The match resumed with another Napoli corner.
Luca took a breath and scanned the box.
In his mind’s eye, the positioning of every player, the timing of their jumps, all of it was laid out before him.
He ran up and whipped a curling ball toward the back post.
Striker Luigi and Roma’s center-back Marco leaped together.
Thud.
Marco got there first, heading it clear.
Luigi shook his head in frustration but still gave Luca a thumbs up.
The ball fell to the edge of the box, where Lorenzo, Napoli’s defensive midfielder, controlled it.
He had barely taken a touch when a Roma forward lunged at him like a starving animal.
Lorenzo did not risk it.
He played a quick pass back to the center-back.
“Steady!
Keep the ball!” Domenico shouted from the sideline.
Roma’s coach, a grim-faced man with a thick beard named Fabio, waved his arms frantically.
“Mattia!
Giuseppe!
Both of you, mark that number ten!
Do not leave his side!
Do not let him receive cleanly, and do not let him look up!”
He meant Luca.
For the next few minutes, Luca experienced what it meant to be treated like a superstar.
Everywhere he went, two shadows followed.
Mattia, Roma’s defensive midfielder, stocky and strong.
Giuseppe, their central midfielder, lean and quick.
They did not try to tackle immediately.
They just blocked his position, bodied him, and chattered constantly.
“Hey, little genius.
Heard you’re going to the first team.” Mattia pressed close, voice low in Italian.
“Careful.
This is a youth match.
Very physical.
Would be a shame if you picked up a little injury.
Delayed your first-team debut.”
Luca’s face stayed blank.
He kept scanning the pitch.
“Hey, kid.
Talking to you.” Giuseppe switched to English, thinking Luca had not understood.
Luca ignored him.
His full attention was on the dynamic panorama in his mind.
He searched for passing lanes, for angles.
But the two shadows made receiving the ball difficult.
You like following me?
Luca smirked internally and began drifting deeper into his own half.
Come follow me here.
Sure enough, when Luca dropped almost to the center-backs, Mattia and Giuseppe hesitated.
If they followed that deep, they would abandon their midfield completely.
A massive hole would open.
They exchanged a glance and reluctantly stopped, retreating to their positions.
“Here!”
Temporarily free, Luca raised his hand.
The center-back trusted him and played a short pass.
Luca received, turned, and faced forward.
Mattia and Giuseppe immediately charged again.
As they rushed, Luca looked up.
Their eagerness had pulled Roma’s right back slightly forward, exposing space behind him.
Right winger Antonio saw it too and immediately drifted inside, hand raised, eyes wide.
“Luca!
Play it!”
With Luca’s passing, Antonio was certain he would receive a perfect through ball.
But Luca saw something else.
Roma’s center-back was experienced.
He was quietly shifting toward Antonio, ready to cover.
In an instant, Luca made the unexpected choice.
Facing the two closing defenders, he feinted a pass left toward Antonio.
Mattia threw out a leg to block it.
Luca’s right ankle rolled deftly, cutting the ball to his left.
First challenge evaded.
Giuseppe lunged.
Luca dropped his center of gravity, his right leg swinging with minimal backlift but full power.
His instep cracked the ball with vicious curl and pace.
The ball did not fly right, where the crowd was.
It arced across the pitch, a guided missile bypassing midfield and defense, landing in the vast, empty space on the far left.
“What?!”
“He’s passing there?!”
Everyone froze.
The attack had been building on the right.
Roma’s defense had shifted.
The left was a prairie.
And there, winger Federico was sprinting at full speed on instinct.
He had only been trying to stretch the pitch.
He never expected the ball to actually come.
The cross-field ball sailed over half the pitch, slow and floating, yet perfectly into Federico’s path.
“My God!”
Federico himself was startled, but he controlled it beautifully.
Ahead of him was open field.
“Damn it!”
Roma’s coach Fabio was hopping mad on the sideline.
Napoli’s Domenico’s eyes went wide.
“That vision…
when did he see the left was that open?”
His own attention had been on the crowded right.
He had not noticed Federico’s quiet run.
Luca’s switch was sudden, audacious, and the vision required was absurd.
Federico charged into the box.
Facing the rushing keeper and a recovering defender, he calmly slotted a low shot to the far corner.
Goal.
“GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!”
Napoli fans erupted.
The youth players mobbed Federico, who slid on his knees, pointing back at Luca in the distance.
“What a ball!
That pass was insane!”
Even Roma’s coach Fabio couldn’t help but applaud the construction of the goal, despite his frustration.
He stared at the dark-haired boy surrounded by teammates, his expression complicated.
He remembered his own playing days, competing against a young Pirlo.
Even then, Pirlo could produce passes like that.
Seemingly casual, but razor-sharp.
Instantly changing a match.
This boy, Luca.
His technique and experience were not yet at Pirlo’s peak.
But the vision, the audacity, the sheer awareness.
It was the same.
“I have to report this to the first team,” Fabio decided.
“A talent like this is a lottery ticket worth watching.”
In the stands, the Arsenal scout in the red cap had stopped writing.
He pulled out his phone, walked to a quieter corner, and made an international call.
“Mr.
Wenger, it’s me.
Sorry to disturb you, but I had to report immediately.
I’m in Naples.
I’ve found a boy.
Seventeen.
Midfielder.
His passing vision and game awareness remind me of Xavi when he first broke through.
No, even more unique.
He has Pirlo’s elegance with a hint of Sneijder’s aggression.
Yes, I know he’s young.
But he’s already confirmed for Napoli’s first team.
I think he’s worth monitoring closely.
Perhaps even…
an early investment.”
The rest of the first half became Luca’s stage.
Roma tightened their marking, resorting to rough challenges.
But with God’s Eye View, Luca always found a way.
One-touch passes to dictate tempo.
Incisive through balls.
Long switches that stretched the pitch.
He orchestrated Napoli’s attack like a conductor.
By halftime, he had indirectly created two more goals, completing a hat-trick of assists.
The score stood at 3-1.
If there was a man of the half, it was Luca.
In limited touches, he had delivered eleven key passes.
Nearly every possession became a threat.
Only his teammates’ finishing kept the score from being embarrassing.
At halftime, Domenico looked at Luca, breathing hard, grass stains and stud marks on his socks.
He made his decision.
“Luca, you’re done for the second half.”
He patted his shoulder.
“You’ve done more than enough.
Let the others handle the rest.
I am not letting you get kicked to pieces by those desperate Roma kids the day before you join the first team.”
Luca nodded.
He had felt the challenges getting harder.
Rest was smart.
He took a water bottle, swished, and spat.
His body needed to cool down gradually.
“Whoa!
Luca, how did you see that?
Are you cheating?” Defender Stefano plopped down next to him.
“How did you know Federico would sprint to the left like a rabbit?
I didn’t see it!”
“Me neither!” Federico joined in, face still flushed.
“That pass was so smooth.
I could have controlled it with my eyes closed.
Did you plan it?”
“Not just that one,” striker Luigi added.
“Some of your passes, if I was half a step slow, they’d be gone.
How did you know where I’d run?
Are we telepathic?”
“Give it a rest, Luigi.”
“Who are you calling slow?”
The locker room filled with laughter.
Luca smiled at the chaos.
“It’s just a feeling.
I scan, and I know where the space is, where you might run.
Hard to explain.”
He could hardly say he had a live 3D map of the entire pitch in his head.
“Instinct?
Your instinct is insane!” Stefano yelled.
“Life is so unfair!”
The second half began.
Luca walked to the bench, and the stands gave him a long, standing ovation.
The three hundred Napoli diehards said goodbye to their academy’s pride.
Without Luca, Napoli U17 lost control.
The match turned scrappy.
But the first-half lead and sheer effort held.
The final score was 3-2.
A friendly victory.
At the final whistle, the boys hugged and cheered.
For many, it might be their last win in sky blue.
“All right, boys!” Domenico clapped his hands.
“Good match!
Tonight, my treat.
The usual spot.
Jose’s Pizza.
Beer and pizza, as much as you want!”
“Coach is the best!”
“Jose’s Margherita, I’ve missed you!”
“Two beers!
No, three!”
That evening, Jose’s Pizza was loud and packed.
The owner was a Napoli diehard.
The walls were covered with team photos and signed shirts.
Cheap, generous portions.
A longtime haunt for youth players and local fans.
Two long tables were pushed together, filled with laughing young men.
Domenico raised his glass.
“First toast.
To today’s win.
And to every one of you.
Your hard work and sweat these past years.
Wherever you go, remember.
You are warriors who came out of Iannello.”
“Cheers!”
The mood was warm.
They ate, joked about the match, and talked about the future.
“Stefano, heard some Serie C clubs are looking at you?”
“Yeah.
My agent’s talking.
Hope it works out.
Better than no football.”
“Luigi, you on the U18 list?”
“My name’s there.
Probably just to make up numbers.
But training with them is good.
Maybe a Serie B loan?”
“Federico, that goal today was sick!
The scouts definitely noticed!”
“Haha, all thanks to Luca’s pass!”
The conversation drifted to Luca.
“Luca, first team on Monday.
Nervous?”
“Not really,” Luca said, cutting his pizza.
“Just a different training pitch.”
“Don’t forget us when you’re a superstar!”
“Yeah!
Free signed shirts!”
“Forget shirts.
I want VIP tickets.
Front row!”
Luca laughed.
“Fine.
I’ll get you all seats at the San Paolo.”
“Deal!”
The laughter mixed with some uncertainty about the future.
But mostly, it was the fearlessness of youth.
Near the end of the meal, Luca got up to use the restroom.
On his way back, he noticed an unfamiliar face at the counter.
A young man, early twenties, Black hair, thin, wearing a plaid shirt.
He was speaking Italian with an accent, clearly flustered, wallet in hand, negotiating with Jose.
“…My wallet was stolen.
Can I pay part now, the rest tomorrow…”
Jose, a kind-faced, heavyset old man, sighed.
“Kid, you’ve had bad luck.
But you know.
This is a small business…”