Harbinger Of Glory

”Good evening and welcome to the Giuseppe Meazza in Milan, where Italy return home for what already feels like one of the defining matches of their qualifying campaign.”

In the upper rows of the stands, the broadcast cameras swept across a San Siro glowing beneath the floodlights, with blue filling almost every visible section of the stadium as scarves lifted into the night air.

”Tonight it’s Italy against Ukraine, the second and final fixture of this international break, and neither side can really afford to leave here empty-handed.”

”It really is beginning to tighten up,” the co-commentator replied.

”England have almost disappeared over the horizon with thirteen points already. Behind them, though, it’s a fight.”

For those watching from the comfort of their couches, a graphic appeared on screen showing the top of the table for Group C of the European qualifiers.

England - 13

Ukraine - 4

Italy - 4

”Italy are actually sitting third despite being level on points with Ukraine, simply because of goal difference. That’s how fine the margins are becoming.”

”And that’s exactly why the draw in North Macedonia hurt so much,” the lead commentator continued.

”Another dropped result tonight, and suddenly qualification starts becoming a conversation rather than an expectation.

Luciano Spalletti knew this was a huge week when he accepted the job.

He probably didn’t expect the pressure to arrive quite this quickly, but so far, he has been handling it well!”

As the two commentators went at it, the television feed shifted toward the tunnel where both teams emerged with the Italian blue to one side and

Ukrainian yellow to the other.

The noise inside the stadium rose another level as twenty-two players stepped into view.

Flags waved from every tier of the San Siro while flashes from thousands of phones lit the stands.

”Ukraine are unchanged,” the co-commentator observed as they filed onto the pitch.

”It’s the same eleven that earned a point against England. An English side that thrashed Italy the last time they met, so it was a good result for the Zbirna.

Serhiy Rebrov clearly believes they’ve found something that works, and I think that is why he is betting on his side again.”

After he finished, the commentator glanced down at the other team sheet before giving a small laugh.

”Italy, however...”

He shook his head.

”...Italy have gone in the opposite direction.”

”In their squad, only five players remain from the side that started in Skopje. That is the biggest change to a lineup I’ve ever seen in a while, where the issue isn’t injuries or some poor circumstances.”

”Five,” the co-commentator affirmed as his partner hummed in agreement.

”Luciano Spalletti has changed more than half of his team.”

”And they’re not like-for-like changes either,” the lead commentator added.

”He’s handed opportunities to younger players, less experienced players. Footballers with ability, yes, but not many people expected him to make this many changes against one of the strongest teams in the group.”

”Maybe,” the co-commentator said thoughtfully, ”he’s trying to send a message.”

”Or maybe...”

He smiled.

”...he simply trusts what he’s been watching all week.”

While the two went about their jobs, the broadcast cameras dropped to pitch level and found the faces and postures of the players.

Leo, standing still on the grass, instinctively looked around.

It was the Giuseppe Meazza, the San Siro again.

Only a month and a half earlier, he’d walked out here wearing Wigan colours for a pre-season friendly against AC Milan.

That afternoon had felt surreal enough, but it couldn’t compare to what he was feeling at the moment.

Following that, the opening notes of Il Canto degli Italiani echoed around the stadium.

Almost immediately, the crowd took over.

Forty thousand voices became sixty thousand until every Italian fan in the stadium was louder than they’d usually be.

By the chorus, the stadium grounds themselves seemed to be singing.

Leo stood a little straighter without thinking, and around him, so did everyone else.

For a minute and a half, football disappeared beneath something much older than the game itself.

When the final note faded, applause rolled around the stadium before the players, specifically the Ukrainians, began walking down the lines of the Italian side.

A few smiles appeared where club teammates recognised one another.

Elsewhere, it was simply firm handshakes and polite nods before everyone drifted toward their own half.

A second later, the players began pulling off their pre-game jackets, and Leo did so too, revealing a very familiar number.

The number 22 rested between his shoulders, the same number he’d worn through much of his short academy time in Wigan as well as his first season with the senior team before eventually inheriting Wigan’s number eight most recently.

Seeing it there again brought an unexpected smile.

He hadn’t even chosen a number, so it was funny how things were still circling back to each other every now and then.

After taking it off, he reached the touchline and slipped out of his blue tracksuit top.

The kit manager accepted it before nodding at Leo.

”In bocca al lupo. (In the mouth of the wolf.)”

Hearing that, Leo, for a split second, didn’t really know what it meant, but seeing the body language of the kitman, it could only have meant something nice or good, so he nodded back.

”Grazie.”

After that, he turned and jogged toward the rest of the team as the stadium lights dimmed one last time in anticipation of the game.

Just before separating, Donnarumma called everyone together, with the captain waiting until the circle tightened before he began to speak.

”We all know what people have been saying these last few days. Even if we tried, we can’t answer any of it with interviews.”

”What we can do is try our best and let our football do the talking.”

He pointed toward the pitch beneath their boots.

”They don’t need promises anymore.”

”They need to see Italy again.”

After that, his eyes moved from player to player before circling back to his hands.

”I’ll take care of everything behind you.”

”You take care of everything in front of me.”

”We play with no fear and no hesitation and definitely no regrets. We leave everything out here.”

After that, the players broke with a collective shout.

As Leo turned away, Barella fell into step beside him.

”If it gets messy,” he said quietly, ”talk to us so we can help.”

Leo looked across as Barella spoke again.

”Don’t try carrying everything yourself.”

Leo gave a single nod.

”I won’t.”

Barella squeezed his shoulder once before jogging away toward midfield as Leo settled into position.

Behind him stood Bastoni and Scalvini, and ahead of him stretched Italy’s midfield line.

Barella and Raspadori, centrally, while Chiesa and Zaccagni stayed on the flanks.

Then, furthest forward, Moise Kean.

Across the halfway line, the Ukrainian players waited for the whistle.

The referee checked with assistants to see if all was ready, and when the fourth official’s thumbs came up, a shout came from the two sides again.

”Italy have trusted some form of youth tonight,” the commentary duo came in one last time.

”They’ve trusted change.”

”And perhaps more importantly, they’ve trusted a completely different idea of how this team should play.”

The commentator allowed the noise inside the San Siro to speak for itself before the shrill whistle of the referee even made its way to the gantry.

”Ukraine get us underway.”

...

[A/N: I had forgotten to add this but this, (”In bocca al lupo. (In the mouth of the wolf.)”) is something that is similar to saying good luck in english. Thanks]