"Ohhh~~~ Schweinsteiger's cross—what a beautiful downward curve! Klose helps Germany take the lead!"
"Brilliant! The German lads are putting on a fantastic performance!"
"After more than ten minutes of cautious probing, Germany finally bares its fangs. Their hunger for victory and desire to press forward is fully on display in this goal!"
"20th minute—Germany strikes first, leading Croatia 1–0!"
The German fans erupted in the stadium.
That precious goal gave them a clear glimpse of victory.
In this European Championship Final, it was indeed the more experienced and historically rich German team that took the lead.
On the other side, Croatian fans covered their faces and held their heads.
It was just one goal—but to them, already tense, the pressure now felt suffocating.
"Germany scored, but we must not lose our spirit. It's just one goal. We haven't even started pressing yet. The defense needs to stay solid. We must wait for the right moment!"
Kraushvić's voice was urgent.He glanced toward Šuker, as if trying to reassure himself.
"Yes! We haven't attacked yet. Let's see some offense!"
After the goal, Šuker immediately retreated to midfield.
"Luka, you're playing too cautiously! Pass it to me—let me look for opportunities!"
Modrić had been playing it a bit safe.
Šuker understood—Luka wanted to ensure stable ball progression and help the team ease into the rhythm of the match.
But now that Germany had scored, the time for caution was over.
Everyone feels the pressure of a major tournament.
The key is how to overcome it.
"Got it!" Modrić nodded firmly.
He knew he had been too accommodating to the defense, which stifled their attacking flow.
Without getting the ball to Šuker, the latter's influence was limited.
Even though Šuker was surrounded by German players, he still had room to maneuver—and danger, after all, is often just another word for opportunity.
Šuker patted Modrić's shoulder, then jogged over to Petrić.
"Cross-run with me," he said.
He'd noticed Lahm frequently pushing forward. Even though his position was often covered, there were moments of temporary gaps—just the kind of gaps Šuker could exploit.
"Understood!"
Croatian players returned to their half.
"Hold the line, boys—stay focused!" Kraushvić was nervous, his anxiety heightened after conceding.
On the sideline, Van Stoyac narrowed his eyes. The backline was a bit shaky.
But he also saw that the players were slowly adjusting to the rhythm of the game.
Maybe that goal… would be the spark for Croatia's counterattack.
BEEP!
After Germany finished celebrating, the referee blew his whistle to resume the match.
Germany, now energized, looked to extend the lead.They pushed up their formation, intending to press hard.
But that high line gave Šuker a little breathing space.
He quickly turned to glance—Petrić caught the signal and moved centrally.
Šuker drifted out left.
Modrić, keeping a close eye on Šuker's movement, spotted a fleeting gap.
He instantly rotated his body, and with his right foot, smashed a grounded pass out wide.
The ball zipped low across the grass, barely spinning—perfectly aimed at Šuker.
It was an ideal ball to control.
But Šuker didn't stop the ball at all—because Lahm was already charging in.
Fired up from scoring, Lahm came in aggressively, looking for a direct steal.
But Šuker stayed calm, waiting for the ball.
Lahm and the ball arrived at the same time.
Šuker turned sideways, back near the sideline, and tapped the ball with his left foot, nudging it forward.
The ball slid right through Lahm's legs.
At the same time, Šuker took a step back, darted off the pitch, and blasted forward with a sudden acceleration.
Grass flew behind him—Šuker tore along the sideline.
"ŠUKERRRRRRR!!!!!!——"
Kraushvić leapt to his feet.
One hand clutched the mic, the other clenched into a fist.
"Šuker finally makes his move—he's cutting diagonally into the defense! Mertesacker steps up! How will Šuker respond?"
Šuker glanced up—his eyes flashed with sharp intent.
Mertesacker, a traditional bulky German defender.
Šuker slowed slightly, then began step-overs, dancing around the ball, his upper body swaying.
Kraushvić was trembling with excitement.
Every Croatian fan had their eyes fixed on Šuker.
They saw Mertesacker's balance shifting awkwardly—he kept retreating, his footing increasingly chaotic.
He couldn't keep up with Šuker's footwork.
Suddenly—Šuker cut left sharply.
Mertesacker tried to follow, but his weight had already shifted—he collapsed straight onto his backside.
"OHHHHHHHH ŠUKERRRR!!!!!"
Kraushvić roared, veins bulging from his neck, face turning red.
Šuker charged into the six-yard box.
Lehmann dropped his stance, arms wide to cover space.
But Šuker merely flicked his foot.
The ball zipped past Lehmann's head and into the net.
SWISH!!
The net rippled.
Šuker spun and raced toward the corner flag.
He pointed to the stands—then to himself.Reaching the corner, he cupped both hands to his ears.
"Let's hear you cheer now!"
ROOOAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR——
Croatian fans leapt up, arms flailing in celebration.
The stadium turned into a blazing furnace of joy.
"GOAL! GOAL! GOAL! GOAL! GOAL!!!"
Kraushvić repeatedly punched the air, flinging his arms like a human windmill, trying to release all the excitement in his chest.
"23rd minute! Just three minutes after Germany scored, Šuker responds with a stunning solo run and equalizer!"
"He found the gap on the left flank. Germany tried to press and increase the score—but their aggression backfired!"
"This was Šuker's first shot of the match—and it resulted in a goal!"
"This is Croatia's Super No. 9! This is Šuker! This is our hero!"
"23rd minute—Croatia 1:1 Germany. We've equalized!"
On the bench, Van Stoyac stood there, mouth open.
He even forgot to celebrate.
Yes—he underestimated Germany's offense.
But he had also underestimated the sheer force of his Super No. 9!
Dribbling past two defenders on the left wing, a 30-meter dash, a stunning finish.
Germany, intoxicated by their goal, lost track of Šuker for just one moment.
But that was all he needed.
It wasn't just the Croatian commentators who were in awe.
Across Europe, every country's commentators were speechless.
"Dear God~~~!!"
Italian commentator Aldo Serella threw his hands in the air, a wry smile on his lips:
"That's Šuker for you! After slaughtering Bayern twice, you'd think Germany's captain would've learned his lesson!"
Spanish commentator, silent for a long while, finally exhaled:
"This is why we lost to Croatia. A red-hot striker like that—our defense couldn't stop him."
British commentator:
"In the Euro qualifiers, if it had been anyone else instead of Croatia, we wouldn't have been knocked out!"
In the face of this goal, everyone could only marvel.
In this European Championship final, Šuker had fully demonstrated his terrifying ability to finish and dominate in attack.
On the pitch, he basked in the worship of tens of thousands of Croatian fans.
Watching from afar, Davor Šuker whispered to himself:
"Šuker has given Croatia's No. 9 a whole new meaning."
Yes—
Even Davor Šuker himself had never shown this level of ferocity in his prime.
But this new Šuker—in every big tournament, he was an unstoppable force.
On the sideline, Van Stoyac murmured:
"You know something?"
"What?" Bilić asked, turning after celebrating.
Van Stoyac replied bitterly:
"I nearly turned Šuker into a midfielder…"
Damn it!
He had nearly converted a striker with legendary potential into a midfielder.
Thank goodness Šuker insisted on staying up front.
Otherwise, he'd have gone down as a football criminal.