How do you become the brain of a team?
It was a question Alessandro had never truly faced until now.
Defending was straightforward. Disrupt the opponent. Win the ball. Clear the danger.
But organizing an attack?
Especially in a knockout match, surrounded by teammates he barely knew?
That was different. Complex. Demanding.
The second half began. Alessandro didn't sprint. He moved at a steady rhythm—reading, reacting, always scanning.
The roar of the Cruyff Arena faded into background noise.
All he saw was space, motion, angles.
In his mind, the match unfolded like a living blueprint.
A simplified map: twenty-two players in motion, a pulse of shifting shapes and patterns.
He took the ball.
Immediately, the map changed.
Valencia accelerating down the right.
Ashley Young cutting diagonally toward the box.
Hernández drifting horizontally, finding shadows between defenders.
Welbeck dropping deeper to create space.
Alessandro didn't force it.
He made the obvious choice—one-touch sideways to Cleverley.
And then moved.
Into a new gap. Arm raised. Ready again.
Cleverley saw the pass and instinctively sent it back.
Then regretted it.
Ajax midfielder Siem de Jong was already lunging forward.
"Watch out!" Cleverley shouted.
But Alessandro never flinched.
He'd seen it coming.
He cushioned the ball with his left, shifted his weight, and sent a diagonal switch straight to Rafael on the opposite flank.
De Jong was left lunging at air.
---
The commentators snapped to attention.
"Brilliant read! What a switch!" Zhang Jun shouted.
Rafael took off, racing into the open corridor.
United had baited Ajax left, then hit them clean on the right.
The press was broken in one pass.
Alessandro smirked.
The pitch was his now.
Every movement felt synced to his vision.
He kept shifting laterally, always two steps ahead of the defense.
Run. Pass. Run again.
Always showing. Always directing.
It was like watching a sculptor carve into a blank block, reshaping the match with each decision.
United's offense started moving to his rhythm.
---
On the sideline, Ferguson's arms were folded, but his eyes burned.
Plenty of players could dictate tempo.
But this?
This was on another level.
He'd been with the senior squad less than a week. No chemistry. No patterns built.
And yet—he was orchestrating it.
Calm.
Precise.
Unshaken.
"Mike," Ferguson muttered to Phelan, "he's the one."
Phelan turned. "You mean...?"
"He'll be the heartbeat of United after I retire."
Phelan looked again, quietly stunned.
To earn that kind of conviction from Ferguson—in one appearance—was unheard of.
The truth was, Ferguson had always worried about what would happen after him.
He could already feel the cracks forming. Veterans aging. Mesozoic players like Nani, Young, and Carrick—good, but not world-class.
The ship was moving forward out of inertia. Not dominance.
But maybe... maybe Alessandro could be the one to restart the engine.
Maybe he was the brain this club would need when the captain finally stepped off the deck.
---
Rafael reached the final third but hesitated.
Ajax had collapsed defensively.
No space. No clear run.
He looked like he might float in a useless cross—until he heard the call.
Alessandro had slid into space behind him.
"Back!"
Rafael turned, saw him, and immediately sent it back.
Alessandro didn't pause.
He gestured sharply—Go. Keep going. Into the box.
It wasn't just a pass anymore.
It was a command.
Rafael hesitated—but obeyed.
He pushed into the penalty area, dragging a defender with him.
And with that movement, a channel opened.
Alessandro saw it.
A line—thin but deadly—between Ajax's defenders.
He didn't hesitate.
He struck the ball low, firm, threading it through traffic.
---
"Alessandro's through-ball... Hernández!!" Zhang Jun's voice exploded.
"What a pass!" Zhang Lu echoed.
The ball sliced through defenders like a scalpel.
Hernández had barely been visible seconds before.
But now he was through—perfectly timed.
The ball skipped along the grass, right into his path.
Hernández didn't slow.
He didn't stop.
He didn't need to.
It was all instinct.
He met it first-time, lifting his foot and sending the shot skipping off the turf.
It curved past the keeper's outstretched fingers and buried into the far corner.
Goal.
---
Ferguson didn't move.
He just exhaled.
Eyes fixed on the boy in the No. 39 shirt.
He was right.
Alessandro wasn't just controlling the match.
He was controlling the team.
Controlling the future.
---