!
"Watch out for that shorty, number 99—he's fast!"
Boske Nocki was drenched in sweat as he turned his head to shout.
Sukh's forward run had taken them by surprise, tearing through their defense in an instant. He didn't use any tricks—just pure speed.
And when facing such a naturally gifted player, there was no real way to stop him. It was a fundamental gap that effort alone couldn't bridge.
Boske could only try to keep up and anticipate.
Still, he had plenty of experience. The first time had caught him off guard, but next time would be different.
Just then, Modrić passed the ball forward again.
Sukh was ready to explode into motion.
Boske turned to react, but just as he was about to sprint, Sukh stopped the ball with one touch.
"Not running this time?"
Boske stopped instinctively, moving to press.
But Sukh started again—immediately.
"Trying to trick me?!"
Boske stretched out his leg—either the ball stays, or the man does.
But Sukh, with quick footwork, slipped the ball between Boske's legs and hopped past him.
Beaten again.
Boske's face flushed. He turned and shouted, "Stop him!"
He grabbed Sukh and yanked him backward.
"Ahhh!"
Sukh was pulled off balance, crashing to the ground.
"Foul!!!"
The Mostar Zrinjski fans roared. Even in the rough Bosnian Premier League, this was card-worthy. And Sukh had clearly broken through—it was a one-on-one opportunity.
"Red card!!!"
Boske was nervous. Five minutes in, and he'd already been embarrassed twice and might get carded.
The referee ran over—yellow card.
Boske sighed in relief. At least it wasn't red, but he was still frustrated.
Sukh stood up, brushed off, grabbed the ball, and tossed it to Modrić.
Modrić placed it for the free kick, and Sukh and his teammates lined up at the edge of the box.
Modrić took a breath, ran up, and struck the ball.
It curved toward the near post.
Bang!
The keeper reacted fast and got a hand to it—but the ball dropped right back into the box.
"Here it comes!"
Sukh sprinted forward. He reached the ball first and poked it with his toe.
Ding!
It hit the crossbar and bounced out.
"Damn!"
He cursed. Two close chances, both missed. He stomped in frustration.
Sarajevo Railway Workers survived again.
Now their defense looked rattled. Sukh had shaken them.
From ignoring him at first to marking him carefully now, Sukh's speed had become a serious threat.
Especially for center backs like Boske—it was one thing to deal with Koso Pećić, another to chase a quicksilver forward like Sukh.
The match restarted. Sukh stayed aggressive up front, keeping Mostar Zrinjski's attack flowing.
"Pass it to me!"
"Just like that!"
Sukh waved. "Come on, send it!"
Boske was getting fed up.
On the sideline, coach Van Steijak wore a smile. From Sukh's first breakthrough, he hadn't stopped smiling.
He sensed momentum shifting.
But assistant coach Van Diel raised a concern.
"Sukh's runs are forcing attention, but he's also becoming a marked man. He'll find it harder to break through now."
Van Diel noticed the opponent's fullbacks pinching in to double-team Sukh.
Van Steijak chuckled. "That's not the goal."
"What do you mean?"
"What was Sukh's task?"
"Drop deep to receive and organize play," Van Diel replied—then paused. "But he hasn't dropped. He's just been running forward."
"Exactly," Van Steijak said. "That's just part of the plan."
"I always tell my players to play with their brains. Sukh gets it."
"He knows he's short and weak in duels. So instead of dropping deep from the start—where he'd be tightly marked—he used his pace to constantly pressure the defense."
Van Steijak pointed to the field. "Look at Boske."
Boske and Sukh were level. Every time Sukh twitched, Boske flinched.
Move. Flinch. Move. Flinch.
It was almost funny.
Boske couldn't look ahead—he was glued to Sukh.
"His pace is a nightmare," Van Diel admitted. "But you're saying that's not his real weapon?"
Van Steijak smiled. "That's just the setup. He's pretending to be a pure striker to hide his real job."
"Which is?"
"Drop deep and link play. Free Modrić."
"If he did that from the start, he'd have been tightly marked. But now, everyone thinks he's just a runner."
Van Diel's eyes lit up. "He's lured them into a trap. Now, when he drops—"
"—no one follows him!" Van Steijak finished.
"And if they do?" Van Diel said.
"Then he spins and runs into the space. If they don't, Modrić is free. Either way, they're in trouble."
The clock ticked to the 60th minute.
Sukh's repeated bursts had pulled the defense inward. The wings were opening.
It was time.
Sukh looked at Boske and said, "I'm done playing with you."
He jogged back toward midfield.
Boske: "??"
He didn't get it—but was relieved.
This guy had been a thorn in his side.
Sukh dropped deep. No one followed.
At that moment, Modrić was double-teamed again.
He was about to pass wide—until he heard:
"Luka! I'm here!"
Modrić lit up.
Finally!
He toe-poked the ball forward to Sukh, who received it in space.
While dribbling sideways, Sukh scanned the pitch.
Both wingers were ready.
He and Boame exchanged a glance.
Sukh passed to Boame, then moved toward the center.
Boske wanted to cover the right—but saw Sukh moving and hesitated.
Boame tried to dribble, but couldn't beat his man.
"Pass!"
Sukh had arrived.
Boame returned the ball.
Sukh faked a run, freezing Boske.
Then, with his back to goal, he played a quick back pass.
Modrić had arrived—just in time.
He lifted the ball with a perfect chip over the flat defense line, toward the left.
Sarajevo's defense had shifted right—and the pass broke them.
Left winger Biljal ran onto it, cut inside, lost the fullback, and shot.
Shua!!
The ball flew past the keeper into the net.
62nd minute—Mostar Zrinjski led 2–1.