The ball popped up off the turf and flew over Nuytinck’s outstretched leg, but instead of just chipping it forward Demien planted his left foot and his right heel ca back behind his standing leg in one fluid motion, scooping under the ball as it rose and sending it arcing high over his own head.
Rainbow flick. Over the defender. Now finish it.
"OH WHAT SKILL FROM WALTER!"
The ball sailed through the air in a perfect arc over both Demien and Nuytinck who was still sliding past, and ti seed to slow as Demien’s body pivoted to follow its trajectory, his tired legs finding one more burst of explosive power as he adjusted his positioning.
The ball was dropping now, falling from its apex, and Rincón was sprinting toward him from twenty yards away but too far to close the distance, and Audero was rushing off his line but the angle was all wrong because he’d expected a shot not this audacious piece of skill.
Demien’s eyes never left the ball as it descended, and his right leg cocked back as his body twisted, his technique drawing on every skill the system had given him—the Curve Run Timing for the body shape, the enhanced agility for the balance, Pirlo’s vision for seeing this opportunity in the first place—and as the ball dropped to chest height, still in the air, still spinning, he unleashed everything.
His right foot connected with the falling ball with perfect technique, his laces catching it cleanly, his body leaning back to generate power and trajectory, and the volley flew off his boot with vicious pace.
"WALTER VOLLEYS—"
The strike was absolutely ferocious, the ball screaming through the air on a rising trajectory that gave Audero no chance, and it crashed into the top corner so hard that the net rippled and billowed outward before the ball dropped down behind the line.
GOAL. ATALANTA 4-2 SAMPDORIA ⚽ Walter 86’
"GOOOOOOOOOAL! ARE YOU KIDDING ?! RAINBOW FLICK INTO A VOLLEY! WALTER HAS JUST PRODUCED SOTHING AAGICAL! WHAT A GOAL! WHAT A DEBUT!"
Pure. Fucking. Pandemonium.
The stadium exploded with a noise that felt like it could lift the roof off, and Demien didn’t think, didn’t plan, just acted on pure instinct as he grabbed the bottom of his shirt and ripped it over his head, the fabric catching briefly on his face before coming free, and he was sprinting toward the corner where he knew his mother was.
His teammates chased after him but he was faster despite his tired legs, driven by emotion that overrode everything else, and when he reached the corner he didn’t stop, montum carrying him up onto the advertising boards and then he was climbing the fence, higher this ti, pulling himself up with strength he didn’t know he had.
"HE’S DONE IT AGAIN! RAINBOW FLICK TO VOLLEY! THE EIGHTEEN-YEAR-OLD DEBUTANT HAS JUST SCORED ONE OF THE GOALS OF THE SEASON ON HIS DEBUT!"
Isabella was there leaning down with both arms reaching through the fence, tears streaming down her face uncontrollably, and when their hands t she grabbed his wrists tight—so tight it almost hurt—and she was sobbing now, trying to speak through the tears.
"My baby, my baby, I’m so proud, I love you so much—"
Demien pulled himself higher, his arms straining, and he leaned forward as far as he could reach through the fence, and Isabella bent down further, and their foreheads touched through the gaps in the tal barrier before he stretched up and kissed the top of her head, his lips pressing against her hair as she cried harder.
"I love you, Mom," he said, his own voice breaking. "I love you so much."
Marco’s hand clamped down on his shoulder from the side, gripping hard, and when Demien turned his head he saw Marco’s eyes were red too, his face split in the biggest smile he’d ever seen, and the agent just kept squeezing his shoulder and shaking him.
"You magnificent bastard! You magnificent—" Marco couldn’t even finish, his voice thick with emotion.
Luca was there on the other side, both hands reaching through to grab Demien’s face, and his best friend was laughing and crying at the sa ti, his whole body shaking as he held onto him.
"THAT’S MY BROTHER!" Luca was screaming. "THAT’S MY FUCKING BROTHER!"
"Security trying to get to him but his teammates have arrived, they’re pulling him down, absolute scenes here at the Gewiss Stadium!"
Soone grabbed his legs—Højlund definitely—and pulled him down off the fence, and then he was buried under celebrating teammates again, all of them screaming and laughing and grabbing his bare shoulders, and the referee was jogging over with his yellow card already raised but nobody cared.
"Yellow card for Walter for excessive celebration, but I doubt he cares right now! That goal will be replayed for years!"
The referee wrote his na in the book while Demien stood there bare-chested and grinning, completely spent physically but flying emotionally, his face still wet from tears and sweat, and Koopiners handed him his shirt back with a huge smile and said sothing about "showboating" that made everyone laugh.
On the ground near the center circle, several Sampdoria players were lying flat on the turf in exhaustion and disbelief, Fernandez among them though he was smiling despite the defeat, shaking his head in what looked like respect because sotis you just had to acknowledge quality when you saw it.
Demien pulled his shirt back on as he jogged toward his position, the fabric soaked through and sticking to his skin, his legs finally registering how tired they were but his mind still buzzing with adrenaline, and when he looked up at the scoreboard the numbers felt unreal.
ATALANTA 4-2 SAMPDORIA 71’ Walter ⚽ 86’ Walter ⚽
Rainbow flick. Volley. First professional match. Serie A debut.
His chest felt tight with emotion he couldn’t quite na, and he touched the Atalanta crest on his shirt once more before taking his position as Sampdoria prepared to restart.
The fourth official raised his board at the ninetieth minute showing four minutes of added ti, and those four minutes passed in a blur as Atalanta defended their lead with intelligent possession football, keeping the ball away from Sampdoria who pushed forward desperately but without real conviction.
Demien touched the ball six more tis in those final minutes, each involvent simple and effective—receiving from de Roon and playing it to Koopiners, collecting from Djimsiti and switching it to Mæhle, dropping deep to offer an outlet before laying it off to Scalvini.
At 90 3, he won the ball from Djuricic with a perfectly tid tackle and imdiately played it forward to Lookman who ran into the corner and won a free kick, the stadium applauding both the tackle and the ga managent.
At 90 4, the referee looked at his watch and raised the whistle to his lips.
Fweeeeeeeeeeeet!
FULL TI: ATALANTA 4-2 SAMPDORIA
The Gewiss Stadium exploded as twenty-five thousand people rose as one, and Demien just stood there for a mont, hands on his hips, chest heaving, trying to process what had just happened.
It’s done. First match. Two goals. One assist. We won.
A/N
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