Chapter 182: Coppa Italia Final against AS Roma (4)
"They think they have won," Chivu said, his voice dangerously quiet. "They are in their dressing room right now, laughing. They think we are broken. They think the ten men of Inter have no fight left."
He looked around the room, his eyes boring into each player. "Good."
A flicker of confusion passed through the squad.
"They are expecting us to defend, to hope for a lucky break," Chivu continued, a cold, predatory smile touching his lips. "We will do the opposite." He pointed at a stunned-looking Julián Álvarez, who was quietly trying to peel an orange. "Julián. You are going on for a defender."
Julián looked up, his eyes wide, a piece of orange peel stuck to his cheek. "Me, Coach?"
"Yes, you," Chivu said, his voice hardening. "I don’t want a striker. I want a menace. I want you to be the most annoying human being on the planet for the next forty-five minutes. You will chase their defenders, you will tackle their goalkeeper, you will run until you cannot feel your legs. You will be a complete and utter pest. You will create chaos."
Julián’s face lit up with a grin of pure, unadulterated mischief. "A pest," he repeated, a look of deep concentration on his face. "So, do I buzz like a fly, or am I more of a surprise-spider-in-the-shower kind of pest?"
A few players snorted, a desperate laugh in the face of despair. The tension in the room cracked.
"Just go and play, Julián," Chivu said, the ghost of a smile on his own face. He turned to the rest of the team. "We are going to a three-man defense. We are going all-out attack. We will either lift that cup, or we will lose by five goals. There is no middle ground. There is no honorable defeat. We gamble everything. Now."
This was the ’Gambler’ trait in its purest form. It was insane. It was suicidal. And it was absolutely brilliant. A new, wild, desperate hope began to bloom in the dead silence of the dressing room.
The second half began, and Inter came out of the tunnel like a team possessed.
Julián Álvarez, true to his word, was a blur of manic energy, chasing down defenders who thought they had all the time in the world.
Roma, expecting a cautious, defensive Inter, were completely caught off guard by the kamikaze tactics.
The game was now a wide-open, end-to-end spectacle.
In the 55th minute, the gamble paid off. Cole Palmer received the ball deep in his own half and saw a vast, green expanse in front of him.
He started to run. He glided past Pellegrini. He shimmied past Leandro Paredes.
He was a blur of blue and black, eating up the pitch.
Roma’s defense was in a full-blown panic. As Palmer approached the penalty area, their last man, the notoriously aggressive Gianluca Mancini, realized he was beaten.
He did the only thing he could do: he launched himself into a cynical, desperate, professional foul, chopping Palmer down from behind just as he was about to be one-on-one with the keeper.
The referee didn’t hesitate. He sprinted over, his hand already reaching for his back pocket. Straight red card.
The Stadio Olimpico erupted in a volcano of fury. Mancini screamed at the referee, his face a mask of rage. But the decision stood. It was ten versus ten.
The game had been completely reset.
From the resulting free-kick, Çalhanoğlu whipped in a dangerous cross.
It was cleared, but only for a corner. The tide was turning.
Çalhanoğlu placed the ball, and sent in another perfect, curling delivery.
In the box, Stefan de Vrij, a man desperate to atone for his recent high-profile errors, saw his chance for redemption. He attacked the ball with a singular, ferocious purpose, rising above the chaos, and met it with a powerful, downward header.
The Roma keeper made a brilliant, instinctive save, palming the ball away.
But the rebound fell perfectly for Alessandro Bastoni, who smashed the ball into the roof of the net from two yards out.
1-1! The Inter players mobbed him, a screaming pile of joy and relief.
But Roma, in front of their home fans, were not about to lie down. Enraged by the red card, they attacked with venom. In the 68th minute, they produced a moment of magic.
A swift counter-attack saw Pellegrini slide a perfect pass to Lukaku.
The big Belgian held off his defender with his immense strength, turned, and fired a low, unstoppable shot into the far corner of the net.
2-1 to Roma. The stadium was rocking, a deafening cauldron of noise.
It felt like the final, killer blow. Inter had fought their way back, and it still wasn’t enough.
But as Roma kicked off, Lautaro Martínez gathered his team in a quick huddle. "We do not die!" he roared over the noise. "We do NOT die! One more chance!"
They kicked off. The ball was worked to Leon in the midfield. He was immediately closed down by Bryan Cristante. Leon saw the lunge coming.
He activated his skill.
[Zidane’s Roulette: Activated!].
He spun away from the tackle in a single, fluid, breathtaking motion. He drove forward, the Roma defense backing away, terrified of his dribbling.
He drew two defenders towards him, creating a pocket of space. He slid a perfect, weighted pass to his captain at the edge of the box.
Lautaro received the ball.
The world seemed to slow down.
He took one touch to push the ball out of his feet, and then he unleashed a shot of pure, unadulterated genius. He curled the ball with the inside of his boot, a sublime, unstoppable arc that flew past the keeper’s despairing dive and nestled perfectly into the top corner.
2-2.
The commentator simply screamed. "LAUTARO! LAUTARO! LAUTARO! A CAPTAIN’S GOAL OF THE HIGHEST, HIGHEST QUALITY! THIS FINAL IS A MADMAN’S DREAM! IT IS A WORK OF ART! IT IS CHAOS! IT IS GLORY! IT IS TWO-TWO!"
Twenty minutes to go in a cup final that had already had two red cards, four goals, and a million heart attacks. It was perfectly, beautifully, terrifyingly poised.