Xiao Zhe and Olivia were so nervous their palms were sweating.
They had eagerly awaited their son's professional debut, of course, but what parent didn't want a perfect start? A defeat in his opening match would be far too cruel.
As for Sandro coming on to orchestrate a late equalizer or even a winner, they only dared to fantasize about it in secret. It felt like an extravagant wish—one they were terrified to speak aloud lest it shatter their fragile hopes.
Macado's feelings were far more complicated.
The players he had scouted and brought to Brescia could fill several squads by now, but Sandro was the only one who gave him the genuine thrill of unearthing a hidden treasure.
Giampaolo's decision to send Sandro onto the pitch at such a critical moment left the scout completely bewildered, driving him to mutter to himself.
"Damn it, you're going to ruin him. This is no time for a debut. He's still a kid; what he needs is confidence...
No, he can do it! Isn't this exactly what you've been waiting for? Isn't this the chance you wanted..."
Sandro remained as calm as ever.
To put it nicely, he was cool under pressure—the unmistakable demeanor of a natural leader. To put it harshly, he was lifeless, completely devoid of passion, like a stodgy old man.
Having witnessed Sandro's playing style on the training pitch—a perfect blend of aggression and elegance—Giampaolo firmly believed he was the former.
Someone without passion and a profound love for the game could never play that kind of football. The manager was certain the kid was just incredibly good at putting on a front, while inside, he was bubbling over with excitement.
"I need you to tuck in right behind Caracciolo as a second striker, or a nine and a half..."
Giampaolo was no fool. With a style as distinct as Sandro's, he was already doing the boy a favor by not dropping him deep into the midfield—and there was no way the manager was stupid enough to use him as a traditional poacher scrambling for tap-ins in the six-yard box.
"Focus on long shots and your dribbling in the midfield and final third. Bring all your strengths to bear.
Their number 20 is on the slower side. Shift out to the left flank when you can and tear open a gap through him.
When Caracciolo gets on the ball, you need to make quick runs into the penalty area, ready to follow up on any rebounds..."
He trailed off. "Do you know what to do?"
"I know," Sandro said with a nod. "Dribble, beat my man, shoot, and score."
Giampaolo clapped a heavy hand on Sandro's shoulder. "Get excited! You're only seventeen. You're in a profession that demands passion. Remember... nobody is born a superstar. As long as you're willing to set your soul on fire, anything is possible!"
"More than just on fire," Sandro replied, pressing a hand to his chest. He could feel his heart hammering far faster than usual, yet his tone remained perfectly even. "I feel like my soul is about to explode!"
No one knew just how hard it had been for him to reach this point.
He was deeply grateful, and he cherished every second of it.
"Good. It seems you're truly ready," Giampaolo said, leaning into the theatrics without a hint of shame. "Now get out there and stun the world."
In the eightieth minute, Brescia made a substitution.
Number 5 off, number 11 on.
Stepping up to the touchline, Sandro raised his boot for the fourth official to inspect his studs. He high-fived Budel, the man he was replacing, before dropping into a half-squat. Reaching out with his right hand, he lightly brushed the grass. Then, he sprinted onto the pitch.
A scattering of applause drifted down from the stands as a wide array of gazes fell upon him.
Well over half were filled with skepticism, a small fraction held quiet expectation, and the rest were simply apathetic.
A Novara player took the throw-in, and the match resumed.
"Brescia has swapped a midfielder for a forward, doubling down on their attack!"
"Novara is playing very patiently, not rushing to push forward... Oh, what a beautiful steal!
Mandorlini has dispossessed Buzzegoli! Here comes a Brescia counterattack!"
After winning the ball, Mandorlini quickly distributed it, picking out Lasik.
Lasik was immediately swarmed by fierce pressure. Just as he was about to play a safe pass backward, he caught sight of Sandro's raised hand.
He hesitated for a split second, then threaded the ball over to him.
Sandro had his back to the goal. Before the ball even reached his feet, Lazzari was already closing in to press him hard.
Grossi surged forward to offer support. Sandro instantly feinted a pass toward him, but just a fraction of a second before his right boot connected, he sharply lifted his foot. He let the ball run cleanly through his legs and rapidly spun around.
Hoping to rattle the rookie, Lazzari had let out an aggressive shout as he charged in, fully expecting the sheer noise to throw the kid into a panic. He never expected that, in the blink of an eye, the ball would already be rolling past his feet as Sandro blew right by his shoulder.
Everyone in the stadium froze. For a fleeting second, the chaotic din of Rigamonti Stadium seemed to drop into an eerie hush. Then, a tidal wave of stunned gasps and exclamations erupted from the stands.
The commentator was equally stunned by Sandro's brilliantly simple maneuver.
"Beautiful!
Sandro fakes the pass to beat his man, effortlessly leaving the pressing Lazzari in the dust!
That was his very first touch of the game, and he's already displaying tremendous composure...
This kid isn't suffering from stage fright in the slightest!"
In reality, Sandro's first true touch only came after he blew past Lazzari and caught up to the rolling ball.
He pushed the ball heavily forward and sprinted after it.
The Brescia fans, who had just been cheering for Sandro, froze once again.
His dribbling style looked painfully amateurish...
Buzzegoli quickly stepped up to intercept him.
Sandro acted as if the man wasn't even there. Not only did he refuse to slow down, but he actually accelerated.
By the time he took his third touch, Buzzegoli was right in his face.
"Pass it, pass it, pass it..."
"Beat him! Beat him!"
"His dribbling is awful, he won't get past... wait, what?"
In the exact fraction of a second that Buzzegoli stuck out a foot to tackle, Sandro violently poked the ball to the defender's left.
The ball zoomed past Buzzegoli's left side, while Sandro swiftly shifted gears and blew past the defender's right.
Buzzegoli was a highly experienced veteran. He made an instantaneous tactical decision and reached out to pull him down by the shirt.
But Sandro's sheer pace was far beyond his expectations. He only managed to brush a loose flap of jersey. Before his fingers could even close around the fabric, Sandro had already blasted a full body length past him.
"He's knocked it right around him!
Buzzegoli has been left in the dust as well!!
Just what on earth is happening here?!"
In a span of just two or three seconds, the ball had already breached the perimeter of Novara's penalty area!
The rest of the Novara squad finally seemed to snap out of their daze, frantically converging on Sandro from all directions.
Sandro kept his eyes locked firmly on the goal. The instant he caught up to the ball, he whipped the inside of his right boot through it, delivering a razor-sharp through ball!
The ball sliced across the grass like a surgeon's scalpel, carving a path straight between the two center-backs as it rolled toward the goal.
Caracciolo was half a second late to react before he finally launched into a sprint.
Novara goalkeeper Kosický surged off his line decisively, putting himself on a collision course with Caracciolo right at the edge of the six-yard box.
Caracciolo had no time to adjust his stride. The second he caught up to the ball, he desperately poked it forward with his toe. The ball shot right between Kosický's legs, rolling freely toward the gaping net behind him...