"Hernández!!!"
Zhang Jun's voice cracked with adrenaline.
"Thirteenth minute of the second half! Javier Hernández finishes it! And it's Alessandro with the assist!"
"Brilliant pass! Absolutely beautiful! Eighty percent of that goal belongs to Alessandro!"
"It was surgical! That line... almost invisible! Who on earth saw that pass coming?"
"Like carving meat with a scalpel! Manchester United cut through Ajax with pure precision! This wasn't just an assist—it was orchestration. Alessandro was at the center of everything. Passing, movement, vision—he ripped Ajax apart with that final through ball!"
"Incredible!!"
"Outstanding football!!"
---
Commentators across Europe echoed the sentiment.
The finish was clinical. But the build-up?
That belonged to Alessandro.
He hadn't just created space—he'd engineered it.
"Honestly," said the Dutch national radio analyst, "conceding against that kind of sequence... you just have to nod. What can you do?"
Another voice chimed in.
Van Basten.
Live on Dutch TV.
"If I were still on the pitch, I'd be applauding too. That kid—Alessandro—he's going to be all over the headlines tomorrow."
---
In the stands, the camera found him.
Johan Cruyff.
On his feet. Applauding.
"Even Cruyff's on his feet for that goal!" Zhang Jun shouted. "That's the highest kind of praise in Amsterdam."
---
Hernández didn't hesitate after scoring.
He didn't sprint toward the corner flag or throw off his shirt.
He turned, pointed straight at Alessandro, and ran to him with both arms out.
"Brilliant pass!" he shouted.
He wanted to lift Alessandro in celebration—but when he measured the size difference, he thought better of it.
Instead, the hug turned into a tangle of high-fives and backslaps as the rest of the team swarmed around them.
---
On the touchline, Ferguson raised both fists.
Grinning wide.
He turned to Mike Phelan, energized like a man half his age.
"Did you see that? Did you see that?!" he shouted. "He's not just a holding midfielder, Mike! He's a complete one!"
Phelan didn't say a word. He was still processing what he'd just seen.
Because that wasn't just a clever pass.
It was domination by intellect.
Ajax's shape, United's movement—it was all logged in Alessandro's brain.
And then, he pulled the trigger at the exact right moment.
Phelan shook his head in amazement.
"He's doing this in his first professional match."
"Exactly," Ferguson said, beaming. "That's why I trusted him."
---
To most people, talent determines a player's ceiling.
But Ferguson didn't believe that.
Talent set your floor.
Your mentality? That's what defined your ceiling.
And Alessandro's mind was a fortress.
No panic. No ego. No drop-off.
"His future?" Ferguson said, eyes still fixed on the pitch. "There's no ceiling on it."
---
Back in Asia, fan forums exploded.
> "One goal, one assist! Come on!!"
> "Who the hell said he was just a holding midfielder?! This is our Iniesta!"
> "Nah... this is BETTER than Iniesta."
> "Absolute baller!"
> "Unreal. Completely unreal."
Even casual fans could feel it.
They might not understand positional play or tempo-setting midfield control—but one goal, one assist in a knockout match for Manchester United?
That spoke loud enough.
Clips of Alessandro's goal and assist went viral.
Social feeds flooded.
Fans were posting like it was New Year's Eve.
---
But not everyone was celebrating.
In a quiet studio, sports journalist Ma Xin sat frozen.
He and others had tuned in hoping for a misstep. A quiet debut. Maybe a mistake they could twist into an article.
It would've made things easy.
Another piece to cast doubt. Stir criticism. Generate clicks.
Instead?
Alessandro had just delivered a performance so clean, so composed, it made every one of their hit pieces look like a joke.
"Is this real?" Ma Xin muttered. "Is he... really this good?"
His hands were trembling.
He knew what was coming.
The internet was going to bury him.
Every opinion piece. Every social media post. Every smug line of doubt he'd ever written—
Now they'd be turned against him.
He wasn't a critic anymore.
He was a punchline.
A walking cautionary tale.
And in one night, Alessandro had burned down the entire narrative.
---
One match.
One seventeen-year-old.
One undeniable truth:
His future had no ceiling.
---