What does it feel like to play in the World Cup?
For Modrić, it felt surreal—unlike anything he had experienced before.
The weight of responsibility, the Croatian crest on his chest—it all reminded him that he was fighting for four million people.
The ground trembled beneath his feet, the deafening noise made his ears ache, and his legs felt heavy, as if they were stuck in mud.
Modrić slapped his thighs hard, even turning them red, just to shake off the daze.
But his hands still trembled with nerves, slick with sweat.
He forced himself to calm down.
He was Croatia's midfield general, the brain of the team.
If he couldn't steady himself, if he didn't perform, the consequences would be disastrous.
"Luka? Luka? LUKA!!"
Modrić snapped out of his trance and turned sharply.
"You calling ?"
Dujmović eyed him suspiciously. "You're not nervous, are you?"
Modrić stayed silent.
"Holy shit!"
Dujmović's eyes widened.
Damn it!
If Modrić choked, Croatia's midfield would collapse!
"SUKER!!!—"
Dujmović pointed at Modrić and yelled, "Luka's so nervous he pissed himself!"
"Who pissed themselves?!" Modrić roared back, face burning.
Suker turned around.
"Huh?"
In a flash, Suker sprinted back from the front line, raised his right hand high, and—
SMACK!
Modrić winced, his back stinging.
"Feel that?"
Suker asked.
Modrić nodded quickly.
Suker narrowed his eyes. "Rember this pain. Losing hurts ten thousand tis worse."
"And like I said, if you don't know what to do, just pass to ."
With that, Suker turned and jogged away.
Modrić opened his mouth, then exhaled slowly as he watched Suker's retreating figure.
His best friend always seed so carefree, as if no pressure could crush him.
Maybe that was why Suker had achieved so much.
Modrić raised his hands and—
SMACK!
He slapped his own cheeks hard, the sound sharp and crisp.
Dujmović winced beside him.
Damn, that's gotta hurt.
But now, Modrić's eyes were steady.
"I'm good."
He turned to Dujmović. "Tommy, funnel the ball to . I need to find my rhythm."
"Got it!"
On the other half of the pitch, Boa was itching to make his mark.
Especially when he locked eyes with his old friends—his gaze burned with determination.
This was the first ti they'd faced each other as opponents.
Since their days at Zrinjski Mostar, Boa and Skolk had never managed to catch up to Suker and Modrić.
Now, eting again on the World Cup stage, this wasn't about nostalgia.
"Skolk, let's show them what we're made of!"
Boa shouted.
Skolk, further back, waved fiercely in response.
Suker Bazić stood over the ball at the center circle, his eyes sharp.
Once hailed as Bosnia's golden boy, he had been leagues ahead of Suker.
But now, the tables had turned—Suker was a global superstar, while Bazić was still playing in the Bosnian league.
Bazić knew Suker was world-class, but football wasn't a one-man sport.
He believed their teamwork could prevail.
Džeko and Pjanić took deep breaths, steadying themselves.
The Italian referee glanced at both goalkeepers before stepping back.
He raised the whistle to his lips and—
PEEEEEP!
The match began.
Croatian Comntary Box
"The ga is underway! The 2010 FIFA World Cup, Group B's opening match—Croatia vs. Bosnia! What kind of performance will these two teams deliver over the next 90 minutes? Co on, Croatia!"
Bosnian Comntary Box
"We've kicked off! Against Croatia, we need to stay composed. Don't let their high press rattle us. Stay calm!"
"Especially against Suker—keep your cool!"
Spanish Comntary Box
"Croatia as one of the tournant favorites, what kind of performance will they show? Can Suker bring his club form to the biggest stage? Let's find out."
Comntators around the world introduced the match as the stadium roared.
Croatia's players surged forward like a storm.
High press!
Aggressive pressing!
"Go! Go! Go!"
"Push their defense!"
"Cover the back!"
"I'm coming!"
"Crush them!"
Croatia's players charged like wild beasts.
Bosnia had prepared, but the sheer intensity forced them into a panicked clearance.
"Pass to feet! To feet!"
Pjanić shouted in frustration.
The long ball wasn't an attack—it was practically handing possession back to Croatia.
Sure enough, as the ball dropped, Boa moved to control it—only for Dujmović to intercept with a firm header to Suker.
"WATCH OUT!!—"
The mont Suker controlled the ball, Bosnia's players tensed.
Sterk closed in fast, lowering his stance, eyes locked on Suker's feet.
But Suker didn't attempt a dribble.
Seeing the crowded defense, he simply turned and passed back to Modrić.
"Take it slow. No rush."
Then, under his breath:
"Skolk, you're scared?."
"I'm not!"
"Prove it. Bark like a dog."
"Fuck off! Stop talking to !"
"Why? I like talking."
"Please, just go away," Skolk groaned.
"Got it!" Suker grinned, then darted behind Skolk.
"Get back here!"
Skolk scrambled after him.
"What? Want to chat now?" Suker teased.
Skolk clenched his jaw.
I swear, I'll rip his mouth off one day.
He'd thought fa might've humbled Suker.
But no—the guy was just as insufferable as ever.
While distracting Skolk, Suker kept scanning his teammates' movents.
Croatia wasn't rushing.
Instead, Modrić orchestrated the play, ensuring everyone touched the ball to settle into the ga.
For a young team making their World Cup debut, this was crucial.
Modrić glanced up again.
Ti to apply pressure.
He felt ready.
This ti, when he received the ball, he didn't pass imdiately.
He looked up—and locked eyes with Suker.
Before Skolk could react, Suker took a few steps back, then exploded forward.
"Later!"
Suker breezed past Skolk, leaving him in the dust.
Skolk spun and sprinted after him with everything he had.
To his credit, Skolk was fast—he barely let Suker pull away.
Seeing the gap wasn't widening, Suker slowed, planting his right foot to control the ball.
Skolk caught up—just as Suker suddenly cut inside, dribbling laterally.
"Damn it!"
Skolk didn't even have ti to breathe before chasing again.
Now, he understood why Suker was so hard to defend.
His rapid footwork made tackling impossible.
And his speed with the ball was terrifying.
"Suker's weaving across the edge of the box! We haven't seen him dribble like this in a while—this was his signature move in Serie A. After moving to La Liga, he changed his style."
Suker's dribble dragged Bosnia's defense out of shape.
But with no clear shooting lane, he tapped the ball to Rakitić on the right.
Rakitić instantly laid it off to Perišić on the wing.
Perišić surged forward and whipped in a cross.
Mandžukić leaped—but the ball skimd his head and flew out.
"My bad! Poor cross!"
Perišić raised his hand.
Mandžukić gave him a thumbs-up. No worries.
Croatia's first attack didn't score, but Mandžukić's near-miss sent a jolt through Bosnia.
"We can't let Suker dribble like that!"
Basodić clutched his chest.
Every ti Suker cut inside, Bosnia's defense scrambled.
This ti, they got lucky.
But if it kept happening?
The age-old question:
How do you stop Suker?
"Croatia's high press is forcing us long—but that's our strength!"
Basodić watched as Pjanić finally received the ball and lofted it to Boa on the right.
Boa controlled it smoothly—but Srna was already closing in.
"So fast!"
Boa marveled. This must be the pace of top-tier football.
Srna's positioning was impeccable, giving him no ti to think.
As Srna pressed, Boa shoved back, trying to accelerate down the flank.
But just as he pushed forward—
Srna lunged in with a fierce tackle, knocking Boa off balance.
In the scramble, Srna poked the ball out of play.
"Brilliant! Srna single-handedly shut down Boa and won possession!"
Kraušević cheered. "That's the quality of Inter Milan's starting left-back!"
Srna wiped his brow and gestured for the ball.
He wasn't rushing.
Instead, he directed his teammates forward before tossing it to Modrić.
Modrić cushioned it with his chest and passed back to the center-backs.
Šimunić received it—then tried a risky forward pass.
THUD!
Džeko slid in and cleared it for a corner.
"Just hoof it long! Too dangerous!"
Srna barked.
Šimunić scratched his head sheepishly.
"Still adjusting, still adjusting. Next ti, I'll go long!"
Croatia's attacks weren't frantic—they built patiently, probing for gaps.
Bosnia, anwhile, countered with more urgency.
On Bosnia's left, Boa was completely marked out by Srna.
"Boa's technical skills have improved a lot..."
Van Stoyak smiled faintly.
Seeing his forr pupil on the World Cup stage—especially one who'd flown under the radar—ant he'd worked hard.
But Boa hadn't escaped the Bosnian league.
Against a Champions League-winning fullback like Srna? He stood no chance.
With Bosnia's left flank dead, they switched play.
"Džeko!"
Pjanić shouted and launched a long ball.
Džeko tracked its flight—until rapid footsteps approached.
Before he could react, a figure soared overhead and headed it clear to Pranjić.
"Great job, Suker!"
Pranjić gave a thumbs-up.
Suker sprinted back into position.
"This is Croatia's style! They don't stick to rigid roles—forwards defend, defenders attack. Even Suker, a winger, drops back to win headers!"
Basodić frowned.
Both flanks are struggling.
"Corners, set pieces—anything! Create chances!"
Pjanić yelled in Bosnian—
And Suker imdiately turned and shouted:
"They want corners and free kicks! Be careful!"
"You mother—!"
Skolk nearly lost it.
Suker shrugged. "He yelled so loud, even I heard it!"
The first 20 minutes passed at a asured pace.
Many wondered why Croatia was playing so cautiously.
But seasoned fans understood—they were still finding their rhythm.
This was their World Cup debut.
They weren't going all-out yet.
First, they needed to settle—then strike.
Like a coiled spring, storing energy before release.
21st Minute
Bosnia finally won a corner.
Suker Bazić's eyes glead.
His mont had arrived.
"Džeko, make a near-post run. Drag Šimunić away."
Bazić instructed.
Džeko nodded.
For set pieces, Bazić was the main threat.
Boa stood over the corner, watching Bazić closely.
As Bazić raised his arm, Džeko bolted toward the near post.
Šimunić bit—following him instinctively.
Boa whipped the ball in.
It's working!
Bazić grinned.
Just as he jumped—
THUD!
Soone launched up beside him.
Bazić stood at 195 cm—a towering target man.
Aerial duels were his specialty.
Usually, he dominated defenders, scoring with ease.
But this ti—
He was the one looking up.
A red-and-white-checkered #9 jersey filled his vision.
How high did this guy jump?!
Suker soared like an eagle, his body fully extended, eyes locked on the ball.
Seven years ago.
Zrinjski Mostar vs. Sarajevo.
Back then, a 160 cm Suker could only watch helplessly as Bazić bullied his team in the air.
Now.
Suker stood at nearly 185 cm.
Ti to dunk on you.
CRACK!
Suker's header rocketed the ball clear.
As he landed, he pushed off the ground and burst forward, roaring:
"COUNTER!!—"
Instantly, Croatia's players turned and charged.
Suker, Rakitić, Mandžukić, Srna, Perišić—all sprinting at full tilt.
Their white jerseys fluttered like waves.
A relentless, unstoppable tide.
"HERE IT COS! CROATIA'S COUNTER!"
Basodić's voice trembled.
The sight of Croatia's white wave surging forward was suffocating.
"GO! GO! GO!"
Van Stoyak and Bilić scread from the sidelines.
This was Croatia's trademark.
Devastating counters.
Stop one?
Stop two?
Fine—they'll send more.
Look!
Even the full-backs are joining!
"To !"
Srna bellowed.
Modrić slipped the ball to him.
Without stopping, Srna played a first-ti pass to Mandžukić.
Mandžukić hesitated—freezing Bosnia's center-backs.
Then, with a sudden touch, he rolled the ball into the box.
SWOOSH!
Suker streaked past, eting it perfectly.
The stadium erupted.
Kraušević leaped to his feet, shouting:
"SUKER!! ONE-ON-ONE!!"
Suker glanced up—the keeper's panic clear in his eyes.
He opened his body and curled a left-footed shot.
The ball arced around the keeper and nestled into the far corner.
26th Minute.
Croatia led 1-0.
Suker's first World Cup goal.
"GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!!!!!!—"
"SUKER!!! His first World Cup strike! When the chance ca, he delivered—this is the composure of a 40 goal season, a La Liga and Champions League Golden Boot winner!"
"But the most breathtaking part was Croatia's counterattack!"
"Six players charging forward like a tsunami! Bosnia was overwheld, and the passing was exquisite!"
"For the first 20 minutes, Croatia bided their ti, finding their rhythm."
"But when they decided to strike—it was like a volcano erupting!"
"This is the football of Croatia's golden generation!"
"This is the dawn of a new era—the heirs to Davor Šuker's legacy!"
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