The thrilling first half ended with Mostar Zrinjski and Sarajevo Railroad Workers tied at 1-1.
Both teams found the net—Modrić scoring for Zrinjski, and Boschenochi for the visitors.
The entire first half was filled with tension. Sarajevo Railroad Workers were clearly well-prepared, using the outstanding Croatian league player Boschenochi to limit Mostar Zrinjski's dominant center forward.
Koso Pech looked visibly frustrated throughout the half. His previously unstoppable headers were tightly marked, leaving him with almost no opportunities.
Back in the locker room, his frustration boiled over.
"Use your brain! If your height advantage isn't working, become a pivot. Distribute the ball to the wings and let them break into the box to draw defenders."
"Koso Pech, you're too focused on clashing with the opponent!"
Van Stejak scolded the vice-captain sharply. Koso Pech lowered his head, visibly remorseful.
The head coach's criticism silenced the room. No one dared breathe too loudly. Suk stood quietly in the corner, his eyes scanning the scene.
In his opinion, two players had been particularly poor in the first half: Koso Pech and Oliveira.
That's right—the two vice-captains.
But at least Koso Pech was still trying to challenge the defense. Oliveira, on the other hand, looked completely out of sorts.
From the 30th minute, he had started strolling around as if he'd run out of energy.
Suk noticed Oliveira watching Koso Pech being scolded—with a faint smirk on his face.
Why is this guy gloating? Suk thought.
"Suk!"
He jumped. "Here!"
Van Stejak's voice snapped everyone's attention to him. Suk was suddenly in the spotlight.
"Get ready to play the second half. I don't need to tell you how to play, do I?"
The coach clearly wasn't in a good mood. Suk responded immediately, "Understood."
Van Stejak turned away and barked, "Boa Mei! Right wing. Oliveira's off!"
Suk saw Oliveira's face freeze for a second before he shrugged like he didn't care and walked off.
Two halftime substitutions—Van Stejak was clearly aiming for a different second half.
For Suk, this was a golden opportunity.
His debut since joining Mostar Zrinjski. His first game in the Bosnia and Herzegovina Premier League.
"Captain, don't worry. I'll help you teach that big fool a lesson," Suk said, sitting next to Koso Pech.
Koso Pech turned to him and warned, "Be careful—he's not slow."
Suk nodded and ran over to Boa Mei, who was adjusting his socks.
"We'll do some overlapping runs early on. If I go wide, you cut in."
Boa Mei frowned slightly. He didn't like someone else taking over his space. But Suk's tactical standing was clearly higher, so he just nodded.
Suk then jogged over to Modrić. "At the start of the half, I won't drop deep. I'll use my speed to create some confusion—then strike hard. Hold the line till then."
Modrić nodded. Suk always had clever ideas and was hard to defend against.
After briefing his teammates, Suk finally felt ready.
He was looking forward to his first Premier League appearance.
"After an intense first half, the score remains 1-1. Mostar Zrinjski's aerial tactics have been completely neutralized by Boschenochi's presence."
"They lost to Sarajevo in the same fashion last round. Coach Van Stejak has to change something."
"We're hearing news of substitutions—Koso Pech and Oliveira off, Suk and Boa Mei on. Wait… Suk?"
Commentator Baso Dachi suddenly paused.
That name sounded familiar.
He quickly remembered—the Mostar Derby in the Bosnia and Herzegovina Cup. That short center forward who gave Zrinjski a headache.
He'd joined the team?
A glint of interest sparked in Dachi's eyes. He had followed Mostar Wanderers after that match, but there wasn't much data on the kid.
A 150 cm center forward—he never thought he'd see him again.
Dachi leaned forward at the commentary table and grinned. "Suk is a fascinating player. He may only be 150 cm, but his game is full of surprises!"
His voice echoed from the dome speakers.
Suk heard it as he walked out of the locker room. He clenched his fist and shouted toward the commentary box, "It's 156 centimeters, you idiot!"
Pfft!
Modrić couldn't help laughing.
"I grew six full centimeters! That's a lot! Is he blind?"
Suk felt wronged.
Modrić turned back, still laughing.
Mashovich and the others were grinning behind him.
"No one cares if you grew six centimeters. You're still a little bean!" Hachiqi teased.
Suk pouted. Yeah, yeah, you're all giants.
He followed his teammates onto the field, still sulking a bit.
Sarajevo Railroad Workers were also back out. As the teams switched sides, the opposing players glanced at Suk with disbelief.
Vukočič, Sarajevo's number 10, stared at him, rubbed his eyes, and exchanged puzzled looks with his teammates.
Suk's height clearly left an impression.
Even Zrinjski fans stared in surprise. They hadn't forgotten the chaos this little guy caused during the Cup match.
Sure, he played well—but this was the Premier League. Could he really do it?
Mlinar and others had their doubts too. After all, that match had only used backup players.
They hadn't seen Suk train with Zrinjski, so their uncertainty was real.
"Let's go, Suk!" Bakic shouted from the sidelines.
The referee blew the whistle to start the second half.
Suk immediately passed to Biljar and sprinted forward, sticking close to Boschenochi.
The height gap was enormous—about 40 cm. Boschenochi had to look down to even see him.
That alone caused some distraction.
Suk felt the pressure too. The mismatch in physical strength was obvious, so he had to rely on movement.
Soon, Boschenochi started feeling dizzy. Suk was like a spinning top around him—unsettling and relentless.
But all eyes were still on Modrić. No one noticed Suk's quiet maneuvering.
This was his moment.
Modrić kept shifting on the wing, feinting left and right. Suddenly, he squeezed through two defenders.
He looked up—Suk was already moving.
"Suk!"
He shouted and passed the ball forward with a straight instep.
Suk lowered his head, turned, and sprinted in one fluid motion.
Boschenochi turned slower. His tall frame lacked agility. He reached out to stop Suk—
But Suk was too small.
As he ducked and turned, his head nearly brushed Boschenochi's thigh.
Boschenochi's hand missed entirely.
Whoosh!
Suk launched forward like an arrow, the speed dazzling.
"Suk! He's off!" Baso Dachi shouted, slapping the desk and jumping up. This was it.
That explosive speed, those rapid steps—like a young cheetah.
The defense split apart.
In the stands, Zrinjski fans stood up, voices rising in excitement.
"Go, Suk!"
"Run!!"
"Shoot!"
Even on the bench, Van Stejak, Koso Pech, and the rest were on their feet.
This was it.
Suk raced into the box.
Defenders were nowhere near him.
As he reached the penalty area, he finally looked up.
The goalkeeper was already rushing out.
Suk pushed the ball with the inside of his foot.
It grazed the keeper's glove—and flew just past the post, hitting the side netting.
"Ahhh—just missed! That wasn't the best finish," Baso Dachi groaned.
Fans grabbed their heads in frustration.
But soon, they burst into applause.
It wasn't a goal—but Suk's burst of speed had sliced open the defense.
He was dangerous. Very dangerous.