"Lads," Ferguson said calmly, standing in the center of the dressing room, "we're going to have to step up the attack in the second half."
No one argued.
The score was 1–0 on the night—but 2–2 on aggregate.
Ajax held the away-goal advantage.
For United to go through, they needed another.
So, pushing forward made sense.
But it was Ferguson's next line that made the players glance around the room in disbelief.
"Alessandro, second half—you're free to move. No more staying anchored."
The locker room fell silent.
Even the hum of water dripping from the showers stopped seeming audible.
Did they hear that right?
Ferguson—Sir Alex Ferguson—just told a 17-year-old to abandon defensive duties and roam.
Tactical freedom.
That was the one thing Ferguson rarely handed out. Not even to legends.
He'd screamed at Beckham for less.
Even Alessandro looked momentarily surprised.
But Ferguson's expression was steel.
"I want the same defensive contribution from you," he said, voice even. "But now I also want to see what you can do in attack."
He wasn't bluffing.
He was betting.
This was the knockout stage of the Europa League. But Ferguson could live with a loss.
What he couldn't live with was missing a generational talent.
And right now, he had the chance to unlock something.
"You play how you see it," Ferguson told him. "Move where the space is. Control the rhythm."
Then he turned to the rest of the squad.
"In the second half—we play through him. If he asks for the ball, give it."
Stunned looks.
This wasn't about age anymore.
This was Ferguson declaring—Alessandro is the fulcrum.
The players didn't speak. They just nodded.
Some were skeptical.
But no one questioned it.
Ferguson's word wasn't suggestion. It was law.
---
Fifteen minutes later, the teams returned to the pitch.
The Cruyff Arena was alive again—chants, drums, the constant murmur of voices blending into one rhythm.
Alessandro walked out into the noise.
Focused.
He didn't need to guess why Ferguson gave him the green light.
Ferguson had seen what others hadn't.
He'd seen a midfielder comfortable on the defensive end... but capable of so much more.
Now, Alessandro had a chance to prove it.
Not as a supporting piece.
But as the brain.
---
Ajax came out pressing high again—tight lines, short distances between their front, midfield, and back.
Textbook total football.
Manchester United responded in kind.
More forward movement. Quicker passing lanes. Sharper transitions.
And at the center of it all: Alessandro.
Running. Checking. Receiving. Releasing.
Always showing.
Always one step ahead of the press.
To the Ajax bench, it was subtle—but troubling.
Five minutes in, Martin Jol muttered something under his breath.
By the seventh, he turned to his assistant. "See it yet?"
"See what?"
"Their No. 39. The kid," Jol said. "He's had... I don't know—ten touches already. And hasn't lost the ball once."
The assistant frowned.
"So?"
Jol narrowed his eyes. "So it's not just his defensive work. He's running their midfield."
---
Ferguson, watching from the sideline, didn't say a word.
But he saw it too.
Alessandro wasn't playing fancy. He wasn't dribbling through lines or launching Hollywood passes.
It was simpler than that.
And smarter.
Every touch had a plan.
Every pass had a direction.
Before the ball even reached him, he already knew what was next.
It was the kind of midfield play Ferguson rarely saw—even among pros.
No wasted movements.
No delays.
He took it, turned, passed—and moved again.
The ball didn't stop. Neither did he.
And slowly, Ajax backed off.
Their high press collapsed into a mid-block. They couldn't pin him.
Alessandro was dragging them all over the pitch—finding gaps, dictating flow.
When defenders sagged, he stepped forward.
When they pressed, he moved wide.
---
Ten minutes into the second half, Ajax had stopped chasing.
They fell back deeper, inviting possession.
Let United pass themselves in circles, they figured.
But they were wrong.
Ferguson stood with arms crossed, his eyes fixed on Alessandro.
McPhelan leaned in. "You want to bring someone on?"
Ferguson didn't blink.
"I want to see how far this brain can take us."
McPhelan looked back out to the pitch.
Alessandro moved into the left channel, took a pass from Cleverley, then immediately dropped it into space for Welbeck to run onto.
Seconds later, he was popping up near the right flank to reset possession.
McPhelan nodded slowly.
The last time Ferguson watched a player this closely?
That was a young Cristiano Ronaldo.
But this—this was different.
Ferguson said it out loud:
"If Cristiano was the fist... then Alessandro might be the brain."
He paused.
"And in this team... the brain is the one who truly controls the future."
---