The entire stadium was in a chaotic uproar. Suk truly felt like he had stepped into the devil's own home ground.
Cursing the opponents. Cursing the home team. Cursing the referee. Cursing anyone and everyone!
The energy of these fans was insane. They hadn't shut their mouths since the first whistle.
Suk shook his head. He didn't want to get distracted by things off the pitch. He just wanted to focus on the game.
As always, he was waiting for his moment to strike.
So he lingered near the defensive line, ready to sprint at any second.
When he saw Modrić receive the ball, they locked eyes—and instantly understood each other.
Modrić launched a long ball forward.
Suk took off like a bullet, head down and sprinting.
Whoosh!
His acceleration was shocking—blisteringly fast.
Žaković had just finished arguing with the crowd. When he turned his head—
Suk was already gone!
"Damn it!"
Žaković immediately turned and sprinted after him.
But his pace couldn't match Suk's. Luckily for him, Suk struggled a bit when stopping the ball. Instead of stopping forward, the ball bounced slightly inward—two meters to the side.
That gave Žaković the opening.
He barged into Suk, sending him crashing to the side.
The collision was brutal. Suk's arm throbbed violently, like it might have broken.
"That really packed a punch!"
His face twisted in pain as he got up, gently moving his arm. Thankfully, it wasn't dislocated.
If it had been, he would've needed a state recovery card right away.
Since it was a 50-50 challenge, the referee didn't blow the whistle.
Suk had no choice but to accept it.
Žaković looked him over, grinned, and said, "Welcome to the Meat Grinder."
The Bosnian Premier League had earned that nickname—and this "Bleeding Derby" was its most brutal fixture.
But Suk didn't back down. He tried again and again—and got knocked down again and again.
The physical intensity was brutal, and Suk was clearly at a disadvantage.
But he gritted his teeth, shouted, and kept charging. Knocked down, back up. Again and again.
It was just one word:
Fight!
Coach Van Stee watched Suk wrestle with the defenders like a stubborn mule. He rubbed his brow and shook his head.
"He really is a stubborn mule..."
And it wasn't just Suk—Modrić was getting fouled constantly, even more than Suk.
At the 15-minute mark, Modrić was slide-tackled hard by a defender, ball and all.
He didn't say a word. Just got up, neck stiff, eyes burning.
Modrić demanded the ball again.
When he received it, he trapped it underfoot, tilted his left shoulder, feinting a left break.
The defender shifted in response—exactly what Modrić wanted.
With a quick flick of the outside foot, Modrić cut horizontally in the opposite direction.
He could've kept going, but paused slightly—then let the defender catch up, pulled the ball under his foot, and—
Nutmeg! The ball slid between the defender's legs.
Modrić circled around to the other side.
It was pure humiliation.
He had a temper, too.
But the result?
He got knocked down again.
Still, Modrić stood back up, stiff-necked as ever.
You knock me down, I humiliate you. Over and over.
The two were locked in a silent war of pride.
Van Stee stared at him, rubbing his brow again.
Suk was already giving him a headache—but now this Croatian genius was just as stubborn.
One was a loud mule.
The other—a silent one.
Finally, Van Stee couldn't take it anymore.
"Pass the damn ball!" he bellowed from the sideline. "If you want to wrestle, I'll let you wrestle all day when we get back! Pass! The! Ball!"
Suk and Modrić snapped back to reality.
They were still fuming—but seeing their coach's furious face, they understood what mattered.
Modrić stopped trying to embarrass the opposition and started stringing together quick passes.
Suk stopped wrestling and began darting left and right, pulling defenders out of position.
Žaković, watching Suk zigzag everywhere in front of him, looked increasingly irritated.
Too much movement.
He couldn't keep up—but he also couldn't afford to ignore him.
Even when he tried to follow, he couldn't catch up.
Žaković was being dragged all over the place, completely on the back foot.
From the stands came another barrage of verbal abuse.
"Žaković, you idiot! You can't even mark that dwarf! You're just a pile of dog shit!"
"Go back to your village! You're embarrassing everyone!"
"You're a disgrace to Borac Banja Luka!"
Veins bulged on Žaković's forehead. He turned to the stands, livid.
"You bunch of cheapskates!" he roared.