The Bosnian police took their only port very seriously. So, when a report came in with solid evidence, they immediately launched an operation targeting Harun.
Suke didn't know what kind of punishment he was about to face—he was just dragged out of the police station by his coach.
Oripé was a man weighing over 100 kilograms. Standing at 175 cm with a bloated figure, he gave the impression of a surging tide.
Wearing a blue tracksuit, which looked tight on him despite being a loose fit, he always had a whistle hanging from his neck, like a badge identifying him as the head coach.
Oripé was the coach of the Bosnian second division team that Suke played for—the Mostar Wanderers.
He hauled Suke like a chick to a street corner, then angrily scolded him, "You promised me!"
Suke lowered his head like a kid who knew he'd done wrong and said nothing.
Seeing this, Oripé got even angrier.
"Speak! You think I can still trust you?" Oripé snapped. "The police station already issued a warning. If anything like this happens again, you'll be deported back to Croatia. If you still want to play football here, you'd better behave."
Suke quickly nodded like a pecking chicken.
Looking at his youthful face, Oripé's anger soon faded.
In fact, seeing this young boy chasing his football dreams in a foreign land made Oripé feel quite protective.
With that, Oripé pulled Suke into a single-cab delivery truck, then walked around to the driver's seat and started the engine.
"It's match day," he said curtly.
Suke looked surprised. "There's no match today!"
"The schedule changed," Oripé replied casually.
Suke simply nodded. In Bosnia's second division, schedule changes were very common. The clubs were financially strained and couldn't pay players well. Most players worked side jobs just to get by.
Suke was one of them. Trying to play football while making a living was incredibly tough.
For most players, the only reason they kept playing was the hope of escaping the second division—either by being promoted to the Bosnian Premier League or transferring to a team already there.
That was the only way out for those still holding on.
Of course, there were also people like Kovic, who eventually gave up, realizing football wouldn't feed them.
While stars in Europe's top leagues made millions and dated models, these lower-league players were still worrying about their next meal.
Football here was a sport of extremes.
Only a rare few who crossed the narrow bridge into the top leagues could truly enjoy the joy of professional football.
As the truck sped along the asphalt road, Oripé steered with one hand and tossed a crumpled piece of paper to Suke with the other.
"The guardianship request was approved. Sakočević won't be coming after you anymore."
Suk's face lit up with joy.
"Approved?"
"Yes," Oripé confirmed with a grin. "So now, score more goals for me. When the time comes, we'll transfer you to a top-tier team."
Suke opened the paper and read it with satisfaction. "We'll get promoted together!"
Oripé smiled but said nothing.
"You really don't want to go back to Croatia?" he asked.
Suke shrugged. "I don't want to become a priest."
Oripé nodded, finally understanding.
It all had to do with Suke's background.
Suke was an orphan from a church-run orphanage in Croatia. During a football exhibition at the church, he caught the eye of a visiting worshipper—Sakočević, a youth coach in Bosnia.
Recognizing Suke's talent, Sakočević decided to train him. After some convincing, he became Suk's legal guardian and brought him to Bosnia for football training.
Everything went smoothly at first, and Suke performed well.
But there was one problem—his body.
At age 14, Suke's growth seemed to stop. He simply wasn't getting taller.
By 15, most of his peers had surpassed 170 cm, some even reaching 180 cm, but Suk remained at a miniature 150 cm.
This was a huge problem for someone playing as a center forward.
On the pitch, he was completely outmatched physically. Despite his agility, he was labeled as "unqualified" due to his height—an unforgiving standard in youth training.
And he didn't have enough talent to make up for it.
Eventually, Sakočević kicked him out of the training program and prepared to send him back to Croatia.
But the stubborn Suke chose to run away and ended up joining the Mostar Wanderers.
After some time adapting, Suke performed excellently with the team. Eventually, Oripé negotiated with Sakočević to transfer guardianship.
For Sakočević, it was simply about getting rid of a problem. Both sides agreed easily.
Suke didn't disappoint Oripé either—scoring 9 goals last season, and already leading the league with 8 goals in 11 games this season.
It was hard to believe such an undersized player could thrive in the physically intense Bosnian league.
The truck turned off the paved road and entered the mountains.
Bouncing along a narrow dirt path, the single-cab vehicle continued forward.
Soon, the tall grass cleared, revealing a simple archway.
Two bamboo poles held up a banner that read "Welcome to the Mostar Wanderers" in Croatian.
Yes, the Mostar Wanderers were a club made up mostly of Croats.
Past the archway, a field surrounded by waist-high fences came into view.
But "field" wasn't the right word—it was more like a pasture.
The grass was terrible, with patches of brown dirt and a sticky texture. The goal nets were torn, tied up in knots, and looked rough and worn.
Nearby, cows grazed lazily, filling the air with a mix of grass and manure.
This awful environment made most visiting teams uncomfortable, but to the Wanderers, it was home.
They knew every bump, every rough patch, and even how to pass the ball to make it slow down.
By the time Oripé and Suke arrived, many people were already there.
Bosnian professional football had a weak fanbase—even top-tier matches sometimes couldn't draw 1,000 spectators.
But for this second-division game, nearly 150 fans showed up, and with curious locals, the crowd exceeded 200.
Though a second-tier team, the Mostar Wanderers had the liveliest support in the league.
No one knew exactly why, but fans always came.
Tickets were cheap—30 Marks—and some even snuck in, but many voluntarily handed the money directly to Oripé.
He busied himself collecting cash, while his players, including Suke, got ready.
Suke sat on the ground and pulled on a red and black striped jersey.
He didn't like it—it looked like a prison uniform.
But as the home kit, he had no choice.
Next, he retrieved his cleats from the truck.
They were worn-out, peeling at the toes, with holes in them—but still wearable.
He stuffed shin guards into his socks and patted them.
In the Bosnian league, shin guards were essential. Even someone like Grealish would need them here—otherwise, those sexy calves wouldn't last a game.
Fully geared up, Suke began greeting teammates.
"Captain, give me more passes today!"
He called out to the man wearing number 10, the oldest on the team—around 35 years old.
His name was Ivan Mlinar, the team captain.
Mlinar was the best-known carpenter in Mostar, and just as skilled with his feet as with his hands.
He was the Wanderers' playmaker and Suke's top assist man.
Their connection formed the core of the team's offense.
Mlinar twisted his waist and smiled at Suke. He liked this little striker who always scored goals.
After all, nobody liked losing.
Then Suke turned to another player. "Bakic, let in fewer goals today, alright? Don't make it harder for me."
Bakic—the Wanderers' goalkeeper—was a walking disaster.
He dropped every shot that came his way.
As Coach Oripé put it, the opposition didn't even need to aim; Bakic would gift them goals.
Hearing Suke, a bald young man jumped up and charged at him, howling. Suk dodged nimbly, twisting and turning until Bakic stumbled to the ground.
The team burst into laughter.
As the Wanderers chatted, the opposing team—Sarajevo Ranger—watched them from the other side.
The name sounded intimidating, but Sarajevo was a weak team.
Like all second-tier clubs, they struggled. But being from the capital, their treatment was a bit better.
Both teams completed their warmups. As cheers rose from the crowd, they prepared for the match