Chapter 3

The Bosnian Premier League kicked off in 1997, a relatively young league filled with promise and excitement. The Second League, only established in 2000, was still developing, and by early April, the season had already wrapped up for many. Mostar Wanderers, with their deep local pride, found themselves outside the promotion zone, sitting in fourth place. Their next opponent, FC Sarajevo, sat in third. It was a must-win for Mostar if they wanted to keep their promotion hopes alive.

In the locker room, head coach Orlić gathered the team for the pre-match talk. His face was calm but focused, and his mind was racing as he thought about their star player, Suker. At 16, Suker was unlike any player he'd ever coached—fast, unpredictable, and unbelievably skilled. Orlić allowed a small smile to creep onto his face as he considered how far the young forward had come.

"That boy plays like a seasoned pro," Orlić thought, shaking his head in disbelief. "His speed, his dribbling, his first touch... there's no one like him. The way he handled those defenders last game, it's like he's toying with them." His chest swelled with pride, thinking about how Suker had single-handedly turned games in their favor.

But he knew today was a different challenge. Sarajevo was a physical team, one that wouldn't hesitate to throw their weight around, especially against a 16-year-old. "They'll be embarrassed if Suker does to them what he's done to others," Orlić mused, eyes narrowing. "They're going to do everything to stop him." His heart clenched slightly at the thought of Suker getting injured under the pressure of older, bulkier players. But he trusted the kid's ability. "If anyone can handle it, it's him."

The players were finishing their final preparations when the sound of footsteps echoed from the tunnel. Across the room, FC Sarajevo's players were prepping as well, already strategizing on how to contain Mostar's golden boy. Basel, a tall, muscular defender for Sarajevo, frowned as his teammates discussed Suker.

"Have you seen that kid?" one of them muttered. "Fast as lightning. Makes defenders look like fools."

"Yeah, we can't let him run riot like he did in those last games. It's embarrassing to get bullied by some teenager," another replied, shaking his head.

Basel couldn't believe what he was hearing. "A 16-year-old? Seriously? There's no way I'm letting some kid outplay us," he thought, but there was a knot in his stomach. He'd heard the stories. Suker had speed that could tear through defenses, and his dribbling made seasoned pros stumble.

On the pitch, the energy was palpable. The small stadium was filled with the buzz of 200 eager fans, most of them decked out in the home team's colors. The anticipation built as the teams lined up, the crowd roaring at the sight of their star player.

"Come on, Suker!" a fan yelled from the stands, their voice clear over the noise. "Show them who's boss!"

The young forward was at the back of the lineup, his face calm but his eyes burning with focus. He could feel the weight of expectation on him, but it wasn't pressure—he thrived on it. Suker walked onto the field, determined to leave a mark.

The whistle blew, signaling the start of the game. Suker took his place out on the wing, his focus sharp and determined. Sarajevo's players knew who he was — the 16-year-old phenomenon that had been running circles around defenders in recent games.

"He's just a kid," one of the Sarajevo defenders muttered to his teammate, eyes tracking Suker as he jogged into position. "But we can't let him embarrass us like he did the last teams. No way a teenager makes us look like amateurs out here."

The other defender nodded. "Exactly. If we let him run riot, it's our reputation on the line. Whatever it takes, we shut him down. We can't let a kid bully us."

They had a plan, but so did Suker.

On the Sarajevo sideline, Coach Petrovic leaned in to his assistant, Stanko, his tone serious but respectful. "The kid's good, no question. But this isn't the top professional leagues. Our defenders just need to be disciplined, close him down quickly. If he gets even a second of freedom, we're in trouble."

Stanko nodded, glancing at the field. "Yeah, in the second division, defenders are slower to react. In the pros, they'd cut him off early. We don't have that level of defense here."

Petrovic frowned as Suker made his first move, darting down the wing with deceptive speed. "Well, we'll have to hope our boys can keep up with him. Otherwise, we're going to be in for a long game."

Suker was used to this by now — opponents marking him tightly, trying to stop him before he could get into his rhythm. But none of them had been able to. His quick feet and sharp mind made him impossible to predict, and once he got going, there was no stopping him.

About 30 minutes into the game, he made his first real impact. Mostar's midfielder Mlinar sent a precise cross-field ball his way. Suker's first touch was effortless, the ball sticking to his foot as he accelerated down the right wing. Two defenders closed in, trying to force him to the sideline. Suker shifted his weight left, drawing them in, then with a sudden burst of speed, cut right and flew past them.

The crowd gasped.

As he drove into the box, another defender slid in with a desperate challenge. Suker calmly lifted the ball over the tackle and found himself one-on-one with the goalkeeper. Without hesitation, he chipped the ball delicately over the keeper's outstretched hand and into the net.

The stadium erupted.

The crowd was on their feet, roaring with excitement, their cheers reverberating around the pitch. Suker, surrounded by his celebrating teammates, gave a slight smile but stayed focused. It wasn't just the goal — it was how effortlessly he made it all look. The Sarajevo defenders had no answer.

On the Sarajevo bench, Coach Petrovic shook his head, frustrated but impressed. "There it is," he muttered. "That speed, that touch — that's why he's been dominating. He's got the skills of a professional, but this isn't the top league. Our defenders aren't used to this level of play."

Stanko sighed. "If this were the pros, he wouldn't get that much space. They'd press him harder, be more physical. But in the second division, they just can't keep up with him."

Petrovic crossed his arms, watching as Suker jogged back to his position. "He's 16, but he's playing like a seasoned veteran. We've got to come up with something, or he'll keep tearing us apart."

As the game wore on, Suker continued to dazzle. His footwork was mesmerizing, his speed unmatched, and every time he touched the ball, the crowd buzzed with anticipation. Mostar had full control of the game, thanks in large part to Suker's brilliance on the wing.

Coach Orlić watched from the sideline, quiet but proud. He didn't need to say anything out loud — Suker's performance spoke for itself. The boy's skill level was beyond anything Orlić had seen in someone so young. His speed, dribbling, and first touch were world-class, and Orlić couldn't help but feel immense pride watching him thrive.

He's a game-changer, Orlić thought, his mind buzzing with possibilities for Suker's future. It's not just his athleticism. His awareness, his decision-making... it's like he's years ahead of the others. If he keeps this up, he's destined for greatness.

Orlić glanced at the clock. Suker had been phenomenal, but he knew the boy couldn't keep up this pace for the full 90 minutes. He was only 16, after all, and as much as Orlić hated it, he needed to protect his star player for the long season ahead.

In the 70th minute, the fourth official raised the substitution board: Suker's number, 10, flashed brightly. The crowd murmured, confused. Why take off the best player on the field?

Suker jogged over to the sideline, clearly disappointed. He wanted to keep going, but he understood why the decision was made. The fans gave him a standing ovation as he left the pitch, clapping and cheering for the boy who had just lit up the game.

On the Sarajevo bench, Petrovic let out a long breath of relief. "At least they're pulling him off," he muttered. "It's bad enough we've been outplayed by a kid. If he'd stayed on, who knows how many more we'd concede."

His assistant grinned, "Yeah, but pulling him off doesn't change the fact he's already embarrassed us."

Suker took his place on the bench, breathing heavily but content. He had done his job. As he watched the final minutes play out from the sidelines, he allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction. The applause from the crowd still rang in his ears.

Mostar secured a comfortable victory, thanks largely to Suker's brilliance. Even though the game was over, his impact would linger long after the final whistle. For Sarajevo, it wasn't just a loss — it was a lesson in what happens when a special talent comes along.

Suker was only 16, but the way he played, it was clear: he wasn't just a kid anymore. He was becoming something more, something extraordinary, and this was only the beginning.