In a villa in Zagreb, Croatia—
Bešić was getting dressed in a suit with the help of his wife. His hair was neatly combed, a stark contrast to his usual style of wearing a cap and tracksuit.
"You're no longer a club coach. You're the head coach of the Croatian national team. You represent Croatia's image—you represent four million citizens. You can't be the same as before!"
After straightening his tie, his wife clapped her hands and smiled."All done!"
Bešić tugged at his tie uncomfortably, but his wife shot him a glare, forcing him to retract his hand.
Bešić sighed. "Not all head coaches wear suits, you know."
His wife replied, "Suits look more formal—and more handsome!"
Bešić gave a wry smile. "At my age, who cares about looking handsome?"
"That's different!" she smiled again. "Luka and Suker will be so happy when they find out you're their coach now!"
"Luka maybe," Bešić shrugged, "but the other one... don't let that sly fox fool you—he's not as innocent as he looks!"
"Don't you dare speak ill of little Suker!" she glared again.
Bešić raised his hands in surrender.His wife had always been firmly in the "Suker is a good boy" camp.
The first time they met, she had felt sorry for Suker.Later, during the Dinamo Zagreb era, she often invited him over for dinner and made him hearty meals.Worried he wouldn't grow tall, she even bought him nutritional supplements.
And Suker had shown his gratitude.After joining Milan, he bought her a luxury car with full payment. When she gave birth, he gifted their child a house in central Milan—great location, spacious too.
This elementary-school-aged child now had wealth that most people could only dream of.On every holiday, Suker never forgot to send her gifts.
"You better not treat little Suker badly just because he didn't give you a gift!" his wife said, clenching her fists. "He's a hero of Croatia!"
Bešić laughed. "How could I dare? If I mess with him, he might beat me up!"
His wife glared again. "I repeat—Suker is a good kid!"
"Alright, alright!" Bešić shook his head helplessly and glanced at the time. "I should get going."
"Will you be home tonight?" his wife asked.
He shook his head. "Probably not for a while—I've got to prepare for the Euros. First, I need to mobilize the coaching team to build the tactical framework, then analyze data... a bunch of stuff. Once the Euros are over, I'll have time."
His wife blinked. "After the Euros, there's still the World Cup."
Bešić paused for a moment and sighed. "Being a coach is the worst!"
In front of the villa, a red sports car was parked.
Davor Šuker stood beside it, his belly protruding. He greeted Bešić's wife, and the two men got into the car.
"You're running for president of the Croatian FA—can't you change your car?"
Bešić grumbled. He genuinely disliked this red Ferrari.
"What I drive has nothing to do with my position," Šuker smiled. "So, how are you feeling?"
"Terrible," Bešić replied. "Because of the national team, I won't be home for a long time."
"That's your responsibility," said Šuker.
"That's the responsibility you guys shoved onto me!" Bešić smirked. "You set me up!"
"Had to be done," Šuker shrugged. "No one else can manage the locker room. Suker even ignored Bilic—refused to listen to him. What other coach could handle that?"
"And I can handle that?" Bešić scoffed. "Don't forget, our relationship soured during the transfer window."
"Relax," Šuker waved his hand. "Suker may not respect you—but he respects your wife, Betty."
"So I'm living off my wife now?"
Šuker shrugged again. "If we're only talking about Suker... yes!"
The two men exchanged looks and burst out laughing.
"Well, no turning back now. I'll do my best."
"That's the spirit—we all believe in you!"
The red Ferrari sped toward the national team training center.
National Team Training Center – Conference Room
The Croatian national team's coaching staff had assembled.
Wearing a suit, Bešić stood in the middle of the room, scanning the group. He gave a subtle nod to his left—toward Vanstertjak—who returned the gesture.
Bešić then spoke loudly, "For the foreseeable future, we'll be working together. I'm honored to be the head coach of the Croatian national team, but I also feel the pressure. We must shoulder that pressure and provide our players with the best possible training and match environment."
"I need all of us to work together to make this happen."
He paused before continuing, "Our immediate goal is to qualify for the European Championship. As the 2008 champions, I won't spell out our exact target for this tournament, but as defending champions, we must understand the expectations and do justice to our fans!"
"The detailed training schedule has been distributed. We've got less than two weeks before the first qualifier. This first camp is crucial—please make sure there are no mistakes!"
Clap clap clap!
"Alright, everyone get to work. Van Stojak, stay behind!"
Once the room cleared, Bešić sat across from Van Stojak.
"We'll be relying on you," he said. "You know these boys better than anyone in this newly formed coaching team."
Van Stojak waved modestly. "If we're talking familiarity, no one knows them better than the man who discovered them—you."
Bešić shook his head. "Maybe a few years ago. But they've grown beyond my expectations. You'll handle the data collection and training for the starting lineup. I'll observe first and then slowly take over."
Van Stojak nodded. "No problem... but, the starting lineup?"
Bešić looked at him—yep, this guy was sharp.
"Yes. Besides the starters, I'm planning to make some changes to the national team roster."
"Right now?" Van stojak asked.
"Yes, during this call-up meeting. I'll provide a detailed list."
"Can I see it first?" Van stojak asked.
Bešić nodded and handed him the file.
Van Stojak browsed through it and quickly spotted an issue."Too young!" he exclaimed.
Most of the players were kids!
Bešić replied, "They won't be young in four years."
"Huh?"
"We're playing the Euros," Van Stojak said, confused.
"Exactly," Bešić nodded. "But that doesn't mean we shouldn't prepare for the World Cup."
"Preparing four years in advance?"
"Not too early at all. From scouting, to training, to turning them into real assets—it takes years."
"As for the Euros, the current starters are enough. These young players can get a taste of a major tournament. That way, when the World Cup comes, they won't freeze under pressure."
"The Euros are a great chance to prepare for war," Bešić declared. "A stepping stone for the World Cup!"
"The Euros... as a warm-up?" Van Stojak stared in disbelief.
Bilic, you see this? This is vision!
"Oh, and we have a trip to make," Bešić added.
"A trip?"
When Bešić made decisions, he moved fast. No delay.
The next day, Bešić and Van Stojak arrived in Leverkusen, North Rhine–Westphalia, Germany.
Bayer Leverkusen—nicknamed the "Pharmaceuticals"—a strong Bundesliga club.
"There's a player here we want?" Van Stojak was surprised.He didn't doubt Bešić's eye—after all, he'd discovered Suker and Modrić. But a Croatian in Leverkusen?
As he pondered, two figures approached.One overweight man in a tight white shirt, huffing and puffing with every step, led a tall young man over.
"H-Hello, Mr. Bešić. I'm…"
Seeing his red face and labored breathing, Bešić raised a hand. "Catch your breath first. No rush."
"Th-thank you!"
The young man stood there stunned. Why was the Croatian national coach here to see him, a struggling Bundesliga player?
Still, he nervously said, "H-Hello, sir. I'm Domagoj Vida!"
Bešić motioned toward a nearby café."Let's talk inside."
In a private room, the overweight agent gulped ice water and finally recovered.
Under their hopeful gazes, Bešić spoke:
"Vida, I've followed you since 2003, when you were in Osijek's youth team. I invited you to Dinamo Zagreb's academy—you turned me down."
Vida's face flushed.Back then, he was young, idealistic, loyal.Who knew Dinamo Zagreb would rise again after the golden generation?
In truth, he regretted that decision deeply.
Bešić continued, "I'm giving you another chance. In a few days, Dinamo Zagreb will send you a transfer offer. Leave Leverkusen. Return to Croatia."
Vida was stunned.
Bešić stood up. "Think about it. I have other matters."
Outside the café—
"Why bring him back to Croatia?" Van Stojak asked. "Wouldn't he improve more in the Bundesliga?"
Bešić replied, "He only played once last season. Do you think that'll change? At Dinamo, he'll at least play regularly."
"He's a defender—I checked. Planning to make him Šimunić's backup?"
"That depends on his decision and performance."
Bešić turned toward a distant train track, where a train roared by.
The Croatian national team was like that train—clear, determined, unstoppable.
Whether Vida caught it depended on him.
Dnipro, Ukraine
Ivan Strinić stared at the two men in disbelief.Bešić and Vanstertjak—in his home!
"Sir, why are you here...?"
Strinić was anxious.
Bešić sipped water. "I'll be direct. Ivan, we're calling you up for the Euros. What can you bring to the national team?"
Strinić's mind exploded.
He'd watched countless call-up announcements, prayed endlessly, and been disappointed every time.Now, when he'd nearly given up—Bešić came himself.
"I—I can give my life!" he said emotionally.
"...What would I want your life for?" Bešić said.
"I mean—everything! My all, even my life!" Strinić stammered, on the verge of kneeling.
Let me join!The 2008 Euros!The 2010 World Cup!
Croatia had its glory and regrets.
Strinić wanted to be part of it—not just a spectator.
"Can you accept being a sub?" Bešić asked.
"Yes!"
"Can you adapt to other roles?"
"No problem!"
"Alright," Bešić stood up. "I understand."
He turned to leave.
Strinić froze. Do they want me or not!?
Bešić turned his head. "Watch for the call-up list."
From Ukraine to Southampton, England—they met Pranjić.Then to Lyon, France—to meet Lovren.Finally, Madrid, Spain.
"You're building a new backline, aren't you?" Vanstertjak suddenly said.
Bešić nodded. "Šimunić and Kovač are getting old. We paid the price at the 2010 World Cup for weak defense. We can't stumble there again."
"So these are the rookies you're nurturing. Here in Madrid—because of Srna?"
Bešić didn't deny it."And today is the second leg of the Spanish Super Cup."
He pulled out two tickets."Let's go watch."
Santiago Bernabéu Stadium
The crowd roared. The match was intense.
Tactical brilliance. Fierce duels.Star players. Glory. Emotion. Fire.
Barcelona and Real Madrid gave it their all.
Guardiola and Mourinho dueled with tactical wit.Feints and counters.Strategy and improvisation.
At the 73rd minute, Barcelona launched a swift attack.After a few slick passes, Villa's powerful shot was miraculously saved by Casillas.
Real Madrid countered immediately—Alonso, Kaká, Suker, Benzema.
Five quick passes.Suker calmly finished.
Gasp~~!
Van Stojak inhaled sharply.
If the national team could replicate this—it would be domination.
But the national team lacked the cohesion and talent of club teams.
Just look at Real Madrid's squad—it was enviable!
Bešić looked at the roaring crowd.Here, on this stage of footballing dreams, Suker was the lone center of attention.
Tens of thousands of fans cheered for him.Every camera lens focused on him—broadcasting him to the world.
Bešić exhaled deeply.
In his mind, he recalled their first meeting—A run-down car on the streets of Zagreb.
That crisp, youthful voice:
"Hello, I'm Suker, a striker from Zrinjski Mostar. I've scored 3 goals and 9 assists in 20 matches..."
Bešić murmured to himself:
"Little Suker... you've grown up strong and healthy..."