Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

The own goal was so ridiculous, so utterly comical, that for a moment, the entire San Siro seemed to be united in a state of stunned, disbelieving laughter.

The Torino players stared at their teammate, Ricardo Rodriguez, who was still on the ground with his face buried in the grass, as if hoping the earth would swallow him whole. Their coach on the sideline looked like he was about to have a full-blown existential crisis.

The Inter players, on the other hand, were in hysterics.

They didn't celebrate with the usual roars and fist pumps.

They just mobbed Julián Álvarez, the agent of chaos, laughing so hard they were practically crying.

"WHAT DID YOU DO?!" Lautaro Martínez wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye.

"I did nothing!" Julián said, his face a perfect picture of angelic innocence. "I was just... being a mosquito. It is not my fault if he is allergic to tactical buzzing."

The commentator was in heaven. "I'VE SEEN IT ALL! A GOAL SCORED BY PURE, UNADULTERATED ANNOYANCE! Julián Álvarez didn't touch the ball, but he has just scored the most important goal of his life! The Triangle has been defeated by a mosquito! You cannot write this stuff! You simply cannot!"

For the next fifteen minutes, Inter played with a swagger, a joyous, arrogant confidence that bordered on cruel.

They were no longer just trying to win; they were putting on a show.

The ball moved between them in a mesmerizing blur of one-touch passes, flicks, and backheels.

The San Siro crowd, sensing the party atmosphere, began to roar "Olé!" with every completed pass. It was a footballing masterclass, a celebration of their own brilliance.

Leon, Palmer, and Çalhanoğlu were at the heart of it, a midfield trio playing a different sport to the ten demoralized statues in maroon shirts.

At one point, Leon received the ball, feinted to shoot, and then played an audacious, no-look reverse pass to Barella, who had made a lung-busting run from deep.

The move was so smooth, so unexpected, that Barella himself was surprised, and he stumbled slightly, his shot trickling just wide. The two just looked at each other and burst out laughing.

They were having fun. They were coasting. The game was won. The title was a formality.

And it is in such moments of supreme confidence that the gods of football, who have a notoriously wicked sense of humor, love to intervene.

In the 75th minute, the ball was being passed around Inter's back line with a casual, almost lazy, arrogance.

Alessandro Bastoni, who had been a rock all game, received a simple square pass from de Vrij.

He had all the time in the world. He could have passed it back to the keeper, or cleared it long.

Instead, he decided to be clever.

He tried a little drag-back, a casual piece of skill to evade the token pressure from a tired Torino striker.

But his touch was too heavy.

The ball bobbled away from him, a tiny, fatal error.

Duván Zapata, the Torino striker who had been chasing shadows all day, couldn't believe his luck. His eyes lit up.

He pounced on the loose ball like a starving wolf.

Bastoni, in a blind panic, tried to recover, but it was too late. Zapata was through on goal.

He took one touch and calmly slotted the ball past the onrushing Yann Sommer.

2-1.

A stunned, horrified silence fell over the San Siro.

The "Olé!" chants died in the throats of the fans.

Bastoni just stood there, his hands on his head, a look of pure, gut-wrenching shock on his face.

"WHERE DID THAT COME FROM?!" the commentator, who had been lauding Inter's brilliance just moments before, yelled in disbelief.

"A MOMENT OF MADNESS! A cardinal sin from Alessandro Bastoni! He was showboating on the edge of his own box, and he has gifted Torino a lifeline! The champions-elect have shot themselves in the foot! Is the comeback on?!"

The goal changed everything. The tired, demoralized Torino players were suddenly re-energized, a surge of belief coursing through their veins. The comfortable, confident Inter players were suddenly nervous, hesitant. Their easy, flowing passes became safe, sideways pushes. The party was over.

Coach Chivu was a volcano of fury on the sideline. "COMPLACENCY! ARROGANCE!" he roared, kicking a water bottle so hard it flew into the third row of seats.

"YOU THINK THE GAME IS WON?! WAKE UP!"

The final minutes were a nervy, scrappy, and utterly terrifying affair for the home fans.

Torino, with nothing to lose, threw everything forward. Inter, with everything to lose, were defending for their lives, their earlier swagger a distant memory.

Then, in the 89th minute, the unthinkable happened.

Torino won a free-kick on the right wing.

The ball was whipped into the box. It was cleared, but only to the edge of the area where it fell to Torino's midfielder, Nikola Vlašić. He was surrounded by blue and black shirts.

There was no danger.

But Vlašić had other ideas. He controlled the ball with one touch. With his second, he flicked it up into the air.

And with his third, he swiveled and hit a full, acrobatic bicycle kick.

Time stopped.

The ball flew in a perfect, impossible arc, a piece of pure, audacious, unstoppable magic.

It sailed over the heads of every player, over the despairing dive of Yann Sommer, and crashed into the top corner of the net.

2-2.

The stadium was utterly, completely, devastatingly silent.

The only sound was the wild, screaming celebration from the tiny pocket of away fans and the Torino bench, who had all sprinted onto the pitch in a state of delirious disbelief.

The Inter players just collapsed. They stared at the scoreboard, their faces white with shock.

How? How had this happened?

They had been 2-0 up, cruising, laughing.

Now, their victory, their precious three points, had vanished, stolen by a moment of complacency and a moment of impossible genius.

The final whistle blew. The match ended 2-2. As the Torino players celebrated a draw that felt like a World Cup win, the Inter players just stood there, lost in a daze of their own making.

The big screens in the stadium, with cruel, impeccable timing, flashed up the final scores from around the league.

[Serie A - Final Scores]

[Inter 2 - 2 Torino]

[AC Milan 1 - 0 Fiorentina]

And then, the updated league table appeared.

[Serie A - Standings]

1. Inter Milan - 88 pts

2. AC Milan - 84 pts

3. Juventus - 82 pts

A gasp went through the remaining Inter fans.

The players looked up at the screen, and the full, horrifying weight of their failure crashed down on them.

Their comfortable five-point lead was gone.

It was now just four.

With two games left to play, the title race, which they had considered all but won, was suddenly, terrifyingly, wide open again.