A single diving performance earned Suke a lot—enough to last him a good half a month without worry.
As for the impact of the dive, it was almost negligible.
Though he hadn't grown much in height, his physical condition was excellent. He rarely caught colds or fevers as a child and was generally easy to raise.
Otherwise, during the chaotic years caused by the Yugoslav civil war, when Croatia was in utter disarray, falling ill almost meant certain death.
Orphanage children's lives were worthless—everything depended on fate.
As the old director said, Suke was a child blessed by God. After all, among the children from his generation, only a few survived the war.
"Meal money!"
Suke swaggered in and slapped the money down on the table, not waiting for Bakić to respond before dashing off.
By the time Bakić ran out of the restaurant, fuming, Suke had already turned a corner and vanished down an alley.
"Damn brat! Still short five marks!"
But with the street empty and no sign of Suke, Bakić could only shake his head and—despite himself—chuckle.
In truth, everyone here looked out for Suke.
Though they bickered on the surface, they understood how difficult it was for a minor like Suke to live alone and play football here.
Perhaps it was the shared scars from that brutal war—having witnessed too much death and destruction—that made Suke's sunny demeanor feel like a balm for their souls.
They found comfort and peace amidst laughter and curses.
In fact, many Croats living in Bosnia and Herzegovina had fled here during those dark years.
Suke twisted and turned through the alleys with the ease of someone who could see the whole maze from above, finally arriving at a house on the edge of town.
The house wasn't big—around 80 square meters. With white walls and red tiles, it was built along the Neretva River like the others in the area.
From the outside, it looked neat and tidy, but when Suk opened the door, a wave of stench hit him—a mix of smoke, alcohol, and pungent body odor.
He seemed used to it and walked straight to a tool rack by the entrance to grab a pair of soccer cleats.
They were his—worn out, but cleaned spotlessly.
He then dug through a plastic bin on the floor to retrieve something resembling a soccer ball.
Why "resembling"? Because it was basically a black, fabric-covered ball. The original leather had all peeled off, leaving just the worn inner lining, sagging slightly.
Suke gently squeezed it, afraid the ball might burst if he used too much force.
Still enough air.
He grabbed the ball and turned to leave, shouting into the room, "Oripe, I'm heading out!"
No response.
Suk didn't care—he shut the door and left.
He walked another kilometer or so to a wide-open area.
An abandoned factory.
During Yugoslavia's era, the region had a long coastline with many ports.
Mostar had been a busy hub for cargo transport.
But after Yugoslavia's breakup and Bosnia's independence, only one port remained. The area was no longer needed and fell into ruin.
Now, overgrown with weeds—some nearly as tall as Suke—only one section remained flat, paved with concrete.
Suke sat down and laced up his nearly tread-less cleats before walking to the center of the field with his tattered ball.
Taking a deep breath, Suke thought back to the red card he'd drawn last time.
[Torlist's Short Passing]!
As the core No. 10 for FK Sarajevo, Torlist was undeniably their star player.
His short passes were sharp, penetrating, and dangerous.
Playing as an attacking midfielder, Torlist was known for both dribbling and passing. His dribbling dismantled defenses, and his passes sliced through them like knives.
In a Bosnian Premier League broadcast, Suke had watched him play.
Torlist orchestrated 8 of the 14 passes that led to a goal—from defense to attack, threading it all together.
His passes were the engine of progression.
Of course, passing wasn't just about technique—it was also about awareness.
Suke might not have Torlist's vision, but he had Inzaghi's positional sense—keenly aware of gaps and tight formations.
Passing to the less pressured side, into safe zones, or threading through defenses—these were now part of Suke's arsenal.
A center-forward doesn't just shoot!
In today's game, teams favored fast, strong, and aggressive strikers.
Sure, there were freaks like Inzaghi, but Ronaldo was the mainstream ideal.
Suke dreamed of becoming a Ronaldo, but his physique didn't allow it.
He had to find a path that suited him.
Today's striker needed to attack, shoot, and crash defenses.
But tomorrow's striker? A jack-of-all-trades.
They'd need to shoot, pass, and press.
As physical as Drogba, able to batter down defenses.
But also capable of dropping deep to orchestrate and distribute.
Agility and finesse.
Thinking of this, Suke placed the ball in front of him and tried to sense the changes in his body.
Without teammates, he couldn't try combination plays—but the feel of the ball when passing was vastly different.
Power, accuracy, angles—all suddenly clear, like fog lifting from a mountain path.
He raised his right foot and performed a slicing pass.
A "cut pass."
His foot came down on the ball, compressing it and spinning it forward.
The spin caused the ball to decelerate after traveling some distance, mimicking those TV passes that seemed to curl perfectly into a teammate's path.
After trying that with his dominant foot, he tried the other.
Torlist was ambidextrous—maybe he inherited that too?
Wishful thinking. The ball flew off into the weeds.
Yeah… becoming ambidextrous would take work.
Still, Torlist's short passing had been a revelation.
In future games, Suke wouldn't need to dodge challenges with endless lateral movement—he could drop deep to receive, then spark a second wave of attack when the moment was right.
Right now, Mostar Wanderers relied solely on Mlinar to initiate attacks.
That made them predictable and easy to defend.
But with Suke in the mix, they could generate secondary attacks in the final third.
He and Mlinar could even alternate runs—back-and-forth—confusing defenses. A dual-core setup wasn't out of the question.
The more he thought about it, the more energized he became.
Finding the right path was vital.
Given his height, being a classic striker was out of reach—leaving him often lost.
But now? With Torlist's passing skill, he'd found something that fit.
A striker who dropped deep to organize!
Or even a wide midfielder—his speed wasn't bad either.
A hybrid winger who could attack, pass, run, and harass—a rare breed now, but valuable in the future.
That evening, Suke returned to Oripe's place.
The light was dim. Oripe sat glued to the TV, watching a football match, not even acknowledging Suke's return.
Suke showered quickly, changed, then grabbed four slices of bread and thick cuts of ham from the fridge. After heating them up and adding loads of ketchup, he made two sandwiches and started eating.
"What match is this?"
he asked, walking up behind Oripe.
"Arsenal vs. Liverpool, FA Cup," came the reply without a glance back.
Suke looked at the score—Liverpool led 1–0.
"Who scored?"
"Owen. That kid's too damn fast."
Michael Owen had just won the 2001 Ballon d'Or. He was a superstar—scarily talented.
His speed was terrifying, and with Liverpool's attacking formation, he kept breaking down Arsenal's defense.
But Arsenal weren't pushovers.
Their game was all about cohesion—the connection between Henry, Pires, Bergkamp, and the midfield was seamless.
That's how they controlled the game.
Suke watched closely, using Inzaghi's sense for space to analyze.
Liverpool's attacks were intense, but they couldn't break Arsenal again. The energy drain from repeated counters and defensive pressure was mounting.
Meanwhile, Arsenal advanced like a flowing stream.
"Liverpool's in danger," Suke said.
Oripe frowned. "Liverpool has the advantage."
Just then, Arsenal's Vieira launched a brutal tackle, bringing down Owen with the ball before he could accelerate.
Arsenal started pushing forward.
If Liverpool's attack was brute force, Arsenal's was an elegant tango.
The ball danced between their players—especially Bergkamp, the passing hub of their front line.
Their play resembled butterflies among flowers—beautiful, yet deadly.
As Liverpool fell back in panic, Bergkamp drove into the box.
Faced with defenders, he feigned a shot. The block came—and he used his heel to flick the ball through the crowd.
Right to Henry.
Henry calmly slotted the ball into the open net.
"Beautiful!"
"Perfect!"
Suke and Oripe said in unison.
The goal was pure artistry—Wenger's Arsenal, masters of beautiful football.