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"That guy is definitely a professional and on a very high level."
Mlinar leaned forward and said while watching Modric's back as he walked away.
Suker turned his head and smiled, "What do you mean?"
"I can't keep up at all!"
Mlinar shook his head. "He's very clear about his passes, which he's developed over the years, and he's very fast and rarely looks down when controlling the ball, and he's constantly observing everything."
"I've observed, he made eight observations between the reception and the pass."
Suker was surprised: "Do you still have time to notice all that?"
"No way!" Mlinar shrugged. "My head can't keep up, so I just play football without thinking."
Suker smiled and gave a thumbs up. "Good idea."
Mlinar asked, looking towards the entrance of the stadium, "Do you know who that guy is?"
Suker smiled. "That's a good guess."
"Do you really know him?" Mlinar was surprised.
Suker shook his head. "He's so slow, there are so few people in all of Mostar, and there are very few young people. Only two of these youngsters can kick the ball like that!"
"Who are the two?" Mlinar asked, saving face.
Suker snapped his fingers. "One is the Croatian talent currently playing for Mostar Zlinjski."
Mlinar replied, "Luca. Modric? I've seen him play, but his talent is enviable. Is there another one?"
Suker pointed to himself.
Mlinar tilted his head. "What do you mean?"
Suker was angry. "Me! The other one is me!"
Mlinar was stunned.
Suker rolled his eyes at this guy with frustration, and didn't expect him to blow up like this.
"Do you mean Modric?"
Suker's eyes widened. Was that the point?
Aren't you supposed to boast about me?
I saw Mlinar touching his chin and thinking thoughtfully. "I'll just say that his ability is already beyond this level. If he were serious, he would have taken us down long ago."
"Hey!" Suker waved his hand. "I'm fine!"
Mlinar ignored him and kept sighing. "It's so comfortable to play with him, it doesn't feel like you have to think about it."
Suker didn't want to speak. He turned and left.
Meanwhile, Modric returned to the club's residence.
He took off the hood of his sportswear, his hair soft and sticking to his scalp, and his body lightly sweating.
Although a bit sticky, it was more of a sense of inner comfort.
Yes!
He had played a very comfortable football match.
Although it was a six-a-side system, the overall cooperation made him feel happy for a long time.
It was something that the club couldn't give him.
Even though he had tried to play this kind of football at the club, it had always been difficult to achieve.
He didn't know where the problem was.
However, the experience had shaken him a bit, and maybe he really needed to make some changes.
Arriving at his desk, Modric took the pen and paper and began writing with difficulty. Perhaps because of the excitement in his heart, the pen in his hand moved so quickly it seemed to be dancing across the paper.
"Dear coach, in my last letter, I said that with the team's situation, I don't understand why they can't read my thoughts and intentions, which causes us to miss opportunities. The matches I was expecting have turned bad. I've complained about my teammates, questioned the coach, but today I realized that maybe it wasn't like that."
Modric adjusted his seat, recalled the images from the match, and continued writing.
"It was truly a magical experience. It was a group of strangers, I met them for the first time, and we didn't train together, but it was a group with which I could play many good passes, and I enjoyed the feeling of the ball coming back and forth to my feet, penetrating the opponent's defense, using the pass! Using teamwork to break the defenses of others."
"There I met an interesting guy."
As he wrote this, the corners of Modric's mouth showed a slight smile.
One week later, in a two-story house in Zagreb, the capital of Croatia.
In a courtyard filled with plants, a middle-aged man, around 40 years old, was sitting in a reclining chair, patiently reading a letter, occasionally smiling.
"Our first meeting was on the old bridge in Mostar. He was holding two iron basins to get attention, ready to collect money for a diving show. To be honest, it wasn't diving season, I suspected he was a liar, but surprisingly he did it, and I admired that courage."
"Then, during a running session, I ran into his team's training field again. It turned out that the guy is also a professional player, currently playing in Bosnia and Herzegovina's second division. He's only 150 cm tall, looks extremely short, but he's the top scorer of the second division, which is really interesting."
Seeing this, the middle-aged man's expression was slightly surprised, even letting out a soft "Oh?" with his movement.
Obviously, this was beyond his understanding as well.
Curious, the middle-aged man continued reading, thinking that the rest was all about the kid.
"The guy said he was a center forward, I don't know, but his passing, vision, and overall understanding were excellent. It's more or less the same as mine!"
This time, the middle-aged man straightened his back slightly, genuinely interested.
As the coach who had trained Modric since childhood, he knew exactly what kind of talent Modric had.
One of the most important things is having a top-level midfielder's vision and seeing the bigger picture.
And Modric's interpretation of the little guy surprised him.
A 150 cm tall center forward with vision and talent for the bigger picture?
The middle-aged man smiled slightly. How did he cultivate this monster?
Below the letter, Modric gave a detailed account of his passing process, and the details were very thorough, giving him a sense of immersion.
To be more specific, Modric even drew a tactical movement diagram.
The middle-aged man looked at the twisted tactical dynamic diagram with delight and, at the same time, imagined the game in his mind.
I have to say, Modric feels good.
The running position of this little guy is correct, nothing prominent, nothing missing, just standing in the most stable position, connecting the passing rhythm.
If combined with excellent dribbling and good speed, then it's a good seedling for the attacking midfield.
However, he is 150 cm tall.
The middle-aged man shook his head slightly.
It's a real bruise.
Although the midfield position in football is not as demanding in terms of height, 150 cm is too short.
"I think he will still grow!" The middle-aged man murmured and continued reading the letter.
In the letter, Modric began to speak again after a long pause.
"Coach, I would really like to come back home, but not this way, but as a winner, and I'll show it! At the same time, it will also prove that you were right, I promise! Love, Luca!"
The letter ended here, and the middle-aged man put it down and exhaled slowly.
"Letter from Luca?"
In the room, a woman came out with two cups of coffee, handed one over, sat down in front of him, and sighed. "He's only 16 years old, and the Mostecz brothers have gone too far."
The middle-aged man smirked. "They want to get rid of my influence on Dinamo Zagreb as much as possible."
The woman sighed. "They're spreading rumors in the media, aren't you defending yourself?"
"No need to counterattack! The results will speak for themselves!" Besic, the middle-aged man and former coach of Dinamo Zagreb, said confidently. "They're cleaning up the team for me, and I'm glad to see someone is willing to play the villain's role."
Woman: "But they also want to take over the team!"
Besic waved his hand. "How could it be so easy? Just two stupid hats with tendons? They know nothing about football, they might be good speakers, but they're definitely not good coaches. The results speak for themselves, and when they're practically destroyed by the club, it will be time for me to rebuild."
"And how long are you going to wait?"
"About a season!" Besic's tone was a bit uncertain.
The woman sighed again. "It's a pity that Luca's son will stay alone in Bosnia and Herzegovina for a season. He's not a social person, I don't know if they're going to harass him."
"He's doing well." Besic picked up the letter and smiled. "I think I made a friend."
The woman was pleasantly surprised. "Really? That's good news."
"Well, it's time for us to attend the dinner tonight, even though you're not the head coach, these connections will still be maintained, and Mr. Merster still supports us a lot, so we should be grateful."
Hearing the woman's words, Besic smiled bitterly. "A banquet? I really don't like this kind of thing."
"Stop whining, it's time to try on the dress."
With that, she dragged Besic into the house.
On the dining table in the courtyard, the letters pressed under the coffee cups trembled gently with the breeze.
Ranch in the small town of Mostar, Tuesday.
"Luca, you arrive so early!"
Modric tilted his head to look at Suker, with an expression of surprise.
Suker sat right next to Modric and began putting on his sneakers.
Modric snapped out of it and nervously said, "How do you know who I am?"
"That's a good guess!" Suker pointed around. "Everyone here knows."
Modric: "!!!"
I saw Mlinar was the first to raise his hand in greeting. "Good afternoon, Modric."
"Hello, Luca!"
"Your performance is amazing!"
"I saw your match last week."
"It's a shame, there was a chance to win!"
"Sarajevo is strong, and Tolister is too strong."
"Let's go! Beat them next time, warriors of Mostar! Hahaha!"
It's clear that Modric is a little flustered.
At that moment, Suker stood up carefully, pulled at his hooded jacket, and said, "Take it off, it's strangely hot!"
Modric fell silent.
Suker was curious. "Why do you wear this outfit all the time, does it have some special meaning?"
Modric stayed silent for a long time, then became a mosquito. "It's safe."
"What?" Suker didn't hear clearly.
Modric quickly added, "I like wearing this outfit."
"Alright." Suker nodded, and Suker also understood the personal quirks, it was a matter of personality.
"Ready, ready, ready!" Suker extended his palm and smiled. "The party is about to start."
Modric cheered up, extended his hand, and the two lightly high-fived.
Slap!
End of this chapter