The atmosphere at the Stadio Artemio Franchi had shifted from mere excitement to a rhythmic, pulsing roar. Every time the ball touched Renzo's boots, a hush of anticipation fell over the 50,000 fans, followed by an explosion of noise the moment he released it.
On the touchline, Verona's veteran coach, Andrea Mandorlini, was paralyzed. He had spent a week preparing for this. He had studied the tapes of Renzo's previous two games. He had drilled his midfield to compress the space and double-team the wings. He thought he had the "japanese Genius" figured out—a high-level supporting act who exploited tired legs.
But the team on the pitch today wasn't the Fiorentina he had scouted.
Mandorlini looked at Vincenzo Montella in the opposite technical area. The youngest coach in Serie A was still shouting orders, his face a mask of intense focus. Mandorlini finally understood: Montella hadn't just put Renzo in the lineup; he had handed a 16-year-old loanee the keys to the entire club.
It was tactical insanity. To build an entire system around a player who had only been in the country for three weeks was a gamble that could end a coaching career. But as Mandorlini watched his "Dark Horse" Verona defense get sliced open like a ripe orange, he realized the gamble was paying off.
The breakthrough came in the 22nd minute.
Milan Badelj, Fiorentina's defensive anchor, lunged into a tackle, cleanly dispossessing Saviola. The stadium roared as the transition began. Badelj fired a sharp vertical pass to Alberto Aquilani, who pirouetted past a marker and surged into the center circle.
Verona's defense scrambled back. Luca Marrone, the Juventus-loanee, stepped up to stop Aquilani's progress. Seeing the wall in front of him, the veteran Aquilani didn't hesitate—he shifted the ball to Renzo, who was ghosting into space on his right.
By the time Renzo received the ball, the "counter-attack" window had seemingly closed. Verona had nine men behind the ball. The numerical advantage was gone. Most midfielders would have slowed the play down, recycling the ball to the wings to begin a patient positional build-up.
Renzo didn't even take a second touch.
He looked up, his eyes scanning the field with "Master-Level" Vision. He saw the narrowest of corridors—a gap no wider than a blade of grass—between three retreating defenders.
He leaned his body back and struck the ball with the outside of his right foot.
The ball didn't just move; it screamed. It took a wicked, fanned-out arc along the grass, spinning with such intensity that it seemed to defy physics. It bypassed the first defender, swerved around the second, and zipped inches past the outstretched boot of the third.
Juan Cuadrado, sprinting down the right flank, widened his eyes in shock. He hadn't even called for the ball—he didn't think a pass was possible. Yet, there it was, emerging from the crowd and landing perfectly in his stride.
The "Colombian Blade" didn't waste the gift. He touched the ball forward, his 77-rated pace leaving the last defender in the dust. He entered the box, looked the keeper in the eye, and unleashed a thunderbolt.
BANG!
The ball tore through the air, blasting past Rafael's reaching hands and burying itself in the top right corner of the net.
1-0!
For two full seconds, the Artemio Franchi was silent. The fans were still processing the sheer artistry of the pass they had just witnessed. Then, the realization hit.
"GOALLLLLLLLL!"
"RENZO! RENZO! RENZO!"
Cuadrado didn't even celebrate with the fans. He turned around and sprinted half the length of the pitch, sliding on his knees and pointing both hands at Renzo.
"The Golden Foot!" Cuadrado screamed over the noise. "You absolute monster!"
Renzo stood in the center circle, a modest smile on his face. He could feel the power of the home crowd surging through him. The mission was halfway complete. He had his assist. Now, he just had to bring home the win.
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