For twenty minutes, Juventus did exactly what Conte had promised they would do.
The Juventus backline operated like a single, unified organism. Chiellini and Bonucci stepped out in perfectly staggered waves, never committing simultaneously, ensuring one was always dropping into coverage while the other pressed the ball. Barzagli sat slightly deeper, reading the empty space behind them and cutting off passes before they were even struck. Just ahead of the back three, Vidal and Pogba relentlessly patrolled the half-spaces, while Pirlo dictated everything from deep, spraying long passes across the pitch with the effortless cool of a maestro at a private rehearsal.
Barcelona controlled long spells of possession, but finding a way through was a different story. Every time Xavi tried to slide a pass to Iniesta in the half-space, Pogba was already stepping into the lane. Whenever Busquets attempted a sharp, vertical ball into Lorenzo's feet, Bonucci had already read the angle and nipped in front. The chain moved as a collective, not merely reacting to Barcelona's movement, but anticipating it a step ahead.
In the 23rd minute, Juventus attacked.
Xavi spotted a window of opportunity and launched a searching ball from midfield, looking to exploit the green grass behind Lichtsteiner. But Buffon read it all the way. The veteran keeper sprinted off his line with absolute decision, rising to punch it clear before any blue-and-red shirt could get a touch. The clearance arched high into the center circle, dropping cleanly right at the feet of Pirlo, who brought it down without missing a beat.
With a single touch, Pirlo flicked the ball wide to Lichtsteiner out on the right. The Swiss wing-back took off down the flank, sold Alba a clever body feint to leave him in his tracks, and drove straight into Barcelona's half.
Pogba pushed up from midfield to receive. Lichtsteiner found him with a diagonal, and the Frenchman turned, carrying the ball forward with the power and balance that made him one of the most complete young midfielders in world football. Iniesta tracked him. Busquets held his position deeper, keeping one eye on Tevez.
Pogba looked up, saw Busquets planted between him and the penalty area, and chipped the ball over the Spaniard's head, a lofted pass that dropped perfectly into Tevez's run behind the Barcelona midfield.
Tevez sprinted to track it down. Mascherano came across to cover, setting up a clash between the two Argentina teammates who knew each other's habits inside out from a decade of international duty. Mascherano didn't go for a tackle. Instead, he simply blocked, throwing his body right into Tevez's path at the exact instant of contact. He absorbed the full force of the collision using that low center of gravity that had made him Barcelona's most reliable safety net in defense.
Tevez went down clutching his ribs. Mascherano stood over him and offered his hand. The referee waved play on. Conte screamed at the fourth official. Piqué cleared the loose ball to Valdés.
The transition that followed changed the match.
Valdés launched a long diagonal pass down the opposite flank. Alba brought it down cleanly, pushed forward with two quick touches, and slipped a pass to Xavi in the center. Xavi instantly shifted it to Iniesta with a single touch, whose sharp half-turn left Vidal completely chasing shadows.
Iniesta looked up, spotted the opening, and didn't hesitate. He lofted a delicate chip over the entire Juventus midfield, dropping the ball right into the pocket of space behind Pirlo and ahead of the three center-backs.
Lorenzo was already on the move. He muscled past Pirlo, leveraging his frame to win the shoulder-to-shoulder battle and leave the Italian maestro behind. With his eyes locked on the dropping ball, he drove forward into the open space. Vidal gave chase in a panic, sprinting across fifteen yards with relentless intensity to shut down the danger before it could turn lethal.
Lorenzo got there first. He took the ball on his chest, guiding it downward, and in the same motion pivoted to face the Juventus goal.
He was thirty yards out. Chiellini was at the edge of the penalty area, ten yards ahead. Bonucci was behind Chiellini. Barzagli was deeper still. The chain defence was set. The conventional play was to hold, wait for support, find Messi or Neymar in the channels.
The system spoke.
[World Cup Simulation No. 14 — James Rodríguez, Colombia vs Uruguay, 2014. Thirty-yard chest-and-volley. Conditions matched.]
Lorenzo didn't hesitate. He didn't wait to control it, nor did he bother looking for a pass.
The ball was still falling after his initial touch, hovering about a foot off the grass in the perfect hitting zone. He planted his right foot firmly into the turf, wound up, and unleashed his left leg through the ball with every ounce of power in his body, catching it cleanly on the half-volley.
The sound echoed through the stadium, completely distinct from a standard shot. It was a sharp, thunderous crack, the unmistakable sound of absolute maximum power meeting absolute precision.
The ball left his foot in a straight line. No curve. No dip. Just raw, terrifying velocity aimed at the top-left corner of Buffon's goal.
Chiellini threw himself sideways. The ball passed him before his body had fully committed to the dive.
Buffon reacted with superhuman instincts. The Italian legend exploded off his line, stretching his body to full extension in a frantic bid to reach it. It was the kind of desperate, magnificent effort you would expect from a man who had reigned as the world's best keeper for over a decade, proving his reflexes hadn't dimmed a bit with age.
His fingertips actually managed to graze the ball, but there was just too much heat on it. The ball blasted right through his reach and slammed into the top corner, hitting the back of the net with enough force to make the entire goal frame rattle.
SWISH!
1-0.
The Allianz Stadium fell dead silent. Forty-one thousand Juventus fans stared into the back of the net as if expecting the ball to somehow spit itself back out.
Then the tiny away section tucked up in the far corner exploded.
"GOOAALL!!" Santiago's voice cracked over the broadcast. "A POWERFUL THIRTY-YARD VOLLEY! Lorenzo has finally beaten Buffon! The fortress has fallen! A sublime chest control and a booming half-volley from long range! Buffon got his fingertips to it, but the power was just too much! It is one-nil to Barcelona in Turin!"
Inés was already shaking her head in awe. "Messi has faced Buffon multiple times, and the legendary keeper always came out on top. Today, Lorenzo managed to breach that wall on his very first attempt, pulling off a thirty-yard rocket that was clocked at well over a hundred kilometers per hour."
On the touchline, Conte's hands dropped to his sides. His jaw was slack. For the first time all evening, the Italian coach had no instructions to shout.
Martino allowed himself a brief, rare break in character, letting out a sudden fist pump and a tight exhale of relief. He instantly pulled it back in, locking his face into a calm mask and folding his arms across his chest. Pautasso grabbed his shoulder, shaking him in excitement, and Martino let the embrace happen for just a single second before stepping back.
You know the drill: Hand over those Power Stones to keep the momentum rolling!
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