The day after the Derby was a strange, beautiful blur.
The city of Milan was buzzing, painted in equal parts the triumphant blue and black of Inter and the sullen red and black of Milan.
Newspapers had run out of superlatives.
"Miracle," "Legendary," "The Coming of Leondona." For Leon, the noise was overwhelming.
He found his sanctuary in the one place the football world couldn't touch: his mother's kitchen.
The aroma of simmering tomato sauce and fresh basil filled the air, a scent that was more comforting than any stadium chant.
Leon sat at the small wooden table, watching his mother, Elena, move with a familiar, loving grace.
"You are too thin," she said for the third time, placing a mountain of homemade pasta in front of him. "All this running around. You need to eat. How can you score goals if you are just skin and bones?"
Leon laughed, the sound easy and relaxed. "Mom, the club has nutritionists. They weigh me every day. I'm fine, I promise."
