Chapter 317: By His Own Hand? No—This Was a Team Victory!
The stands of Juventus Stadium were dead silent—except for the section overflowing with thousands of ecstatic traveling Chelsea fans, roaring with celebration.
Pogba was helped to his feet by Evra.
Watching the superstar he admired score a goal up close, Pogba's heart sank.
Because this time, he had been the backdrop for Leon's highlight.
He hadn't left an impression in their one-on-one clash—at least not a good one.
That was his own conclusion.
He had every reason to be proud.
Technically gifted. Physically gifted. A dream midfield package.
But tonight, he had been crushed by Leon.
The kind of performance gap that couldn't be closed by hard work alone.
That realization stung.
Pirlo saw the disappointment etched across Pogba's face.
He sighed, almost imperceptibly.
When Leon first came to Milan, he was nowhere near Pogba's current level.
But even then, Leon never showed this kind of defeated expression.
He was always full of energy, eager to learn from his older teammates.
In Serie A, Leon was initially tagged as a promising defensive prospect—nothing more.
He didn't win every battle. He didn't silence every opponent.
But he never lost heart.
If he failed, he went again.
If he was outmatched, he asked teammates for help.
In terms of mentality and resilience, Leon had always been the toughest of his generation—Pirlo knew it well.
Pirlo had once believed Pogba might catch up.
The talent was there. The body. The technique.
He even trained hard.
But after tonight, Pirlo abandoned that thought completely.
The difference in mentality was too great.
Without Leon's ironclad mindset, Pogba could never become the true heart of a team.
And that, more than anything, was what Pirlo found most regrettable.
That regret didn't linger long, though.
Pogba was French. He wouldn't be carrying Italy's hopes.
Besides, when it came to pouring in his time and mentorship, Pirlo had always invested more in Leon.
To have mentored a player like Leon—that was more than enough.
Pogba would be fine. Maybe not a core. But a great supporting piece in any elite squad.
Pirlo didn't need to be greedy. Watching Leon now, he already felt proud.
Even if Leon's goal had come at the expense of Pirlo's own team…
Pirlo let go of his thoughts and refocused.
He smoothed his hair and calmly reminded his teammates:
The game wasn't over.
They needed to regroup and stay sharp.
Leon had caught his breath by now.
He turned to the away end, threw his arms up, and roared toward the Chelsea faithful.
As teammates jogged over, slapping him on the back, he jogged calmly back toward midfield.
Mourinho stood waiting at the sideline with an outstretched hand.
Leon grinned, slapped it hard, and kept moving.
Terry was the last to greet him—with a bear hug and whispers only Leon could hear.
Commentators around the world praised the unity within Chelsea's squad.
And it was true.
This was what Chelsea fans were most proud of—their team's cohesion.
The match restarted.
Chelsea looked even more composed, more fired-up, dropping into a disciplined shape and preparing to counter Juventus.
It was a painful sight for Juve supporters.
Allegri sat on the bench, face calm but heart racing.
Now, he understood how Guardiola must've felt every time he faced Chelsea.
He wasn't worried about Mourinho's tactical plans.
He had counters in place. Backup strategies. Even if they weren't flawless, at least he'd planned them.
The problem? Leon.
Leon had a knack for disrupting the balance.
One moment of brilliance—and suddenly, Chelsea owned the rhythm.
It felt like magic.
Leon didn't just play well—he flipped games.
When Chelsea faced weaker sides, Leon was reliably excellent.
But against elite opponents? He turned into a monster.
Against Barça? Two godlike headers.
Against City? Two long-range screamers.
Tonight against Juve? One solo recovery, one lightning transition, one game-breaking goal.
Allegri was stunned.
How had a moment that looked like their perfect counter turned into Chelsea's breakthrough?
It made no sense.
This kind of storybook turn was supposed to happen for his team.
Unbelievable. Frustrating.
"Should we push forward?"
His assistant asked again.
Allegri rubbed his temples. He still didn't adjust.
Earlier, he hadn't changed tactics because the match was balanced.
Now?
Now it was unbalanced—but he didn't want to throw Juve into chaos.
He wanted to settle things down.
That's just how his brain worked.
No matter what others thought, if Allegri felt his strategy was sound, he'd stick with it.
So the next round of instructions were clear:
Hold the line.
Don't let Chelsea score again.
Players like Vidal and Pogba were getting impatient.
But Pirlo knew Allegri's logic. He understood it.
And with the veterans backing the coach, even Pogba had to swallow his frustration.
Mourinho, seeing no change from the Juve bench, gave Leon the nod.
Slow the game down. Control possession with Kroos.
An away 1–0 in the Champions League?
Perfectly acceptable.
If Allegri wanted to end it like this, Mourinho had no complaints.
Juve fans were still waiting for a rally.
But minutes passed, and all they got was slow, deliberate ball circulation.
Chelsea and Juventus, staring each other down.
Milan fans had seen this kind of deadlock before.
But for most neutrals? This was new.
For a moment, it seemed like Juventus might actually pull it off—break through Chelsea's defense, restore the club's glory, and finally silence their doubters...
Until everything came crashing down.
In a flash, the dream unraveled—live on screen, for all the world to see.
Leon had caught up to Morata.
Just as Morata broke free of Chelsea's backline and surged into open space, Leon was there, storming back at full speed to close him down like a missile.
It was unreal.
Leon had just been in Juventus' half—how the hell had he gotten back this fast?!
Juve fans watching from home could only curse at their screens, their joy vanishing in an instant.
No one could explain it. Not the pundits. Not the players.
Not even Morata, who suddenly found himself face-to-face with the charging figure of his old Madrid teammate.
Leon didn't hesitate. He body-checked Morata off balance and cleanly took the ball.
Morata tried to win it back—but Leon, cool as ever, spun in place, evaded contact, and flipped the game.
Juventus had gone all-in. Now they were exposed.
Chelsea could counterattack too—and Leon was the one leading the charge.
Just as Vidal closed in, Leon fired a lofted pass toward Hazard, who had pulled wide and launched into a sprint.
With Lichtsteiner and Evra tucked inside from the previous defensive shape, Hazard had acres of space to run.
This was textbook Chelsea. A transition kill shot.
Hazard tore down the right wing. Pirlo came over to help—but he never had a chance. Hazard glided past him without effort.
No one blamed Pirlo. This wasn't his responsibility. But it still looked brutal.
Marchisio, torn between blocking Leon and tracking Hazard, hesitated for a second too long.
By the time he moved to cover, Hazard had already entered the box and cut inside.
That single movement created space for Leon to break forward again.
Hazard drew the defense, baited the collapse, then fired in a perfect cross.
Chiellini and Ibrahimović rose at the near post—but it was Leon, barreling in at the far post, who leapt like a bomber into the sky.
Pogba, too late to react, leapt and threw his shoulder into Leon's path—desperate to stop him.
But Leon didn't budge.
Pogba was the one sent flying.
Leon thundered a header toward the far corner—Buffon reacted immediately, got a touch on it—but the sheer power drove the ball past his fingers and into the net.
The Juventus crowd went silent.
Leon landed, breathing hard.
No screaming, no sliding celebration.
Just a deep breath, his face twisted in sheer exhaustion.
Around the world, commentators erupted.
But fans noticed something else—Leon looked spent.
He stood near the end line, hands on knees, trying to catch his breath.
Back-to-back sprints—defensive recovery, then a full-pitch counterattack.
It had drained everything from him.
His teammates ran over, embraced him in a flurry of relief and gratitude.
On the sideline, Mourinho collapsed into his seat, clutching his chest in exaggerated panic.
The camera caught it. Fans burst out laughing.
But the emotion behind the humor was real.
In one minute, everything had flipped.
Leon hadn't just saved Chelsea.
He had dragged them from the cliff's edge and planted their flag on the summit.
Sky Sports' commentator roared into the mic:
"Even God would believe it—at the end of the B2B road, there is Leon!"
The Juventus Stadium stood in stunned silence—except for the section of traveling Chelsea fans, now singing with renewed fury.
Evra helped Pogba off the turf.
For all his admiration of Leon, this one hurt.
He had been the background in Leon's highlight reel.
He hadn't left a mark.
And that crushed him.
Technically, physically—Pogba had all the gifts.
But Leon had shown tonight: that wasn't enough.
Pirlo watched Pogba's frustration with a quiet sigh.
When Leon had arrived in Milan, he was raw.
Nowhere near Pogba's level.
But Leon never got discouraged.
He worked. He asked. He learned.
He fought through mistakes—and kept fighting.
Leon's mental strength had always been his greatest weapon.
Pirlo had once thought Pogba might catch up.
Now he knew better.
Without that same mental resilience, Pogba could never become a team's true core.
Still, Pirlo had no regrets. He had put more into mentoring Leon, after all.
And Leon had made it.
Even if he'd just scored against Pirlo's team…
There was still pride.
The match restarted. Juventus grew hesitant.
Allegri sat on the bench, watching, thinking.
Now he understood how Guardiola felt.
Mourinho's tactics weren't unbeatable.
They could be analyzed, countered.
But Leon couldn't.
Every time a game hung in the balance, Leon shattered it.
He didn't just rise to the occasion—he bent it to his will.
Against Barcelona, he'd delivered two headers.
Against City, he scored two worldies.
Now, against Juventus, a solo steal and a full-pitch break.
Allegri was speechless.
Wasn't this supposed to be Juventus' golden counter?
Why had it turned into Chelsea's winner?
He couldn't understand it.
Not logically. Not emotionally.
"Should we push up?"
His assistant asked again.
Allegri rubbed his temples.
Earlier, he didn't adjust because the game was balanced.
Now he didn't adjust because the momentum was gone.
He needed to hold the line.
That was Allegri's style.
No matter how crazy it seemed, if he believed in the tactic, he stuck to it.
Juventus' new instruction:
Stay compact. Don't concede again.
Vidal and Pogba looked restless.
But Pirlo, as always, stayed calm.
Veterans like him set the tone.
The others followed.
Mourinho, seeing Juve sit back, motioned for Leon and Kroos to control the ball.
1–0 in Turin? That was golden.
If Allegri wanted to end it that way, Mourinho was happy to oblige.
Juve fans were still hoping for a comeback.
But five minutes later, all they got was stale midfield possession.
Chelsea and Juventus, locked in a staring contest.
Milan fans knew this feeling well.
But for most neutrals, it was baffling.
And when the final whistle blew, it was Leon, swarmed by Italian reporters, who had the last word.
When a Sky Italia journalist praised him for single-handedly changing the game, Leon cut him off in perfect Italian:
"There's no such thing as a solo victory in football. This was a team win—a win for all of Chelsea."
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