“Beautiful!
Clean, sharp dribble!”
Sarri’s eyes lit up on the sideline.
Good chance.
Palermo’s midfielder cursed under his breath as his teammate was beaten so easily.
He had no choice but to step up, trying to block Luca’s shot.
In modern football, almost every inside-forward type player, when cutting into the edge of the box, instinctively shoots.
It is coded into their DNA.
But they forget.
They are not Messi, Cristiano Ronaldo, Robben, or Ribéry.
Luca knew this too.
He knew his shooting from this distance and angle would likely sail into the stands.
But he also knew.
The defender did not know that.
Luca raised his right leg, shaping for a standard shot.
The midfielder bit.
He threw himself into the block, body horizontal.
But Luca’s foot came down softly, pulling the ball inside.
A fake shot, real cut.
The midfielder flew past him like a swinging gate, completely out of position.
The goalkeeper’s pupils contracted.
Luca had cut through the last line.
He was face to face with goal.
The keeper rushed out, arms spread, trying to close the angle.
Luca still did not shoot.
His right ankle flicked.
A ground pass, sliding past the keeper’s side, rolling perfectly to the back post.
Mertens arrived.
An empty net.
No adjustment needed.
A simple push.
Thud.
The net rippled.
1-0.
“Goal!
Mertens!
Luca’s assist!
Less than ten minutes in!
Luca, on his first start, a surgical dribble, a chillingly calm pass selection.
Does this look like a 17-year-old?”
The Stadio Renzo Barbera erupted.
Napoli fans waved flags, roared.
The blue stands surged like waves.
Capela stood in the crowd, almost jumping.
His twin sons screamed themselves hoarse.
He grabbed a stranger next to him, also in Napoli blue.
“Did you see that?!
That Luca!
Number 66!
That’s my nephew!”
The noise was deafening.
“What?
Say that again, brother?”
Capela laughed and shouted louder.
“I said!
Number 66!
Luca!
That’s my nephew!”
The man blinked, then broke into a grin and clapped Capela’s shoulder.
“Wow!
That’s amazing, brother!
Congratulations!
Here, I’ll buy you a beer!”
He actually handed over a cup.
On the pitch, Mertens turned immediately and pointed at Luca.
Luca ran over, laughing.
They embraced.
Teammates piled on.
The blue celebration stood out against the pink home crowd.
Palermo’s players, faces dark, grabbed the ball and ran to the center circle, urging the referee to restart.
“They want us to hurry.” Insigne glanced over.
“Then let’s hurry.” Luca said.
The match restarted.
Napoli did not slow down.
They pressed harder.
15th minute.
Napoli won the ball.
Luca received from Jorginho in midfield.
No settle.
A first-time lofted pass, perfectly into Mertens’s run behind the defense.
Mertens chested it down, volleyed.
Net.
2-0.
Mertens brace.
Luca’s second assist.
29th minute.
Napoli won the ball.
Luca received near the halfway line, looked up, and launched a high, arcing ball.
A guided missile across the pitch, landing perfectly in Callejón’s path.
Callejón, one-on-one, calmly finished to the far corner.
3-0.
Luca’s assist hat-trick.
In the broadcast booth, the commentator fell silent for two seconds, digesting what he had just seen.
“Only half an hour!
Three-nil!
Luca has completed an assist hat-trick!” His voice was incredulous.
“This is insane!
He’s playing like he’s got a cheat code!”
The chat exploded.
“Is this human?”
“How many meals did Mertens eat today?”
“Luca’s passes have GPS!”
Where am I?
What is happening?”
“Drug test!
This is ridiculous!”
But the match was not over.
40th minute.
Luca faced a three-man press in midfield.
Two feints.
He slipped through the gap.
But more defenders swarmed.
He was pulled down.
Before he hit the ground, he poked the ball to an unmarked Mertens.
Mertens hat-trick.
4-0.
Luca’s fourth assist.
The stadium was in disbelief.
Even some home fans applauded the 17-year-old’s performance.
The commentator frantically checked his notes, voice trembling with excitement.
“I just confirmed.
Luca has become the youngest player in Serie A history to record an assist hat-trick.
He is also the fastest to do it.
And now, he has pushed the record to four assists in a single match.
This is unprecedented.
It may never be repeated.”
Palermo’s players were broken.
Some bent over, hands on knees, gasping.
Others stared at the sky, wondering why they were here.
Their defense was paper against Luca’s passing.
But Luca was not done.
Sarri had said it.
This match was about padding the goal difference.
In the final two minutes.
Luca received at the edge of the box, drawing four defenders.
He did not get greedy.
At the last moment, he laid it off to an unmarked Insigne on the left.
Insigne took a touch, curled it.
The ball arced beautifully, past the keeper’s fingertips.
Clang.
The crossbar.
Again.
Insigne looked up at the sky, sighed, and smiled wryly.
Luca walked over, patted his shoulder, and shook his head.
The referee checked his watch and blew for halftime.
4-0.
The commentator watched the number 66 walk off, chatting and laughing with his teammates.
He could only sigh.
“That was…
brutal.”
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