Serie A, Matchday 21.
Weekend league action.
Maybe it was a scheduling quirk.
Or maybe it was fate.
Just last weekend, at the Stadio Luigi Ferraris in Genoa, Fiorentina had pulled off a stunning stoppage-time comeback, leaving the home fans with the bitter taste of defeat.
Now, a week later, here they were again.
Fiorentina’s players were back in the same stadium.
Only this time, the opponent was different: Sampdoria.
Both clubs call Genoa home.
Both share the Stadio Luigi Ferraris.
But Sampdoria, despite a shorter history, boasts a more decorated past than their city rivals.
In the early 1990s, with the strike partnership of Mancini and Vialli, the defensive rock Vierchowod, and the goalkeeping legend Pagliuca, Sampdoria didn’t just win a Serie A title during the league’s golden era.
They reached a Champions League final, losing by a single goal to Barcelona.
The glory days are long gone.
But a club with that kind of history carries a certain spirit.
Even as a smaller side, Sampdoria has held its ground in Serie A for years.
And facing a Fiorentina team sitting mid-table, they had every intention of taking all three points at home.
The road distance between Florence and Genoa is over two hundred kilometers.
In Italy, where infrastructure is famously uneven, even the highway drive takes nearly four hours.
That didn’t stop Fiorentina’s fans from making the trip.
Last week against Genoa, with the team winless in several matches and the fanbase furious over the winter transfer business, only two or three hundred Viola supporters had shown up.
Today was completely different.
Same city.
Same stadium.
The Fiorentina away section had swelled to nearly eight hundred.
The reason was simple.
They had come for Ethan Cross.
His two masterclass through-ball assists the previous weekend had left fans who missed it kicking themselves.
So today, they traveled to see for themselves.
Could the young talent do it again?
But when the starting lineups were announced, Ethan’s name was missing.
The grumbling started immediately.
“Montella’s too conservative.
After that performance, Ethan doesn’t deserve to start?”
“No guts at all.
The kid has the quality to be in the first eleven.”
“Those two assists last week?
Nobody in this Fiorentina squad can make those passes.
Not even Borja Valero lying in a hospital bed.”
The loudest voice belonged to a bald fan in sunglasses.
His name was Alex.
Diehard Fiorentina supporter.
President of the club’s official supporters’ association.
The irony was rich.
When Ethan hadn’t yet shown his passing talent, Alex had been the loudest voice slamming the club’s transfer business and questioning the kid.
Now that Ethan’s talent was undeniable, and the club hadn’t started him, Alex was the loudest voice demanding justice.
He embodied the raw, emotional swing of the fanbase perfectly.
On the touchline, Montella had his reasons.
Coaches and fans see the game from different angles.
Ethan’s passing talent was extraordinary.
Montella absolutely planned to use him today.
But starting him, for safety’s sake, didn’t feel right.
The kid had been with the first team for barely two weeks.
His chemistry with teammates and his grasp of the tactical system weren’t at one hundred percent yet.
Sampdoria weren’t a powerhouse.
The smart play was to control the game early with the established lineup, set the rhythm, and build a foundation for three points.
Then bring Ethan on.
One thing Montella was certain of: today, Ethan would get more than twenty minutes.
A lot more.
In the tunnel, both teams lined up, ready to walk out.
Salah broke formation like an excited kid, heading straight for a familiar face in the Sampdoria ranks.
Eto’o.
“Eto’o!
I can’t believe it.
We’re really facing each other.”
They shared a huge grin and an even bigger hug.
“Salah, it’s been too long.
You’ve leaned out.
But you look sharp.”
“I knew you were waiting for this day.”
Back when they were teammates at Chelsea, they’d joked about it more than once.
Facing each other as opponents someday.
Eto’o had never taken it seriously.
He was already in the twilight of his career.
Salah, young and gifted, had his whole future ahead of him.
After that season at Chelsea, Eto’o spent half a year at Everton, then moved to Sampdoria.
At thirty-four, the African Leopard was back in familiar Serie A territory.
Leaving the Premier League for Italy’s slower pace had been a retirement plan.
The predator who once terrorized defenses across Europe was older now.
Slower.
The old joke had become reality.
Facing Salah in Serie A stirred something in Eto’o.
A quiet sadness.
Because he knew the truth.
Salah hadn’t been sent to Italy to develop.
He’d been pushed out because things hadn’t worked at Chelsea.
Eto’o believed it was unfair.
He believed Salah had the talent to make it in the Premier League.
But right now, reunited with the mentor and idol he looked up to, Salah was nothing but excited.
He wasn’t dwelling on his situation.
“Eto’o, look at this.”
Salah held up his left wrist.
“You still wear it.”
A braided bracelet, red and green, with patterns that looked like something from an African tribe.
Eto’o had given it to him back at Chelsea. New chapters come out on g.com first.
A gift of encouragement.
He’d told Salah it was a famous charm from Cameroon, something that brought luck and fighting energy.
What he’d never told the young Egyptian was that he’d picked it up at a random stall in London’s Chinatown.
“It really works.
I feel like I’m playing better and better.”
Eto’o smiled and nodded.
Seeing Salah so confident and full of energy hit him hard.
“I’m not lying.
We’ve got an incredible midfield talent at Fiorentina now.”
“With him behind me today, just wait.
You’re going to see something special.”
“His talent is even bigger than mine.”
“Bigger than yours?”
Salah had Eto’o’s attention now.
But when the veteran striker glanced at Fiorentina’s starting lineup, he was confused.
Montella had set them up in a 4-3-3 again.
Eto’o knew the three starting midfielders.
Badelj.
Croatian international.
A tough, defensive-minded workhorse at the Serie A level.
Aquilani.
Once a prodigy at Roma, he’d failed to deliver after a move to Liverpool and had been merely decent since joining Fiorentina.
David Pizarro.
A Serie A veteran born in the seventies.
Still useful, but clearly in the final stretch of his career.
None of them were world-class.
All were solid, recognizable names in Italian football.
But none of them matched what Salah was describing.
Raw, exceptional talent.
Salah saw the confusion on Eto’o’s face and pointed toward the bench, just beyond the tunnel entrance.
“That genius is over there.”
Eto’o followed the gesture and paused.
Then he understood.
During Sampdoria’s pre-match preparations, manager Mihajlović had mentioned Ethan Cross.
A sixteen-year-old kid.
Twenty minutes off the bench in his league debut.
Two assists.
It had certainly caught the eye.
But Eto’o hadn’t paid much attention.
A player with his trophy cabinet had seen too many so-called prodigies.
Back at Barcelona, La Masia alone had churned out more “next big things” than he could count on both hands.
A young player having one bright match wasn’t rare.
It didn’t prove much.
Still, seeing the light in Salah’s eyes, the absolute conviction on his face, Eto’o found himself glancing toward the bench again.
Could this kid really be that special?
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