Whether it was the adrenaline from last week's last-minute miracle or simply the fact that Fiorentina's roster was pound-for-pound superior, the Gigliati took the pitch like owners of the stadium.
Vincenzo Montella, the youngest manager in Serie A, was a purist. He didn't just want to win; he wanted to dominate through "Il Gioco"—the game. His 4-3-3 was a machine of constant motion. Full-backs Pasqual and Marcos Alonso pushed high, while the center-back pairing of Rodriguez and Savic stepped into midfield to squeeze the space.
In the center, the trio of Badelj, Aquilani, and the 36-year-old "Maestro" David Pizarro wove a web of short, horizontal passes. They were looking for the crack in the Sampdoria armor, while Mario Gomez used his frame to batter the defensive line. On the wings, Cuadrado and Salah were the lightning bolts—sometimes dropping deep to help the build-up, sometimes hugging the touchline to stretch the play.
Cuadrado, the "Dribbling King" of the first half of the season, was a whirlwind. Off the pitch, he was a chatterbox who could annoy a statue; on it, he was a silent assassin of ankles. But it was Salah, the Pharaoh, who looked truly possessed.
He didn't stop running for a single second. He was a man trying to prove his worth to the legend watching from the other side.
"Not bad, Salah. You've grown," Eto'o remarked during a break in play, his voice calm as he glided past his former protege. "But I know you. You have more in you than this."
Salah didn't respond. He knew Eto'o was right. Despite his effort, the "flow" wasn't there. He was getting the ball, but he was getting it with three defenders already draped over his shoulders. He was missing the spark. He was missing Renzo.
Seeing the attack stall, Montella signaled for an increase in tempo. The aging Pizarro dug deep into his remaining stamina to accelerate the passing rhythm. It worked. In the 39th minute, Pizarro drew a desperate tactical foul from Soriano.
Aquilani stepped up to the dead ball, whipping a cross to the far post. Mario Gomez rose like a titan, his header screaming into the net.
1-0.
As the away end erupted, Montella turned to the bench. "Renzo. Get warm."
Renzo didn't hesitate. He stripped off his tracksuit and began a brisk jog along the touchline. Montella knew Pizarro—born in the 70s and playing on borrowed time—couldn't sustain this pace for ninety minutes. The plan was set: the veteran would break the deadlock, and the kid would finish the job.
The second half began with a roar from the traveling fans as Renzo Uzumaki stepped onto the pitch to replace Pizarro.
"Look! He's on! The kid is actually on!"
Samuel Eto'o stood in the center circle, his eyes narrowed as he watched the sixteen-year-old take his position. Let's see if the Pharaoh is a scout or a dreamer, he thought.
For the first ten minutes, Renzo stayed quiet. He played simple, short balls to Aquilani and Badelj. To the Sampdoria defenders, he looked like a nervous rookie playing it safe. Even Eto'o began to lose interest. Just a flash in the pan, the Lion sighed.
Then came the 55th minute.
Aquilani, under pressure in the center circle, swept a horizontal ball toward Renzo. It was a standard, "safe" pass. The Sampdoria midfield shifted as a unit, confident that Renzo would trap the ball, look around, and pass it back. Their formation was a perfect 4-5-1, a wall of human flesh.
Renzo didn't trap the ball.
In a single, fluid motion—without even a glance toward the goal—Renzo met the ball with the inside of his right boot. A first-time, no-look through ball.
"Is he crazy?" a Sampdoria defender thought for a split second. "He's just giving it away."
But the ball didn't hit a defender. It hissed across the grass, threading a needle that shouldn't have existed. It bypassed four Sampdoria players, slicing through the "human gaps" in their formation with mathematical precision.
Coach Mihajlović screamed from the sidelines, but his voice was drowned out by the sound of Salah's boots hitting top gear.
The Pharaoh had anticipated the pass before Renzo even touched it. He didn't just run; he exploded. He collected the ball in stride, baring his fangs as he entered the box. A low, thunderous strike into the bottom corner.
2-0.
The Luigi Ferraris fell into a stunned, tomb-like silence.
Samuel Eto'o stood frozen in the Sampdoria half. His heart was hammering against his ribs, but not from the exertion. For a moment, the blue shirts of Sampdoria faded away, replaced by the deep red and blue of Barcelona.
He had seen that pass before. He had lived it. During his Treble-winning season at the Camp Nou, there was only one man who could see those invisible lanes. One man who could kill a defense with a single, one-touch thought.
The Lion looked at the black-haired teenager trotting back to his own half.
Xavi? Eto'o thought, a chill running down his spine. That pass... that was peak Xavi Hernandez. How can a sixteen-year-old child have the eyes of a God?