Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

The Stadio Olimpico was no longer a football stadium.

The score was 2-2. Twenty minutes to go.

Both teams had ten men.

And every single person on the pitch looked like they had just run a marathon through a hurricane.

The commentator, who sounded like he was gargling with gravel and pure adrenaline, was having the time of his life. "I HAVE SEEN THINGS YOU PEOPLE WOULDN'T BELIEVE!" he roared, his voice cracking. "Red cards in the afternoon sun! Scissor-kicks off the shoulder of Orion! This is not football! This is a fever dream! And I never want to wake up!"

On the pitch, the game had lost all semblance of tactical shape.

It was a chaotic, end-to-end brawl, a contest of pure, unadulterated will.

"LEO! DROP DEEPER!" Lautaro Martínez yelled, his voice hoarse, as he tried to hold the ball up against a defender who was practically climbing on his back.

"THERE'S A GAP ON THE LEFT! SWITCH IT!" Lorenzo Pellegrini screamed at his Roma teammates, pointing to a patch of grass the size of a postage stamp.

The coaches were just as frantic.

Chivu had grabbed his poor assistant by the shoulders and was shaking him gently as he pointed at the pitch. "They are exhausted! Look at them! Their legs are gone! We have to keep the pressure on! No mercy!"

The final twenty minutes of regular time were a beautiful, ugly mess.

Players were running on fumes. Passes went astray. First touches were heavy.

But the heart was still there.

In the 78th minute, Dybala, who seemed to be powered by a different energy source than mere mortals, produced another moment of magic.

He received the ball and, with a single, fluid motion, pirouetted away from a tired Çalhanoğlu, gliding into space. He slid a pass to Lukaku, whose shot was heroically blocked by a full-body lunge from Bastoni.

Inter responded. A quick counter saw the ball find Cole Palmer.

He drove forward, his elegant stride eating up the grass.

He feinted, sending a defender sliding off to another post code, but his final shot was weary, trickling harmlessly into the keeper's arms.

The game was a human pinball machine, the ball ricocheting from one end to the other.

And in the 88th minute, it took a bounce of pure, Shakespearean tragedy.

Leonardo Spinazzola, Roma's tireless left-back, summoned one final burst of energy.

He sprinted down the wing and whipped in a low, dangerous, skidding cross.

It wasn't aimed at anyone in particular; it was just an area of chaos.

Alessandro Bastoni, who had been a hero all night, a rock in defense, saw the danger.

He had to clear it. He launched himself into a desperate, sliding interception.

His only thought was to get the ball away, anywhere but in front of his goal.

He made contact.

But instead of the satisfying thud of a clean clearance, the ball came off the very top of his shinpad.

It looped up, spinning crazily, and flew in a perfect, horrible, agonizing arc over the head of his own despairing goalkeeper.

The ball bounced once and settled gently into the back of the net.

An own goal.

The Stadio Olimpico fell completely silent for a full second, a collective intake of breath from 70,000 people trying to understand what they had just seen.

Then, it exploded.

The Roma fans were in delirious disbelief. Bastoni just lay on the grass, his face buried in the turf, a picture of absolute devastation.

"NO! NO! A TRAGEDY OF GREEK PROPORTIONS!" the commentator wailed. "ALESSANDRO BASTONI, THE HERO OF INTER, HAS SCORED A HEARTBREAKING OWN GOAL! From hero to zero in the blink of an eye! That is the cruellest, most wicked twist of fate I have ever seen! Roma lead 3-2! Surely, surely, that is the dagger in the heart of Inter!"

The final whistle of the 90 minutes blew shortly after.

The Inter players collapsed to the grass, utterly broken.

The cup was gone.

The brief break before extra time was a somber affair.

The Inter players drank water, their eyes vacant.

But as they gathered in a tight huddle, a strange thing happened.

Julián Álvarez, the court jester, the man of a million weird questions, was completely silent.

He just walked over to the devastated Bastoni, put an arm around his shoulder, and said nothing.

It was a simple, profound gesture of support.

The first half of extra time began.

The players were ghosts, their legs made of spaghetti, running on memory and heart alone. It was a slow, painful war of attrition.

Then, in the 104th minute, Inter won a corner.

It felt like a final, hopeless prayer.

Çalhanoğlu, his legs heavy, jogged over.

He whipped in a cross that hung in the air, a hopeful, looping ball towards the back post.

And then, a flash of blue and black. Julián Álvarez, who had been a non-stop engine of chaos all night, made one final, desperate sprint.

He had no right to have that much energy left.

He launched himself into the air, getting above his marker, and met the ball with a header of perfect technique, snapping his neck to guide it back across the goal.

The keeper, scrambling, dove at full stretch, but the ball looped over his outstretched hand and nestled into the far corner of the net.

3-3.

The Inter players didn't even have the energy to celebrate wildly.

They just stumbled towards Julián, a huddle of exhausted, relieved zombies.

Julián just pointed to Bastoni, a silent message: That was for you.

The whistle blew for the end of the first half of extra time.

The players were practically crawling to the sideline for the brief, one-minute break.

The clock showed 110:00.

The score was 3-3. The players were walking dead.

Ten minutes of football, and then the cruel lottery of a penalty shootout, stood between them and the Coppa Italia.

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A/N: Thanks a lot for your support!... The story's just warming up, so don't miss the next match! 🔥