Succession of the Throne
"Ooooooh...!"
Lorenzo held the trophy just out of reach, teasing the crowd, who answered with a long, unbroken roar of anticipation. Then, as the players and manager gathered on the podium at the center of the pitch, Lorenzo—standing for them all—finally thrust the trophy high into the air.
"Yeeeeaaaaaah!!!!"
The entire stadium erupted at once, the roar so thunderous it seemed the ground itself was shaking like an earthquake. The cry more than filled the half of the stands left empty by departing Juventus fans. That was how much this Coppa Italia victory meant.
It was Roma’s tenth Coppa Italia title—only the second club in Serie A history to reach that mark after Juventus. Some spectators were moved to tears by the fact. Of every achievement Roma could still chase while Lorenzo remained a player, this was the greatest.
Having finally claimed the title he had longed for, Lorenzo beamed as he and his teammates thrust the medals hanging around their necks forward for the cameras. After the commemorative photos, he walked over to Yohan—who was still giddy over winning his first official trophy—and roughly ruffled the younger man’s hair.
"You remarkable kid..."
Yohan was simply happy. Winning was wonderful, of course, but being able to give Lorenzo a gift of his own felt even better. The reverse-winning goal had come with his help. In his debut match Lorenzo had supplied the pass that became Yohan’s goal; now Yohan had returned the favor. The symmetry felt so monumental that even though his body was utterly spent, the exhaustion barely registered beneath the soaring tension.
Lorenzo had stumbled early in the season, yet he still possessed outstanding quality and remained more than capable of starting. Yohan found himself hoping they would lift more trophies together next season—ideally in the league, or in Europe.
After the ceremony, while congratulations still flowed among the squad, Lorenzo gave an interview in the mixed zone.
"Right before the winning goal, only Gio and I knew exactly what we each had to do."
He had shared credit with the whole team, yet it was rare for Lorenzo to single out one player so pointedly; everyone took notice. Something invisible had clearly passed between the two of them in that moment.
Still fielding beers and soft drinks from teammates who kept interrupting, Lorenzo finished the interview, returned to the dressing room, and shared the joy with the rest of the squad. Only when the raw emotion had finally drained away did he call a press conference and deliver the news that stunned everyone.
"I will retire at the end of this season."
The assembled reporters wore the expressions of men who had seen it coming. The sudden conference, held with retirement already looming, was hardly a surprise. To claim otherwise would have been a lie.
"My legs haven’t been right lately, and the injuries have been frequent. If I stay in the squad I’m only taking minutes from better players. I also want to make up for the time I’ve never given my family. They’ve always sacrificed for me. Now I think it’s my turn."
The moment the conference ended, every sports daily in Italy carried the story of Lorenzo’s retirement. Papers hit the streets at once and spread across the country; online, his interview dominated conversation for days.
And Yohan—
"Why...? You can still play. You scored twelve goals in the league alone, and the assists..."
—stood on the training pitch confronting Lorenzo with a look of pure incomprehension. Lorenzo watched him and smiled the fondest of smiles.
"My time is over. I know that better than anyone. From here on I’d only be a burden. My body’s in that bad a shape."
"But... you at least have to play next season with the star on the shirt...! Champions League is still waiting next year. We have to go there and make something happen..."
"You’re something else. There aren’t many people in the world who can keep a promise they made as a kid. Maybe in all of Italy there’s only you."
"What?"
"You’re young. You’ve still got plenty to learn. But I respect you. When I retire, I want you to send me off with a smile."
"....."
Yohan’s eyes squeezed shut, then opened again. The idol who had always been so reliable, who had always delighted his eyes, was saying he no longer had the strength. The grief was almost too heavy to bear.
"Can you do that for me?"
But he had to let him go. Why? Because Lorenzo had asked. A man’s own will deserved respect.
".... Yes. I will."
After Lorenzo’s retirement announcement, Roma drew even tighter together. With five Serie A rounds remaining, a perfect run still left the faintest mathematical chance of overtaking Juventus. Yet in the very next match after the Coppa Italia final they threw away two points deep in stoppage time—an utterly damnable result. Watching his teammates apologize, Lorenzo only looked pleased. This is football, he said, and that is why it is fun.
Even so, Roma won their remaining fixtures, climbed past Milan into second place, and arrived at the final round: an away Derby della Capitale.
Lorenzo’s farewell match was, by cruel coincidence, a derby—and an away derby at that. The stadium would be packed with Lazio fans. Naturally the atmosphere, already fierce by derby nature and now charged with everything else, burned hotter than ever. Yet one thing was different: the faces of both sets of ultras and supporters looked almost gentle. No one was arrested for weapons, as usually happened at least a few times every match; outside the ground the only exchanges were mocking chants. Nothing more.
The match itself, once under way, was anything but gentle. Just like every previous derby, the physical battles were relentless and the swearing free. Lazio fans never stopped abusing the Roma contingent in the away end and even hurled drinks and beer. On the surface it looked no different from any other derby.
But when Lorenzo was substituted in the second half, a long banner unfurled horizontally across the Lazio ultras’ section and every eye turned toward it.
Your lifelong enemy sees you off with applause.
Farewell, Lorenzo Lucca!
The Lazio ultras who had stretched that banner across the stand then gave Lorenzo a thunderous ovation as he left the pitch—as if this were Roma’s home ground. Many even cheered. To a neutral observer it looked bizarre. Lorenzo had driven countless daggers into Lazio’s heart. He was the all-time leading scorer in the Derby della Capitale; at every critical moment he had poured cold water over Lazio’s hopes. There was even a half-joking, half-serious quip that if you locked Lorenzo and a Lazio fan in a cage with a lion and a snake and gave the fan a gun with two bullets, the fan would still put both rounds into Lucca. He was the enemy of enemies.
Yet Lorenzo had also given everything for the Italian national team. For that reason alone, this measure of respect was something they could freely offer.
The match finished 1–1. Roma stayed second; Lorenzo closed his career with a tenth league runners-up medal—the very embodiment of near-misses. For a player who had defined an era the trophy cabinet might look sparse, yet almost no one ever questioned his quality.
At the retirement ceremony the following day, Lorenzo slipped the captain’s armband onto the arm of a grieving Ricci. Then he turned to the Romanistas who filled every seat and spoke for more than ten minutes, naming each teammate in turn and offering them personal words. When he reached Yohan’s name he first quieted the roaring crowd, then asked them to watch the boy’s growth carefully. He finished with a line that struck every Romanista to the heart.
Countless transfer rumors from other clubs had swirled around him, but Lorenzo turned them all down. Partly he simply wanted quiet time with his family; partly he refused to let any other club’s name appear on his career record. With 702 appearances and 303 goals—Roma’s all-time leader in both—Lorenzo Lucca retired with honor.
"Are you just going to lie there sniffling forever?"
"I wasn’t sniffling..."
"Sure looks like it. Stop moping and get up already. Why is a player so devastated just because someone retired from old age? It’s natural."
At Hailey’s icy words Yohan stared at her in pure horror.
"How can you say that? He’s my idol and a legend of Roma."
"You said it yourself earlier. He’s taking a year off and then coming back as some front-office director or whatever. It’s not forever, and he’s not dead. This is ridiculous."
"Hailey...! For heaven’s sake...!"
Yohan’s reaction—mouth clamped shut in outrage—clearly failed to please her. Hailey’s brow furrowed hard.
"Ugh, shut up and get up. We’re going out."
"T-take that back...!"
"Take what back?"
"What you just said...! About Lorenzo...!"
"You’re acting like such a little girl today. And if I don’t take it back, what are you going to do?"
"I’ll erase you."
"What was that, you little shit? Looking to die?"
Hailey lunged and began mercilessly pinching and poking every inch of him. The player enduring that torment had finished the season with 50 appearances, 17 goals and 17 assists, and an average rating of 8.3—an extraordinary campaign. In the league alone he posted 11 goals and 13 assists, joining the 10-10 club and claiming the assist title. Assists generally carry more weight than goals; even ten is enough to put a player at the front of the race, so thirteen was virtually a lock. He finished two clear of the Inter player in second. A record most established stars never reach, achieved in only his second professional season, sent his reputation soaring without ceiling. His ability to operate anywhere from the first line to the third only elevated the evaluation by several more tiers.
His rivals Grasso finished with 21 goals and 4 assists, Vitale with 22 and 4; both were edged out of the Golden Boot by a Juventus striker. Consequently the inaugural winner of the newly created Young Player of the Year award was Yohan, and the three-way battle among Milan, Lazio and Roma ended in Roma’s favor. Once awarded, the Young Player prize can never be won again—and the first name on it was Yohan’s. Romanista pride swelled accordingly.
In the Team of the Year, Grasso and Vitale took two of the three forward spots while Yohan claimed a midfield place, so all three made the side.
Lorenzo’s retirement, marking the end of a player’s journey, and Yohan’s awards, marking the true beginning of a professional career—together they formed a picture that looked exactly like the succession of a throne. Ricci, Rossi and Solomon were still there, yet none shared Lorenzo’s position. The emperor’s true bloodline, the gossips declared, ran through Yohan. Provided he never left, the new emperor would, without question, be him.