For any Serie A team preparing to face the current Fiorentina, one name is invariably circled in blood-red ink on the tactics board: Renzo.
AC Milan was no exception. Their head coach—the legendary "Inzaghi who lived on the offside line"—had been meticulous. Filippo Inzaghi had spent the week locked in the video room, dissecting Fiorentina's recent matches until he could recite their patterns in his sleep. He wanted his players to be so familiar with Renzo's movements that they could anticipate them by instinct.
However, Inzaghi hadn't accounted for one thing: by forcing his players to watch so many clips of Renzo's brilliance, he had inadvertently instilled a sense of profound awe in them.
Among the Milan squad, the sharpest gaze belonged to their new number 10, Keisuke Honda.
A year ago, Honda had arrived from CSKA Moscow as a free agent, inheriting the iconic number 10 jersey—the ultimate symbol of the Rossoneri's creative heart. But the honeymoon period had been short. Despite the relentless hype from Japanese media, Honda's performance in Serie A had been... mediocre.
The Japanese press, ever stubborn, made excuses. They claimed Serie A's tactical pace was too suffocating, or that Milan's decline was to blame. They pointed to Shinji Kagawa's success in the Bundesliga as proof that Japanese talent was world-class and that the problem lay with Italy itself. But since Renzo's meteoric rise, those excuses had turned to dust.
The title of "Strongest Asian Player" was slipping from Honda's grasp. For him, this match wasn't just about three points; it was a duel for his pride. He needed to prove, on the hallowed turf of the San Siro, that the veteran "Pharaoh" still held more weight than the rising Chinese star.
In the Sina Sports live broadcast room, millions of Chinese fans were already buzzing.
[Win this, and it's 10 straight wins in the league!]
[Milan is 10th for a reason. As long as Ren performs, this is a cakewalk.]
[Look at the camera! It keeps cutting between Ren and Honda. The producers are definitely stirring the pot!]
The whistle blew, and Inzaghi's Milan came out swinging. Both teams lined up in a 4-3-3, but the philosophies were worlds apart. Fiorentina sought to weave a web of short passes, while Milan looked to exploit the width of the San Siro.
Milan's "Little Pharaoh," Stephan El Shaarawy, was the first to test the waters. He received the ball on the left, looking to burn past his marker with the explosive pace that had once made him Europe's hottest prospect.
But he ran straight into a brick wall named Manuel Pasqual.
The Fiorentina captain timed a sliding tackle to perfection, sending the ball out of play and El Shaarawy tumbling into the turf. Two minutes later, it happened again. El Shaarawy tried a series of flashy step-overs, but Pasqual didn't bite. He simply stepped into the path, used his veteran strength to shield the ball, and let it roll out for a goal kick.
"Why are you forcing it?! Pass the ball back to the middle!" Inzaghi screamed from the sidelines, his face turning a shade of purple that matched the opposition's jerseys.
Pasqual looked down at the frustrated El Shaarawy and spoke coolly: "You wanted to prove you're better than Salah, right? To be honest, based on that, you're not even in his shadow. Comparing yourself to him is a joke."
El Shaarawy fumed, but he had no answer.
In the center of the pitch, the atmosphere was even heavier. Milan's captain, Riccardo Montolivo, was a man caught between two worlds. He had spent seven years at Fiorentina, rising to become their captain and icon—only to leave on a free transfer in 2012.
To the Viola fans, he was a traitor. To Pasqual, his former best friend, he was a man who had broken his word.
"Stop worrying about El Shaarawy, Riccardo," Pasqual called out as he jogged past. "Worry about yourself. Is the air at a 'giant club' still comfortable? Because your midfield is about to become a very lonely place."
Montolivo didn't respond. He simply lowered his head, the weight of the captain's armband feeling heavier than usual.
Meanwhile, Keisuke Honda was finding life equally difficult. Every time the Japanese international touched the ball, he was met by the hulking frame of Milan Badelj. Badelj wasn't just defending; he was acting as Renzo's personal on-field bodyguard.
After a particularly bone-crunching tackle that left Honda gasping on the grass, Badelj leaned over. "Be smarter, kid. Don't even think about getting near Ren today."
The message was clear: If you want to challenge the King, you have to get past the Guard.
By the 22nd minute, Milan's early energy had evaporated. Fiorentina had seized the rhythm, and the ball finally found its way to Renzo in the center circle.
"Mark him! Close the middle!" Inzaghi's voice cracked with desperation.
Milan's midfield destroyer, Nigel de Jong, stepped up to block the ground lane. Behind him, the veteran center-backs Mexes and Alex pinched inward, creating a dense thicket of legs. They were prepared for the "Renzo Special"—the incisive, short through-ball that had dismantled half of Italy.
But Renzo didn't play a short pass.
He took a nimble touch to evade De Jong's lunge, looked up for a split second, and then unleashed a violent, sweeping swing of his right leg.
THWACK.
The sound echoed through the silent stadium. The ball didn't roll; it took flight. It rose in a magnificent, soaring arc that bypassed Milan's entire midfield and defensive line.
It was a 60-meter guided missile.
From the sidelines, Inzaghi watched in horror. This wasn't the Fiorentina he had studied. This wasn't the "short-pass merchant" Renzo.
The ball dropped out of the sky with terrifying precision, landing right onto the chest of Mario Gomez inside the box. Gomez, who had practiced this "impossible" link-up all week, didn't hesitate. He brought it down with one touch and, before the stunned Diego López could even set his feet, lashed a half-volley into the roof of the net.
1-0! Fiorentina had struck!
The San Siro fell into a deafening silence. The Milan defenders looked at each other, then back at the boy in the center circle who was calmly high-fiving his teammates.
What kind of playing style is this? they wondered. He can kill us from three feet away... and now he can kill us from sixty yards?
Renzo's 99-rated Long Passing had just made its grand debut on the world stage, and AC Milan was the first to realize that the nightmare had only just begun.
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