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ANTE BENDIŠ
The Croatia squad was unhappy with him.
A bottle of scotch sat on his desk, half empty, and only bought that weekend. Officially, he was the manager. There was to be no word of his cousin’s appointment as “assistant coach” until later in the year... so, until then, he was there to be the head coach. To be the inspiration.
And he was a nobody.
He tried to call up the Hajduk squad. He tried to make it as consistent as possible, to make a team that had already gelled together for the country. But they just flat out didn’t like him, and he hadn’t the slightest idea why.
He had, as his first step to try to appease the squad, removed several of the former coaching staff. He had to prove that he was one for the new age, and there was no use in keeping some old coaches based on sentimentality for the older days. That being said, he wasn’t even half way done with removing coaches before the remainder simply left the team.
But he brought new ones. Jamie Carragher got a new post as his assistant manager. He was a well-known staffer for the Hajduk team, having been the U19s assistant there for years. So he continued by bringing in a whole new team. He had to give himself a pat on the back that they all treated him with utmost respect, even when he missed training and several meetings. It’s not like he needed to go to all of them, he was just there to sort of make sure the rest of the staff was on the right track. Plus, that’s how his cousin did it: delegate to others.
And, with his newfound fame, the club he normally went to was significantly happier with him. He brought several reporters in, and, within a few weeks, business was booming. The manager was always happy to float the new Croatian boss a drink or two… and with his new salary, the waitresses were all over him.
So what, he tipped a bit leisurely. The press loved him.
And it’s not like the squad needed to see much of him anyway. He was there to make selections, to keep everyone on the same page: and Timmy had done that for him: select his team, minus the keeper, and everything will just go fine.
Plus, who didn’t love playing for their country.
So, when he came to his first match, a friendly against Slovakia, he was super-confident. There was no way this couldn’t go well. The U21 championships were starting in a few months, and Hajduk was in spectacular form. The checkered shirts would qualify for the Euros. Not a doubt about it.
Plus. Slovakia. PFFFT.
He had never stepped on this big of a stadium before, he had a few glasses of scotch to calm the nerves down before the match. You know, just so he wouldn’t be too nervous. Timmy was in the stands with Maro and a few of the others in that meeting. And Ante was keen to impress.
He ran a bit late for the match. There was a bit of a scuffle in the local bar that he had to take care of, no biggie. And Carragher made sure to send the players on the pitch in a good way. He was a good assistant. He was no tactical mastermind like the Bendiš cousins, but he had the motivation down. Plus, Ante was sure he left Carra with a team sheet of some sort.
So, when he arrived to the stadium, he was surprised to find his team losing by a few goals. But, Ante, smiling, waved to the crowd, cheering loudly. The primarily Slovakian crowd started cheering for the Croatian manager, swaying dangerously in the breeze.
Only Tomislav Kiš halted the madness later into the evening. Not that Ante could tell. By the time the 90th minute rolled around, Slovakia had hit 5, and Kiš only 1. The stands had long emptied except for two seats in the first tier of Žilina’s stadium… Soon, a third man came, one of the players of the match. They chatted for a few minutes before the three of them got up and left the stadium to get a drink.
TIMMY
He loved Paris, for all its faults. Paris, with the lights, with the metro, with the distinct noise of an accordion always playing nearby. There was no town quite like it.
He had to watch his team succumb to a dismal Slovakia side; had to watch them go down 5 before Kiš managed to bring them back by at least one. Had to watch as both Gabon and Congo moved far above Croatia following the African Cup of Nations. It was not pleasing. It was not very fun.
But he survived. He watched his inebriated cousin nearly trip twice, and wondered to himself whether or not it was a mistake to have him hired. Whether he would survive the reputation hit following his sacking as Croatia coach would remain to be seen, but he had a few months before the qualifications for the European Championships. He had a few months to get his act together.
He stared over the edge of his balcony, built on the rooftop of a building extending over Champs-Elysée. L’Arc de Triomphe shone brightly in the floodlights, and, in the other direction, you could make out the Eiffel Tower, basking in all its glory. Bendiš enjoyed visiting his flat in Paris. He had it for all of the matches that were played in London, and, perhaps for a week of vacation every now and again. And, every once in a while, he’d use it when they were playing Paris Saint-Germain.
He only wished he could have visited under better circumstances.
Teo Peši? had saved Hajduk against Paris in Split. He had been reinvigorated recently, playing like he never had before. But, even with Peši? at his best: a goal and an assist, Paris had still managed to scrape a 2-2 draw… or rather, Hajduk had managed to scrape a 2-2 draw.
And, for the first time in years, he was unsure whether he could take the team to the final.
ADMIR
At 21, there was not a single Hajduk player worth more than him. His début in the semifinal of the Champions League against Manchester City brought the cup home in 2019, after he became one the youngest ever players to score in the latter stages of UEFA’s flagship competition. He is the only ever player to have won the Croatian Young Player of the Year on three different occasions.
His season-average rating has not dropped below 7.25 since he was 17.
But Paris… well, France in general, were not the club’s strong suit. In fact, Hajduk is the only club outside France to foster a healthy rivalry with both Olympique de Marseille and Paris Saint Germain, on account of their multiple Champions League fiascos.
So, when he walked through the tunnel, knowing that they needed a goal, he ignored the jeering crowd. He ignored everyone except for the patch of white shirts in the top of the stadium. The signs showing messages of support, the drums ousting even the largest sections of Parisian support.
When Bendiš walked in, though…
Admir knew that his manager was popular in France. He was an excellent manager, most people would be thrilled with him managing their team. But the roar that accompanied his entrance onto the field. It was an ovation, one that was only comparable to the singing of the national anthem in the final of the 2014 World Cup, when Brazil defeated Argentina to lift their 6th crown.
For all Ancelotti had ever done, for the stadium they had named after him, for every championship Paris had won since the start of the era… it was nothing compared to what Bendiš had done. Had given of himself. Had lost.
Lotinac turned for a moment, looking at the manager, who waved, as he wiped away a tear from his eyes.
God, French matches were hard though. Hajduk had only ever lost to French teams in the Champions League. Sure they’d lost to Real Madrid or Bayern years ago, and they sometimes just didn’t perform in the group stage. But French clubs… it was just something about them. They could match Hajduk for talent, sometimes even outmatch them, and then, they could take them for a hell of a ride when it came down to dedication.
But they didn’t have Bendiš.
And that’s what they needed.
Peši? shook hands with Sirigu before the whistle blew, and Lotinac dashed up the right flank almost immediately. That was his job, and he was good at it. Run up and down the flank like there wasn’t a tomorrow. It worked often, and it was working today. Mirnes Trifkovi?, still Slovenian, waiting for the race against time for his call-up, spun a beautiful ball into the area for Lotinac to grab it on the touchline and dribble back a bit. Sakho couldn’t get to him, but Sirigu did.
All Hajduk needed was one goal. One goal to go through to the final.
Lotinac tried again, not five minutes later. Hajduk had the run of play… they were going for it. He knocked it past M’Vila and jinked past Boyata before floating the ball over to Baši?. Pero Baši? couldn’t do more than thwock the bar… but it was still shaking long after Sirigu grabbed the rebound.
Paris wasn’t going to have it though. And, on the third time of asking, Hajduk scored. Lotinac stared as Antonio Mili?’s ball floated overhead… far too high for him to reach, only for Tomislav Kiš to dash past the defense and pick up the ball. Sirigu didn’t stand a chance… it was something only Tomi could do, and no matter how predictable his shot into the top corner was going to be, there was no way any keeper could stop it.
At the end, PSG never had it. The floating balls towards Hašib Rami? never made it to Gastón Ramírez, and Luis Suarez had long retired.
Hajduk made it to the final for the fifth time in a row. Waiting for them was AC Milan. Davide Levati’s AC Milan. Perhaps the only striker in Europe better than Tomislav Kiš, but could he prove it?
Moscow awaits.
TON?I
He would not scream. He had promised himself.
Ton?i Kardum had been trapped in the tower for what seemed like several weeks. The sun went up, the sun went down, saltwater tipped into his home, and food was brought to his cell every once in a while.
He was fortunate to have been able to make a fire, since some fish were colossally stupid and just sort of flopped into his prison. And he cooked and cleaned them, and roasted them on top of the fire. It was better than having nothing at all.
But he was still wasting away. He had forgotten what his voice sounded like, what joys there were on the outside. He had forgotten what it sounded like to be on the stadium when his son scored.
Then, one day, the steel door opened. The light was blinding, but there was a shadow - the shadow of a very large man – standing in the doorway. Ton?i could not believe that someone had know where he was, that someone could save him.
“Thank y-“, he began
“Silence.”
“But you’ve sav-“
And with that, the man, who must have been at least two meters tall, and strong enough to fight a gorilla, smacked him across the face, sending the shadow that was once Ton?i Kardum flying into the wall. He then picked him up by the neck, and, lifting his feet off the ground with one hand, threw him out through the door into the walkway leading to the tower, before dragging him into his boat.
Kardum was unconscious as the boat sped away from this solitary island out at sea. The steel door remained ajar, with the massive bank-vault-style knob on the front twisted open.
The police found Kardum in Split, fifteen hours later at four in the morning, beaten to within an inch of his life, held conscious by various adrenal injections, twitching, his eyes wide open, and screaming. Terrified, the police took him to the hospital to try to save his life, but the screaming…
It didn’t stop. It hadn’t stopped in a long time.
I am kidding, there was 5% more football in this one too so I am happy with that but it is an amazing story and update I actually wait with bated breath to read them
Also, I'm sure Kiš will steal the show in Moscow, as usual 
