Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
It was just past 8 AM. The winter sun had yet to crest over the hills surrounding the Artemio Franchi, and a layer of frost still clung to the blades of grass. Yet, a lone figure had been tracing lines across the pitch for nearly an hour.
When Vincenzo Montella arrived, he expected to be the first one through the gates. For the third day in a row, he was second. He stood by the touchline, watching Renzo Uzumaki—drenched in sweat despite the near-freezing air—practicing his ball distribution.
"Ren, you're here again?" Montella called out, his voice a mix of concern and burgeoning respect. "I saw you doing extra drills after the session yesterday. Hard work is a virtue, son, but your body is your instrument. You have to let it rest."
Ren paused, wiped his brow with his sleeve, and offered a modest smile. "Thank you, Coach, but I feel fine. Honestly, I feel better than fine."
It wasn't a lie. To the other players, training was a grind—a necessary tax paid for the lifestyle of a pro. To Ren, it was a miracle. In his previous life, his body had been a cage of recurring injuries and "what-ifs." Now, possessing a healthy, eighteen-year-old frame and the tactical ghost of Platini in his boots, every drop of sweat felt like a gift. He wasn't just training; he was making up for lost time.
"Mr. Victor in the canteen says Ren was in there at seven sharp for breakfast," Captain Pasqual said, walking onto the pitch with his boots slung over his shoulder. "He told me to tell you he hasn't seen a kid this hungry for work—or for his bolognese—in a decade. He's thrilled you polished off two plates this morning."
Ren laughed. "Compared to the 'culinary desert' of England, Mr. Victor's cooking is a revelation. It's the only thing that competes with my father's home cooking."
"Careful," Pasqual warned with a wink. "Victor is a former Michelin chef who once lost a competition to a Chinese chef. He still carries the grudge. Don't mention your dad's cooking unless you want smaller portions!"
By 8:50 AM, the rest of the squad began to trickle in, arriving exactly on the minute. Montella's face darkened as he watched the veterans stroll leisurely onto the grass. He gathered them into a circle and didn't hold back.
"Look at yourselves!" Montella barked. "Veterans, professionals... yet you're clocking in like factory workers! You arrive on the dot, you leave on the dot. Where is the fire?"
He pointed a sharp finger at Renzo Uzumaki. "This boy has been here since seven. He's the first one in and the last one out every single day. If a sixteen-year-old loanee has more hunger than the men wearing the captain's armbands, we have a serious problem!"
Cuadrado leaned over to Pizarro and whispered, "Ren is Chinese, man. Everyone knows they're born with a 'hard work' gene. How are we supposed to compete with that?"
"Cuadrado! You have something to share?" Montella snapped.
The winger straightened up instantly. "I was just saying, Coach! Brilliant insight! We should all be more like Ren!"
Montella snorted and pivoted to the tactical reality. "We've slipped to 8th. Our goal is the Top Four. We have the Europa League and the Coppa Italia coming up. This schedule will grind us to dust if we aren't 100% committed. Remember that."
The session that followed was the most intense of the week. The "Renzo Uzumaki Effect" was taking hold; nobody wanted to be outshone by the kid who didn't know how to quit.
As the sun began to set, Montella pulled out a sheet of paper. "The day after tomorrow is Round 20. Away game. We leave tomorrow afternoon. Here is the 18-man matchday squad."
He droned through the list. Neto. Gomez. Cuadrado. Salah. Rodriguez. Pasqual. The usual names.
"...and Renzo Uzumaki."
The circle of players rippled with surprise, followed quickly by a wave of congratulatory claps.
"Ren! Five days and already on the plane? Not bad, kid!"
In Serie A, making the 18-man roster is a massive hurdle for a youth player. While Salah's inclusion was expected—he was a seasoned international—Renzo Uzumaki was a ghost. He had no professional minutes, no senior caps, and had been at the club for less than a week. In Fiorentina's history, such a rapid ascent was almost unheard of.
Montella watched Ren's reaction closely. He hadn't chosen Ren out of sentimentality. The boy's passing was a tactical "cheat code," a weapon Montella couldn't afford to leave in the holster. But more than that, he saw the desire in Ren's eyes—a predatory focus on victory that most players didn't develop until their mid-twenties.
In the eyes of the veterans, Ren had earned his seat on the bus through sheer, undeniable talent and the kind of work ethic that made excuses impossible.
The plane was leaving tomorrow. Renzo Uzumaki was officially a Serie A player.