Harbinger Of Glory

A moment later, the corner was taken but came to nothing.

After that, Italy reorganised and began to push back, the Ukrainian pressure having peaked without producing anything and now beginning to ebb, and as it ebbed Leo found more space and began using it.

He received from Barella in the seventy-first minute and turned immediately.

He faced forward, and the Ukrainian midfield was slightly higher than it should have been after their spell of pressure.

For a moment, the defensive line was exposed by the gap between it and the press, and without a second thought Leo drove into that gap without hesitation.

Stepanenko came to meet him, bracing himself, but Leo dropped his shoulder left and went right and was past him, making his preparation useless as the space behind continued to unfold.

”Calderon driving forward. Italy in transition and it is looking dangerous by the second.”

Spurred on by their eagerness to win, the Ukrainians collapsed towards Leo, looking to force a turnover and a possible counter even but a second later, it felt like the stupidest thing they’d done in a while.

Leo weighed his leg as they trudged towards him before whipping the ball sharply, bending it around the Ukrainian left back and then into the space out wide where Zaccagni had made the run.

The Ukrainian defence was caught out, and without a moment’s thought, Zaccagni crossed it first time, low and driven.

It looked a certain goal as Moise Kean attacked it at the near post and got a touch, but somehow, the effort found the outside of the side netting instead.

”OH MY GOODNESS. HE’S MISSED IT AND HOW ON EARTH HAS HE DONE THAT!”

The commentary found its pace as Moise Kean fell on his knees, his forehead going down as he began pounding the ground with his fists.

”That’s not good enough, and you can see why Leo’s even shocked,” the co-commentator said as the camera found Leo with his mouth slightly ajar.

”After that run and after that defence-splitting pass to Zaccagni, that should have at least been two-nil.”

Leo turned back and began jogging into position as Moise Kean also rose to his feet.

The latter glanced shortly towards the sidelines, but there, Spalletti stood there like a statue, with Moise Kean not knowing whether the manager was unfazed or just shocked into a stillness by the missed effort.

After the match restarted, the dispositions of the two sides didn’t change as the Italians won the ball back immediately and barraged the Ukrainians with chance after chance, making the goal seem inevitable.

And after 7 more minutes, they finally got another chance which was somehow better than the previous.

Chiesa received deep on the right and played it quickly to Barella, who turned and found Leo making the diagonal run into the channel from deep.

”The pass from Barella finds Leo. The boy is on a mission here,” the commentary cued as Leo gathered the pass without breaking stride.

His first touch carried him toward the edge of the area and, almost immediately, his head came up.

Raspadori had darted across the near side of the box, slipping between the centre-backs just as the gap began to open.

A moment’s hesitation and the ball would be lost, but that was never in the book of Leo.

The outside of his right boot wrapped around the ball, sending it curling across the face of the defence, bending away from Bushchan and inviting only one touch.

”Raspadori’s in...” the commentary bellowed as the forward met it first time, but Bushchan reacted brilliantly.

He exploded off his line and threw both hands at the effort, managing to claw it around the outside of the post before it could sneak inside and once again, Italy had failed to make it count as the fans in the stadium groaned once more, though one side’s own was out of discomfort rather than disappointment.

”Outstanding goalkeeping,” the commentator said. ”But that pass deserved an assist. Bushchan simply refused to let it have one.”

”It gets better every time you watch it,” the co-commentator added as the replay cued on the broadcast.

”Calderon never even looked rushed. Just a single glance... one touch... and the weight on that pass is absolutely perfect. This boy needs to take something away from this game here.”

Italy stayed on top as Ukraine survived following that, but only for a while.

Even a great door, no matter how sturdily built, would one day be felled by the axe of consistency.

The clock ticked into the 80th minute, and as it did, Ukraine found themselves on the brink of an equaliser after an effort of their own won a corner for them.

Their centre-backs abandoned the halfway line, their midfield flooded the penalty area, and even Stepanenko edged forward, everyone sensing that one goal could still drag them back into the match.

Despite their hopes, the delivery never gave them the chance, as once again, the mountain of a man in Donnarumma rose above the crowd, plucked it cleanly from the air and landed already looking upfield.

”Go!” was what the Italian fans heard as their players on the field tore off.

The ball was in his hands for barely a second before he launched it.

It flew toward the halfway line where Leo had settled after not joining the corner.

He cushioned it out of the air and turned in one motion, and before he could take another touch, blue shirts burst forward around him, the options appearing in an instant.

Ukraine were caught.

The bodies that had filled Italy’s box moments earlier were suddenly sprinting the other way as Leo kept the ball to the teeth of his boots and drove into the open grass.

Zinchenko stepped across to confront him, but Barella had already begun tearing down the right, and Leo released him at exactly the right moment.

”Barella now... Italy have numbers here!”

Barella attacked the space, took two quick touches and whipped a low cross through the six-yard area.

And the next second, the effort looked dead as the Ukrainians caught up to the ball, but as the first defender slid, it somehow skipped beyond him...

And then beyond another...

Until it reached Raspadori.

The breaths in the stadium suddenly hitched as Raspadori, instead of forcing the finish, killed the pace with one touch before calmly rolling it back toward the penalty spot.

And there, without breaking stride, Dimarco, who’d somehow found himself in the attack, smashed the ball without care.

”IT’S DI-MARCOOOOOOOO!!!”

The commentary called on the broadcast as the strike thundered into the underside of the crossbar before crashing down beyond the line, and in the next second, the net bulged, and as it did, the Giuseppe Meazza....no, the San Siro, exploded with it.

”GOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAL!”

”ITALY AT LAST HAVE THEIR SECOND, AND IT IS IN THE UNLIKELIEST OF SOURCES. KILLER INSTINCTS FROM FEDERICO DIMARCO AND THERE WAS NO STOPPING THAT!”

The crowd rose as one, chanting, ”Italia! Italia! Italia!”, as Federico Dimarco slid on his knees towards the corner flag.

Blue shirts poured after him, almost like they were out to kill him.

Barella reached him first, then Chiesa and eventually the remainder of the Italian team, save for Donnarumma, who was found pumping his fists in goal when the broadcast cameras found him.

On the touchline, Serhiy Rebrov stood motionless.

His shoulders had slumped almost imperceptibly after the second goal, but only for a moment.

He rubbed a hand across his face, shook his head once and clapped sharply toward the pitch.

There was no point dwelling on it.

There were still minutes left and what they had on their hands wasn’t the hardest they’d faced.

”The scoreline may say two,” the commentator said, ”but Ukraine have no choice now. Every minute they leave here without another goal is another minute closer to defeat.”