Chapter 74: Chapter 73: Atalanta vs Sampdoria III
Then, at thirty-eight minutes, disaster struck.
Tolói played what should have been a simple pass into midfield where Éderson was waiting in space, the Brazilian’s first touch killing the ball dead while his head swiveled to scan for options, Lookman peeling wide on the left making a run that dragged his marker with him while Hateboer overlapped on the opposite flank, creating multiple passing lanes that Éderson was already processing, deciding which one offered the best chance to hurt Sampdoria.
But Rincón was coming from behind, fast, too fast, the veteran midfielder mistiming his challenge completely and launching himself into a tackle that was late and high and reckless, his studs catching Éderson’s planted ankle with sickening force that produced a sound—CRACK—that carried across the pitch and made everyone within earshot wince.
Éderson’s scream followed immediately, high-pitched and agonized, the kind of sound that makes your stomach drop because you know instantly it’s serious, and the referee’s whistle came shrieking out in multiple sharp blasts as players from both teams stopped moving and turned toward the incident.
"OH NO, THAT’S BAD! THAT’S A TERRIBLE CHALLENGE! ÉDERSON’S DOWN AND HE’S IN REAL TROUBLE!"
The stadium went quiet in that particular way that happens when everyone collectively holds their breath, the noise dying from a roar to nothing in seconds as the medical staff were already sprinting onto the pitch with their bags before the referee had even reached into his pocket. Rincón stood with his hands raised, his face showing immediate regret as he realized what he’d done, while the referee pulled out a yellow card which seemed lenient given the force of impact but technically Rincón had been trying to play the ball even if his timing was horrendously off.
Both sets of players formed small groups around the incident, some with hands on hips watching anxiously, others deliberately looking away because they’d seen enough injuries to know this one was serious just from the sound it made and the way Éderson was writhing on the turf clutching his lower leg, his face twisted in agony that no amount of professional stoicism could mask.
Two medical staff knelt beside him, working quickly but carefully, checking for obvious breaks first before testing mobility which made Éderson scream again and reach for his ankle instinctively. One of the physios was already signaling for the stretcher before they’d even finished their initial assessment, and the lead commentator’s voice dropped to that somber tone reserved for serious injuries.
"This doesn’t look good at all, the physios are calling for the stretcher immediately which is never what you want to see, and that’s a huge blow for Atalanta because Éderson has been absolutely vital to this system, he brings so much defensive stability and passing range..."
Two minutes passed while they worked on him, the stadium maintaining that eerie quiet broken only by isolated shouts and the distant sound of the ultras’ drums which never stopped regardless of what was happening on the pitch. Éderson tried to stand when they asked him to, gamely attempting to put weight on his injured leg, but he collapsed immediately back down and that’s when everyone knew for certain he wouldn’t be continuing.
The stretcher arrived, four people carefully lifting Éderson onto it while he lay back with his eyes closed, either in pain or disappointment or both, and as they carried him off toward the tunnel both sets of supporters applauded sympathetically because regardless of which team you supported, you never wanted to see a player injured like that.
On the touchline Gasperini turned sharply to his bench, his expression tight and focused, already processing who to send on and how it would affect his system. His eyes scanned the substitutes sitting there in their warm-up jackets and within two seconds he’d made his decision, calling out a name that cut through the ambient noise of the stadium.
"DEMIEN! Strip off, you’re going on!"
The camera found him immediately, the young number 28 already pulling his warm-up jacket off with hands that moved faster than his racing thoughts, his heart hammering against his ribs as reality crashed down around him. This was it. This was actually happening. Not in the seventy-fifth minute when the game was already decided, but here at thirty-eight minutes with everything still to play for and a defensive midfielder’s role to fill.
"And here’s an interesting choice from Gasperini, bringing on young Demien Walter for his Serie A debut, just eighteen years old, signed only weeks ago after impressing during a trial here, and this is a big ask, isn’t it? Replacing Éderson in a Serie A opener?"
"It certainly is, I mean Éderson brings so much to this team—his defensive positioning, his passing range, his tactical awareness and ability to read the game—and you’re asking Walter to step into that role right now, in this moment, in his first Serie A match. Let’s see how the youngster handles this pressure..."
Demien jogged to the touchline where Gasperini was waiting, the coach’s hand shooting out to grab his forearm in a grip that was firm but not painful, his eyes intense and focused as he leaned in close so his words wouldn’t be lost in the stadium noise.
"Simple football," Gasperini said clearly, each word deliberate. "Play your game. Find the space like you did against Chelsea. Move it quick, keep us ticking, don’t overcomplicate things. You’re ready for this."
"Yes, Mister," Demien managed to say, his voice steadier than he felt inside.
The fourth official was there immediately, checking his equipment with professional efficiency—shin guards present and correct, boots properly laced, jersey tucked in, everything legal and approved for Serie A play. He picked up the electronic substitution board and held it high so everyone in the stadium could see the numbers displayed: 28 coming on, Éderson’s number going off.
"Demien Walter, number 28, wearing the Nerazzurri for the first time in competitive action, about to make his Serie A debut against Sampdoria..."
The referee waved him onto the pitch and Demien jogged forward onto grass that felt different somehow than it had during warm-ups, more real and solid and significant, while applause rippled through the stands—polite and encouraging rather than deafening because most supporters didn’t know who he was yet. The number 28 shirt was new to them, another product of the youth system or a recent signing they’d vaguely heard about but never seen play, so they welcomed him with that standard warm reception given to any substitute entering a match.
He took his position just in front of the defensive line, feeling the grass beneath his boots, beside de Roon who turned and gave him a quick nod of acknowledgment and perhaps reassurance. The referee checked both teams were ready, Sampdoria having used the stoppage to regroup and discuss their approach, and then his whistle blew to restart play.
"Right then, we’re set, Walter’s taken his position in midfield, the dropped ball goes to Sampdoria and they play it back..."
Audero sent the ball long from the edge of his box, a booming kick that traveled high into the afternoon sun, and de Roon positioned himself under it, timing his jump perfectly to win the header and nod it down toward where Demien had already moved into space, anticipating where the second ball would land.
"De Roon wins it, flicks it on toward Walter for his first touch in Serie A..."
The ball dropped out of the sky and time seemed to slow down in that particular way it does when something important is about to happen, and Demien’s first touch killed it dead, his right foot cushioning the ball as it arrived so all the momentum just died and it stuck to him like it was magnetized. His head snapped up immediately, already scanning before his second touch came, seeing Koopmeiners showing himself ten yards away and making the obvious decision.
"First touch is excellent, keeps it simple and plays it to Koopmeiners..."
The Dutch midfielder collected it, turned smoothly on the half-turn, and suddenly Atalanta were flowing forward again like nothing had been interrupted, the rhythm returning as they built from the back through midfield toward attack.
In the stands Isabella grabbed Marco’s hand, squeezing tight, while Luca leaned forward in his seat, unable to look away. On the bench Gasperini stood with his arms crossed, watching intently as his tactical decision played out in real time.
Forty-two minutes on the clock. Score still one-nil. Demien Walter was playing Serie A football.