At halftime, Martino stood in the middle of the dressing room, keeping his message simple and direct.
"Their defense is the best in Europe, and we accept that," he said, scanning the faces of his players. "But we have the best attack in Europe. In the second half, we answer through what we do best. We attack."
Pautasso stepped up to provide the tactical breakdown. "Neymar has drawn six fouls already, and Asamoah's defensive quality isn't on par with Lichtsteiner's on the other side. The left wing is our key to breaking them down."
Both teams emerged for the second half with no changes to their lineups.
In the 52nd minute, Barcelona launched their sharpest attack of the match.
Xavi struck a long, searching pass from deep. It was one of his signature switches, the ball arcing gracefully over the midfield before dropping right to Messi on the right flank. Messi brought it under control, drove inside, and slid a pass to Lorenzo at the edge of the area. Lorenzo didn't linger on it. With a single touch, he played a sharp diagonal switch out to the left wing, where Neymar was already sprinting behind Asamoah.
Neymar took the ball at full speed and drove directly at the Juventus defensive line. Chiellini quickly shifted over to cover, reading the threat early and forcing Neymar toward the byline to shut down the angle for his usual cut inside.
Neymar didn't fight the angle. He embraced the space near the byline and put it to work. With his back to goal, his feet danced over the ball, baiting Chiellini to make the first move. The split second the defender committed to a lunge, Neymar poked the ball past him and whipped a cross toward the middle of the box.
Lorenzo got there first, sandwiched between Bonucci and Vidal. He controlled the ball with his chest, and rather than forcing a turn to shoot, he laid a neat diagonal tap into the path of Iniesta, who was charging in from deep.
Iniesta met it first time, striking a driven effort from the edge of the box with everything he had behind it. Buffon reacted brilliantly, springing off his line to palm the thunderbolt away with both hands. It was a world-class save, and the Juve crowd let out a massive roar.
But the attack wasn't over.
Barzagli headed Buffon's parry out of the box, but Iniesta was right there to recycle the loose ball toward the right wing. Messi collected it, drove directly at Lichtsteiner, and paused. He shifted the ball smoothly onto his left foot and floated a half-volley cross into the penalty area, the ball curling with a subtle spin as it dropped between the penalty spot and the six-yard box.
Lorenzo was already in full sprint.
He shook off Vidal's tight mark with a quick body feint and ran parallel to Bonucci, matching the Italian defender stride for stride. The cross was dropping fast, coming in too low for a header and too high for a standard volley.
Lorenzo's body rotated in mid-air.
In the span of a single second, he turned from facing the goal to having his back completely to it. It was an airborne pivot that demanded incredible core strength, the kind few athletes could muster standing still, let alone while flying through the air. He launched himself upward and backward, swinging his right leg through a sweeping arc that seemed to defy what a 187-centimeter frame should be capable of doing while horizontal.
The entire stadium held its breath. Forty thousand people watching a man attempt something that almost never works, in a moment where the stakes made failure catastrophic and success immortal.
His boot connected with the ball at its highest point, hovering at chest height as it descended fast. The top of his right foot met the dead center of the ball with pure, explosive power. The contact was exceptionally clean, ringing out with a sharp crack that echoed all the way to the far touchline.
BANG.
The ball rocketed toward the bottom-right corner of the goal. Buffon dived on pure instinct and three decades of muscle memory, but his outstretched fingertips only managed to graze its surface. For the second time tonight, the touch wasn't enough to alter its course. The ball tore past his gloves and slammed into the back of the net, hitting with a force that made the entire frame vibrate.
Fweet—!
2-1.
Turin Allianz fell dead silent for the second time in the match. Then the away section, a few thousand Barcelona fans packed into one corner, erupted with a noise that had no right coming from so few people. They were screaming, jumping, and climbing over each other in the sheer madness of supporters who had just watched their seventeen-year-old striker score an overhead kick against the greatest goalkeeper in Italian football history.
"GOALLLLL!" Santiago screamed into the microphone. "LORENZO SCORES WITH AN OVERHEAD KICK! Buffon has been beaten for the second time tonight, and this time by a strike that shouldn't even be humanly possible! The spear of Europe has pierced through the shield once again!"
Inés, her voice barely steady, added, "That is his twentieth Champions League goal of the season. An overhead kick that demanded a mid-air rotation, perfect contact at the apex of the ball's descent, and enough power to beat a goalkeeper who was already set. For context, a few top strikers have gone entire careers without scoring an overhead kick. Lorenzo just scored one in a semi-final against Buffon."
On the touchline, Conte stood completely motionless. His mouth was slightly open, and his hands hung limp at his sides. The man who had screamed non-stop instructions for fifty-two straight minutes suddenly had nothing left to say. He let out a long, heavy breath through his mouth, his shoulders dropping as the sheer disbelief settled in. His assistant turned to him, waiting for some kind of tactical response or countermeasure, but none came. Conte just stared at the turf.
Buffon got up slowly from the ground, kicked the ball out of the net, and stood on the goal line with his hands resting on his hips. He looked across the penalty area at Lorenzo, giving him a long, exhausted, helpless look, before reaching down to tighten his captain's armband for the third time tonight. It was the solemn gesture of a man who was running out of ways to respond, but stubbornly refused to stop trying.
You know the drill: Hand over those Power Stones to keep the momentum rolling!
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