"You play like you bake, Marco," Silvio teased, his eyes glued to the flickering television screen rigged up in the square. "Too much yeast, no substance. Cremonese will rise today."
In the 88th minute, with the score locked at 0-0, the piazza went silent. A Bologna winger broke free, the ball a blur at his feet. He crossed it—a perfect, arching rainbow. Marco gripped his knees. Silvio held his breath.
The tension broke instantly. Marco looked at Silvio, who was slumped back, clutching his chest in relief.
The ball met a striker’s head, but instead of the net, it rattled the crossbar with a sound that seemed to echo in the village square itself. The rebound fell to a Cremonese defender who cleared it with a desperate, lunging kick. The final whistle shrieked. 0-0.
Marco laughed, a deep sound that rumbled in his chest. "We are the Rossoblù . We have the weight of history. You are just a guest in this league, Silvio. Enjoy the view while it lasts."
The whistle blew on the screen. The match was electric—a frantic dance of strategy and desperation. Bologna controlled the midfield with a surgical precision that made Marco swell with pride, but Cremonese defended like a cornered wolf, counter-attacking with a raw, chaotic energy that kept Silvio on the edge of his seat.