A routine Europa League match had suddenly become as hot as a Champions League final.
Why?
Because a long-suppressed football nation was watching with bated breath.
For years, fans from that country had yearned for change, for progress, for something to believe in.
But the reality?
Brutal.
Unforgiving.
Disconnected.
Their Football Association was never built to serve fans or players. It wasn't grassroots. It wasn't democratic. It was a top-down machine—a bureaucracy where climbing the ladder mattered more than elevating the sport.
Reform? Unlikely.
Hope? Flickering.
So fans turned to something else.
Someone else.
A hero.
Any player who went abroad to play in Europe became a symbol of possibility.
But Alessandro Dybala?
He wasn't just abroad.
He was wearing the red of Manchester United.
And he was starting.
If there was to be a hero—someone to carry the dreams of millions—it would be someone like him.
Someone who defied the system.
---
Inside Manchester United's locker room.
Sir Alex Ferguson stood before the team.
"People think I've given up on the Europa League," he began, scanning the faces of the players.
"Let's be honest. If I had to choose between this competition and the Premier League title, I'd pick the league."
The room was silent.
Then he added, "But… what if we didn't have to choose?"
"What if we won both?"
He let that hang in the air.
"I'm giving you this game for a reason. If you can beat Ajax tonight—turn this tie around—then why shouldn't you be the ones to carry us all the way?"
Eyes lit up. Chests rose. Hearts pounded.
Most of the players here were backups in the league. Some barely got minutes.
But Ferguson wasn't finished.
That's when Alessandro stood up.
Confident.
Focused.
Unfazed by the legendary aura of Sir Alex.
"Boss," he asked, "do you mean that if we eliminate Ajax, we'll stay the starters in the Europa League?"
Ferguson smiled.
The kid had guts.
"I don't make promises lightly," he said. "But if you keep performing like this… why not?"
"If you get us to the final, you'll play in the final."
That was all they needed to hear.
---
Tonight, Rooney, Ferdinand, Carrick, even De Gea, were rested.
This wasn't the A-team.
But it was a team with something to prove.
Javier 'Chicharito' Hernandez.
Fabio da Silva.
Alessandro Dybala.
Some got minutes here and there.
Others rarely saw the pitch.
But they were all hungry.
They were ready.
---
Meanwhile, inside the Ajax locker room…
Head coach Martin Jol was laying out the final tactical plan.
Ajax, the Dutch giants with four Champions League titles, had a legacy to uphold—even if they no longer had the spending power of Europe's elite.
Their system was clear: Total Football. Press, possess, attack.
Jol pointed to a marker on the tactics board.
"Here," he said. "This is our breakthrough point."
The name?
Dybala.
"Only seventeen," he said with a grin. "And Ferguson put him in central midfield?"
He chuckled coldly.
"I've faced Sir Alex before. He's not an easy man to outsmart. But this time… maybe he's handed us the advantage."
A little cruelty crept into his tone.
"This kid's being thrown into the fire. I almost feel bad for him."
"But not bad enough to go easy."
---
At the Cruyff Stadium, the tunnel was tense.
Cameras scanned each player's face.
When the lens settled on Alessandro, it lingered.
The commentator on Manchester United TV noted his presence:
> "Alessandro Dybala. Just 17. Making his full debut in central midfield. We wish him the best."
There was an edge of concern in his voice.
Because central midfield wasn't just a position.
It was the heart of the game.
And the spotlight was unforgiving.
---
The referee blew his whistle.
The teams lined up.
As Alessandro stepped onto the turf of the Cruyff Stadium, the roar of over 50,000 fans crashed down like thunder.
The wind whipped across the pitch.
His hair fluttered.
He raised his head.
Took it all in.
And whispered to himself:
> "This is my first step."
His fists clenched.
And the match began.
---