Around the stadium, however, nobody wearing blue seemed interested in the mathematics anymore.

The San Siro had become a celebration, something akin to a carnival even.

Scarves spun overhead as flags waved endlessly.

Songs refused to die, and even as the Italian players jogged back toward their own half, the voices of their crowd followed louder than before the goal had even been scored.

The referee glanced around, checked both assistants and finally blew for the restart.

The whistle disappeared beneath the noise as Ukraine restarted anyway.

And immediately they abandoned caution.

The ball moved quickly as the yellow shirts flooded forward in numbers, throwing men beyond the ball as though the score were level rather than beyond reach.

"They’re committing everybody now," the co-commentator observed.

"This is desperation football, and despite the situation, I don’t think it’s called for."

"They have to," came the reply.

"Anything less and the table is looking worse for them."

Sudakov found Zinchenko, and Zinchenko released Mudryk.

Taking the ball into stride, the Chelsea winger exploded into life.

He darted inside one challenge, skipped beyond another, and suddenly there was open grass in front of him.

The San Siro fell noticeably quieter as he moved forward with the ball.

"Mudryk..." the commentary called as he skipped past Chiesa.

"Still Mudryk..." it called again as he skipped past Barella.

"He might go all the way here!"

The latter surged between blue shirts, carrying the ball almost glued to his boots before shaping to burst between Bastoni and Leo.

Somehow, he got past the two and poised himself, but Dimarco arrived at exactly the right moment, stretched one leg across...

...and nicked the ball cleanly away.

Mudryk stumbled, plopping to the ground as the Ukrainians looked for a foul, a penalty even, but before Ukraine could even react, they realised the space left behind them.

And by the time they’d done so, it was already too late as they saw a blue gust whipping past them.

"UH OH," the commentary mouthed worriedly.

Leo exploded into the space beyond halfway as though someone had pulled him forward by invisible wires.

And it was too easy for Dimarco to spot him.

Just as the Ukrainians followed, the latter launched the ball.

The pass travelled sixty yards through the Milan night, and through it all Leo never broke stride.

"Calderon’s away!"

His legs pumped before he stretched and reached the ball, bringing it down like the height never bothered him, but in the next second, Zabarnyi met him shoulder first.

The Ukrainian centre-back leaned everything he had into the challenge as Leo leaned back.

For three strides they wrestled at full speed before Leo finally edged half a step in front and nudged the ball beyond him.

As a last-ditch effort, Zabarnyi reached out to hold Leo, but the latter leaned away as the stadium erupted.

"He’s won the duel!"

Ahead of him, only two yellow shirts remained between him and history.

Konoplya backed away, and Mykolenko raced across to help.

Neither wanted to commit first because Leo was moving unpredictably.

He centred and kept the ball under complete control, refusing to show either defender which way he intended to go.

"They can’t dive in," the co-commentator said urgently.

"If one of them goes too early, he’s through."

Leo was bearing down on goal, and they needed to decide fast, so Mykolenko blinked first.

He stepped, and that was enough.

Leo touched the ball beyond him with the outside of his left boot before gliding past the full-back’s desperate reach without breaking rhythm.

"It’s just Konoplya now!" the main commentator roared.

"And Bushchan!" his partner added as the entire stadium rose.

Leo shifted the ball onto his weaker left foot, opening his body exactly as though he were about to whip the finish across the goalkeeper into the far corner.

Bushchan planted, and Konoplya threw himself into the block as Leo’s left leg swung...

...and stopped.

Instead of striking through the ball, he let his boot glide over it, dragging it softly back across his body as Konoplya slid straight past him with nothing but grass.

And for a moment, Bushchan froze.

For a heartbeat...

...there was only open goal.

"A dream debut..." the commentator breathed.

"You simply have to..."

But then Leo saw Moise Kean, charging through the middle, eyes fixed entirely on him with nothing but hope.

Seeing this, Leo didn’t think any further and simply rolled the ball square.

Zabarnyi, who had somehow recovered, launched himself into Leo a split second after the pass had gone, sending the midfielder tumbling across the turf.

But the ball had already escaped, and Kean met it three strides later.

He drove his right foot clean through it, and through it all, Bushchan barely moved as the net exploded behind him for the third time that game.

"GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL! OH MY WORD. IT’S ALMOST CINEMATIC."

"REDEMPTION, FINALLY FOR THE ITALIAN STRIKER AND IT IS THREE FOR ITALY!"

The San Siro became absolute chaos as Kean let out a roar so fierce the veins stood out across his neck before tearing toward the corner flag.

Halfway there, he changed direction and found Leo was still on the ground.

Kean launched himself at him without slowing, wrapping both arms around him as the rest of the Italian players crashed into the celebration seconds later.

Blue shirts piled together as even the substitutes emptied from the bench for some reason.

Even Donnarumma was halfway across the pitch before thinking better of it.

"You cannot script a debut like this!" the commentator shouted above the deafening stadium.

"The presence... complete control in midfield... defensive brilliance... and now the vision to square what could have been his own goal for a teammate."

The co-commentator laughed, almost in disbelief.

"That’s the part I’ll remember."

"He could have taken the headlines for himself."

"Instead..."

"...he made sure his striker got them too."

"And if this performance is any indication..."

"...Italy may just have found the heartbeat of their next generation."