Whooshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh——
The home fans of Dinamo Zagreb erupted into a frenzy.
It wasn't until a few moments after the goal that they truly realized what had happened.
That sneaky toe-poke shot was so subtle that even they hadn't fully caught it—let alone the AC Milan players on the pitch.
On the field, Šuker and Modrić embraced, jumping up and down in celebration.
With that goal, they were in the lead once again.
For AC Milan, however, this goal in the 43rd minute was a disaster.
Most crucially, their defense had been breached twice.
"I can't keep up with him!"
Cafu was gasping for breath, a bitter expression on his face.
Šuker's explosive speed had completely overwhelmed him.
If it had been a feint or a dribble, he might've relied on experience to make a judgment.
But raw speed? There was simply nothing he could do.
For an aging fullback, nothing is more frustrating than facing a speed demon like that!
In the Croatian commentary booth, Krahović had gone absolutely wild.
He waved his arms in excitement, roaring:
"Goal! Goal! Goal! Goal!"
"Šuker!! That's Šuker!! Once he starts running, no one can stop him! His wing attack completely left the legendary Brazilian fullback in the dust!"
"This is pure speed! A physical onslaught!"
"Inzaghi scored for Milan using his ghostly movement, and Šuker replied with his own style—making a forward run and finishing beautifully!"
"Brilliant!!"
Krahović shouted, pumping his fists.
Next to him, Boban was stunned.
Dinamo Zagreb had scored two goals in the first half—against the mighty AC Milan.
Unbelievable.
Was this really the AC Milan they knew?
Of course, Dinamo's first goal had been a gamble—a do-or-die risk.
But they'd pulled it off.
That alone was worth praising.
The second goal? Even Boban had to admit—it was spectacular.
A toe-poke finish from Šuker.
My god!
This guy had that in his arsenal too?
"I made a mistake,"
Ancelotti muttered, watching Šuker celebrating on the pitch, his eyebrows raised.
"He's not just another Filippo. While he shares Inzaghi's awareness for gaps and timing of runs, he also has something Inzaghi never had—pace!"
His assistant coach nodded gravely.
"If he matures, he'll be even scarier than Filippo. If he plays with Milan's midfield and defense behind him—imagine how many goals he could score."
Ancelotti smiled:
"That's exactly why I must sign him!"
"Send this match video to the club. Tell them to go all in for Šuker. This could be the beginning of a new Milan dynasty!"
Ancelotti's eyes were practically glowing as he looked at Šuker.
This kid was a raw gem.
If polished properly, his impact up front could be unimaginable!
"No need! Milan's already started preparing,"
The assistant coach smiled.
"He's hot property now. When the season ends, the summer transfer window will see a brutal fight for him."
Ancelotti nodded.
"Use any means and all funding to get him. Bring him to the San Siro. I want him in a red and black jersey."
Meanwhile, Šuker was walking toward the halfway line with a smile.
As he passed Gattuso, their shoulders bumped lightly.
Gattuso turned and looked at Šuker.
Šuker looked right back.
Gattuso: "Nice shot."
Šuker raised an eyebrow and tilted his chin up.
Was this guy looking for a fight?
Seeing Šuker hold his head high, totally unafraid, Gattuso suddenly burst out laughing and ruffled his hair.
Šuker smacked his hand away.
"What the hell is wrong with this guy?!"
Šuker didn't understand what Gattuso had said.
But judging by his menacing expression, it was probably some kind of trash talk.
Or maybe... was it admiration for Šuker's fearlessness?
If it were anyone else, it might make sense—but Gattuso's mind didn't exactly work like most people's.
When he first joined AC Milan, he got slapped by senior player Costacurta for slacking in training.
And after that? He was proud—said it meant the old guys took him seriously!
Šuker shook his head, then glanced at the clock.
Just about a minute left in the first half.
In that last minute, both teams eased off.
AC Milan seemed to accept they'd be trailing at the half—but there was no sign of panic.
Dinamo Zagreb had clearly targeted the right spots.
Sure, Kaka was immensely talented—but he hadn't hit his peak yet.
Two years later, Kaka would singlehandedly lead an injury-riddled Milan to Champions League glory with a legendary solo run starting from the quarterfinals.
That was when his god-slaying journey truly began.
But for now, despite being a starter, Kaka hadn't yet reached that level.
Halftime – in the locker rooms.
"I can't keep up with Šuker. That guy is just too fast—maybe even faster than Kaka,"
Cafu admitted with frustration.
Kaka didn't respond, but clearly disagreed. He didn't think he was slower than Šuker.
"Nesta, you need to support more. We can't let that left wing break through again. And their No. 10—Modrić—we cannot let him carry the ball into our half or have space to pass,"
Maldini commanded.
"Stay sharp—we're not here to lose!"
His words rallied the team.
"I've found my rhythm. Feed me the ball more,"
said Shevchenko, raising his hand.
"I can score again."
Inzaghi nodded.
"I'll make forward runs too. With Sheva drawing attention, they won't keep up with me."
"Alright, boys. Let's turn this around in the second half!"
Maldini fired them up.
Ancelotti barely had to speak—that was the luxury of having a legendary captain.
On the other side, Dinamo's locker room was jubilant.
They were actually leading at the half.
It felt like a dream.
But they had to be careful—Milan in the second half would be far more terrifying.
"Alright, guys. Let's win this at home!"
Srna rallied them.
83rd Minute – Dinamo Zagreb in full retreat mode.
The scoreboard above showed: Dinamo Zagreb 2:4 AC Milan.
Since the second half began, they'd been hit by a god-mode Shevchenko—who scored twice with headers and volleys.
Then, in the 79th minute, Kaka went on a long solo run and crossed it in.
Inzaghi popped up at the back post and tapped it in.
Total collapse.
The shift was so sudden and violent, it left Dinamo dazed.
Modrić and others were gasping for breath.
It wasn't just their bodies—mentally, they were drained.
Once Milan took control, they dominated the midfield and began to devour Dinamo's energy.
Šuker held up better, but even with frequent tracking back, he was exhausted.
AC Milan was still AC Milan.
They often won by slim margins—not due to weak offense, but because their defense was so good they only needed one goal.
That was the kind of backline that left Ferguson speechless.
But in this match, after conceding two early goals, Milan snapped.
Four goals.
Milan reminded everyone they were not just the best shield—they could also be the sharpest sword.
"Damn it—we got completely overwhelmed…"
Šuker sighed, shaking his head.
They were flying high in the first half—catching Milan off guard with two early goals.
But in the second half, Milan adjusted and blasted in three more goals, flipping and then extending the lead.
90+3 Minutes
The final whistle blew.
Modrić and others collapsed to the ground.
They were completely spent.
"Game over! Dinamo Zagreb loses 2–4 at home to AC Milan! Looking at the match as a whole, Dinamo played an impressive first half—but they couldn't maintain that advantage to the end."
"Milan is still Milan. After halftime adjustments, they equalized quickly and then scored two more to seal the victory."
"Final score: 2–4! Congratulations to AC Milan on the win!"
"But let's also applaud these young men from Dinamo Zagreb. Though they lost, they played an incredible first half—and they pushed this mighty Milan squad."
"This is only the first leg! The second leg will be at San Siro, where we'll witness the second act of this Champions League quarterfinal!"
Šuker stood in the center circle, holding his shirt.
His eyes shifted between Inzaghi and Maldini.
He wanted their shirts. Both of them.
But who should he ask?
As he hesitated, a big hand suddenly snatched his shirt away—and a red-and-black jersey was thrown over his shoulder.
AC Milan No. 8.
Šuker stared, dumbfounded, at Gattuso walking away.
He actually stole it?!
Gattuso turned and grinned, then said to Pirlo:
"He must be thrilled right now!"
Pirlo stifled a laugh behind his hand.
Gattuso twisted his body and raised a fist.
"What are you laughing at?!"