Reincarnated As A Wonderkid-Chapter 569: Como 1907. Champions of Europe.
The UEFA headquarters in Nyon, Switzerland, smelled of expensive carpet and bureaucracy.
Alex sat in the auditorium. He was wearing a navy suit. He looked like a manager.
Next to him, Mark was wearing a suit too. But he had cut the sleeves off.
"Mark," Alex whispered. "Where are your sleeves?"
"Aerodynamics!" Mark whispered back. "If I need to run to the stage to complain, I cannot have fabric resistance! Also, it is hot in here. Too many old men breathing."
"It is air-conditioned, Mark."
"I am a furnace of anticipation!" Mark said, fanning himself with a croissant.
The Champions League Draw.
Como 1907. The miracle champions of Italy. They were in Pot 1.
The UEFA official spun the glass bowls. The balls rattled.
"And in Group C..." the official droned.
He pulled out a ball.
COMO 1907.
"That is us!" Mark cheered, standing up. "CHAMPIONS OF THE LAKE!"
"Sit down, Mark," Alex hissed, pulling him down.
"Next," the official said. "From Pot 2..."
He swirled the balls.
REAL MADRID.
The room gasped.
"Oh no," Rico whispered from the other side of Alex. "Not them. Not again."
"Destiny," Alex smiled. "We cannot escape them."
"From Pot 3..."
MANCHESTER CITY.
The gasp turned into a murmur of shock.
"The Group of Death," a journalist whispered behind them.
"The Group of Pizza!" Mark corrected. "We will eat them!"
"And from Pot 4..."
GALATASARAY.
"Welcome to Hell," Alex muttered. The Turkish stadium was legendary for its noise.
"I like hell," Mark said. "It is warm."
Milo was waiting outside. He was dressed as... a UEFA Ball.
He was wearing a giant, round, inflatable suit with stars on it. He could barely walk. He bounced.
"I AM THE OFFICIAL MATCH BALL!" Milo screamed, bouncing off a pillar. "ALEX! I AM SELLING THE DRAW! I RIGGED IT! (I didn't, but I can pretend!). I AM SELLING GROUP C MERCHANDISE! 'I SURVIVED THE GROUP OF DEATH' T-SHIRTS! ONLY THIRTY EUROS!"
"Milo, you are going to pop," Alex said.
"I AM INFLATED WITH CAPITALISM!" Milo yelled, rolling down the stairs.
Matchday 1.
Como 1907 vs Real Madrid.
The Sinigaglia Stadium.
The stadium was too small for this game. But that made it special. The lake shimmered in the background. The mountains watched like silent giants.
Real Madrid arrived. They were the Galacticos 4.0.
Their manager was... Zinedine Zidane. Still.
Zidane walked over to Alex.
"Professor," Zidane smiled. "You are on the other side of the line now."
"The view is different," Alex admitted. "But the game is the same."
"We will see," Zidane said.
Mark was staring at the Real Madrid bench. He was looking at their new fitness coach. It was Cristiano Ronaldo (retired).
"The Robot is a coach now?" Mark gasped. "Does he teach them how to jump into space?"
"Probably," Alex said.
The whistle blew.
The game started.
Real Madrid were terrifying. They played with power. Speed. Technique.
In the tenth minute, their striker, Endrick (now 22 and fully grown), got the ball.
He bulldozed through Marco. He smashed it.
Goal.
Zero one. Real Madrid.
"They are too strong!" Luca shouted from the pitch. "They are monsters!"
Alex stood in the technical area. He didn't panic.
He looked at the lake.
"Be water," Alex whispered.
"Water crashes against the rock," Mark said helpfully. "And the rock gets wet."
"Water erodes the rock, Mark," Alex corrected.
Alex called Tito over.
"Tito," Alex said. "Stop trying to fight them. You are small. They are big. Go under them."
"Under?" Tito asked.
"Low center of gravity," Alex said. "Make them bend their knees. Giants hate bending."
The game restarted.
Como changed the rhythm.
Instead of long passes, they played "Micro-Football". Tiny passes. One meter. Two meters. Tap. Tap. Tap.
It was annoying. It was like a swarm of mosquitoes.
Real Madrid got frustrated. They chased the ball.
Thirty fifth minute.
Paz got the ball. He played a one-meter pass to Saka. Saka played a one-meter pass to Tito.
Tito spun.
He was under the radar of the giant defender, Militao.
Tito ran into the box.
He chipped the keeper.
Goal.
One one.
"MOSQUITO FOOTBALL!" Mark screamed. "WE ARE BITING THEM!"
Halftime. One one.
Steve (who was now a Director of Football, watching from the stands with a glass of wine) sent a text to Alex's watch.
They are getting angry. Expect a storm.
"I love storms," Alex told the team. "Storms make rainbows."
"That is beautiful, Boss," Luca sniffed. "Can I put that on Instagram?"
"Score first," Alex said. "Then Instagram."
Second half.
Real Madrid unleashed the power.
Endrick hit the post. Vinicius (still playing, now the captain) dribbled past three men and shot wide.
Eighty minutes.
The game was tied.
Alex looked at his bench.
He saw a kid. 16 years old. A local boy from Como. His name was Alessandro.
"Alessandro," Alex said.
The kid looked terrified. "Me?"
"Yes, you."
"But... it is Real Madrid."
"They are just men in white shirts," Alex said. "Go run."
Alessandro ran onto the pitch.
Eighty ninth minute.
Como had a free kick. Wide on the left.
Saka stood over it.
Alex signaled. The Whirlpool.
It was a routine they had practiced.
Saka didn't cross. He passed it backward to the edge of the box.
Rico (who was still playing, refusing to retire) dummied it.
The ball rolled to Alessandro.
The kid had space.
He didn't shoot. He saw Marco at the back post.
He floated a cross.
It hung in the air. The lake breeze caught it.
Marco jumped. He hung in the air like Ronaldo used to.
He headed it.
Goal.
Two one. Como.
The stadium went into orbit.
Mark ran onto the pitch. He was wearing a life jacket (why?).
"WE ARE FLOATING!" Mark screamed. "WE ARE UNSINKABLE!"
The final whistle blew.
Como 2. Real Madrid 1.
A giant killing.
Zidane shook Alex's hand.
"You have good students," Zidane said.
"They listen," Alex smiled.
Milo appeared. He was wearing a diving suit and holding a trident.
"POSEIDON!" Milo shouted. "I AM THE GOD OF THE LAKE! ALEX! I AM SELLING TRIDENTS! THEY ARE JUST FORKS TIED TO STICKS! BUT THEY ARE POWERFUL! TWENTY EUROS!"
"Milo, you are dripping water on my suit," Alex laughed.
Matchday 2.
Manchester City vs Como.
The Etihad.
Pep Guardiola was gone (retired to play golf). The new manager was... Kevin De Bruyne.
"Kevin," Alex said in the tunnel.
"Alex," Kevin nodded. He looked sharp in a suit. "Management is stressful. My hair is falling out."
"Wear a hat," Mark suggested. "I have a collection."
The game was a tactical masterclass.
City played possession. Como played transition.
It ended 2-2. A draw at the Etihad was like a win.
Matchday 3.
Galatasaray vs Como.
Istanbul.
"Welcome to Hell," the signs said.
It was loud. Louder than loud.
Mark was wearing earmuffs.
"I CANNOT HEAR THE PIZZA CALLING MY NAME!" Mark shouted.
The game was fiery. Red cards. Flares.
Como won 1-0. A gritty, dirty win.
"We survived the fire," Alex told the team.
The season went on.
Como qualified for the Knockouts. Then the Quarters. Then the Semis.
They beat Barcelona. They beat Bayern Munich.
Suddenly, they were in the Final.
Champions League Final.
Como vs Arsenal.
The Stade de France. Paris.
Alex's current team vs Alex's heart.
The narrative was written in the stars.
The week before the final was emotional.
Alex sat in his office. He looked at a photo of his old Arsenal team. Him, Mark, Rico, Saka.
Now Saka was with him at Como. But the badge on the other side... it still meant everything.
"Conflict of interest?" Mark asked, eating a baguette (preparing for Paris).
"No," Alex said. "Just... history."
"History is yesterday's pizza," Mark said wisely. "Today's pizza is fresh."
"You are surprisingly profound when you are hungry, Mark."
"Hunger clarifies the mind."
Paris. The Final.
The Stade de France.
It was a sea of Red and Blue.
Alex walked out.
The Arsenal manager was... Martin Odegaard. His old captain.
They hugged in the center circle.
"Teacher vs Student," Odegaard smiled.
"We were students together," Alex said.
"May the best team win," Odegaard said.
"May the best pizza win," Mark whispered from the bench.
The whistle blew.
The game started.
It was beautiful.
Arsenal played "Finch-Ball" (the style Alex had built).
Como played "Liquid Diamond".
It was like watching a mirror match.
1-1 at halftime.
2-2 at full time.
Extra time.
The players were exhausted.
Alex looked at his bench. He had no strikers left.
He looked at Marco. The defender.
"Marco," Alex said. "Go up front. Be a nuisance."
"I will be a mosquito," Marco nodded.
118th minute.
Saka got the ball. He was tired. His legs were heavy.
He saw Marco in the box.
Saka crossed.
Marco didn't jump. He didn't have the energy.
He just stood there.
The ball hit his shoulder. It bounced off his shoulder. It hit the post. It rolled along the line.
It stopped.
Everyone froze.
Then, Alessandro, the kid, slid in.
He poked it.
Goal.
Three two. Como.
The whistle blew.
Como 1907. Champions of Europe.
Alex fell to his knees.
He had done it. With a small team from a lake in Italy.
Mark ran onto the pitch. He was wearing the Champions League trophy as a hat (again). But this time, he had put a baguette inside it.
"THE BREAD CUP!" Mark screamed. "WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS OF CARBOHYDRATES!"
Alex laughed. He cried.
Saka ran over. "We did it again, Professor."
"We did," Alex said.
Milo descended from the roof on a wire (how did he arrange that?). He was wearing a suit made of flashing LED lights.
"THE STAR!" Milo screamed, dangling in mid-air. "ALEX! I AM SELLING THE MOVIE RIGHTS TO THE SEQUEL! 'THE ITALIAN JOB'! STARTING BID: TEN MILLION!"
"Get down, Milo!" Alex yelled.
"I AM ASCENDING!" Milo shouted.
Alex looked at the crowd.
He saw his son, Leo, in the stands. Leo was wearing a Como shirt with DAD on the back.
Alex waved.
He had conquered England. Spain. Italy.
He was the greatest manager in history.
But as he looked at Mark trying to eat the baguette out of the trophy, Alex knew the truth.
He was just a guy who loved the game. And who loved his friends.
"Class dismissed," Alex whispered.
But he knew... there was always another class.
The World Cup was next year.
And Mark had already bought a map of America.
"Hey Professor," Mark shouted. "Do they have pizza in Texas?"
Alex smiled.
"Yes, Mark. They have pizza."
"Then we go!"
