Harbinger Of Glory

”Need a massage?”

The question made Leo, who’d just sat down, look up.

One of the physios had stopped in front of him, hands already reaching for the massage table set up against the wall.

Leo rolled his shoulders once before shaking his head.

”I’m good,” Leo said, thanking the physio for the effort.

The latter nodded and moved on without another word as Leo leaned back against the bench, unscrewed a bottle of water and took a long drink.

All around, most of the players that had started the game sat a bit slumped.

The rest of them talked quietly in twos and threes, and for a short second, that made him miss Udogie and Carlo, who had decided to stay on the pitch after the half to get some slight work in, as that would cut their warm-ups short should Spalletti decide to play them.

Every so often, Leo caught a glance drifting his way.

Some of them lasted only a second before moving elsewhere, but most didn’t, and he understood the glares whenever he saw those doing them.

A week ago, half the players sitting on the bench had expected to start this match.

Instead, an eighteen-year-old making his debut was out there in the middle of the pitch while they watched from the touchline.

It would’ve been easy to blame the manager, but they couldn’t, so the next best option was the kid who’d taken the shirt.

Leo wasn’t offended, more so amused since some of the glares were a bit funny to look at.

He understood that sometimes, football worked like that.

Even he’d begin to question if, at the peak of his powers, he was taken off for some kid.

The only difference would be that he’d work on himself more and find out why the kid was being played instead of him, and then try to bridge that reason if he could.

While he was still roaming his thoughts, the dressing-room door opened and in walked Spalletti carrying nothing but a marker pen.

He uncapped it, turned to the tactics board and drew two quick circles in midfield.

Then he faced the squad.

”Very good work, guys, for this first half. We’ve controlled the game, but we weren’t able to kill the game off,” he said.

”And all of us here know that usually, the first half’s the easy part.”

”Ukraine have no reason to be patient anymore. If they’re losing after seventy minutes, they’re going to gamble.

And before that, they’ll press harder, they’ll tackle harder, and they’ll try to speed everything up in hopes of grabbing the equaliser since things aren’t really that far.”

He tapped one of the magnets on the board as he resumed talking.

”And so for the second half, I do not need us helping them play against ourselves. They are already tough enough to deal with.”

”We have the upper hand now, but we have to work well to keep it. They are a goal down, so they will be rushing things and trying to create as much chaos as they can, but....they can play it by themselves.”

”I do not want us getting swept in it because the moment we are, it will be difficult to step out of it.”

”Finish your drinks,” Spalletti said afterwards while he capped the marker he came in with.

He met the gaze of Leo and nodded towards him, before doing so to other players lest more nonsense was spewed about favouritism, even though it wasn’t if when the other party was way better.

A while later, the tunnel swallowed both teams almost at the same time.

Italy emerged to another wave of applause from the Giuseppe Meazza crowd while Ukraine followed a few seconds later, their faces noticeably harder than they had been forty-five minutes earlier.

Their coach, Rebrov, walked the length of his technical area without looking anywhere else.

When he got there, Spalletti stood opposite him with his hands in his pockets.

Neither manager acknowledged the other as their men spread across the pitch again, awaiting the whistle.

”Welcome back, folks, to the Giuseppe Meazza,” the commentary sounded on the broadcast as the referee on the pitch fiddled a bit with the watch on his arm.

”And no change for both sides in the return to the second 45. It’s still just a goal between the two and a lot more to play for.”

The referee looked at both assistants with a nod coming from each touchline before he raised his whistle to his mouth and let the sound invade the pitch.

Italy, having conceded the first kickoff to Ukraine, kicked off the second half, courtesy of Moise Kean, who sent the ball long towards Dimarco in the left-back position.

Following that, Ukraine came out for the second half like a side bearing a grudge against the Italians.

They pressed immediately, higher and more aggressive than they had been in the first forty-five, and the Italian shape had to absorb it before it could impose anything.

For the first ten minutes of the half, the Giuseppe Meazza watched their team defend more with the ball than attack, and in those minutes Leo hardly stopped moving.

It was like he was tethered to the ball, moving wherever it went but making sure that he covered his position whenever he did.

It seemed like just one player from the sidelines, but for the Ukrainians on the pitch, it was hard to bypass him when the other Italian players were also hounding them.

At the start of the 57th minute, Rebrov, not really liking the scenes unfolding on the pitch, called upon Mykhailo Mudryk to the side.

And after a stoppage of play 3 minutes later, the Chelsea man jogged onto the field backed by the applause of the Ukrainians in the stadium.

”So there is the first change of the game,” the commentators came through as Mudryk settled in his position on the pitch.

Leo, having already played once against Mudryk, although for a short period in the Chelsea game, knew what the latter had to offer.

And so as the match progressed, he kept the Chelsea man, as much as he could, in his vision.

For the Ukrainian, his first few touches had already hinted at the difference he could make, but six minutes after coming on, he finally found the space he’d been searching for.

The ball reached him out on the left, where he squared against Di Lorenzo immediately.

The San Siro rose with a mixture of anticipation and concern, watching as the battle between the two unfolded; in that, Mudryk didn’t hesitate.

A burst of acceleration carried him inside, the ball glued to his feet as Lorenzo shuffled with him, refusing to dive in.

It felt like he was going to run out of space as the byline neared and neared, but in the next moment, he took a sharp touch with his left and shifted the ball onto his right foot, creating just half a yard of space.

Di Lorenzo slid almost to a stop as he tried to get in the way again, but the former’s quick acceleration took him ahead, blocking Di Lorenzo’s recovery.

”He’ll hit this...” the commentator warned as the space opened for the Chelsea man and Mudryk did.

The strike exploded off his boot, low, vicious and arrowing toward Donnarumma’s near post with enough pace to beat almost any goalkeeper in Europe.

But... it never reached him.

A blue shirt threw itself across the line of fire.

The ball crashed into Leo’s shin with a sickening thud before looping harmlessly over the crossbar as the Ukrainians, ready to celebrate, groaned in agony.

”CALDERON!”

The commentator almost shouted over the crowd.

”WHAT A BLOCK!”

Down on the pitch, Leo barely acknowledged it.

Before the ball had even landed behind the goal, he was already pointing.

”It’s a corner! Somebody pick him up!”

His voice cut through the noise as Italy rushed into shape.

Behind him, Bastoni grinned as he reached out and ruffled Leo’s hair on the way past.

”Bravo.”

Barella arrived a second later, giving him a firm slap between the shoulders as more and more of the Italians entered the box.

Only then did Leo allow himself the smallest nod before turning back toward the corner flag.

”That was as good as a goal had it not been blocked by that boy,” the co-commentator said, still sounding impressed.

”The moment Mudryk shifted inside, Calderon abandoned the passing lane and sprinted into the shooting lane instead, and as of now it’s been a very good choice to do so.”

The commentator laughed softly as the Italian crowd gave the proper applause.