The streets of Milan were a lot different a week after a big win.
The air still had that electric hum, a subtle aftershock of the San Siro's roar.
I decided to take a walk, just to clear my head and grab something to eat.
The weight of the world, as Barella had put it, felt like it had been lifted from my shoulders and replaced by a light, hopeful energy.
I wasn't Leon the anxious kid anymore; I was Leon the player who had scored against the kings. It was a nice feeling.
As I strolled down a quiet street, enjoying the crisp autumn air, I spotted a small, old-school gelato shop. Perfect. I was just about to head inside when I heard a small voice call out.
"Leon! You're Leon!"
I turned to see a boy, no older than ten, holding a football and wearing a slightly too-big Inter jersey with my name on the back.
His eyes were wide with a mix of awe and shyness. He looked a little nervous, clutching the ball tightly against his chest.
