Harbinger Of Glory

The Italians restarted with a little more edge to their play, the sting of conceding still fresh.

From the bench, Leo sat forward, elbows on his knees, eyes following every pass.

He didn’t blink much when he watched games like this; it was how he studied, how he learned and how he tried to accommodate to a new philosophy of playing football.

Italy began to move the ball faster, switching play from side to side, forcing the Japanese block to shuffle constantly, with there being no set positions when the Asianic side was defending.

Rovella and Fagioli dropped deep to pull strings, while Bellanova and Udogie took turns bombing down the flanks.

Still, Japan held firm, organised and alert, their counters sharp every time the Azzurri misplaced a pass.

At one point, a misplaced touch from Vignato led to another quick Japanese break, this time down the right.

Fujita sent another looping ball toward the Italian box, but Pirola tracked it perfectly, sliding across the turf to intercept before it reached the right midfielder..

The crowd applauded, and Baldini, on the sideline, gave a quick clap too, more in relief than praise.

”Good recovery,” he muttered to Marco, who just stood beside him.

As the clock began to wind down, the game started to open up.

The tempo rose, the tackles got a little harder, and the passes a little riskier.

Carlo Regutti, in the number 11 shirt, started to drift wide, looking for space.

He wasn’t getting much joy through the middle, not with the Japanese centre-backs sticking tight to him, so he tried to pull them out.

Leo noticed it from the bench, how Carlo’s body language changed, how his shoulders squared every time he got the ball, and it was fair to say, he looked a class above most of the players on the field.

Carlo received it from Rovella just inside the halfway line and turned sharply, almost losing balance as a Japanese midfielder lunged in, but he spun away and pushed forward, the crowd’s buzz rising as he did.

Another red-and-white shirt came at him, but he sidestepped and faced another Japanese player who came in trying to body him off the ball.

However, he brushed off the challenge again and kept the ball close as he drove toward the box.

”Regutti again,” one of the commentators said, voice lifting.

”He’s been trying to make something happen for the last ten minutes.”

Carlo didn’t look up until the last second.

And when he did, he spotted Colombo peeling off his marker, slipping between the two centre-backs like an arrow.

Betting more on luck, Carlo slid the ball through the tiniest of openings he saw, and luckily, his gamble paid off as Colombo latched onto it.

”Beautifully weighted pass! Colombo—!”

The commentator tried to say, but Colombo didn’t hesitate.

He nudged the ball a bit to his right, out of the reach of one of the centre-backs stuck to him, before curling a low shot past Masato Sasaki, into the far corner.

The net rippled, and just as it did, the couple of thousand fans in the stands erupted in a fit of claps and cheers as Colombo slid towards the corner flag.

”Goal! Lorenzo Colombo of US Leece! And Italy are level!”

The commentator’s voice was half-drowned out by the noise on the broadcast as the Italian bench jumped up, fists in the air.

Baldini’s reaction was subtle, single nod, then a muttered, ”That’s better,” before turning towards one of his assistants, mouthing something about a tactical rest, but Baldini waved him off, saying they should keep it as is.

Marco, on the other hand, grinned, slapping his notebook shut and on the pitch, Carlo pointed toward Colombo before the rest of the team swarmed him, slapping his head, hugging, shouting all at once.

The scoreboard showed 0–1, then blinked to 1-1.

From the stands, Gianna was on her feet, screaming Carlo’s name even though he wasn’t the scorer.

Beside her, Vittoria lowered her phone for the first time since the match began, glancing down at the celebrating players with a small, impressed smirk.

Leo didn’t cheer, but a faint smile crossed his face as the Italian players returned to their half.

From there, the game picked up again, the Japanese players eager to regain momentum.

Fujita urged his team forward, trying to reclaim control in midfield, but Italy had found rhythm now.

A few late chances came Italy’s way, one with Colombo heading over the bar from a corner and another with Vignato slicing a shot wide, but it was the Japanese keeper who had kept his side alive on both occasions.

And with both sides cautious not to give anything away before the whistle, the tempo dipped.

Baldini stepped closer to the touchline, gesturing for his players to stay compact.

”Last minute, boys! Last minute!” he shouted.

In that moment, one final attack from Japan fizzled out as Pirola cleared his lines and just as the ball went out, the referee looked at his watch, then blew for halftime.

The players exhaled, heads lifting as they began jogging towards the tunnel.

Some exchanged high-fives; others just wiped sweat from their faces.

As they disappeared down the tunnel, Leo stood up from the bench, stretching his arms.

He hadn’t played a minute and was itching to get on the pitch, but he knew, the night was far from over.

”I’d really kill for some of those crispy Arancini’s,” one of Gianni’s friends said as she turned toward Vittoria, brushing a bit of her hair behind her ear.

”So,” she asked lightly, ”how’d my boyfriend do?”

Vittoria barely lifted her gaze from her phone.

”Didn’t really watch much,” she said flatly, scrolling through her screen.

Gianna exhaled in disbelief.

”I honestly don’t know why I still bother with you,” she muttered, shaking her head.

Vittoria only shrugged, that familiar snarky smile tugging at her lips.

”Because I’m fun,” she replied, not even looking up.

Gianna rolled her eyes, slumping back into her seat.

She stared at the pitch for a moment with some of the players still milling about on the pitch, looking to get some warm-up sessions in.

The noise of the crowd was fading into background chatter and plastic rustling from food wrappers.

Beside her, Vittoria kept tapping at her phone, completely absorbed in whatever she was doing.

”Unbelievable,” Gianna whispered under her breath, half amused, half exasperated.

She pulled out her own phone, deciding there was no point trying to have a conversation.

Her thumb hovered over her notifications before she opened her messages and started replying to a few.

Every so often, she glanced back toward the pitch, where the substitutes were now warming up and the coaches were talking by the sideline.

Somewhere in there was Leo, also running among the other substitutes.

After a while, the whistle blew faintly from below, and the players began returning to the field.

Gianna tucked her phone away, straightened up, and forced a small smile.

”Guess it’s back to watching alone,” she said, mostly to herself, while Vittoria didn’t even look up.

Gianna gave her one last look, then turned back toward the field, eyes narrowing in quiet focus as the referee waited for the players to settle down.

”It’s Italy who get us underway again here at the Stadio Tre Fontane”, the announcer called. ”Let’s see what changes this half brings for Baldini’s side.”

Passes zipped through midfield, with a few tackles to match coming in, and before long, Carlo, with his flashy style of play, went down after a rough tackle near the centre line.

The referee blew his whistle, calling for a foul, but then pointed toward the touchline.

There, three players stood waiting: Parisi, Ruggeri, and Cambiaso.

As the fourth official raised the board, the crowd stirred.

Bellanova, Udogie, and Viti made their way off, exchanging brief handshakes with the incoming trio, despite not being too keen on being subbed off just a minute after the second half began.

Leo, still in his seat, leaned forward a little, watching as they jogged onto the pitch.

The substitutions brought fresh legs and energy, and suddenly, Italy were covering much more distance with their press.

But soon, another foul halted play again, and the board went up once more.

This time, Luca Moro came on for Colombo.

Not long after, Ricci, who had taken a knock in the first training session, replaced Fagioli.

The rhythm of the match began to feel fragmented because every time it found flow, another whistle cut through, another player trotted in or out.

Leo sat back, arms crossed, his boot tapping against the floor.

He watched each player jog on, clapping hands, taking up position, while he remained among the few yet to be called.

The impatience was creeping in, his jaw tightening a bit with every stoppage.

Around him, the coaches and staff muttered quietly, scanning the field, checking their notes.

He caught fragments of conversation, tactical shifts, minutes remaining, who still needed to play, but his focus stayed on the pitch.

Then, just as Italy were settling again, Rovella, one of the team captains, went down clutching his leg after a sliding challenge.

The referee was quick to wave the physio over.

As the medics rushed on, Rovella gestured toward the bench, shaking his head.

”No, no... I can’t,” he seemed to mouth, wincing as he sat up and that made Leo sit up.