This Is Why I Fell in Love With Football
This is why I fell in love with football.
I pushed myself up slowly and let out a short breath.
There's hope.
My Triangle Foot was definitely useful in its own way.
This… might actually become my defensive weapon.
Thump. Thump.
"Ugh."
A hand clapped me hard on the back.
"Keep doing that. You're doing great."
It was Vanja Milinković-Savić, Torino FC's goalkeeper.
"Yeah, yeah."
I gave a short nod. Praise was nice, but there was no need to drag it out — the next moment demanding my focus had already arrived.
A Juventus corner kick.
Inside the penalty box, I checked the positions of the opposing players. The first one my eyes found, almost by instinct, was Dušan Vlahović. He was still the most dangerous threat on the pitch, so I stuck tight to him at once, leaning into him with just enough force to hold my ground without getting shoved off.
Thwack~!
But the instant the ball was struck, I changed my mind.
Not here — a little farther forward!
It was a gut feeling bordering on certainty. In a split-second decision I abandoned Vlahović and burst forward. Behind me he looked briefly startled, but it was already too late.
The ball left the kicker's foot, curling in fast, dropping exactly where I had predicted. I jumped with everything I had. Juventus midfielder Nicolò Fagioli came charging in and leapt for the same ball, but I was a fraction quicker — it met my forehead first.
Thud!
I caught it clean on the brow and powered the header clear. The ball sailed completely out of the danger zone, arcing long toward the opposite end. I collided with Fagioli on the way down and crashed to the ground, but the situation wasn't bad. Up ahead, Antonio Sanabria was waiting calmly; he collected the ball and immediately turned.
"Run! Get up the pitch!"
Manager Ivan Jurić bellowed until the veins stood out in his neck. In an instant, Torino's counterattack was on.
Before the Juventus defense could even reset, Sanabria spotted Nikola Vlašić sprinting flat-out down the left. Filip Kostić, Juventus's left wing-back, scrambled across to close him down, but Sanabria released the pass a heartbeat before the challenge arrived. Vlašić never broke stride as he drove into the box, the perfectly timed ball finding his feet.
"Shoot!"
The stands roared as one, willing it in, and Vlašić swung his right foot without a second's hesitation. A hard, low drive screamed toward goal. Every Torino fan in the ground surged to their feet.
But standing between the posts for Juventus was Wojciech Szczęsny. He set himself calmly, barely needing to stretch, and gathered the ball cleanly in both hands as it came straight at him.
"Ah…"
A collective groan of frustration rolled through the stadium. Fans who had been certain of a goal clutched their heads with both hands, faces twisted in disbelief. On the bench, everyone half-rose and then sank straight back down. Sanabria planted both hands on his hips and dropped his head; Vlašić bit his lip and punched the empty air once.
A touch more toward the corner and it would have been a goal. But with right wing-back Cuadrado closing in hard, Vlašić had rushed the shot, and it went straight at the keeper.
I had forced myself up after the collision and watched the whole sequence through to the end. When it didn't go in, I couldn't hide the disappointment on my face.
"Ah…"
A sigh slipped out before I could stop it.
"That was our chance for the opener…"
My header had nearly sparked the whole thing. Watching it come to nothing left a bitter taste.
We had failed to take the lead, but that single counterattack left a bigger mark than I expected. Juventus had felt the danger in that moment. Until then they had pushed their defensive line boldly up near the halfway line, pinning Torino FC deep — but after Sanabria's break and Vlašić's clear-cut chance, they began to grow more cautious. The gap between their center-backs and midfielders opened a little, and the intensity of their high press dropped off noticeably.
Good… a little room to breathe.
I glanced up at the scoreboard.
Eightieth minute of the second half.
Ten minutes left. Fifteen at most if you count stoppage time. Nice — we've burned the clock well. Now I just have to hold on for a clean ten minutes.
What we needed wasn't some reckless attack. It was staying locked in and snuffing out every wave that came at us. I drew a deep breath, dropped my stance again, and focused on defending.
But the match refused to go the way I wanted. Seeing only ten minutes remaining, Juventus manager Allegri urged his players back onto the front foot. And Juventus was never a side content to settle for a draw that easily.
The problem that arrived first was, of course, Federico Chiesa. Every time he received the ball on the right flank, Torino's back line shuddered. Left midfielder Manuel Locatelli fed the ball from the center while left wing-back Filip Kostić stretched play wide, dragging markers out of position. Then the ball found its way back to Chiesa. The pattern kept repeating. The three of them passed endlessly among themselves, yanking our defense side to side.
Short passes. One-twos.
Suddenly the ball rolled softly into Chiesa's feet — and in the same breath he exploded into a sprint.
"Damn it!"
In a blink our right side was torn open. The moment the one-two was played, our wing-back Bellanova was skinned; one touch later, right center-back Sazonov was beaten too. In the end, libero Alessandro Buongiorno stepped up boldly to provide the last line of cover. From that instant, everything happened at once.
I ran the scenarios in my head.
If I go to Chiesa, Vlahović is free. If I track Vlahović, Chiesa can shoot. I can't stop both.
I angled my body toward the center as much as I could, narrowing Chiesa's shooting angle while cutting off the passing lane to Vlahović at the same time.
Please… just shoot it yourself. That's still better for us.
But Chiesa was a top-class player. What he chose was a cut-back — a low, sharp pass driven precisely into the middle of the penalty box.
No.
My eyes went wide. Because Buongiorno had stepped out to meet Chiesa, the space behind him was completely vacant — and into that space Locatelli, the left midfielder, was arriving on a perfectly timed run.
We're screwed.
My mind went blank. But I couldn't just stand there. Without thinking of anything else, I threw my body at Locatelli with everything I had.
That was the moment.
Thud!
A massive impact slammed straight into my gut.
"Ghk—!"
The air left my lungs in a single instant. Pain tore through my whole body as if a giant hammer had driven into my stomach. The world flashed white. I nearly toppled backward, but I clenched my teeth on pure instinct and somehow kept my balance.
Air… I can't—
Maybe because the ball had caught me right in the solar plexus, I couldn't draw a proper breath. Strength drained from my legs. I tried to force myself upright, but my right leg gave out completely and I collapsed, the limb stretched long in front of me.
Even then the play didn't stop. The ball caromed off my abdomen and dropped right back at Locatelli's feet. He didn't hesitate — he struck it again, this time aiming straight at the near post.
But in that same instant, my right foot — limp and extended from the collapse — happened to lie directly across the shot's path.
Thok!
The ball clipped my instep and ballooned high into the air. What had been heading inside the near post sailed cleanly over the crossbar instead.
A roar erupted across the stadium.
"He blocked it again!"
"Yes!"
Torino fans rose to their feet, applauding, while my teammates threw both arms into the air. I had blocked one shot with my body, then deflected the follow-up from the second ball with my foot, turning a certain goal into a corner kick.
I, however, had no idea any of that had happened.
Ah… that hurts like hell.
Clutching my stomach, I could barely manage to drag air back into my lungs. I could breathe again, but the pain in my gut was still there, and my legs still wouldn't take my weight properly.
I'm seriously… dying…
Then I heard hurried footsteps pounding toward me. A moment later a massive shadow filled my vision.
Vanja Milinković-Savić.
Huh?
His face was lit with excitement. He grabbed my shoulders and started shaking me hard.
"Bravo! Bravo! What the hell was that just now?"
I still couldn't breathe properly, barely holding myself upright as he rattled me back and forth.
No… hang on… I feel like I'm dying here… stop shaking me!
I wanted to say it out loud, but it hurt too much for the words to come. Milinković-Savić paid no attention whatsoever to my condition. He kept gripping my shoulders with both hands, shaking me, unable to contain himself.
"You blocked it twice! Well done, Teo!"
Buongiorno, our libero, spoke up as well.
"Just… give me a second to rest…"
But Milinković-Savić ruthlessly hauled me to my feet. I had no real chance to recover — I had no choice but to stand.
"Waaaaaaaah!"
The moment I got up, a thunderous roar and a wave of applause crashed over me. It was the Torino FC fans — the same ovation, the same cheers that had been directed at Rodríguez when he left the pitch injured.
"Mamma mia!"
"Dai! Teo!"
This time, every bit of it was aimed at me.
Ah… right.
This is why I play football.