Harbinger Of Glory

The referee’s whistle cut through the noise, sharp and clear, and Italy restarted the second half with purpose.

The early minutes, as usual, passed with both teams trading short spells of possession, the commentary dipping in here and there as the tempo settled.

”That’s better from Italy. They look more assured now after the break,” one of the broadcasters noted.

But before the match could drift into the slow rhythm that sometimes clings to the opening of a second half, Fornella broke the pattern.

He took a loose ball in midfield, steadied himself, and slipped it toward Leo.

The moment the ball reached Leo’s foot, something on the pitch shifted.

He didn’t hesitate.

He carried it forward with quick touches, forcing England to step back.

Their defensive shape bent under the pressure until Lee Carsley barked out a command from the touchline, pushing his team higher.

Leo slowed just a little afterwards, shaping his body as if he were going to recycle possession.

The English midfield relaxed for half a second, convinced he would play it safe.

Instead, he switched up instantly and cut across the ball with a smooth, violent precision.

It wasn’t just a good pass.

It was the kind of ball that opens a match, the kind that cuts belief out of defenders.

It shot through the smallest gap between three converging English players, skimming past their boots before they even reacted.

It kept rising a fraction off the grass, holding its line with perfect weight until it bent into the space behind England’s backline, causing the backline to immediately turn and scramble back.

But Carlo had already started running.

The pass matched his stride as if Leo had aimed at his pace instead of the space in front of him.

Carlo gathered it cleanly and drove forward as the commentary snapped to life.

”That is outrageous. What a pass. Italy could be in here.”

Carlo cut inside on the edge of the box, tried to open his body for a shot, but the English defenders crashed around him fast.

With no angle left, he dragged the ball back and slipped it toward the left side where he had come from.

Fornella met it and played a quick first-time return pass into the pocket of space that had opened near the top of the box, and from there, Leo stepped into view again, a distance away from his natural position, almost as if he had planned the whole exchange.

He shaped his body for a curling strike as his left foot wrapped around the ball and sent it bending toward the far post, the pace sharp enough to trouble the defence even if it wasn’t a shot.

And there, rising to the skies, was Miretti, who had read it perfectly.

He rose inside the box at just the right moment, nodding the ball through the small gap between the goalkeeper’s stretched glove and the post.

The net rippled, and the stadium erupted.

”Goal, the ball is in the back of the net. Beautiful football, Italy. From the pass that split England apart to the delivery for the header. Everything about that move was top class,” the commentator said over the roar.

Marco clenched his fists on the touchline before turning to his staff, his face lit with the kind of joy he didn’t bother hiding.

It was almost looking like he could win his first game in charge and against a top opponent like the England U21S.

The bench jumped up around him while, from across the field, Carsley exhaled, shoulders slumping as he leaned toward his assistant.

He said something low, to which the assistant nodded, then walked toward one of the fourth officials, ready to prepare a change.

The Italian players jogged back to their half, the cheers following them all the way.

Miretti pointed toward Leo, who hadn’t joined in for the celebration mainly because all of his teammates had.

Italy were up by two, and in the stands, the crowd were up too.

....

High up in the stands, a few scouts sat with their notebooks open.

Most of them were from Italian clubs, there to check in on their own boys, make sure they were progressing as expected.

None of them had planned for anything unusual tonight.

But that was before the player in the number 17 shirt started running the match.

At first, they tried to place him.

Some leaned toward their colleagues, whispering brief guesses.

Others quietly flipped through the squad lists they had printed, their fingers stopping when they found his name.

Even then, the uncertainty stayed.

A few had never heard of him at all.

The ones who knew something were from fragments of the Italy U21S game against Japan.

Nothing that prepared them for the show he was putting on.

But before they could exchange more thoughts, the noise around them swelled.

They looked back toward the pitch as Italy broke forward again.

Eduardo Bove stepped into a one-touch exchange with Leo, the ball moving between them with such clean rhythm that England’s midfield couldn’t interrupt it.

Leo’s return pass arrived perfectly, and Bove immediately sent it into the right channel for Cambiaso.

Cambiaso timed his run, let the ball bounce once, then whipped a curling cross into the area just as he spotted Pelligrini.

It carried danger from the moment it left his foot.

And so Bursik had no choice but to come out and punch it clear.

His fist met it hard enough to push it beyond the first wave of Italian shirts.

After that, Italy stayed high.

The pressure built again as they crowded England’s box, sensing there was more to be taken from this phase.

The crowd urged them on, and their movement tightened with each pass.

Leo, on the other hand, stayed back instead of joining the rush.

Something in the shape of England’s counter threat unsettled him.

He hovered a few yards behind the others, scanning the space they had left exposed and the moment Italy lost the ball, his concern made sense.

England sprang forward with a sharp break as Oliver Skipp tore down the right with the commentary cutting in.

”Oh, a fast break! England have space here and Italy are stretched.”

Skipp darted inside, drove toward the box, and fired a low ball through traffic where Brewster reacted fastest, stepping in front of his marker and smashing it toward goal.

Plizzari was already beaten.

But the ball didn’t cross the line.

A leg swept it away at the last moment.

Leo had appeared out of nowhere, clearing it off the line with perfect timing.

The Italian crowd surged to their feet, arms half-raised to celebrate the save, but the celebration died in an instant.

Cole Palmer, from the right, reached the rebound before anyone else and stabbed it into the net from close range.

”GOOOOOOOAALLL,” was the sound that rose from a section of the English fans as Cole Palmer scooped the ball out of the net, while the other half of the stadium groaned.

They were still leading, but momentum was something that was very hard to cope with in football when your opponents had it.

”That is a lifeline for England,” the commentator called.

”Italy escaped the first effort by the skin of their teeth after Leo’s clearance, but the rebound falls kindly, and Palmer makes no mistake.”

The Italians looked frustrated, but they were still ahead.

Leo, on the other hand, got helped off the ground by Plizzari, who nudged him forward, muttering ”thanks” to him for covering the goal the first time.

England pushed for the equaliser after their goal, with the whole stadium getting heavy as if it had taken a breath and refused to let it out.

Italy, on the other hand, tried to settle themselves with short passes, and almost every other ball found its way to Leo.

His teammates trusted him to calm things down, but that trust made him the target.

The first time he received it, two English players closed in, pressing him tight, but he pivoted away, let the ball roll across his body, and slipped it to Cambiaso before anyone could trap him.

A minute later, they were back on him, and this time it was three men, coming in fast.

He dragged the ball behind his standing foot, shielded it as Palmer lunged, and escaped through the sliver of space they left open.

The crowd reacted, a wave of noise following him as he found Udogie in space, yet England didn’t back off.

Italy tried to work the ball out again, and once more it landed at Leo’s feet.

Even when he didn’t touch the ball, they hovered near him, waiting for the next pass to force another mistake.

Italy pushed on one side, England suffocated them, and eventually the ball reached Bove.

He tried to hold it, but he took half a second too long.

Andre Gomes cut across and clipped the ball off his foot.

It rolled straight into space where Jacob Ramsey, fresh on the pitch, stepped forward to take control.

But Ramsey barely planted his foot before Leo arrived.

He slid in from the side, low and controlled.

Ramsey had to hop over him to avoid getting swept, but Leo’s tackle scooped the ball out cleanly instead of tearing through the player.

One touch, then another, and he was back on his feet with the ball glued to him.

The entire English press swung toward him at once, but he didn’t wait for them.

Leo burst forward, switching into a level of speed he hadn’t shown all match.

His first stride cut through the gap between Ramsey and Gomes, with the two trying to hold onto his shirt, but he just shrugged them off, causing Ramsey to tumble to the ground.

”Here he goes again. Italy break through their young midfielder, and look at the pace he’s found.”