The San Siro was a vortex of pure, unadulterated noise.
The Inter players were still in a celebratory pile, mobbing a grinning Hakan Çalhanoğlu, while the Juventus players surrounded the referee, their faces masks of volcanic fury, screaming about the deflection.
On the sideline, the Juventus manager looked like he was about to spontaneously combust, kicking the air and yelling words at the fourth official that would make a sailor blush.
The comntator, anwhile, was having the ti of his life. "A GOAL OF UTTER, UNADULTERATED, RIDICULOUS LUCK!" he bellowed, his voice filled with glee. "Inter have taken the lead in the Derby d’Italia through a pinball wizard’s dream! Brer can only look on in horror! Szczęsny was in a different postcode! The hunters have drawn first blood with a fortunate, farcical, fantastic goal!"
The lucky goal didn’t break Juventus’s spirit; it filled them with a cold, calculated rage. They were a wounded animal, and now they were out for blood.
The match restarted, and the intensity, which already seed at its absolute peak, sohow found a new level.
The rest of the first half was a brutal, ugly, and utterly captivating spectacle.
Tackles flew in with reckless abandon.
Every 50/50 ball was contested as if it were the last ball on Earth.
"Watch Chiesa! Don’t let him turn!" Alessandro Bastoni yelled at his midfield, pointing frantically as the Juventus winger received the ball.
"Give an option! I have two guys on !" Lautaro scread, trying to hold up the ball against the imnse pressure of the ’Twin Towers’, Brer and Danilo.
The ’Predator & Jackal’ link between Chiesa and Vlahović was now a constant, terrifying threat.
In the 41st minute, Chiesa, surrounded by three Inter players, perford a ridiculous pirouette and sohow backheeled the ball into space.
Vlahović was already there, his run perfectly tid.
He unleashed a shot that was pure power, forcing another acrobatic save from Yann Somr.
The synergy was terrifying; they seed to be communicating telepathically.
Just as it seed Inter would survive until halfti with their lucky lead intact, the mont of reckoning arrived.
The clock showed 45 1’.
The ball was cleared from an Inter corner and fell to Adrien Rabiot, about 35 yards from goal.
There was no imdiate danger. He was surrounded by space, but it was too far out to be a real threat.
Or so they thought.
The French midfielder took one touch to steady himself. He looked up.
And then he just... hit it. It wasn’t a pass. It wasn’t a clearance. It was an explosion.
He struck the ball with such venomous power that it barely seed to spin. It flew like a guided missile, a rising, unstoppable force of nature.
Somr, who was perfectly positioned, dove at full stretch, his body parallel to the ground.
But the shot was a thunderbolt, a physical manifestation of Juventus’s rage.
It ripped past his outstretched hand and crashed into the top corner of the net, nearly tearing a hole in it.
The San Siro was stunned into absolute silence.
A single, solitary pocket of white and black in the far corner of the stadium erupted.
The comntator was speechless for a full two seconds before he found his voice. "OH. MY. GOODNESS. WHERE DID THAT CO FROM?! ADRIEN RABIOT HAS JUST SCORED A GOAL FROM ANOTHER GALAXY! A GOAL OF PURE, UNFILTERED ANGER AND BRILLIANCE! A ROCKET-FUELED HOWITZER OF A SHOT! Inter are stunned! The San Siro is silent! And Juventus are level! What a goal! What a ga!"
The halfti whistle blew imdiately after.
The teams walked off, the score locked at 1-1, the psychological advantage completely flipped on its head.
The second half began with the sa relentless, breakneck pace.
But Juventus was now playing with a swagger, a belief that fate was on their side. Inter, on the other hand, looked rattled, their patient passing ga from the Atalanta match a distant mory.
In the 58th minute, disaster struck.
Stefan de Vrij, Inter’s experienced and usually unflappable central defender, received a simple back-pass. He had ti.
He had options. But for a split second, he hesitated, caught in two minds. In that mont of indecision, Dušan Vlahović, slling blood, pressed him with ferocious speed.
De Vrij panicked. He tried to turn away, but his feet got tangled, and he stumbled, losing control of the ball.
Vlahović was in, clean through on goal. De Vrij, in a desperate, last-ditch attempt to atone for his error, lunged and clipped the striker’s heels from behind.
It was a stonewall foul. The referee blew his whistle and sprinted to the scene. The entire stadium scread for a red card, but Vlahović was just outside the penalty box.
A yellow card was shown to a devastated de Vrij. But the real punishnt was the position of the free-kick.
It was central, 20 yards out. It was Dušan Vlahović territory.
The Inter wall assembled, a line of nervous faces trying to look brave.
Vlahović placed the ball himself. He wasn’t looking for finesse.
He wasn’t looking to curl it. This was going to be about one thing: power.
The comntator’s voice was a low, tense whisper. "A catastrophic error from de Vrij has gifted Juventus the most dangerous of opportunities. Vlahović, the Predator, stands over the ball. The tension is unbearable..."
Vlahović took a short, powerful run-up and struck the ball.
He didn’t try to get it up and over the wall. He hit it low, and with the force of a cannonball.
The wall jumped, as they were trained to do. But Vlahović had anticipated this.
He had drilled it underneath their rising feet.
The ball was a white blur. Somr, his vision completely blocked by the jumping wall, had no ti to react.
He was still moving to his left when the ball rocketed past his right and bulged the back of the net.
2-1 to Juventus.
The San Siro was utterly silent, a cathedral of despair. The Juventus players mobbed Vlahović, a screaming, ecstatic pile of black and white.
On the sideline, Chivu just stared, his face grim. Luck had given Inter the lead.
A mont of brilliance had tied the ga.
And now, a catastrophic mistake had put them behind.
Leon stood in the middle of the pitch, watching the celebration, the roar of the away fans echoing in the silent stadium.
The clock ticked over to 60:00.
Thirty minutes to go. They were losing the Derby d’Italia.
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