Although Inter Milan manager Roberto Mancini had declared at the pre-match press conference that his side would accept nothing less than a victory, he knew the truth in his heart. There was a glaring gap in squad depth between his side and the red-hot Fiorentina. He had watched the footage of AC Milan's collapse until the pixels blurred, and every time he saw Renzo Uzumaki move, the chill in his chest deepened.
Mancini's conclusion was universal: stop Renzo, stop Fiorentina. But knowing the problem was one thing; solving it was a nightmare.
After a week of grueling tactical drills, Mancini believed he had the answer. He shifted his usual 4-4-2 to a 4-3-1-2, a formation designed to compress the center of the pitch like a vice. Handanović stood between the posts, while Juan and Ranocchia anchored the defense. The key was the midfield trio: Kovačić, Hernanes, and the "Pitbull," Gary Medel.
In Mancini's eyes, this three-man shield would suffocate Renzo. Medel would provide the bite, while Kovačić and Hernanes would pinch inward to ensure the Japanese maestro never had a second to breathe. With Icardi and Palacio waiting upfront, Mancini felt they could finally go toe-to-toe with the Viola.
However, that optimism lasted exactly ten minutes.
Following a failed Inter attack, Fiorentina's goalkeeper, Neto, launched a massive throw to ignite a break. Marcos Alonso received it on the left and surged forward like a sprinter. Inter's players, caught high up the pitch, scrambled back.
As Alonso was squeezed toward the touchline, Aquilani arrived to offer an outlet. The Inter midfield trap began to snap shut. Sensing the space closing, Aquilani quickly funneled the ball toward Renzo.
This was exactly what the Inter trio had waited for. The moment the ball left Aquilani's boot, Medel feinted toward the passer before pivoting sharply toward Renzo. Behind him, Kovačić and Hernanes converged from the flanks. It was a perfect encirclement. Renzo was about to be swallowed whole.
But as Medel lunged in, his eyes widening with the anticipation of a clean tackle, the world seemed to slow down.
Renzo didn't stop the ball. He didn't even look down. As the pass arrived from his left, he adjusted his posture with a fluid twist, turning his body toward the right wing. With a flick of the outside of his right boot, he struck the ball first-time.
The pass sliced through the air, curving around the lunging Medel and bypassing the closing midfielders entirely. It was a stroke of technical arrogance that broke every rule of conventional play.
Medel was stunned. In his mind, Renzo should have used his left foot to settle the ball—a move that would have given the defenders the half-second they needed to bury him. Instead, Renzo had dared to use a high-difficulty trivela pass while under maximum pressure.
The ball didn't target the nearby winger. It flew across the entire width of the pitch, a sixty-yard diagonal aimed at the far-right flank.
Waiting there was Salah. Due to Cuadrado missing the match with the flu, Montella had swapped Salah to the right wing—a "sudden impulse" that was proving to be a stroke of genius.
Inter's left-back, Yuto Nagatomo, had been quietly confident before the match. With Cuadrado out, he thought his flank would be a vacation. He was wrong. As the long ball dropped perfectly into Salah's path, Nagatomo realized he was facing a man possessed.
Salah didn't hesitate. He drove at the Japanese defender, his feet moving in a blur of stutter-steps. Nagatomo shifted his weight, trying to stay square, but Salah's change of pace was too much. The Egyptian cut inside with a sharp, violent turn, leaving Nagatomo grasping at shadows.
Salah looked up and unleashed a curling strike with his left foot. The ball traced a perfect arc into the top corner.
1-0.
The Stadio Giuseppe Meazza fell into a stunned silence. Mancini stood on the sidelines, dazed. His meticulously crafted three-man trap had been dismantled by a single, audacious touch from Renzo.
Nagatomo's face was a mask of frustration. Back in Japan, fans had pinned their hopes on him to reclaim the pride lost by Honda and Kagawa. He had hoped to avoid a direct clash with Renzo by playing on the wing, but he hadn't accounted for the fact that Renzo's vision could reach him anywhere on the pitch.
"Medel! Tighten up!" Mancini screamed, his voice cracking. "Hernanes! Kovačić! Don't let him turn! Stay on that brat!"
Mancini tried to calm his nerves, telling himself it was a fluke. But the tide of the match refused to turn.
In the 25th minute, Renzo advanced again. Medel, obsessed with redemption, stayed so close he could smell the sweat on Renzo's jersey. As the ball arrived, Medel pounced.
At only 1.71 meters, Medel was a low-center-of-gravity nightmare. His feet moved with a high-frequency rhythm, capable of throwing out two or three tackles in the time it took a taller man to swing once. Most playmakers crumbled under his relentless badgering.
But Renzo was different. The ball seemed glued to his boots. No matter how many times Medel lunged, Renzo shifted the ball a fraction of an inch, keeping it just out of reach. It was a dance on the edge of a razor.
As Medel overcommitted his weight, Renzo exploited the opening. With a sudden burst of acceleration, he glided past the Pitbull. Before Kovačić could close the gap, Renzo looked up.
He didn't look at Mario Gomez, who was being wrestled by the center-backs. He didn't look at the veteran Joaquín on the left. His eyes found the same target as before.
Another long-range guided pass. Another invitation for destruction.
Nagatomo felt like his head was going to explode. He didn't wait this time; he dropped back, trying to anticipate the run. But Salah's footwork was too refined. He teased the defender with a series of feints before shifting the ball and exploding into the box.
Nagatomo tripped over his own feet, falling behind as Salah cut inside once more. A powerful left-footed drive screamed through the air, slamming into the net with such force the mesh rattled.
2-0.
A brace for Salah. Another master-class assist for Renzo.
Nagatomo sat on the grass, a picture of utter despair. He began to wonder if Renzo was doing this on purpose—ignoring the easier passes just to feed the man who was currently tearing him apart.
In the stands, the fury of the Inter Milan fans reached a boiling point. The boos were no longer aimed at the opponent; they were aimed at their own left side.
"Nagatomo is a sieve! He's getting shredded!"
"Is that a defender or a training cone? He looks like a fool in front of Salah!"
"They call Salah the Egyptian Messi? Against Nagatomo, he actually looks like the real thing!"
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