It was the 21st round of Serie A, and by some quirk of the Italian schedule, the Gigliati found themselves back at the Luigi Ferraris Stadium for the second weekend in a row.
Just seven days prior, they had left this pitch as conquerors, having snatched a last-minute victory from Genoa CFC. Today, the grass was the same, but the colors in the stands had shifted from the red-and-blue of Genoa to the iconic "Blue-circled" white and red of Sampdoria.
Though Sampdoria lacked the ancient lineage of their city rivals, they carried a more glittering ghost. Fans still whispered about the early 90s—the "Mini World Cup" era—when the legendary duo of Mancini and Vialli led them to a Scudetto and a Champions League final against Barcelona. That fire had dimmed over the decades, but the Blucerchiati remained a stubborn, proud fixture of the top flight.
The 200-kilometer trek from Florence to Genoa was no easy feat given Italy's aging highway infrastructure, usually requiring a grueling four-hour crawl. Yet, where only a few hundred fans had bothered to travel last week, nearly eight hundred had swarmed the away end today.
The reason was singular: Renzo Uzumaki.
The highlights of his masterclass debut had turned "Renzo-mania" into a local fever. They wanted to see the boy who passed like a god. However, when the starting lineups were pinned to the stadium walls, a collective groan echoed through the Fiorentina section.
Renzo's name was on the bench.
"Montella has lost his nerve!" shouted a loud, bald man in dark aviators. This was Alex, the president of the Fiorentina Fan Club. A week ago, he'd been calling Renzo a "marketing gimmick." Today, he was the boy's self-appointed defense attorney. "Renzo is the only one who can find a gap in a closed door! Why start him on the pine?"
Montella, standing in the technical area, ignored the shouts. He wasn't being cowardly; he was being tactical. Renzo had only been with the squad for two weeks. The chemistry wasn't at 100% yet, and Serie A was a marathon, not a sprint. He would play the boy—he would play him for longer than twenty minutes this time—but he wanted the veterans to stabilize the pitch first.
In the tunnel, the atmosphere was thick with the scent of wintergreen and liniment. Mohamed Salah, looking as eager as a schoolboy, broke formation to greet a familiar face in the Sampdoria line.
Samuel Eto'o.
"Samuel! I can't believe we're actually doing this," Salah said, pulling the veteran into a fierce hug.
"Salah! Look at you," the Indomitable Lion chuckled, his eyes crinkling. "You've lost weight, but you look like you're ready to sprint to Rome. I knew Italy would suit you."
Eto'o was 34 now, in the twilight of a career that had seen him conquer Europe twice with back-to-back Trebles. He had returned to Serie A for a final swan song, his legendary pace replaced by the cunning of an old predator. He looked at Salah with a mixture of pride and pity; he knew the Egyptian had been sent here on loan because Chelsea hadn't seen his worth.
"Samuel, look," Salah said, holding up his left wrist.
It was a braided red-and-green wristband, frayed at the edges. Eto'o had given it to him back at Chelsea, claiming it was a lucky charm from a powerful Cameroonian tribe. In reality, Eto'o had bought it for five pounds in London's japantown, but seeing Salah still wearing it touched him.
"It works, Samuel! I feel faster every game," Salah beamed. "But it's not just the luck. We have a midfield genius now. Just you wait—when he comes on, I'm going to show you something special."
"A genius?" Eto'o raised an eyebrow, glancing at the Fiorentina starters. He saw Badelj, the Croatian workhorse; Aquilani, the former Liverpool talent who never quite reached the heights; and the aging David Pizarro. "Which one? Pizarro is a legend, but he's nearly as old as I am."
Salah shook his head, pointing a thumb toward the substitute bench outside the tunnel. "Not them. Him. The kid."
Eto'o followed his gaze and landed on Renzo. He had heard the reports—the sixteen-year-old with two assists on debut. But Eto'o had played at the Camp Nou; he had seen "geniuses" come and go every week at La Masia. One good game was a fluke. Two was a coincidence.
"The japanese boy?" Eto'o asked, a hint of skepticism coloring his voice. "He's a child, Salah."
"Wait until the second half, Samuel," Salah said, his eyes flashing with a certainty that gave the old Lion pause. "He doesn't just pass the ball. He sees the future."
Eto'o looked at Renzo one more time. The boy looked calm—too calm for a teenager in a hostile stadium. Is he really that amazing? the Cheetah wondered. Or has the Pharaoh just spent too much time in the sun?