On October 27, after another examination, Dejan Lu finally received the coach's permission to leave the hospital.
The moment he stepped outside, camera flashes lit up the place.
"Dejan, is your body all right now?"
"They say your leg was broken. Does that mean your season is over?"
"Have you considered leaving Italy for treatment?"
"What do you have to say to Dunga?"
"Marco Lanna was only suspended for one match. Do you think that's fair?"
"Dejan, Dejan..."
Roberto Mancini impatiently pushed the reporters aside and helped Dejan Lu into the car alongside Vialli.
Those bastards really knew where it hurt. He had been suspended for four matches, the same as Dunga.
Roberto Mancini suspected that the Italian Football Federation had done it deliberately, all because he had left the national team's base without permission with his teammates three years ago and never apologized.
"Everyone wanted to throw you a party, but the coach said we should keep it low-key." Vialli sat in the back with Dejan Lu and said, "We decided to wait until after the Dortmund match."
Right after Juventus came the fourth round of the group stage, and this time they would be playing at home.
"I'm fine anyway, but a celebration sounds good. I'll pay for it."
Dejan Lu said.
For once, Vialli, the rich kid, did not insist on covering everything.
He had become a money-delivering boy alongside Roberto Mancini.
Vialli suspected that if this continued, Dejan Lu's card-game earnings would exceed his salary.
One day, if Roberto Mancini got divorced, it would definitely be because this had been discovered.
The two of them escorted Dejan Lu home, where Monica had already prepared a table full of dishes.
"You're so rich, yet you still won't buy yourself a mobile phone?"
Roberto Mancini mocked as he watched Dejan Lu fiddle with his pager.
"I don't really like those things. A pager is enough."
Dejan Lu said.
He had no desire to carry a brick around all day.
Besides, mobile phones were not widespread yet. What was the point of owning one yourself? If you wanted to find someone, you still had to call a landline or page them.
"I don't think they're very good either."
Monica said as she brought out another dish.
"See?" Dejan Lu said with a smile.
Federica looked at Vialli and said, "Everyone at this table has someone except you. Don't you want to find a girlfriend? Want me to introduce you to someone?"
"Forget it. I believe in fate."
Vialli said.
"Stop worrying about him. He doesn't need your concern."
Roberto Mancini said directly.
Federica silently rolled her eyes.
She always felt that Vialli and Roberto Mancini had a closer relationship.
Dinner lasted until after eleven before the two drunks finally left.
After washing up, Monica said, "I've been thinking about whether I should live at school."
Dejan Lu immediately sat up, turned to look at her, and said, "Isn't this place close to your school? How about we buy a house near campus?"
Monica rolled her pretty eyes.
Was this about distance?
It was about the distance between the two of them.
Lately, she had been finding it a little too much to handle.
Monica persuaded him, "I heard players need to maintain their condition before matches. How about we go to sleep early tonight?"
"Sure, we'll finish early."
"No, that's not what I meant..."
Very soon, she made up her mind. At the very least, she needed to stay in the dorms several nights a week.
October 29.
Alps Stadium.
Sampdoria's two consecutive away matches were both tough nuts to crack. It was hard to say whether there was any malice behind the schedule.
Fortunately, Moggi was not at Juventus during this period.
Otherwise, this was destined not to be a fair match.
Serie A's darkest period came when the Seven Sisters gradually declined. Moggi returned from Roma to Juventus and established a Serie A order led by the Northern Three Powers.
Even without him, the Agnelli family still wielded enormous influence.
There was simply no one to turn that influence into something tangible on the pitch.
Inside the away dressing room.
Boskov emphasized, "This is no easy opponent. Get your heads in the game. Dejan, although you made the squad today, I'm not planning to play you. Just watch from the sidelines."
"Understood, Coach."
Dejan Lu said.
Whatever the coach said, went.
"Keep an eye on that little forward of theirs, Schillaci. That guy is very good at slipping into gaps!" Boskov said, pounding the tactical board.
"Got it, Boss!"
The moment Dejan Lu heard that name, he immediately remembered Schillaci's story.
Schillaci's story over the past two years had been nothing short of a fairy tale.
He should have entered Serie A in the same year as Dejan the Football King. He had been Serie B's top scorer last season.
The most incredible part was Italia '90. He scored in almost every match and became Italy's savior.
He had gone from Serie B to overshadowing every big name in the national team and becoming the hottest striker in the Apennines in just over a year.
Even if he had retired immediately afterward, he would still have been a national hero.
Yet this legend, which had only just begun, came crashing down at lightning speed for an utterly ridiculous reason—his wife cheated on him with Lentini, affecting his performances on the pitch.
The Schillaci who had burst onto the scene also fell at lightning speed within just over a year. Not long after transferring to Inter Milan, he went to Japan to play, completely leaving behind the place that had broken his heart.
Among Italy's many internationals, perhaps only Schillaci had suffered worse than Totti.
At noon, referee Carlo Longhi blew the whistle to start the match.
Juventus's coach was Italy's legendary goalkeeper, Zoff.
Even after becoming a coach, he remained a devoted believer in defensive counterattacking. That was nothing unusual.
But Juventus's defensive counterattacking had real substance. Zoff had his players reduce their time on the ball and constantly compress space, severely limiting Sampdoria.
Especially with Roberto Mancini, their Number 9.5, absent, the team's attacking play had developed some problems.
In the 34th minute, Sergei Aleinikov took the ball during a counterattack and successfully broke Sampdoria's goal.
During halftime, Boskov paced back and forth in the dressing room. Seeing this, Dejan Lu stood up and said, "Coach, let me play. I think I can come on today and try to regain my rhythm."
Boskov wanted to agree, but he still shook his head.
He had just said before kickoff that Dejan Lu needed proper rest. Could he slap himself in the face after only forty-five minutes? He could not do that.
But after the second half began, Sampdoria's attack still showed little improvement. Giancarlo Marocchi's pressing and disruption against Sampdoria had been highly effective, completely cutting off the connection between their midfield and attack.
When Dejan Lu stood up again, Boskov finally agreed to let him play.
Lilongwe, Malawi.
It was the capital and also the second-largest city.
Yet it was exceptionally desolate. Surrounded by three countries, Malawi was not especially rich in natural resources either.
Galliani had finally found a restaurant where he could watch Serie A. He had been hoping Dejan Lu's serious injury would allow him to return to the Apennines sooner.
This restaurant had been built by colonial settlers.
When Dejan Lu stepped up to the touchline, Galliani elegantly stood and paid the bill.
The rest of the match no longer meant anything to him.
He was disappointed.
But even in adversity, he could not forget that Adriano Galliani was a gentleman.
The moment he stepped outside, he saw several locals walking toward him with ill intent.
He had previously heard from people at the office that this place was relatively safe, supposedly among the top twenty in Africa.
Top twenty was clearly not reliable, but he had not expected something like this to happen on the street at only one in the afternoon.
He was not afraid of losing a little money, but what if they killed him?
Galliani, already past forty, instantly displayed agility no less impressive than in his youth and darted toward the bicycle parked by the roadside.
Only then did he remember that he had deliberately locked it earlier. Galliani hurriedly lifted the bicycle and hurled it at the three men, then turned and ran for his life. This might have been the most humiliating moment of his life.
But he did not dare stop.
His miserable life mattered most.
Run, Adriano, run!!!
Galliani silently encouraged himself.
Adriano Galliani absolutely could not die in a country like this. He was going to make something of himself!
Running beneath the blazing sun quickly left him drenched in sweat.
His head began to swell.
In his daze, Galliani seemed to see Milan's streets filled with lilies.
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