In the locker room, Inzaghi was icy with rage as he hurled curses.
He chewed out the defenders, then the midfielders, and finally the forwards.
The only one spared was the goalkeeper, even with the score already at 0–2.
Conceding twice without the coach even bothering to yell at the keeper just showed how abysmally Milan were playing.
As the second half began, AC Milan's form improved slightly. Their attacks weren't much more fluid, but they had at least found some aggression, even pinning Inter back for a spell.
But it was still damn useless.
The midfield showed zero creativity, and whenever they finally carved out a chance, the forwards squandered it.
Shaking his head in disappointment, Inzaghi finally looked toward the bench.
Sandro felt the teammates on either side of him twitch before they all puffed out their chests.
He was doing exactly the same.
Though they all feigned nonchalance while watching the pitch, their faces were plastered with naked eagerness.
Pick me! Pick me!
Inzaghi considered for a couple of seconds before whispering to his assistant. The assistant nodded and walked over to Sandro.
"Your turn, kid. You know what to do?"
"Of course." Sandro stood up with a grin. "I'm a forward. My only job is to shoot and score."
"Yeah. The simplest job on the pitch, but also the hardest."
The assistant patted his shoulder, leading him to the touchline while relaying Inzaghi's specific instructions.
"You'll play as a second striker. Stay tucked behind the center forward and look for sudden forward runs and rebounds.
"Just remember one thing: seize any chance to shoot, and kick that damn ball into the damn net. That's the only thing you need to do!"
"Sounds simple enough..."
"Sixty-fifth minute, and Inzaghi is making a substitution.
"Number 17 comes off, and Number 11 comes on.
"Coming on is Sandro Xiao, a youngster of mixed Chinese and Italian descent. Fans who follow the club's youth academy should know him. He's quite the handsome lad—maybe he belongs in Cinecittà instead of on a football pitch..."
Xiao Zhe and Olivia stood up simultaneously, clapping as hard as they could. Unfortunately, the surrounding crowd remained dead silent, making the two of them look like complete idiots.
"Damn it, where's Rick? Did he drop dead? Why isn't he coming on?"
"Hey, didn't you watch the news? He got into a bar fight and was suspended by the club."
"But they can't just throw any random kid out there! Who the hell is this guy? This is football! This is a derby! It's not a fucking beauty pageant!"
"Hahaha, I know him. I noticed him back when he was in the U17s."
"The U17s? You actually watch that crap? How does he play?"
"Well, a bit better than a pile of shit..."
"Then why do you even follow him?"
"Because my wife likes him..."
Sandro high-fived the outgoing Number 17 and stepped onto the pitch.
He was no stranger to this stadium.
On the surface, it had only been a single off-season since he last set foot here. In reality, it had been many, many years since he last stepped onto this pitch.
Memories of his past and present lives intertwined, flooding his mind and leaving him overwhelmed with emotion.
A gentle breeze brushed his face, carrying the scent of fresh grass. The very air seemed to smell like a dream coming true.
Sandro jogged over to the team's center forward, Andrea Petagna. "The boss wants you right up front. Focus on receiving crosses from the flanks."
"It's useless!" Petagna said in frustration. "They can't get the ball in!"
"Then focus on what's coming from behind." Sandro pointed a thumb at his own chest. "My passes!"
Though he hadn't had the chance to test it in a real match yet, he certainly hadn't forgotten about his Falcon Eye.
Even if it only gave him seventy or eighty percent of the original Kaká's vision, it would be more than enough to change the tide of the game.
"You?" Petagna looked at him, unconvinced. "I'll be waiting..."
An Inter Milan player threw the ball in, and the match resumed.
Sandro didn't push into the penalty box. Instead, he lingered around the edge of the area.
Inzaghi had sent him on to bolster the attack, but Inter had already turned the tide and taken control once more. For five solid minutes after stepping onto the pitch, Sandro didn't so much as touch the ball.
In the 70th minute, AC Milan finally launched a counterattack. Sandro managed to find open space, but his teammates completely ignored him, leaving his run entirely wasted.
In the 75th minute, Inter orchestrated another offensive push, but this time, Longo's header ricocheted off the post.
"Longo has been very lively today! Shame his luck fell just short there. But look at AC Milan's counterattack!"
"Played out wide! He needs to cross... He's still carrying it... He's past him! Beautiful! Here comes the cross!"
The left-back reached the byline and whipped the cross in. Petagna charged into position and side-footed a shot, but the Inter goalkeeper stuck a foot out and somehow managed to block it.
The sighs of regret ringing out from the Curva Nord instantly shifted into waves of shocked gasps.
"Petagna's shot from the center deflects off the goalkeeper's foot! The ball is cleared out of the box toward... who is that? Number 11!"
The ball was flying straight toward him.
Sandro calmly brought it down.
His first touch wasn't spectacular; it was merely at the level of an average Italian youth academy player. With no one challenging him, he could control the ball perfectly fine, but under any real pressure, he struggled to place it exactly where he wanted.
Yet in this moment, despite the opposing defender rushing in to challenge him, the ball settled obediently at his feet. With a smooth flick, he nudged it out to his right.
He took two quick strides and let fly.
Bam! The ball rocketed toward the goal. Just as it looked perfectly poised to sail into the top corner, Inter's right-back, Mbaye, leaped out of nowhere and pulled off a miraculous headed clearance.
Sandro let out a disappointed sigh, but Inzaghi's eyes lit up.
This wasn't right...
He was the one who had promoted Sandro from the U17s. He knew exactly what the kid was capable of.
To put it nicely, he was a well-rounded forward who could do a bit of everything. To put it bluntly, he was a master of none who couldn't even tap in a rebound properly...
Long-range shots often boiled down to pure luck, and a single attempt didn't prove anything—especially since it hadn't even gone in. It wasn't worth making a fuss over. Yet Inzaghi's keen sixth sense told him something was different.
His teammates shared in the disappointment.
Still, even though it hadn't gone in, no one could deny the sheer quality of the strike. Some fans offered a smattering of applause, and several of his teammates began to view the new substitute in a different light.
The resulting corner kick failed to produce a shot. Inter launched a counterattack, but the ball was intercepted the moment it crossed into the AC Milan half. Possession was back with Milan.
"The pace of the match is relentless! Both sides are transitioning rapidly between attack and defense. Let's see what AC Milan can do here..."
"Played inside! Fabbro receives the ball and pushes up the middle!"
Sandro dropped back slightly and raised a hand, calling for the ball.
Fabbro hesitated for a split second before sending the pass his way.
As soon as Sandro turned to receive the ball, Mbaye—the same defender who had cleared his long shot—immediately stepped up to close him down.
Without missing a beat, Sandro knocked the ball past Mbaye and sprinted after it.
Mbaye stuck a leg out in pure reflex, but caught nothing but air.
Sandro caught up to the ball, knocked it far ahead, and gave chase...
Standing on the touchline, Inzaghi unconsciously clenched his fists.
At that moment, he felt as if he were looking at an old friend...