Chapter 69

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Translator: Silver Dragon

Chapter: 69

Chapter Title: Red Milan in Winter, Blue Milan in the Knockouts

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00-01 season was drawing to a close.

We had already surpassed last season's 67 points, reaching 70 points by Round 33.

"Ha, that monstrous old man..."

We relentlessly chased Manchester United, who had held first place since Round 5 under Ferguson.

But United never slipped once, steadfastly maintaining their lead with 75 points.

Third-place Arsenal sat at 58 points, while Liverpool, Leeds, Ipswich, and others hovered in the low 50s. Chelsea was mired in such a slump that they could ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠barely crack the UEFA Cup spots.

Our results weren't bad by any means, but we needed to prepare even more thoroughly for next season.

In the second half, Ince and Schmeichel began showing signs of age, though Freidel put in solid performances and the center-back pairing with Melberg was sturdy. Still, there was room to bolster the squad.

That said, the players were united behind Hitzfeld, keeping team morale sky-high.

This season, Figo was battling for the assist crown, Baggio for the golden boot against Hasselbaink, Owen, Henry, and others, while James Beattie, Shaun Wright-Phillips, Damien Duff, and the rest continued their steady growth.

"Yeah, the season's not over yet. And there are plenty of trophies still up for grabs."

UEFA Cup semifinals.

Our opponents were Inter Milan, and while Liverpool and Barcelona slugged it out in the other bracket, we headed to Milan for our shot at the final.

When the Blackburn Rovers squad arrived at Milan International Airport, a swarm of Italian reporters fired off camera shutters.

The biggest draw was Roberto Baggio's homecoming.

"Baggio! Baggio's back in Milan!"

The Italian press mobbed him at those shouts, but Baggio silently grabbed his bag and headed for the bus without a glance.

In Italy, Baggio was the eternal Fantasista.

And in Milan, he was the Milan star who had played for both the red-and-black AC Milan and the blue-and-black Inter Milan.

Now that very Baggio had returned to face his former club Inter, representing a Premier League side.

This was shaping up to be pure drama, and I was looking forward to the Inter clash myself.

The Blackburn squad boarded the bus without a press conference.

As I was about to scout around Milan, reporters started closing in.

"Hey, you there—the Asian guy!"

"The Asian?"

The phrasing was off, but the journalists crept toward me.

Daeyang Group's Italian staff and Blackburn employees rushed over to shield me and hold back the press.

"You're that Asian boss of Blackburn, right?"

"Not the best way to put it. I'm Korean—use the proper term."

One reporter shot his hand up.

"Cristian Lorenzo from Sport Today."

"Lorenzo?"

A Daeyang staffer whispered in my ear.

"He's Italy's top sports reporter. He was the one who spread the Maldini transfer rumors all over Milan."

I approached the somewhat famous Italian sports journalist Lorenzo.

"Signore Lee, up for an interview?"

"Me, not the manager? Ask away, and I'll answer."

Reporters swarmed around Lorenzo.

"Did you really plan to sign Paolo Maldini in the winter window?"

"If he came, we'd have welcomed him with open arms."

"For a 33-year-old veteran defender, at 30 million euros?"

"Who knows if he could've kept his class into his forties, like Beckenbauer or the great captain Franco Baresi? Just having him would elevate Blackburn's class."

I answered bluntly, and the rabid Italian press—every bit as fierce as the British—pummeled me with more questions.

"In Milan, Maldini is like the heart of the city."

"You get known as that PL boss who tried to poach him, and random Italians on the street'll pelt you with eggs."

"Really? You think all Milan fans—red or blue—would hurl eggs and tomatoes if they heard we wanted Maldini?"

"!?"

"Red Milan or Blue Milan, they're all the same. We've already faced Serie A sides back-to-back in this UEFA Cup, so yeah, we're eyeing some decent Serie A talent."

Several reporters bristled at the "Red Milan, Blue Milan" jab, their faces boiling as they corrected me.

"Signore Lee, it's 'AC Milan' and 'Internazionale Milano.' Get the names right."

"Oops, my bad. Anyway, looking forward to this Inter match."

"You think a little English side like Blackburn can poach anyone from Inter?"

"Shall we go for Javier Zanetti? Think 40 million would do it?"

"!!!!!"

I poked Red Milan with Maldini, so Blue Milan got their captain Zanetti in return.

Staff hustled me into the car before the press frenzy exploded.

And starting with the evening papers that day and the weeklies the next, all hell broke loose.

BAM!

"Sei fuori di se! What? Poaching who? Javier Zanetti?"

Massimo Moratti hurled the newspaper, unleashing a torrent of Italian curses at some Asian EPL club owner.

As CEO of the oil giant Saras Group and Inter Milan's chairman, he was one of Europe's biggest spenders in football.

He had built Inter with funds rivaling Real Madrid and Barcelona at their peaks.

Ronaldo, Christian Vieri, Seedorf, Toldo, Bampeta, Paul Ince, Panucci, Robbie Keane—these were transfers under his watch.

"Can't let that bastard slide. Next season, I'll poach half their squad."

Moratti, confident he outspent even Real's Florentino Pérez, set his sights on Blackburn with fire in his eyes.

Giuseppe Meazza Stadium.

UEFA Cup semifinal.

Over 80,000 fans filled the majestic arena, unleashing flares and choreographed tifos that shook the stands.

[Fugitive Baggio.]

[Washed-up Paul Ince.]

[This will be your grave.]

[The sky darkens blue—the Nerazzurri are here!]

Chilling banners everywhere, and pre-kickoff flares and toilet paper rolls had security at max capacity just to control the crowd.

A sight we'd see often in future Champions League ties. I clenched my sweating fists, hyped for the match.

Paul Ince had Inter experience too, but today Yoo Sung-chul and Gattuso owned the midfield.

Tweet!

Inter kicked off, Recoba dribbling down the flank with his left foot.

Vieri charged centrally, Melberg colliding with his physicality.

!!!!

Melberg, a physical beast even in the EPL, was shoved off by Vieri, and Recoba's left-footed cross flew straight to Vieri's head.

Schmeichel barely parried it away, booming it long.

Vialli intercepted ahead of Gattuso and drove forward again.

Inter leveraged midfield numerical superiority to feed Vieri, who barreled through 2-3 defenders like a tank.

Even in the rough-and-tumble Premier League, Vieri's pure 100% physicality overwhelmed Blackburn's backline.

Yoo Sung-chul dropped deep to engage, but a single elbow to the chest sent him tumbling.

Tweet-tweet!

Foul called, thankfully, but Yoo's condition worried me.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

He got up, but was gasping like he'd run a marathon barely 10 minutes in.

Vieri dominated Inter's attacks today.

Rough-tackling Høiland slid in every time Vieri got the ball, but even he had limits.

In the 16th minute, as Vieri charged again, Southgate threw his body in. Vieri stumbled but passed sideways instead of shooting.

Recoba latched onto it; Melberg desperately tackled, but Recoba fired first.

The ball ripped into the net—opening goal.

The Meazza quaked like an earthquake, Inter leading 1-0 on Recoba's strike.

Vieri drew the aggro, Recoba finished. Hitzfeld pointed at the defense, his face beet-red like an Osram bulb as he bellowed instructions.

But the players felt something else on the pitch.

You couldn't mark Vieri one-on-one.

Even trying, it failed—teammates kept abandoning positions to swarm him.

"Whew, that type's the toughest..."

Italian stadiums allowed smoking—I'd learned that in Parma, so a cig found its way to my lips.

We countered with Figo and Duff shaking the flanks, but Zanetti preempted with a clean tackle.

As wing-back, he surged forward aggressively, crossing toward Vieri and Recoba. Gattuso dogged him relentlessly, struggling one-on-one.

With Yoo covering center and Gattuso the sides, crises mounted. Hitzfeld signaled from the bench.

Gattuso halted his Zanetti chase, shifting central; Yoo slid wide to aid fullbacks against Zanetti and Gresko.

26th minute.

Recoba dribbled left and crossed again. Vieri leaped like a heavy spring.

Melberg and Southgate both jumped, but Vieri's massive frame hammered a header home.

"...This is insane."

2-0.

No matter it was away, crumbling so limply in the first half was unacceptable.

Schmeichel roared; Southgate, Figo, others clapped encouragement. Some hung their heads.

The squad sensed this foe was different. We couldn't fold like this.

Kickoff: Figo dribbled boldly, aiming to pierce the center.

But Inter's midfield trio swarmed him. Beattie shoved like Vieri to escape, but suffocating defense stole the ball.

Almighty cut it and fed right-back Zanetti.

Yoo covered instantly.

Inter's blue-black shirts flooded the box; he lofted a hopeful cross anyway.

It met James Beattie's head, rebounding to Baggio's feet.

"Ah!"

Ball at Baggio's foot—he sprinted full-tilt, low-driven through Ferrari and Blanc toward goal.

Frey dove, but the awkwardly bouncing shot clipped his arm and nestled in.

Chase-down goal from Roberto Baggio.

Amid 80,000 Inter jeers, he celebrated brazenly, hugging Figo, Yoo Sung-chul, Gattuso—adrenaline pumping.

44th minute.

2-1 at the brink. Figo received.

Right-flank Zanetti was a wall, but left-back Gresko had been breached by Figo's dribbles a few times.

Figo skinned Gresko again, facing the defense—volley!

Frey parried to the post.

Baggio soared gracefully like a swan, header crashing down.

2-2.

Down 2-0 at half, Baggio single-handedly equalized with a brace.

"Huff, huff!"

Halftime smoke billowed in anxious tension.

Hitzfeld went all-in: Beattie off, Ince central.

4-3-3, Baggio lone striker, banking on Duff and Figo dribbles; midfield Ince-Gattuso-Yoo.

Gattuso rampaged fiercer than the first half, veins bulging, charging like he'd bleed out—tackling any ball touch.

Yoo shuttled cut balls forward, roaming between lines, fearless against Inter pros.

As Vieri bulldozed the defense again...

THUD!

Tweet!

This one was nasty.

Vieri shoulder-barged Southgate's back; he clutched his waist, down.

"Damn it, that's a red! Red card!"

Ref lectured, flashed yellow. Vieri stomped turf, fuming back.

Meds checked; Southgate couldn't continue—sub incoming.

Scott Parker? A midfielder, not defender?

Hitzfeld sent Parker central.

Yoo to Southgate's center-back spot.

Even as a utility man, handing ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Yoo CB in a brutal midfield war...

Ince-Parker-Gattuso reclaimed the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠engine room.

Warming up next: Shaun Wright-Phillips. Hitzfeld ditched defense for all-out attack.

Yellowed Vieri slowed by 80th minute, tank turning sluggish, breathing ragged.

Chances came, but Yoo, Melberg, Schmeichel's super saves foiled headers repeatedly.

Inter's attack was monstrous.

If Ronaldo—out post-knee surgery—had played... Unthinkable.

Woooo—WOOOOOO!

Jeers swelled, shaking the ground.

Baggio had the ball.

Raging like reborn, venting on the club that discarded him—dribbles, killer passes icing Inter's defense.

Not a 33-year-old vet, but 1994 Ballon d'Or peak Baggio returned.

Prime chance—Matteo Ferrari lunged, tripping him.

Tweet!

What? Penalty?

Baggio down on the edge of the box.

Inter and Blackburn mobs argued with ref, demanding review.

Linesman conferred... Free kick, not pen.

"90th minute plus 1 injury time..."

Miss this, game's over.

Baggio stepped up for his hard-won free kick.

Woooo—WOOOOOO!

Baggio flicked his ponytail, steadied breath.

Struck it at Inter's wall.

Soaring over leaping tall defenders.

GK Sebastian Frey spotted it dead-on, fully extended dive.

It kissed fingertips—agonizingly over, dropping in.

"Fantasista!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Hattrick.

Added time, 3-2 reversal by Baggio.

Inter kicked off—final whistle.

In the dragon's den of 80,000 at Meazza, Roberto Baggio turned it into a library. His career-defining match.