Saturday, August 31st, 2022

Gewiss Stadium, Bergamo

42nd Minute

Musso launched the goal kick high and long, the ball soaring through Bergamo's morning air with enough power to clear Lecce's first line of pressure, and it hung for what felt like three full seconds before gravity dragged it down toward the halfway line where bodies converged.

Tolói rose above two yellow shirts, Gendrey and Hjulmand both jumping but neither matching the Argentine's timing, and his forehead met the ball with perfect contact, a powerful flick-on that sent it arcing forward into no-man's-land forty yards from Lecce's goal.

The ball dropped into the space between Lecce's midfield and defensive lines, contested territory where neither team had clear possession, and Demien was already moving before it landed.

Two yellow shirts sprinted to close him down, Baschirotto from the left and Blin from the right, both recognizing the danger immediately because if Demien controlled this ball in space there would be problems, and their legs pumped as they charged toward the dropping ball.

Demien got there first.

The chest trap was perfect, his body angled sideways to cushion the ball dead, his arms spread for balance as the leather settled against his sternum and dropped to his feet with zero bounce, and in that half-second before the defenders arrived something ignited in his vision.

The Pirlo trait activated.

A diagonal line glowed bright across the pitch, cutting from his position all the way to the left channel where Lookman was already starting his run, and Demien could see the trajectory before his foot even touched the ball, the exact angle and weight needed to split Lecce's defensive line, the space opening like a window that would close in two seconds if he didn't act now.

His second touch came with the outside of his right boot, one pure swing, no hesitation, forty-two yards of distance covered in the air as the ball sliced across the wet pitch with curve and pace that bent around Gendrey's outstretched leg.

Lookman timed the run to perfection.

The English winger took it in stride on the left channel, his first touch perfect as the ball arrived exactly where he expected it, no need to break stride or adjust his body, just pure continuation of movement as he drove toward goal with Baschirotto scrambling to recover but already two yards behind.

The finish came first time, side-foot across Falcone who had rushed off his line to close the angle, and the ball rolled low into the far bottom corner with enough pace to beat the goalkeeper's dive but not enough to give him a chance to react.

1-1.

The weight left Demien's foot like the ball was guided by string, the connection clean and effortless, and he watched Lookman's run unfold exactly as the vision had shown him, the winger not even glancing at the ball as it arrived, just trusting the pass would be there.

Lookman's side-foot met the ball, low and across Falcone, and the goalkeeper dove but the angle was already beaten.

The ball rolled into the far corner.

Net bulges.

White netting ripples.

The silence lasted half a second—nineteen thousand people holding their breath, waiting for confirmation, waiting for the flag, waiting to believe it was real.

Then the Gewiss Stadium exploded.

Then the Gewiss Stadium exploded.

"GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOL!"

The roar came from nineteen thousand throats at once, a single massive sound that started low and deep before rising into a shriek of pure release, forty-two minutes of frustration detonating in one collective scream that shook the steel beams holding up the roof.

Demien stood thirty yards from goal with his right foot still planted where the pass had come from, and the noise hit him like a physical wall, pressure against his chest, vibrations traveling up through the turf into his legs.

「Assist #1 registered | Mission progress: 1/2 involvements」

The system chimed once and vanished.

"TOLÓI WINS IT IN THE AIR!" Caressa's voice exploded through the stadium speakers, his excitement barely controlled. "Walter with the chest control... what a switch of play! Lookman on the move... finishes it first time! The Gewiss explodes, Atalanta are level and that is a moment of absolute class from the eighteen-year-old!"

"Quarantadue metri!" the co-commentator shouted, his voice cracking with emotion. "Forty-two meters of pure vision! Look at that pass, Fabio, look at the curve on it—outside of the boot, bending around two defenders, and it lands exactly where Lookman wants it! Precision like a laser beam! This kid is special, you can see Gasperini's faith in him paying off already. That's not luck, that's quality, that's a player who sees the game three seconds before everyone else!"

The Curva Nord erupted in pure chaos, nineteen thousand bodies jumping at once, strangers grabbing each other's shoulders, scarves thrown into the air and spinning wildly with no coordination, just raw explosive joy after forty-two minutes of watching Lecce kick their players around the pitch.

"SÌ! SÌ! SÌ!"

"DAI! DAI! DAI!"

Individual voices screaming different things, some shouting "WALTER!" and others just roaring wordlessly, fists pumping, drums hitting once, twice, three times without rhythm, just noise, just release, the stands shaking as thousands of feet stomped concrete in celebration.

Lookman sprinted toward the corner flag with his arms spread wide, teammates chasing him down, but Demien jogged back calmly without raising his arms, his expression neutral, just a pointed finger directed at Tolói who had won the aerial duel, then two deliberate taps on the Atalanta badge over his heart with his right fist, the gesture simple and clear.

He turned and walked straight to the center circle without celebrating further, his face set, his job not done yet because one assist meant the mission was half complete and there were still forty-eight minutes to finish what he'd started.

The touchline camera caught Gasperini standing with his arms crossed, and the manager's reaction was minimal but meaningful: one slow nod, one quiet clap of his hands, the message received loud and clear.

That's what I want. More of that.

45+2' – Half-Time Whistle

The referee checked his watch as Atalanta recycled possession in Lecce's half, the clock ticking past forty-seven minutes, and he raised the whistle to his lips.

Three sharp blasts cut through the noise.

TWEEEEET. TWEEEEET. TWEEEEET.

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