In the cynical world of European football, a sixteen-year-old rookie usually spends months earning the right to be passed the ball. But Renzo Uzumaki had bypassed the hierarchy in ten minutes. By shattering Rui Costa's ghost in the passing drills, he hadn't just earned respect—he had become the focal point of the substitutes' hope.
As the scrimmage progressed, the "B-Team" veterans began to hunt for Ren the moment they regained possession. They didn't just pass to him; they looked to him for instructions.
And Renzo Uzumaki was a cold, efficient conductor. In the twelfth minute, the ball bobbled toward him in the center circle. The starters' midfield stepped up, expecting a safe touch. Instead, Ren struck it first-time—a "no-look" vertical ball that sliced through the grass like a surgeon's scalpel.
It bypassed the entire starting midfield and left the center-backs flat-footed. Alberto Gilardino, the 2006 World Cup winner, didn't even have to break his stride. He latched onto the pass, took one look at the keeper, and slotted a clinical finish into the far corner.
1-0. The bench was leading the starters.
"Bellissimo! That is the ball!" Montella shouted, nearly falling over the touchline. Daniel stood beside him, applauding with a stunned grin. This was the "Killer Ball" that had been missing since Valero's injury.
Gilardino, a man who had seen it all at AC Milan and the Italian National Team, jogged back to Renzo Uzumaki with a look of pure relief. "Ren! That was world-class. That's a Serie A ball, kid!"
At thirty-three, Gilardino was in the twilight of his career. Having just returned from a stint in China, his legs weren't what they used to be. He couldn't outrun defenders anymore; he needed service that found his feet in the box. In Renzo Uzumaki, he had found a private waiter.
The starters were rattled. Mario Gomez, the German powerhouse leading the first-team attack, looked at Ren with a mixture of annoyance and envy. If I had that kid behind me, Gomez thought, I'd be top scorer by March.
But Ren wasn't done. Sensing the starting center-backs, Rodriguez and Savic, were tightening up on Gilardino, Ren immediately shifted his focus.
In the nineteenth minute, Ren received the ball deep. Instead of the central through-ball, he clipped a perfectly weighted diagonal pass into the "half-space" on the right wing. It was the exact corridor Mohamed Salah loved to haunt.
The ball landed right in Salah's path, allowing the Egyptian to hit top speed without breaking rhythm. For the next twenty minutes, Ren and Salah turned the right flank into a nightmare for the starters.
"Look at his head," Montella whispered to Daniel. "He realized they're doubling up on Gilardino, so he's using Salah as a sledgehammer. He's sixteen! He's reading the tactical board in real-time."
Salah was revitalized. After a miserable six months on Chelsea's bench under Mourinho, the Egyptian "Messi" felt like a caged bird finally released. Every time he made a move, the ball was already there, waiting for him.
In the forty-ninth minute, the masterpiece was completed. Ren dribbled toward the edge of the D, drawing both Savic and Marcos Alonso toward him. With a flick of his ankle that defied the laws of physics, he slipped a reverse-pass into the box.
It looked like it was going too fast, but Salah, ghosting in from the wing, met it at the exact millisecond it entered the danger zone. One touch, one goal.
2-0.
Salah didn't just celebrate; he ran to Renzo Uzumaki and practically tackled him. For the Egyptian, this loan was a last-ditch effort to save his career in Europe. Meeting a passer like Ren felt like a divine intervention. Is this Allah's way of telling me I belong here? Salah wondered, his eyes bright with excitement.
On the sidelines, Montella and Daniel exchanged a look of pure, criminal glee.
"Daniel," Montella said, his voice trembling with a laugh. "You're absolutely sure we didn't pay Liverpool a single Euro for this loan?"
Daniel suppressed a chuckle. "Not a cent. They even paid for the flight."
"Our brothers at Liverpool..." Montella shook his head, looking at the sixteen-year-old maestro bossing the pitch. "...are the most generous idiots in the history of football."