Chapter 337: Pilot Suker

At Zagreb's airport, Suker emerged into a sea of Croatian journalists.

They clamored around him for interviews. Zhang Kai pushed forward desperately, anxious to get a few more words.

As Suker answered his final question and turned to leave, Zhang Kai cried out in Chinese, "Suker! Please give me a moment for an interview!"

Immediately, the surrounding reporters snapped their heads around. Even Suker halted in his tracks. Zhang Kai didn't care about their irritated glares—he squeezed through the crowd and began speaking rapidly, almost like a machine gun.

"I'm a football journalist from China—my name is Zhang Kai. May I ask you a few questions? Can I have just a couple of minutes?"

Zhang Kai's earnest gaze pleaded for Suker to answer in Chinese. The Italian reporters around them peered curiously, not understanding a word of what this fellow was saying.

Zhang Kai stared at Suker, head tilted, and saw a hint of confusion in Suker's eyes. His heart sank. Had he really misheard?

Just as Zhang Kai was about to switch to Italian, Suker spoke:

"Bro, where are you from?"

Fluent Chinese.

Zhang Kai's mind went blank. He had never expected to hear perfect Mandarin on a Serie A stage.

"Jilin! Changchun!" Zhang Kai shouted, caught between excitement and disbelief.

Suker smiled faintly. "Northeastern China, huh?"

Zhang Kai nodded repeatedly. Suker walked closer and asked, " What do you want to ask?"

Zhang Kai stammered, "Wh–Where did you learn Chinese? Are you Chinese?"

He immediately wanted to slap himself. What a ridiculous question.

"My time is short," Suker said. "So, fire away with your questions."

"W-well…" Zhang Kai's mind spun. Of course, he hadn't prepared any specific questions—actually, he had so many he didn't know where to start.

Suker glanced at the players' tunnel, then leaned in. "Am I famous in China?"

Zhang Kai gave him a big thumbs-up. "You're super famous! Don't you know Chinese people all follow Serie A?"

At this stage, Serie A's influence in China was unmatched—especially now that Suker played for AC Milan.

Suker blinked expectantly. "What's my nickname in China?"

"Nickname?" Zhang Kai was puzzled.

Suker counted off on his fingers. "Filippo is called 'Nine,' Luka is 'Eight,' and I wear number Ten—does that make me 'Ten'?"

Zhang Kai paused.

Suker frowned. "That lame? Surely I have some cooler nickname!"

"You do!" Zhang Kai blurted out. "They call you 'Pilot!'"

Suker cocked his head in confusion. Zhang Kai grinned and began to chant:

"Shu-ke! Shu-ke! Shu-ke! Shu-ke!Flying the plane—Pilot Suker!"

Suker spun on his heel and walked away. No matter how much Zhang Kai shouted, this time Suker didn't look back.

*(There was a lot more than this but you know how the china glaze go).*

Amsterdam, the Netherlands.

Croatia's head coach Bilic followed an address to a small, two-story house near the Amsterdam port.

The building looked old—obviously a relic from decades past. Bilic had come, as instructed by Bešić, to find Van Stoyack.

As head coach, Bilic believed his greatest strength was his ability to bring in experts when needed. When you don't know something, admit it—and hire someone who does.

That's why this time, he was here to invite Van Stoyack to become Croatia's foreign consultant. If Van Stoyack impressed him, Bilic wouldn't hesitate to offer him an assistant coach position.

Bilic knocked on the door. He waited silently.

After a moment, the old door creaked open. A middle-aged man with a white tank top and oversized shorts—completely bald atop and sporting a bushy mustache—ambled out, belly protruding.

The bald man looked at Bilic.

Bilic stared at him in disbelief, then glanced down at the photo in his hand. Clearing his throat, he said, "I'm looking for Van Stoyack."

The bald man peered at him, then nodded. "That's me."

Bilic: "..."

"I'm Van Stoyack," the man added, adjusting his mustache. "There's only one Van Stoyack in Amsterdam, and I'm him."

Bilic looked down at the photo again. It clearly showed a vibrant young man with a full head of hair.

"I am…" Bilic began.

Van Stoyack waved him off. "No need for introductions. Bešić already called me and told me you'd come."

"Oh! Right!" Bilic nodded, regaining composure.

"Come in," Van Stoyack said, pushing the door open. "Let's talk inside."

When they entered, a strong odor of booze hit Bilic's nose. Empty bottles littered the table, the floor, even the sofa. Smoke hung thick in the air. The curtains were drawn, plunging the room into gloom.

Bilic carefully set his water bottle on the coffee table, clearing a small patch of tabletop to sit.

Van Stoyack approached and flung open the curtains and a side window. Sunlight poured in, and the stale air began to clear.

"I don't know if you've heard my story," Van Stoyack began, voice low. "I led two different Dutch teams into relegation and lost all credibility in the Netherlands. I also coached the biggest defeat ever recorded by a Dutch side—took a pounding so bad that, despite trailing, I still urged my players to keep attacking. The Dutch media called me 'the madman.'"

He turned to stare at Bilic. "Do I seem like a madman to you?"

Bilic instinctively nodded, then quickly shook his head. "No, not at all!"

Van Stoyack laughed bitterly. "Doesn't matter what they say—I just want to win. But nobody in the Netherlands understands my tactics, and nobody will pay me for success they can't see." He paused, then continued glumly: "We started well—I took over a team in midseason, and we were top of the table. Ajax and PSV struggled to keep up. We almost did the impossible! But then injuries ravaged us. We had no squad depth, and the club needed money. They sold off half the team at the winter window, then dumped the rest in the summer. By the next season, we were relegated—and I was sacked."

Van Stoyack ran a hand over his bald head and sneered, "They said I couldn't make them money. As if I hadn't already made them money!"

Bilic studied him thoughtfully.

Van Stoyack cleared his throat. "I'm in a tough spot financially and need a job. But I won't lie to you. I'm notorious in the Netherlands. Still want to hire me?"

Bilic fell silent for a moment. "Do you think the Croatian national team has potential?"

"Potential?" Van Stoyack laughed ironically. "Do you really underestimate Suker and Luka?"

"I've said it before: if they'd stayed at Zrinjski Mostar for just two or three more years, and if someone had given me enough funds to integrate the Bosnian league's talent, we could've taken Europe by storm."

Van Stoyack's confidence was boundless—and well-justified. His resume might look dicey, but he was a tactical genius with ideas far ahead of his time. Even Bešić had praised him.

"I need to test you a bit," Bilic said.

Van Stoyack nodded. "No problem. Consider it a job interview."

Bilic: "I want to see Dinamo Zagreb's system replicated in the national team."

Van Stoyack: "I can give you the Zrinjski Mostar system—it's the one that truly fits you. Bešić's approach is too conservative."

Saying this, Van Stoyack fetched a small tactical board from a cluttered shelf and pressed red circular magnets into different positions.

"4-2-3-1 or 4-3-3—that's the right setup."

"On the wings... one is Suker, the other is—"

Bilic interjected: "Rakitić."

"Right, those two." Van Stouack moved the magnets for Suker and Rakitić to the top of the board.

"You want them as wingers?"

Van Steejack slid the markers back to midfield.

"Playmakers?"

He moved them back to just behind his own box.

"Wing-backs?"

Van Stoyack replied: "Positions aren't absolute. Everything blurs. What matters is intensity, physicality, tempo, and cohesion."

"The striker will drop back to help defend our own box."

"Center-backs will step up into the opponent's half to win headers."

"The wingers and wing-backs' positions overlap—sometimes hugging the line, sometimes interchanging positions."

"The midfield organizer drops deep, supported by a defensive enforcer, while a combative number ten ensures pressure on turnovers."

Van Stoyack spoke in a low, steady voice.

"But the key is in transition. When we attack—"

He pushed all the board pieces forward.

"And when we defend—"

He pulled them back en masse.

Bilic was speechless.

Van Stoyack was a madman!

And yet...