Harbinger Of Glory

The commentary picked up the moment Leo clipped the ball over the backline.

”That is brilliant. England were expecting a simple switch wide, but look at this. Italy might be in here.”

The English defenders, already shifting toward the right, suddenly had to scramble backwards.

Cambiaghi burst out of the crowd, reading Leo’s touch faster than anyone else.

Despite the flailing arms of players trying to hold him back, he reached the dropping ball on the stretch and poked it past Bursik, whose hand brushed it but couldn’t stop it.

And the roar from more than half of Stadio Flaminio broke over the pitch at once.

”Yes!! Deadlock broken,” the commentary said excitedly on the broadcast as Cambiaghi slid on the turf before springing up and running toward the corner flag, arms wide, with his mates chasing.

On the edge of the box, Miretti leapt onto Leo’s back in the middle of the celebration, nearly tipping him over as the two started toward their teammates near the corner flag.

”Italy find the breakthrough. A clever finish from Cambiaghi, but the touch from Leo is the one everyone will talk about. That is outstanding awareness in a crowded box.”

Marco clenched a fist on the touchline, fisting it in the air a bit before he turned to slap palms with his assistants.

Behind him, the Italian crowd stayed on their feet, their cheers rolling around the stadium like a tide.

The players jogged back toward their half while England regrouped, talking among themselves as they settled into shape again.

Across the pitch, down on the England bench, one of the substitutes leaned slightly toward Jerome Havne.

”That number seventeen is causing all sorts of problems,” he muttered.

Jerome kept his eyes on the pitch.

”Yeah. He’s been running circles around Gallagher and the rest of the boys.”

He paused, still studying Leo’s over at the corner flag.

”I don’t know why, but he looks familiar. Like I’ve seen him before.”

The substitute frowned.

”On the pitch before this? Or somewhere else?”

”I’m not sure,” Jerome said.

”The player I’m thinking of wouldn’t be here. And he wasn’t Italian, at least not then.”

He let out a quiet sigh and sat back as Italy arranged itself for the restart.

For a moment, he kept watching number seventeen, trying to piece together an old memory that refused to line up.

Back after the restart, England tried to force their way back into the match, pushing higher as the minutes ticked toward the break.

”England are trying to build something here. They’ve been patient, but Italy are holding their shape well. Marco’s side haven’t given them much to work with, especially after their goal.”

On the touchline, Marco stepped forward, spotting Cambiaso drifting too far up.

”You’re not a winger. Hold the line,” he called out.

Thankfully, Cambiaso heard and took a quick look over his shoulder before jogging back into position.

England stayed on the front foot, though, as they kept much of the ball towards the end of the first half.

One particular attack saw Cole Palmer pick up the ball on the left, drive inside, and strike low toward the far post.

Plizzari reacted quickly, throwing himself down and pushing the shot wide.

Before anyone could settle, Angel Gomes darted onto the loose ball near the right edge of the box.

He whipped it in with the outside of his foot, trying to put it back into danger, but the cross sat a little lower than he intended, and so Leo stepped in front of it, cushioning it off his chest toward his left, where Plizzari was already moving and gathered it cleanly before any white shirt could pounce.

”Smart defensive cover from Italy,” the commentator noted. ”They’ve stayed switched on every time England get a second ball, and I’m sure it is getting a bit annoying for the English players”

The Italian players shifted back into shape, calm and organised, forcing England to circle around and rebuild again.

The match settled into a stretch of back-and-forth play, each side looking for space that never properly opened.

Italy pressed in short bursts, England tried a few switches, but nothing broke either block.

The half moved into its final seconds, and the referee glanced at his watch before lifting the whistle to his mouth.

After one final England pass was cut out by Okoli, the shrill sound ended the opening forty-five.

”Half-time here at the Stadio Flaminio, and what a solid display from both sides, although Italy go into the half with the lead.”

The players exhaled, slowed their jogs, and began making their way off the pitch as the noise in Stadio Flaminio softened into a steady hum.

The Italian players walked together through the tunnel, talking about the first half in loose, scattered conversations.

Some kept it light, others replayed moments from the pitch, but the mood was calm and satisfied.

They knew they had done well.

Inside the dressing room, Marco wasn’t back yet, so everyone settled into their routines.

Boots came off, tape got peeled away, and water bottles cracked open.

Udogie spotted Carlo dropping onto the bench, grinned and then approached him.

”No wonder you’re fumbling out there. Your girl didn’t show up today, did she?”

Carlo shook his head.

”At least I’m not on the bench.”

A couple of boys laughed as Udogie clutched his chest like he’d been wounded.

”Alright, I’m done. I’m leaving,” he said, walking off while pretending to cry.

Carlo opened his bag and took out his phone just as a notification popped up from Gianna: We’re in the stands.

His brows pulled together as he typed back immediately, Thought you said you had classes and couldn’t come.

The reply didn’t come right away.

He waited, thumb hovering over the screen, until the typing bubble appeared.

Class got cancelled. Nothing to do, so I came with a few of my friends.

While Carlo stayed glued to the phone, Leo leaned against the locker a few seats away, sipping water and staring at the floor.

His mind was still half in the match when someone suddenly tapped him on the shoulder.

”Good job.”

Leo looked up and saw Marco standing there, with the players immediately settling down after they realised he was in.

Marco gave him a quick nod before turning to Carlo.

”Phone later. Game now,” he said.

The room chuckled as Carlo locked his screen and slid the phone back into his bag, with a guilty expression, while Marco moved toward the middle of the room and looked around at the group.

”You showed what Italy used to be known for. Real discipline. Real defending. It’s been missing for a while, and you brought it back today.”

”There’s not much to pick apart. Just run a little more, be sharper when you get chances. Keep believing in the structure. It’s working,” he said, as he glanced around again.

”We’ll keep the same lineup for the start of the second half. After that, we’ll see what needs changing.”

Everyone nodded as Marco gave them a small smile and stepped back toward the door.

”Rest for the remaining minutes,” he said, leaving them to breathe.

After a while, the players found themselves walking out of the dressing room after one of the staff members made it known that the time for the second half was up.

”Coming,” Carlo said after they got to the tunnel, before stepping out.

He glanced toward the section Gianna had mentioned, and it didn’t take long to find them.

Gianna was easy to spot, waving a small flag with a grin while her friends seemed to be telling her to settle down, particularly Vittoria, who even pulled Gianna to her seat once.

Carlo let out a quiet breath, half a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, then turned back inside.

His teammates were grouped just inside the tunnel, passing the time with small talk.

”So did you see someone in the stands or what?” Fornella asked as Carlo rejoined them.

His tone wasn’t teasing as much as curious.

Carlo gave him a dry, harmless look before turning around.

”Relax. I just checked the crowd.”

Fornella raised his hands as if that settled it. ”Fair enough.”

The English players arrived then, filing past in a loose line, almost facing off a bit against the Italians, while the staff around them rushed to finish what needed doing.

And then after a moment, the match officials approached, signalling that it was time.

”Alright, let’s go,” the main official said, as the players followed, filing out disorderly onto the pitch while the crowd met them with a roar before the start of the game.

”Welcome back to the second Forty-five,” the commentator said as both teams swapped, with the players immediately moving into their respective positions.

”Italy lead at the moment, but I am sure Lee Carsley has done a bit of talking to his boys at half-time. If you’re just joining, it’s currently Italy 1, England nil!”