"Beautiful! Well done!!!"
"Hahahaha! They've got no answers left!"
"Alessandro! Alessandro!"
"Long live!!"
Cheers erupted across the pitch at the Manchester United Youth Academy.
The boys in red were smiling ear to ear. And their opponents—Chelsea U18s in their classic blue kits—looked stunned, completely dazed.
Coming into this match, they were the favorites.
Chelsea had poured serious investment into their youth system in recent years. Their academy regularly dominated both the Premier League 2 and the FA Youth Cup. Over the past five seasons, they'd lifted the trophy three times.
United's U18s? Only two FA Youth Cup titles in the last twenty years.
Chelsea's advantage wasn't just domestic dominance—it was international recruitment. Young talents from all over Europe and South America filled their ranks. Few clubs in England could match that reach.
Yet here they were, sixty-eight minutes into the second half—
Manchester United 5 – 0 Chelsea.
A complete demolition.
And the one orchestrating the chaos?
The Chelsea players couldn't take their eyes off the No. 6 in red—the one who seemed to be everywhere.
Three goals. Two assists.
Alessandro Dybala's match stats were ridiculous.
But he wasn't a forward.
He was a defensive midfielder.
Yes, a defensive midfielder had just torn apart Chelsea's prized academy.
His three goals had all come from set pieces—brilliantly timed runs, bullet headers, and ruthless anticipation. But it wasn't the goals that terrified Chelsea the most.
It was the fact that no matter where they tried to build an attack—Alessandro was already there.
High press? Intercepted.
Through the middle? Interception.
Cross into the box? Cleared again.
It was like playing against a shadow—one that was always two steps ahead.
"Is this guy even human?"
"Why is he still playing U18 football?!"
The Chelsea players were broken.
Meanwhile, Alessandro high-fived his teammates, eyes drifting up to the stands.
He was hoping to catch a glimpse of him.
But with so many fans in the modest stadium stands, it was impossible to tell if Sir Alex Ferguson was there.
Still, the United fans knew what they'd just witnessed.
Alessandro's name echoed around the pitch. It didn't matter that the crowd was small. Their voices were passionate—this was England. This was Manchester.
And today?
This was Alessandro's stage.
Ferguson, watching silently from the stands, was stunned.
He thought he'd found a future Makelele.
But what he saw… was more.
A destroyer like Roy Keane.
A passer like Paul Scholes.
And the instincts in front of goal? Like Solskjær in his prime.
This wasn't just a promising kid.
This was a future legend.
And he wasn't going to rot in the U18s.
Ferguson stood up immediately.
"Come on, let's head to the locker room," he told his assistant. "Tell Paul to sub the lad off. I want to talk to him—alone."
—
Alessandro was a little surprised to be taken off early.
But he didn't protest.
He understood perfectly.
The U18s were just a stepping stone. It didn't matter how many goals or assists he racked up here—what mattered was what came next.
First team football.
McGuinness met him at the touchline and wrapped an arm around his shoulder.
"Well done, son," he smiled. "I don't think you'll be training with us again tomorrow."
Alessandro raised an eyebrow, curious.
"Go on. Head to the locker room. Someone's waiting for you."
Alessandro's heart thudded.
He jogged off, applauding the small but passionate crowd. These were die-hard fans. The kind who cared enough to watch the next generation bloom.
As he neared the tunnel, McGuinness turned to his assistant.
"Starting tomorrow," he said, shaking his head, "we probably won't see him back in U18 training."
If he wasn't thrown into the first team, he'd at least be moved to the reserves.
Either way, it was clear—
The U18s were no longer his level.
—
Alessandro paused in front of the locker room door.
He took a deep breath.
He knew who was behind it.
Sir Alex Ferguson.
The Godfather of Manchester United.
The greatest manager in Premier League history.
Knock knock.
"Come in," came a deep Scottish voice.
Alessandro entered.
There he was.
Ferguson stood calmly in the middle of the room, arms behind his back, a familiar half-smile on his face.
"Hello, Sir Alex Ferguson," Alessandro greeted with respect.
The legendary manager nodded.
"You can call me 'Boss,' just like the rest of the lads."
"Yes, Boss," Alessandro replied without hesitation.
Ferguson liked the kid already. Calm. Grounded. Disciplined.
He gestured to the papers laid neatly on a table beside them.
"This is a professional contract with Manchester United's first team. Sign it—" he smiled, "—and come train with us tomorrow."
Alessandro blinked once.
Then twice.
And then a grin slowly formed on his face.
He walked toward the table.
A dream was becoming reality.
---