Harbinger Of Glory

Baldini turned from the pitch, shading his eyes for a moment before glancing down the bench.

”Ranocchia, warm up,” he called out, his tone brisk but even.

Filippo Ranocchia got to his feet without hesitation, jogging a few steps before starting to stretch along the sideline.

But Marco, who had been standing near Baldini, stepped closer, lowering his voice.

”Boss,” he said, ”if Rovella’s out, we need someone who can sit deep, not another one who likes to push forward. We’ve got enough of those already.”

Baldini frowned slightly, still watching the players on the field.

He didn’t answer right away, but Marco could tell he was weighing it.

”Someone who’ll hold shape, break up play, keep it simple,” Marco added, nodding toward the bench, toward Leo.

Baldini followed his gaze and saw Leo, who sat near the middle of the row, hands clasped, eyes fixed on the pitch.

The coach let out a quiet sigh, then gave a short nod.

Marco’s lips tugged into a small smile.

”Alright,” Marco said, turning toward the bench. ”Leo, get dressed. You’re going in.”

And Leo, who had been pretending not to watch the exchange, gave a sharp nod before standing.

One of the staff members tossed him a jersey, number 17, his name, Calderon, printed boldly across the back.

He caught it cleanly, quickly pulling on his base layer first, the long undersleeves smoothing tight over his forearms before slipping the blue shirt on top.

He glanced toward the field again, where the physios were still tending to Rovella, who sat with his boot off and a grimace on his face.

On his side, Ranocchia had stopped stretching, waiting near the fourth official.

Leo jogged over to join him, rolling his shoulders loose, bouncing on his toes to stay warm.

The ball went out of play near the halfway line, and the fourth official raised the board.

”Here we go again,” one of the commentators said with a light laugh.

”Looks like Italy are making another couple of changes. They should just make their whole bench come and play the game at this point.”

Baldini motioned Leo closer and said something quick in his ear, but Leo frowned, not quite catching the Coach’s rapid Italian and even if he could, the noise wasn’t helping.

So he turned to Marco, who just sighed wryly and then shook his head, not quite agreeing with Baldini’s instructions, but he was just second to him.

”Defensive cover,” Marco said.

”Tuck in with the other 3 players at the back when you go on for Vignato. We are switching to a 4-3-1-2, so you are going in to keep the balance.”

Leo nodded, tightening his gloves as Rovella was finally helped off by the medics, shaking his head as he limped toward the sideline.

Ranocchia jogged past him and onto the field, offering a small pat on the shoulder as they crossed paths.

Then it was Leo’s turn.

The board flashed 17 in green, and Vignato jogged over, clapping Leo’s hand before heading off.

The noise from the crowd lifted a little, curiosity, applause, maybe surprise.

”A new face for Italy’s U21S,” the commentator said as Leo jogged onto the pitch.

”That’s Calderon, making his debut tonight. Seventeen years old, if the data in front of me is not wrong.”

His partner chuckled.

”Seventeen? The talent ceiling for making any debut at such a young age is high, so he must be something special to be trusted here.”

Leo took his spot, moving deeper into the defensive line as Marco had translated for him.

He reached into his shorts pocket and pulled out a small folded slip of paper, instructions scribbled in pen.

As he passed Pirola, he handed it over with a quick word while Pirola unfolded it, skimmed the message, gave a nod toward the bench, and tucked it neatly into his sock.

”Interesting,” the other commentator said.

”Looks like Calderon’s slotting into defence, though his data shows he’s a midfielder. Bit of a tactical shuffle from Baldini.”

Leo glanced once at the sideline, caught Marco’s eye, and gave a short nod.

After everything had settled, the referee’s whistle went again.

Leo had barely settled into position when the throw-in came from the Japanese side, deep in Italy’s half.

He was now paired with Pirola in the centre, while Parisi had slotted in at left back and Cambiaso took the right.

Both were still adjusting, shouting quick instructions across the line as Japan prepared to attack again.

The ball came flying in from the touchline, angled toward the right flank where Fuki Yamada, one of Japan’s newest introductions, had positioned himself.

He brought it down smoothly with his chest, the ball sticking close as he turned sharply to face Parisi.

The Italian fullback braced himself, knees bent, arms out, trying to show him toward the line, but Yamada just kept tuning his body for the inward drive.

But then he hesitated, fainted, left and then cut right with a quick burst of pace, going into the space Parisi had shown him.

Parisi, though expecting the burst, still stumbled just slightly, caught on his heels as Yamada drove past him towards the byline, and when the latter got there, he whipped a low, curling cross into the box before Cambiaso could recover.

The ball skimmed across the grass, zipping through the space between Pirola and Parisi.

For a split second, it looked like Kimura, Japan’s number 9, who had replaced Hosoya, was going to get there first.

He was already sliding in, his right foot stretching toward the ball.

But Leo just burst from his side and stepped across Kimura’s line with a burst of speed, reading the play perfectly.

He raised his leg as if to clear, but the moment he saw that the ball would deflect dangerously through the chaos if he tried to force it, he slowed and just poked it behind lightly toward Caprille instead.

The sudden calmness in that movement froze everyone else.

Parisi and Pirola had both started lunging, expecting a desperate clearance, but when they saw the ball roll safely into Caprille’s hands, they stopped mid-motion.

Caprille caught it cleanly, holding it to his chest before straightening and glancing toward Leo, who just turned and ran into space, preparing for any kind of fast break should it come.

”Lovely bit of defending there,” one of the commentators said over the broadcast.

”That’s just lovely from the new kid on the block. Just seventeen years old, but that’s as composed as you’ll see from anyone at this level and even beyond.”

His co-commentator chuckled lightly.

”He didn’t panic, didn’t overcommit, just read it right and made it look simple. For a supposed midfielder, that’s some lovely textbook defending from the young man.”

Up in the stands, a wave of noise rippled across the crowd after that defensive play.

Vittoria lifted her head, brows drawn slightly as she looked toward the pitch.

”Did someone score?” she asked, half-distracted, her phone still in her hand.

Gianna leaned forward, following the movement on the field before shaking her head.

”No,” she said, tilting her chin toward the number 17 in blue.

”That one, he stopped Japan from scoring.”

Vittoria’s eyes followed Gianna’s gesture, finding Leo near the back line.

For a moment, she just watched, a faint crease on her forehead.

”That’s the guy who told Carlo not to be stupid that time he thought I was cheating,” Gianna added, her tone casual but edged with a smirk.’

Vittoria blinked, caught off guard a bit by the revelation.

”Huh,” she muttered softly, almost to herself.

Back on the pitch, Leo had just received the ball near Italy’s defensive third.

He kept his head up, glancing briefly toward the right before sliding a measured pass to Cambiaso.

The fullback took a touch, waited for the Japanese press, then rolled it back toward Leo, who had already started drifting into open space.

Leo moved forward with the ball, scanning the pitch as Pirola shifted into his spot behind him, covering the line.

Parisi tucked inside as well, reading the shape instinctively to complete a back three as the field opened up for a split second, and Leo didn’t hesitate.

He struck the ball with his laces, curling a driven pass diagonally across the pitch toward the left flank.

”Lovely pass from Calderon!” the commentator’s voice rose as the ball cut through the air. ”Perfect weight on that!”

Carlo, hugging the touchline, adjusted his stride, bringing the ball down with his thigh in one fluid motion.

The touch drew an approving murmur from the stands.

But he didn’t stop to admire and pushed it forward, cut inside his marker, and fired a shot toward the far post.

Sasaki, the Japanese keeper, flung himself sideways, stretching to the fullest until his gloves met the ball with a loud slap, deflecting it wide.

The stadium reacted in a mix of groans and near-cheers, with some fans even halfway from their seats before sinking back down as the ball spun out of play.

”What a move that was!” the commentator exclaimed over the replay.

”From back to front, Leo Calderon starting it with that incredible pass, and Carlo Regutti almost finishing it off! Italy showing real bite now.”

Back on the pitch, Leo was already jogging backwards, pointing a finger toward Pirola and mouthing a quick ”grazie” for the cover.

Pirola gave him a thumbs-up, nodding once before setting the line again.

On the touchline, Marco and Baldini exchanged a glance.

Marco had his arms folded, a faint, knowing look on his face.

Baldini, on the other hand, didn’t say anything, but his brows were drawn tight, eyes fixed on Leo as he adjusted the defence once more.

The young midfielder-turned-centre-back was back in shape, calm and focused, already scanning for what was next.