Eight in the evening, Stadio Renzo Barbera.
The streets around the stadium were packed.
Palermo fans in pink shirts waved flags and sang their anthem, trying to overwhelm the visitors with home atmosphere.
But the Napoli fans, though fewer, showed no fear.
They gathered near the stadium entrance, singing their own songs, blue flags snapping in the night wind.
Beer cups clinked.
Voices rose.
A force to be reckoned with.
“Forza Napoli!
Forza Napoli!”
Two rivers of color faced off outside the stadium.
The air smelled of grilled sausages from street vendors.
Within the Napoli crowd, one family stood out.
All of them wore number 66 jerseys.
Father, mother, two teenage boys, and the youngest daughter.
A small fan battalion.
“Daddy!
So many people!” Elena, the youngest, clutched her mother’s hem, eyes wide at the roaring crowd.
“Elena, stay close!
Don’t wander!” Her mother pulled her in, tense.
Capela held one son’s hand and carried the other’s weight on his shoulders.
He stood in the sea of blue, his heart unable to settle.
His twin sons, fourteen, had been AC Milan fans.
Growing up in Milan, it was natural.
But when they learned the Serie A sensation Luca was their cousin, they switched allegiance without hesitation.
Now they were diehard Napoli fans and the loudest “Luca defenders” in their school.
“Luca is my cousin,” they told everyone.
Few believed them.
Luca had covered all expenses for this trip.
Tickets, flights, hotel, meals.
Everything arranged.
Capela had initially refused.
Too expensive.
But Luca had said one thing on the phone: “Uncle, we’re family.”
Capela had gone silent.
He had not refused again.
“Dad!
Look!
The Napoli bus!” The older twin spotted the team bus approaching and jumped.
“Where?
Let me see!” The younger one strained on his toes, but the crowd was too tall.
Capela smiled, bent down, and hoisted both sons onto his shoulders.
Their view opened up.
They waved wildly.
The Napoli bus, escorted by police, rolled into the stadium’s inner tunnel.
The waiting fans erupted.
Blue flags surged like waves.
“Luca!
Luca!
Luca!”
“Jorginho!”
Destroy them!”
Fans screamed names, held up jerseys, begged for autographs.
Most players walked past with headphones on, faces blank.
Veterans.
Used to the noise.
But Luca did not walk past.
He heard his name.
Saw the banners with his number.
He stopped, turned to the barrier, and under the security guards’ watch, took a few jerseys and a marker.
He signed quickly, smiled, and waved.
The crowd roared louder.
As he turned to leave.
“Luca!
Cousin!”
Luca’s step paused.
Thanks to his maxed-out vision, he instantly pinpointed the voice in the surging crowd.
Uncle Capela stood with two sons on his shoulders, his wife beside him holding their daughter.
One of the boys was waving frantically.
Luca’s lips curved into a smile.
He waved hard in that direction, then turned and walked into the tunnel.
Capela stood frozen, watching the blue-jacketed figure disappear.
His eyes stung.
His wife squeezed his hand.
Said nothing.
“Dad, Luca saw us!
He really saw us!” The son on his shoulder shouted.
“Yeah,” Capela sniffed.
“He saw us.”
Meanwhile, Sarri straightened his clothes and walked quickly off the bus.
He had a pre-match press conference to attend.
The press room was packed.
Serie A had been quiet lately.
The reporters were hungry.
Both coaches entered almost simultaneously.
The journalists swarmed.
“Mr.
Sarri!
There are reports you plan to start Luca?
He’s only 17.
Is he really ready?”
“Mr.
De Zerbi, your team has lost two in a row.
Can you withstand Napoli’s attack today?”
“Mr.
Sarri!
Is it true Paris Saint-Germain wants to sign Luca?”
“Mr.
Sarri!…”
Questions flew like artillery.
Hands shot up.
Microphones thrust forward.
Both coaches ignored them.
Sarri and Palermo’s Roberto De Zerbi shook hands politely, exchanged pleasantries, and sat down.
But the coaches were old foxes.
Questions about players got answers about dinner plans.
A full press conference, zero substance.
The journalists were left fuming.
The presser ended quickly.
Sarri returned to the locker room, closed the door, and his expression transformed.
The mild-mannered old man from the press room vanished.
A lion about to roar took his place.
He scanned the room, voice low and powerful.
“Do you know what the opposing coach said to me at the press conference?”
Players looked up.
“He said,” Sarri paused, anger in his tone, “that Napoli is just a bunch of lucky rookies.
He said beating us requires no special plan.
And those reporters?
They’re all waiting to laugh at us.”
The air froze.
“Damn it!” Someone cursed.
“A relegation team like Palermo dares to talk like that?”
“Crush them!”
The players’ emotions ignited.
Anger spread like wildfire.
Hamsik shot to his feet and slammed his fist into his locker.
“If we don’t score double digits today, my name isn’t Hamsik!”
“Yeah!
Destroy them!”
“Show them what real football is!”
Sarri watched his players, satisfied.
Ninety percent of what he said was fabricated.
De Zerbi had been polite.
The reporters had not been that hostile.
But football was football.
Sometimes the manager was a general.
Pre-battle motivation could decide a match more than tactics.
“Good.” Sarri raised a hand.
Silence fell.
His voice was quiet but firm.
“I want one thing.
Victory.
Complete, total victory.
Make those who look down on us swallow their words.”
“Victory!”
The locker room erupted.
The players lined up in the tunnel.
The camera swept past the Napoli line and paused on Luca’s face for two seconds.
Calm.
Focused.
No trace of first-start nerves.
“The players are entering the pitch!
Let’s watch this Serie A Round 3 clash!
Napoli away at Palermo!
Luca makes his first career start!”