Sandro knew perfectly well his battered spine wasn't built for acrobatic stunts, but the moment the opportunity presented itself, his body executed a bicycle kick purely of its own accord.
It was a footballer's instinct—like a healthy guy springing to attention after catching a glimpse of something he shouldn't. More often than not, it completely bypassed rational control.
He slammed heavily into the pitch, a sharp throb shooting up his back. Only after confirming his spine hadn't taken any serious damage did he allow himself to scramble to his feet and sprint off to celebrate.
Reaching the touchline, he pressed his left hand over his right chest, raised his right arm, and extended his index finger toward the heavens.
It was Arda Güler's signature celebration from a later era.
Football history was brimming with legendary celebrations: Raúl kissing his wedding ring, Drogba's iconic three-stripe knee slide, Klose's front flip, Kaka pointing both fingers to the sky, Cristiano Ronaldo's mid-air spin and "Siu," and countless others. Every single one was etched into football lore.
Naturally, Sandro wanted to design a badass signature move of his own. But since nothing fitting had come to mind just yet, he had to rely on a reincarnator's greatest passive skill: copying someone else's homework!
It was a shame that very few players who rose to fame after 2013 actually knew how to put on a show. After turning it over and over in his head, this was the only one that looked cool enough to cut it, so he'd just have to make do.
"Sandro has scored the second goal of his professional career with an insanely difficult bicycle kick!
"Was that luck?
"It certainly looked like it.
"There were twenty-two men on the pitch, yet the ball fell directly to his exact position. To say there wasn't an element of luck involved would be impossible. But look at that same event from another angle, and you might reach a completely different conclusion—there were twenty-two men on the pitch, twenty-three if you count the referee, yet somehow, he was the only one standing right there!
"Why was he the only one standing there?
"Can anyone explain that?"
Every goal was the lovechild of skill and luck, but if Sandro had to grade this one himself, luck accounted for at least eighty percent of it.
Truth be told, with a style like Kaka's, his scoring rate was never going to be sky-high. Right now, operating on an entirely different level in Serie B meant his tally would likely look pretty good, but he would never reach the point of scoring goals in rapid succession. Managing to score in back-to-back matches off the bench definitely meant he had stumbled into some absurd, blind luck.
His teammates rushed over to celebrate, swarming him for high-fives.
Caracciolo stood off to the side, watching in silence.
He couldn't wrap his head around it. He just couldn't make sense of it at all.
Four rounds into the Serie B season, he had started every single match, yet he had only scored two goals.
Sandro had come off the bench twice, logging forty or fifty minutes of playing time at the absolute most, and he already had two goals of his own.
He could accept that a gap existed between them, but he couldn't swallow a gap like this.
Sure, one of them was a teenager and the other was in his thirties—neither at the peak of their physical powers. But the real issue was that as time went on, Sandro was only going to become more of a beast, while he would only keep sliding backward. That meant the gap between them would grow wider and wider, to the point where he might not even catch a glimpse of Sandro's taillights down the road...
On the touchline, Giampaolo applauded emphatically.
The scoreline of this match was actually secondary; its greatest purpose was to test Sandro's true level.
In trials, in training, and in his debut, Sandro had scored top marks across the board. If he could deliver another outstanding performance in this match, then without a doubt, he would become the biggest trump card in Giampaolo's hand.
He would no longer be just a core development prospect or the "future of Brescia," but a battle-ready impact player who could be plugged into the lineup immediately—the "present of Brescia"!
As for his actual future... If Sandro kept putting up performances like this, his future belonged at Milan, in Serie A, not here...
The Ternana manager muttered a string of curses on the sidelines and began preparing his substitutions.
Giampaolo also used his second substitution of the match.
Caracciolo came off; Mandorlini came on.
"Ternana isn't ready to accept defeat just yet. They've subbed on a forward for a midfielder and are about to ramp up their attack.
"Brescia is doing the exact opposite, bringing on defensive midfielder Mandorlini to replace starting center-forward Caracciolo.
"Mandorlini just transferred over from Gallipoli this summer, costing Brescia over three hundred thousand euros. He's the club's biggest signing of the season, and they're hoping he can deliver an impressive performance as well..."
"Brescia needs to be careful here. Sandro's goal was brilliant, but this match isn't over yet. They have to smother Ternana's attack, or else his goal will mean absolutely nothing."
The moment Brescia took the lead, they shifted their tactics, locking down into a defensive counter-attacking formation while Ternana threw everything forward. For a while, it looked like one side was pinning the other down and beating them senseless, but even by the eighty-ninth minute, Ternana's offensive barrage hadn't produced a single tangible result.
Once Caracciolo left the pitch, Sandro became Brescia's lone striker, spearheading the attack up top.
He could adapt to the role well enough—after all, this had been his bread and butter back in the day. But purely in terms of capability, the attributes a striker needed most—instincts, off-the-ball movement, poaching, and link-up play—were far weaker than the stats he'd buffed through the roof. Instead of obediently anchoring himself in the penalty area like a training cone, he constantly abandoned his station to drop deep.
With the team currently sitting back to hit on the counter, combined with his elite speed and long-distance carrying capability, this style of play suited him to perfection. Before long, another golden opportunity presented itself.
Coletti won the ball cleanly and immediately launched a blind long ball upfield looking for Sandro.
Sandro hit his Meteor Stride once again, leaving two defenders eating his dust in quick succession before unleashing what looked destined to be a spectacular goal from the edge of the box.
But Ternana's goalkeeper seemed to have dumped all his stat points into saving long-range screamers today, and he somehow managed to claw the heavy blast directed right at the top corner over the crossbar!
Sandro had just let out a frustrated sigh when Coletti jogged up and clapped him on the back. "Just like that. Beautiful work."
Sandro looked at him, speechless, genuinely unsure for a second if the guy was being sarcastic. "It's beautiful even when it doesn't go in?"
"Of course," Coletti said. "Nobody can guarantee every shot ends up in the back of the net—not even Van Basten. You're already doing fantastic. Keep piling the pressure on them. Don't let up, we're about to win this."
Without a doubt, the Brescia captain had fully acknowledged Sandro's ability.
His performances in training had already been enough to make people view him in a new light, but a real match wasn't training. For a rookie like Sandro who was still underage, stepping into a live stadium under the crushing weight of screams, boos, and deafening roars from every direction—while weathering brutal physical challenges from opposing players—and still playing to half his potential would have been impressive enough.
Who could have guessed this kid was built for the big stage, acting like he didn't even know the meaning of stage fright...
"Sandro's long-range strike has won Brescia another corner! Can they use this set piece to extend their advantage?"
Both of Brescia's center-backs actually tried to trot forward to contest the header, nearly making Giampaolo laugh out loud at their sheer stupidity. Fortunately, Coletti was sharp enough to chase them right back into their own half.
Protecting the lead was all that mattered right now; what the hell were defenders doing joining the fun?
The corner was whipped in and headed out by an opposing defender, but the ball landed right at the feet of Mandorlini!
Even better, there wasn't a single soul within yards of him!
Giampaolo was so thrilled he nearly leaped off the bench.
If this goes in... wouldn't that mean both of my substitutes scored?
Let me ask you right now, who else is doing that?!
Even the Ternana fans had already begun shaking their heads in despair, but faced with this absolute gift from the heavens, Mandorlini somehow managed to shank his volley straight into the stands!
His eyes bulged wide, as if he refused to believe he was the one who had unleashed that shot.
The Brescia fans in the stands could barely stop themselves from showering him with boos.
What the actual fuck...
Sandro was seventeen years old; Mandorlini was twenty-seven.
There was at least a seven- or eight-year gap in their on-pitch experience, yet faced with a scoring opportunity, their performances were worlds apart.
Sandro even had the composure to pull off an insanely difficult bicycle kick and bury the ball in the back of the net, whereas Mandorlini couldn't even keep a straightforward volley on target.
Like the saying goes, this is exactly why you can't just settle for anyone...