisper among themselves, and the hooded boy frantically scanned the water from side to side.
Just as everyone was at a loss, a SPLASHING sound came from the riverbank not far away.
The crowd turned to look and saw Suk emerging on the bank.
The sight made them all breathe a sigh of relief.
Under the crowd’s gaze, Suk scampered ashore, struck a bodybuilder’s pose toward the old bridge, then spread his arms and shouted.
"Come on!!!——"
Instantly, the old bridge erupted with fierce cheers and shouts, accompanied by thunderous, unending applause.
Listening to the applause, Suk laughed, gave a gentlemanly bow toward the bridge, and then skipped away.
"That was an amazing dive!"
"A fantastic performance!"
"Way to go, kid!"
The surrounding tourists watched the jogging Suk with admiration.
Some of the more excitable tourists pulled out more money, asking Suk to dive again.
But Suk just smiled, grabbed his clothes, turned, and dashed off from under the bridge, disappearing from sight in a flash.
The old bridge was still buzzing with noise. The hooded boy stared blankly at the alley where Suk had vanished, his face filled with emotion.
Although Suk hid it well, his body was still trembling from the cold, his lips had a bluish tint, and he was swaying as he ran.
This showed that the diving performance had taken a toll on his body.
Whether it was for money or not, Suk’s courage to stand on the bridge and leap was enough to shake the boy to his core.
The boy silently lowered his head, turned, and left the noisy crowd.
He walked along a stone path, onto a wooded trail, and after a series of twists and turns, he arrived at a facility with a sign that read ’Mostar Zrinjski Football Club’.
The boy pulled down his zipper and took off his hood.
Light brown short hair, thin lips, a straight nose, and a long face—typical features of an Eastern European.
And this boy was none other than the Croatian prodigy who had caused a stir in Mostar a few weeks ago: Luka Modric.
At this time, Modric was not yet the future Midfield Master, the Ballon d’Or winner.
His pale, gaunt face and skinny frame gave him a frail, delicate appearance.
Following a dirt path inside the club grounds, Modric walked straight toward the dormitory.
Mostar Zrinjski Football Club was quite competitive in the Bosnia and Herzegovina League, but their financial situation and facilities were extremely outdated.
It was a long, two-story row house. The walls were somewhat weathered, and the mottled patches of white paint and gray concrete gave it a dilapidated feel.
He went through the central entrance into the dormitory building. The hallways on either side were dim.
The first floor was mostly equipment rooms. He went up the stairs to the second floor.
Modric opened the door to the first room on the left.
The room was furnished like a college dorm, with bunk beds. There were three bunk beds in the room, but only the bottom bunk by the window showed any signs of life.
The entire room was very clean; someone obviously swept it often.
Modric hung his jacket on a hook on the wall.
Like any young man of his time, Modric had many posters of football stars on his wall.
The most numerous, without a doubt, were of the current football heartthrob, ’Alien Ronaldo’.
Modric stood before the wall, gazing at the posters with a glint in his eyes. No one knew what he was thinking.
After a moment, Modric picked up his toiletries, went to the washroom next door, and turned on the tap to wash up.
Wiping himself down with a cool towel washed away the stickiness from his sweat, and the slight breeze felt extra refreshing.
But the cold sensation kept bringing the image of the boy who had dived from the old bridge to Modric’s mind.
’How could a body that looked even younger than his own withstand that kind of impact?’
’And that guy’s courage to just leap off...’
Modric looked down at the well water flowing from the tap. The spring weather was still a bit chilly, and the well water was ice-cold.
Modric tentatively bent over and let the water run over his arm. His brow furrowed slightly.
His arm felt cool, but it wasn’t bone-chilling.
Modric then placed a basin under the tap. Once it was full, he abruptly lifted it and tipped it over his head.
SPLASH!!
HIIISSSSSSSSSSSS—
He drew a long, sharp breath as a cold tremor instantly ran through his entire body.
’It’s hard to imagine what it feels like to be submerged in river water that cold.’
"Is that guy crazy?"
Modric cursed, shivering and gritting his teeth.
Then he looked at his reflection in the mirror and couldn’t help but add another.
"Crazy!"
After drying himself with a towel, Modric left the washroom and returned to his room. He sat down at the desk by the window, took out a pen and paper, and began to write a letter.
"Dear Bešić, this is my fourth week in Mostar. I miss my hometown and the people there, and of course, I miss you very much."
"I’m disappointed about what happened in Zagreb. After you left, they gave up on me pretty quickly. I understand what they want, so I didn’t stay. I am your student, and I believe you will definitely return to Zagreb. When you do, don’t forget to bring me home!"
He paused, thought for a moment, and continued writing:
"The Bosnia and Herzegovina League is very physical—no, it’s brutal. This style has greatly diminished my performance. To avoid confrontations, I need to run more actively. Luckily, I’ve already figured out a few tricks. I think you’ll be happy for me."
"I don’t know how long I’ll have to stay here, but it definitely won’t be long! Just like you once told me, I’m a genius. I can do things others can’t."
"Of course, some of the idiots here can never read my intentions. They even question why I make certain passes. Their pig brains only know how to run forward, completely lacking any concept of teamwork or penetrative passing."
As he wrote this, a flippant, disdainful expression appeared on Modric’s face, but it quickly faded into frustration.
"I don’t have any friends here, and I don’t want to befriend idiots. I believe this is a trial given to me by ’the Lord.’ I will definitely pass it with flying colors, just like before. Of course, it might also require me to summon a bit of courage to break some of my old playing habits..."
For some reason, the image of the boy diving from the old bridge appeared in Modric’s mind again.
He shook his head, scribbled out the last sentence, and said in a scornful tone, "They’re the ones who need to change!"
After clearing his thoughts, Modric began to conclude the letter.
"The season is almost over. This season was a period of adjustment. Next season, I’ll put on a brilliant performance and show everyone how a genius plays football. And as for those idiots who loaned me out, I’ll give them a resounding slap in the face!"
"That’s all for this week’s report. With love, Luka!"
After finishing the letter, Modric folded it neatly, slipped it into an envelope, then turned and lay down on his bed, preparing to take a short nap.