On September 14, in the fourth round of Serie B, Sandro once again made the matchday squad.
Historically, the two sides had met nine times, with Brescia holding the absolute upper hand at four wins, three draws, and one loss. However, their two matchups last season had ended in one win and one loss apiece, both with a scoreline of 1-0. They had finished sixth and ninth in the standings. So far this season, they sat at four and five points respectively, essentially making them cut from the same cloth.
The match was closely contested from the opening whistle. Evenly matched in skill, neither side managed to seize a clear advantage. Even their luck seemed perfectly mirrored. Each team produced only one threatening shot in the first half: Ternana rattled the crossbar, and Brescia immediately answered by smashing a shot off the post. The first half ended in a scoreless stalemate.
"The first half was incredibly dull. Both sides each had one golden opportunity, but neither could capitalize on it..."
Inside the locker room, Giampaolo was absolutely furious.
During the fifteen-minute halftime break, he spent fourteen minutes unleashing a blistering tirade on the squad, only remembering to lay out the second-half tactics at the very end.
Brescia had brought slightly more traveling fans than usual to this away fixture, and they were all anxiously waiting for a specific moment to arrive.
In the 50th minute, Sandro finally stepped up to the touchline.
"Paci deflects the opposing forward's shot over the byline, earning Ternana their first corner of the second half. Brescia are taking this opportunity to make their first substitution. Giampaolo is finally sending on his secret weapon.
"Number 11 Sandro Xiao, who delivered a stunning performance in the last match, is once again standing on the touchline. Will he produce another magical display today?"
"You know what to do, right?" Giampaolo asked, his expression solemn. "Right now, we are deadlocked in every aspect. I need a weight to break this equilibrium and tilt the scales of victory in our favor, and you are my heaviest chip!"
If Sandro were truly just seventeen years old, this speech about him being the "most needed" and "most important" player would have undoubtedly fired him up, filling him with the heroic resolve to die for the manager who recognized his worth. But as it stood, holding his tongue and not trying to con Giampaolo in return was already proof of his good conscience...
The player making way this time was once again Number 5, Budel.
Never in his wildest dreams did Budel imagine that the biggest casualty of Sandro's rise wouldn't be the substitute forward Oduamadi, but rather himself—a starting midfielder!
It could only be said that Sandro's playstyle—half attacking midfielder, half forward, half Number 9, and half Number 10—was truly obnoxious to deal with.
The moment Sandro stepped onto the pitch, thunderous applause erupted from the away end.
He first jogged over to his teammates to relay the manager's instructions.
However, just because he had spared the manager didn't mean he wouldn't con his teammates.
The first victim to be completely fooled by that innocent, handsome face was Coletti.
"Captain, the boss wants you to push forward more often and look for vertical passes... Basically, whenever you get the ball, just try your best to pass it to me."
Coletti looked at him dubiously. "Are you sure that's what the boss said?"
Sandro kept a perfectly straight face, his expression exuding absolute sincerity. "Of course! Don't you believe me?"
"It's not that I don't believe you... Forget it, I got it."
Sandro then swiftly jogged over to Caracciolo.
"The boss says to stop wasting chances. Only shoot when you're absolutely sure. If you don't have a good angle, lay it off more often. I'll be right behind you to support."
After scoring a brace in the previous match, Caracciolo had let the success go to his head. He had squandered multiple shots today; aside from that one solid strike against the post, the rest had been total nonsense. Because of his guilty conscience, he didn't doubt Sandro's "relayed message" in the slightest. Nodding sheepishly, he said, "Got it."
Ternana quickly took their corner.
The ball soared into the goalmouth. Goalkeeper Arcari leaped into the air and heavily swatted the ball forward with a single hand, clearing it straight out of the penalty area.
Caracciolo's eyes lit up. He prepared to chest the ball down, but a figure suddenly flashed into his peripheral vision, sprinting like the wind toward the Ternana half. He immediately remembered the manager's warning. Lunging upward, he flicked his head and redirected the ball perfectly into Sandro's path.
Sandro didn't bother trapping the ball. Instead, he used the inside of his right foot to knock it lightly forward into open space, instantly accelerating after it.
The opposing defensive midfielder charged over, throwing his body into a vicious challenge aimed straight at him.
Sandro didn't even flinch. Utilizing his Meteor Stride, he continued to drive the ball forward in long, sweeping steps.
With an explosive burst of speed, he knocked the ball past the incoming collision, blazing forward and slicing right across the halfway line.
On the touchline, Ternana's head coach felt a sudden surge of relief. Thank God he hadn't sent his entire team up into the box for that corner. Otherwise, with Sandro's terrifying dribbling speed, how the hell were his players supposed to catch him?
But his relief was short-lived. After he blew past the defensive midfielder, only two Ternana players remained between Sandro and the goal.
The rest of the players scrambled madly toward the Ternana half, but whether opponent or teammate, not a single one could match his pace.
"Ternana's corner is cleared out of the box! Caracciolo flicks a header on and finds Sandro! Sandro is on the break!"
"A rapid counterattack for Brescia! Sandro is taking the ball into the Ternana half entirely on his own!"
"He's too fast!
"He's past one, there are two... scratch that, there's only one defender left..."
The opposing left-back rushed in to intercept, but Sandro effortlessly blew past him with a quick change of direction and a heavy touch to sprint into space.
Only the center-back, Dilinio, stood in his way.
If he could just get past him, Sandro would be one-on-one with the goalkeeper.
The two rapidly converged about five meters outside the penalty arc.
Just as Sandro flicked the ball to Dilinio's right, the defender launched himself into a vicious, flying slide tackle.
Sandro was someone who had already died once. Therefore... he was more afraid of dying than anyone else on the pitch.
After all, Nirvana could only be used once...
As Dilinio came flying in, Sandro instinctively leaped upward to dodge. Because of that split-second reaction, his standing leg avoided taking the brunt of the tackle squarely; otherwise, this would have definitely been a stretcher job.
Even so, Dilinio's dangerously high studs caught Sandro straight on the shin guard. The momentum flipped him clean over the defender, sending him crashing down onto the turf, flat on his back.
"Tweet!"
Accompanied by a sharp blast of the whistle, the referee sprinted over, gasping for breath. He was already reaching into his pocket as he ran. The moment he arrived, he shoved a red card directly into Dilinio's face.
"Sandro is brutally taken down by Dilinio!
"That is a horribly malicious foul!
"He went straight for Sandro's ankle! That tackle belongs in a criminal court!
"The referee has shown Dilinio a red card without any hesitation, but that's not enough! He deserves a much harsher punishment!
"Because challenges like that don't just ruin a young man's football dreams—they ruin the entire league!"
Going to jail was obviously an exaggeration, but a multi-match suspension was absolutely inevitable.
Dilinio actually felt a twinge of regret, but he didn't regret the foul itself; he only regretted needlessly lifting his studs at the end.
Perhaps Sandro's face simply attracted too much aggro. He just couldn't resist the urge to see those youthful features twisted in agony.
The man clearly had some underlying psychological issues.
Still, regret was just regret. On the surface, he maintained a vicious facade. He didn't bother pleading with or explaining himself to the referee. Instead, he walked over to where Sandro lay on the ground and shouted, "Hey, rookie! Welcome to Serie B!"
With that, he swaggered off the pitch.
Sandro carefully took stock of his body. Sensing no serious damage, he stood up and cautiously tested his footing for a few steps. He rubbed his back and the back of his neck, finally breathing a sigh of relief when he confirmed that he was completely fine.
But the moment he relaxed, the referee's whistle shrilled once again.
He turned his head and saw Dilinio sprawled out on the touchline. Grossi was squatting right next to him, furiously barking something into his face like a machine gun.
Everyone was stunned.
They looked at Sandro, who was standing there without a scratch on him, and then looked back at Dilinio, who was rolling around on the ground clutching his face. For a moment, no one knew what to say.
The referee felt a massive headache coming on.
'Look buddy, your teammate is perfectly fine, so could you please not start a brawl right now?'
He trotted over to the scene, but before he could even raise his red card, Grossi stood up and walked away, looking completely unbothered.
Watching Grossi's retreating back, an inexplicable wave of emotion welled up in Sandro's chest.
To be completely honest, he already had a great impression of the big guy—Grossi had been the very first person in the Brescia locker room, besides the captain, to actually initiate a greeting with him. But he truly hadn't expected the man to be this ride-or-die...