Harbinger Of Glory

Ukraine rolled the kickoff backwards, and almost immediately, Moise Kean sprang forward.

That was the trigger.

The moment he accelerated, Italy moved with him.

Behind him, Barella and Raspadori stepped onto Ukraine’s double pivot, while Chiesa and Zaccagni squeezed inward from the wings, cutting off the easiest passing lanes.

Further back, Leo edged a few yards higher, careful not to leave the space in front of his centre-backs exposed, while Bastoni and Scalvini held their line right past their box.

The San Siro recognised what it was seeing.

Every forward sprint from Kean was met by another swell of encouragement.

"Go on!"

"Press!"

Blue scarves bounced behind the goal as eighty thousand voices urged Italy forward.

"It’s an aggressive start," the commentator observed. "Spalletti’s men are hunting in packs."

Ukraine, though, looked ready for it.

In reaction to Italy’s press, the ball rarely stayed still.

One touch and two at most.

Every receiver seemed to know where the next pass was going before he’d even controlled the previous one.

Whenever Kean closed one centre-back, the ball disappeared across to the other.

When Barella arrived, it had already been moved again.

Through that, Italy kept chasing while Ukraine kept escaping.

"They’ve clearly worked on this," the co-commentator said.

"Every pass is leaving just before the pressure arrives. Ukraine seem well prepared."

His partner nodded in agreement and for a while the pattern continued.

One minute.

Then two.

Then three.

Through it all, Italy didn’t even win the ball once.

Kean finally eased off his latest sprint, drawing a deeper breath as he slowed into a jog.

He had no choice.

As the lone central forward, he couldn’t spend ninety minutes chasing shadows.

The instant he dropped a yard, the rest of Italy followed suit, retreating into a more measured shape.

And Ukraine recognised it immediately.

"They’ve earned themselves a little breathing room now," the commentator noted.

"They survived the first wave and need to find something to do with this time before the Italians get on their backs again. A very intriguing start to this match."

Leo watched the shape reform from his position in front of the defence.

His eyes never stayed in one place for long.

He always made sure where the ball was, who was looking to run into it and the space his mates created by stepping up or dropping deep.

"Barella!" he shouted a moment later, loud enough to cut through the crowd.

Barella reacted instantly, turning to see where and what Leo was pointing towards.

He’d allowed Oleksandr Zinchenko to drift off his shoulder for a split second.

Seeing that, the Inter midfielder spun and recovered just as Zinchenko received, forcing the Arsenal man backwards instead of forwards.

Ukraine recycled possession, patiently like they were in no rush.

Then Georgiy Sudakov finally received the ball between the lines, and when he lifted his head, the entire pitch seemed to open in front of him.

"Here’s Sudakov," the commentator said.

"This is where he becomes the most dangerous. He thrives between the lines..."

Before the commentary could finish their notes on the former, Sudakov’s right foot wrapped around the ball, sending a long diagonal sailing toward the right flank.

There Yarmolenko took it into his stride, and Dimarco met him almost immediately.

The winger sized up the duel for barely a heartbeat before deciding against it.

He knew his strengths and knew he was probably going to lose it should he force it, so he turned and slipped the ball back inside instead.

The pass had barely left his foot when Kean exploded forward again, this time into the deep and once again, like a chain reaction, Italy surged.

The midfield squeezed up, and the back line followed simultaneously.

Every blue shirt stepped five yards higher together, and the moment they did, the crowd got right back behind them.

Zinchenko, noticing the oncoming pressure, took one touch and sent it back to Stepanenko.

Stepanenko looked up once before trying to recycle possession toward his goalkeeper.

Only...

The pass lacked weight.

"Oh..." the commentary winced as Kean saw it instantly and burst after the loose ball.

Both Ukrainian centre-backs immediately abandoned their wider positions and cut back toward the middle.

For one brief moment, it looked as though Kean might arrive first as he locked in for the foot race between him and the keeper.

"He might get there!" the commentators bellowed, but the Ukrainian shot stopper got off his line in time.

Just as Kean was almost upon him, he launched the ball high into the Milan sky, leaving Kean’s challenge a fraction too late.

"Very nearly," the commentator breathed.

"That’s the closest Italy have come to forcing a mistake."

The ball climbed...hung..., then began its descent toward the Italian half, and Sudakov was already keeping tabs from underneath.

He chased after the ball, picking his head up for a split second while tracking the ball.

When he did so for the second time, he found Leo right in his vision, also approaching what was going to possibly be the drop spot.

The Ukrainian saw this, readied himself and planted at the last, ready to leap.

Leo did the same, almost mirroring Sudakov’s movement, and just as the latter committed, rising fully into the air, he felt no structure around his body.

He looked down for a split second, ...only to realise Leo hadn’t followed him.

"Chort..."

He grunted under his breath as the ball sailed inches over his head and found Leo, who had remained grounded.

When it got close enough, his left foot slid calmly beneath the dropping ball, and in the next moment, the first touch seemed almost impossible.

Instead of bouncing away, the ball simply...

...stopped.

Dead.

A murmur rolled through the San Siro as they watched something so magnificent.

"Oh, that is brilliant," the commentator said immediately.

"...he’s stolen all of its momentum."

As the commentary ranted, Leo’s head came up, not wasting any time, taking a glance in and then another.

Before anyone could guess his next move, his right arm extended toward the right flank.

"Go."

The word barely left his lips when his weaker left foot swung through the ball.