Thomas hadn’t expected to play a single minute tonight.
Vecchi had told him as much at the training ground: Sit on the bench, watch, learn, stay out of trouble.
Berni had said the same thing on the bus, between mouthfuls of chewing gum and unsolicited advice about the first-team pecking order.
And Thomas knew it himself, the Engine rated him at Serie C level.
This was Serie A.
The gap between the two was a canyon.
So he’d settled into his seat on the bench with the simple goal of soaking it all in.
The floodlights.
The noise.
The sheer pace of a professional match happening twenty metres in front of him, close enough to hear the thud of boot on ball and the barked instructions between defenders.
Just watch.
Get a feel for the rhythm.
And if Mancini happens to glance down the bench and see your face – all the better.
The match kicked off, and within seconds Thomas understood why Berni had predicted a defensive approach.
Mancini had set Inter up in a cautious 3-6-1, packing the midfield and defence with enforcers and leaving only the aging Palacio up front as a lone striker.
Icardi, still nursing the knock from the Sampdoria defeat, sat on the bench a few seats down from Thomas, his knee wrapped in strapping.
Mancini’s plan was transparent: keep it tight, nick a goal on the counter, hold on for a 1-0.
Genoa had other ideas.
In the fifteenth minute, Gasperini’s side carved Inter open with brutal efficiency.
Kucka won a towering header in midfield, flicking the ball wide.
Gilardino, thirty-two years old and still sharp as a tack, ghosted between Juan and the covering centre-back to meet a whipped cross from the left flank.
His header was perfectly placed: a glancing contact that sent the ball arrowing into the far corner of the net.
One – Nil.
Genoa.
Gilardino wheeled away, tongue out, arms spread, celebrating with the delight of a man who’d spent a decade at AC Milan and still relished scoring at the Meazza, even in the wrong colours.
The stadium erupted.
Not in cheers.
In fury.
Sixty thousand voices, booing in unison.
On the bench, Berni covered his mouth with a towel and leaned toward Thomas.
“So much for holding on,” he muttered.
“Plan’s out the window.
Now we have to go forward, and this lot aren’t built for it.” Mancini stood on the touchline, suit jacket already drenched in sweat, clapping his hands and shouting encouragement that the players on the pitch received with visible confusion.
Weren’t we supposed to sit deep?
Now you want us to push up?
The wing-backs, Jonathan and Nagatomo, dutifully advanced.
Inter tried to build through the middle, probing for gaps.
But Genoa had no interest in an open game – Gasperini immediately dropped his team into a compact low block, content to protect their lead and hit Inter on the break.
The pattern for the rest of the half was set.
Inter had the ball.
Genoa had the shape.
And Guarín, who should have been Inter’s creative fulcrum, responded to the frustration the only way he knew how: by shooting from distance.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Thirty-yard drives that flew over the bar, whistled wide, or cannoned into the wall of red shirts defending the edge of the box.
Palacio was apoplectic.
“Play me in!
Stop shooting and play me in!” Nobody listened.
The half ended 0-1.
The boos from the Meazza followed the players down the tunnel.
The dressing room door crashed open.
Mancini stormed in, ripping off his jacket and hurling it at the floor.
“What the hell was that?
If this were 2006, if I still had Moratti’s money, I’d sell every last one of you and start from scratch.
That first half was a disgrace.
An absolute disgrace.” He kicked a water bottle.
It burst on impact, spraying water across the room.
Most of it landed on Thomas, who was pressed into the far corner of the bench trying to be invisible.
Berni silently handed him a towel.
The dressing room sat in rigid silence.
Only Mancini’s voice filled the space.
“Is he always like this?” Thomas whispered.
Berni raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t let the tailored suits and press-conference charm fool you.
Everyone in this room knows about the hairdryer.
He could give Ferguson a run for his money.” Mancini was pacing now, gesturing at the tactical board.
His voice dropped into a wounded register, almost theatrical.
“That goal – they cut through us in three passes.
Three!
Kucka was completely unmarked for the header.
Even a youth-team goalkeeper wouldn’t have given him that much space.” His eyes swept the room.
“Who was marking him?
Anyone?” From the corner, Berni pressed his lips together very hard.
A tremor ran through his shoulders.
He was trying not to laugh.
He failed.
A short, strangled snort escaped.
Mancini’s head snapped toward the sound.
His eyes landed on Thomas.
“Was that you?” Thomas held up both hands.
“Wasn’t me, Coach.” Mancini stared at him for a beat, then turned his attention to Guarín.
The Colombian was sitting with his head down, gulping water.
“Guarín.” Guarín flinched.
Water went down the wrong pipe.
He coughed violently.
“You spent forty-five minutes shooting from the halfway line.
This is football, not basketball.
You think the goal is a three-point line?” “I, there was no one to pass to,” Guarín said, still coughing.
“They had eleven men behind the ball.
The box was packed.” “Then be patient.
Move the ball to the flanks, find our wing-backs, create angles.
Don’t just hammer it from thirty-five yards every time you touch it.” Guarín was Colombian.
He had a temper.
And the basketball comparison had stung.
“With all due respect,” he muttered, just loud enough for the room to hear, “Mazzarri always told me to shoot from distance.
I scored nine goals last season doing exactly that.” The room went very, very quiet.
Thomas looked at Berni.
Berni’s face had gone pale.
Every player in that dressing room understood, instantly, what Guarín had just done.
You didn’t invoke the previous manager’s name to challenge the current one.
Not in football.
Not anywhere.
When Benítez had arrived at Inter in 2010, one of his first acts had been to take down Mourinho’s portrait from the stadium tunnel.
It didn’t matter that Mourinho had just won the treble.
The message was clear: I’m in charge now.
Mancini went still.
His face changed, the anger drained away, replaced by something colder.
A thin, precise smile.
“So you’re a Mazzarri man, are you?
Mancini tilted his head.
Guarín’s expression shifted from defiance to panic.
He stood up, hands raised.
“That’s not what I meant, Coach, I was just saying-” But Mancini was already past him, looking at the rest of the room.