As the undisputed hero of the day, Dejan Lu was hoisted up by everyone, sitting on his teammates' shoulders and raising his arms toward the stands.
Ferraris Stadium had descended into a frenzy.
It was only a 2–1 win, and it was not even a final.
But beating the defending champions in Serie A, with their Number Seven tearing apart the world's strongest side alongside four World Cup winners—it was as unbelievable as the Berlin Wall being torn down.
"Dejan!"
"Dejan!"
"Dejan!"
Boskov had not given Dejan Lu any opportunities over the past several matches, which had dampened their expectations considerably.
Maybe he was just good at flashy tricks and was not actually that impressive on the pitch.
Even so, that would have been decent for a young player. After all, he was handsome and could dominate newspaper headlines, which was no easy thing for Sampdoria.
No one had expected Dejan Lu's first appearance to exceed their expectations by so much.
Their earlier expectations had been too high?
No, they had been far too low!!!
Sampdoria had performed well in recent years, but today's match was the most exhilarating one they had ever experienced.
The last-gasp winner had let the fans see heaven.
If not for the barriers, no one knew how many fans would have rushed onto the pitch.
The male fans wanted the hero's shirt, while the female fans simply wanted to take him to bed.
Football was a sport that made people's blood boil.
When a fan said he would be willing to share his girlfriend with Mourinho or someone else, he most likely meant it.
Mantovani wiped at the corner of his eye.
Wonderful!
This was truly wonderful.
The chairman, who had devoted himself to helping his hometown club rise, had made a massive gamble that summer. The signing had not cost much money, but foreign-player slots in Serie A were extremely precious.
He had not brought in a teammate of Van Basten and Gullit, nor had he gone to South America for South American stars like Caniggia or Balbo.
Now, it seemed that he had won his gamble.
And he had won it thoroughly.
The team had several World Cup winners in their thirties, core players in their mid-twenties such as Roberto Mancini, Pari, and Vialli, as well as young talents like Lanna and Dejan Lu, who were not yet twenty but could already serve as starters or rotation players.
This Sampdoria side now had the strength to contend with the Northern Three Powers.
Though Sampdoria was also a northern team.
Even ten minutes after the final whistle, his heart still had not calmed down.
This was the football he wanted.
In a corner Mantovani could not see, a middle-aged man took off his glasses, wiped them, and left with some disappointment.
Massimo Moratti had witnessed the Grande Inter era created by his father. His feelings for Inter Milan were no less profound than anyone else's.
He had even handed the family business over to his older brother. Personally, he only had assets of around two billion, which was not much among football club owners.
But his obsession with football was beyond what many wealthy men could imagine.
After looking back at that young Number Seven, Moratti suddenly wanted to buy Inter Milan and bring that Number Seven to the Meazza as well.
Amid the fans' jeers and cheers, Monica walked down to the lowest tier of the stands.
Dejan Lu leaped straight over the advertising boards at the side of the pitch.
"Kiss her!"
"Kiss her!"
"Kiss her!"
The fans joined in the chanting.
Dejan Lu leaned in without hesitation.
The two kissed through the security fence.
Click.
The reporters at the sideline were going crazy.
This was destined to be tomorrow's front-page headline.
Ever since this kid had come to Sampdoria, their articles had become much easier to write.
Trapattoni was stopped in the tunnel by a reporter from Italy's national broadcaster, Raiuno (RAI1). The veteran manager, who did not want to attend the press conference, accepted the interview.
"Giovanni, if ten is the highest score, what score would you give Inter Milan's players?"
the reporter asked.
La Gazzetta dello Sport and Tuttosport both used a ten-point player rating system rather than the five-point system used by West German media.
"Ten. The players performed exceptionally well, but failing to win was not their fault. I made some mistakes in my control of the match."
Trapattoni said candidly.
There was no point blaming the players at a time like this. He might as well be generous about it.
"So you mean you were responsible for today's defeat?"
"Yes. If we had put more effort into attack rather than defense, perhaps we would not have ended up like this. Sampdoria's firepower should not have been stronger than ours. I will learn from today's match."
The veteran manager smiled, then left without saying anything more.
Football was played with the feet. Anything the loser said would be mocked.
Press conference room.
Ferraris Stadium's press conference room was somewhat shabby, but Boskov sat there as though he occupied the throne of a Roman-era consul, surveying the entire room as if it were his kingdom.
As the day's greatest hero, Dejan Lu attended the press conference with him.
More importantly, Dejan Lu had thought of a good way to make money: directly monetize the enormous attention surrounding him and Monica.
"Vujadin, can you talk about Dejan's performance today?"
"Dejan, will you still ride a bicycle straight onto the pitch?"
"Dejan, do you have anything to say to Galliani?"
"Mr. Boskov, will Dejan become an important player for the team from now on? Why did you keep him on the bench before? Was there some conflict between you?"
"Dejan, what did Bergomi say to you? How would you evaluate this opponent you defeated?"
"..."
The reporters were too excited.
If the Three Musketeers had crushed the Three Horsemen, it would have drawn attention, but it would not have been nearly this newsworthy.
Both groups were strong in their own right. Either one winning would have been perfectly normal.
But today, Dejan Lu had personally shattered the back lines of West Germany and Italy. When they returned, they would dare to write that Dejan Lu had defeated Inter Milan all by himself.
Boskov smiled and pulled the microphone closer. "There has never been any problem between Dejan and me. Dejan visited me before summer training began. He is a polite, cultivated young man, and he is also a genius. The reason I did not let him play earlier was because I hoped he could make his appearance in the match in perfect condition. As you have seen, that was the result."
He did not feel the slightest guilt saying that, because his decision not to let Dejan Lu play earlier had indeed been for Dejan Lu's sake.
"Then how would you assess Dejan's performance today?"
"Flawless!" Boskov said. "I do not want to use such a word on a young man, because I worry that it might make him blindly arrogant. But I truly cannot find a single flaw in Dejan. When you dribble past Lothar Matthäus, Bergomi, and Brehme in succession, you are... one of the best players."
The veteran manager paused slightly. What he had originally wanted to say was king of the world.
But he feared the media would sensationalize those words and put too much pressure on Dejan Lu.
Before the internet, the glare of flashbulbs could kill. Traditional media had a reach and influence far beyond what came later.
After all, Manchester United's super-talented George Best had only retired a few years earlier.
Both were Number Sevens, both eye-catching geniuses. Boskov truly feared that Dejan Lu would become the next Best.
Thanks to NATE2046, You Yu Xiazhe, and Lao Mei Zhujiu for the tips.
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