The competition on the field was incredibly intense.
The natural physicality of the Bosnian league, combined with both teams battling for aerial dominance, made the penalty area a warzone.
Bang!
Bilal's cross was blocked by the opposing center-back, Boškinović, who won the aerial duel with authority.
Kosopek also went up for the header but was completely overpowered. He landed hard on the ground, frustrated.
This wasn't the first time—it had been happening since the start of the match.
Šuker watched, mouth slightly open. At 192 cm, Kosopek was considered tall and imposing.
But Boškinović? He was at least 195 cm, built like a tank.
More importantly, his sense of positioning and timing was exceptional. He always disrupted the play just right.
That's why Kosopek kept losing out in the air.
On the sideline, Coach Van Stee wore a grim expression.
Since the beginning of the season, teams had started deploying tall center-backs specifically to counter Kosopek.
But he hadn't expected Sarajevo Railway Workers to bring in someone like Boškinović.
"Boškinović, 33 years old," the assistant coach said. "Played for Lokomotiva Zagreb last season. Former Croatian national team player."
Šuker blinked in surprise.
A former Croatian international?
A defensive ironman from the same generation as Davor Šuker?
No wonder Kosopek was struggling. Croatian defenders are hand-picked and held to the highest standard.
Even if Boškinović had aged out of the national team, his strength and experience still made him a major threat.
"Defend tighter!" Van Stee barked.
The match continued.
Sarajevo Railway Workers' style was simple and direct—attacks down the flanks and crosses into the box.
Mostar Zrinjski had a strong aerial presence of their own in Mašović, their tall center-back.
He leapt repeatedly, dominating the air.
"Come on! Keep going, bastard!"
Mašović spat trash talk at the opposing striker. Normally calm, he transformed into a beast on the pitch.
Then there was Haskić, the left-back—quiet, but dirty.
Pulling shirts, spitting, stepping on feet, hidden elbows—he had every trick in the book.
Mostar Zrinjski's foundation was its defense. Even in the entire Bosnian Premier League, their backline was among the best.
Haskić, Mašović, Hačič, and Kerpić were the core of the "iron defense."
Up front, Kosopek kept trying to get a clean header, but he was always just a step too late, a few centimeters too short.
In midfield, Modrić was steady as ever.
Though slender, he covered the pitch with tireless energy, his ultra-endurance starting to show.
Left, right, forward, back—he was everywhere, constantly feeding balls forward.
The only problem was on the right wing.
Oliveira, the team's vice-captain, stopped running after a few early sprints and started walking.
His face pale—he had clearly partied too hard the night before.
At the 31st minute, Mašović headed clear a cross, and the ball fell to Modrić.
He turned and surged forward.
Kosopek and Bilal followed, with Oliveira trailing behind.
Modrić scanned for passing options, but no good lanes opened up.
If it were Šuker, he would've dropped back for the pass…
He kept pushing forward.
Near the edge of the box, Modrić fired a long-range shot.
It curled toward the far post like a scimitar—cutting through defenders and into the top corner.
Swish!!!
Goal! Mostar Zrinjski takes the lead!
A brilliant long-range strike from Modrić!
"Beautiful!!" Šuker jumped up, thrilled.
Perfect timing. Perfect angle. A Maestro's goal.
The crowd erupted.
After a tense back-and-forth, Zrinjski finally broke the deadlock.
Modrić's second goal in four matches—he was settling into the league brilliantly.
"Well done!"
Kosopek ran over and hugged him tightly.
Frustrated from being shut down all game, this goal lifted his spirits.
On the sideline, Van Stee finally exhaled. He nodded and clapped, quietly celebrating Modrić's brilliance.
Across the pitch, Boškinović pointed angrily at Modrić.
"Mark number 8! Don't let him shoot again!"
He'd warned his team before—but they still gave Modrić space.
Idiots…
Boškinović was furious. He had done his part—it wasn't his fault.
"Stick to number 8! Man-mark him!"
The Sarajevo coach was experienced. He saw the problem right away.
Kosopek was neutralized, but Modrić was the real engine.
If they could shut him down, they could control the midfield.
After the restart, Modrić immediately faced trouble.
Every touch was pressured. Passing lanes closed. He was forced to play backwards.
With Modrić shut down, Zrinjski's rhythm broke apart.
"No one's helping Luka!"
Van Stee saw it instantly.
Both wingers were attackers. The striker was a pure poacher.
Nobody in the front or back line could support Modrić.
Everything ran through him—and now that he was locked down, the team was lost.
Van Stee grew more anxious.
But at least they were still in the lead. If they could hold on until halftime, he could make adjustments.
"Šuker! Warm up!"
Šuker leapt up and jogged down the sideline. This was the moment he'd been waiting for.
Most fans were still focused on the game. They didn't see him warming up.
But some eyes were on him.
"Šuker! Let's go!"
"Is he getting subbed in?"
"Play your heart out!"
"Come on!!"
In the stands, Mlinar, Orić, Bakić, and other former teammates shouted excitedly.
Their cheers didn't rise above the crowd, but Šuker heard them. He waved with a smile.
Mlinar rubbed his hands nervously. "Why am I so anxious?"
"Same here," Bakić replied, wiping his sweaty palms. "Hope he plays well."
"Just keep it simple," Orić said, licking his lips. "It's the Premier League, not Second Division. Don't expect him to score."
But deep down, they all hoped he would shine.
"They've got the lead. Less pressure."
Suddenly, the crowd gasped in unison.
Wowwwwwww!!!
Hundreds of Zrinjski fans clutched their heads in frustration.
Mlinar turned quickly to look at their end of the pitch.
The ref had blown for a free kick, and Boškinović was moving up—clearly ready for another header.
Sarajevo had a set piece in the attacking third.
Zrinjski fans were on edge.
Vukojević, Sarajevo's number 10, sent in a precise cross to the top of the box.
Boškinović rose through the crowd—and powered the header into the net.
In less than five minutes, the score was level.
"It's a tie…" Orić groaned, holding his head.
Mlinar and the others looked grim.
Was this really the best time to bring Šuker on?