Chapter 67: A Farewell Through Victory – Forza Milan!
"Sign Leon! Sign Leon! He's our midfield anchor for the next fifteen years!"
"If Galliani lets Leon return to Real Madrid, it'll be a failure of duty! Why wasn't a buyout clause added from the start?"
"There's still time to negotiate with Real. The season isn't over—I believe we still have a chance to buy him outright!"
"You clearly don't know Mourinho. Leon is exactly the kind of midfielder he loves. Look at the growth he's made here—he's an absolute gem! Mourinho won't let him go easily!"
"I can't accept this. After this season, we won't be able to renew the loan? Even if we can't buy him, can't we at least keep him one more year?"
Shattered Milan fans erupted across forums and social media after Mourinho's comments hit the news.
Milan's first half of the season had been solid, but after Leon's arrival, the difference was night and day.
He didn't just shore up the midfield defensively. He also rejuvenated Pirlo, who had looked destined for a slow fade into the background. Those two impacts alone were worth €30-40 million in transfer value.
And that's without even accounting for the offensive contributions: Leon didn't score or assist often, but every single one had been decisive. His timely surges into the box, crucial headers, off-the-ball movement—he unlocked attacking options Milan hadn't had in years.
Even the most tactically unaware fans could now rattle off point by point why Leon had become indispensable—especially to a squad with such an aging midfield core.
And what had Milan paid for all this?
Just half of Leon's salary during the loan—barely over €200,000 pre-tax. Even factoring in the generous bonus for winning the league, the total cost still didn't top €500,000.
That wasn't just a bargain—it was highway robbery in Milan's favor.
No wonder the Rossoneri faithful, long used to the club's financial austerity, couldn't stomach the thought of losing Leon.
A young, mature, low-cost, plug-and-play midfielder with elite potential? Letting him walk would be a punch to the gut.
On April 17th, fans began staging silent protests outside the club headquarters—holding signs that read, "Don't Let Leon Leave!"
Leon himself only found out about the protests after driving home from training.
But he couldn't offer fans any comforting words.
His departure was a done deal.
When teammates called to ask what was happening, Leon could at least be honest with them: he was under contract with Real Madrid. The decision wasn't his.
But to the fans of Milan—the ones who had given him their hearts—he just couldn't bring himself to say it.
Matchday 34: A serious-faced Allegri led a squad filled with rotation players and youth team call-ups to face Brescia away.
His expression didn't improve throughout the match. Milan lost 1–2, snapping their unbeaten streak in the second half of the season.
The next day, rumors surfaced of a heated meeting between Allegri and the club's upper management. Some reports even claimed he and Galliani had a shouting match.
Whether true or not, the media didn't care—they just wanted drama. And Italian fans? They lived for it.
No further statements came from within the club.
But those close to the team knew: the argument had happened.
Still, it was about more than just one player. Both men wanted what was best for Milan's future, and after cooling off, they resumed talks and cleared the air.
Leon himself had a private, heartfelt conversation with Allegri in his office.
He was truly grateful to the coach—after all, it was Allegri who believed in him, gave him a role, and used him wisely.
So when the question came—"If I asked you to stay, would you want to stay in Milan?"—Leon hesitated.
Then, instead of saying what the coach might want to hear, he chose honesty.
"I'd love to keep playing under you. But, sir... will you still be in Milan in a few years? And if not—where do I go then?"
Allegri fell silent. After a moment, he gave a weary smile and shook his head.
"I can't give you a clear answer. But I understand what you mean. Milan might not be the right place for your long-term development. Maybe even Serie A as a whole isn't."
"I'm sorry, sir."
"No, no. Don't apologize. You helped bring the Scudetto back to Milan. Even if you're leaving, I hope all that's left between us, the club, and the fans are good memories."
He placed a hand on Leon's shoulder and nodded firmly.
"Come on—we're not done yet. There's one more trophy to fight for. Let's win it, and let that be your goodbye. The best gift you could leave Milan with."
Leon left the room reinvigorated, throwing himself back into training with renewed fire.
He was going to give his all in the Coppa Italia, the final competition of the season. Win it, and walk away with a double—a perfect farewell.
May 1st – Matchday 35 vs Bologna.
Leon returned to the starting eleven at San Siro.
And the fans—oh, the fans—poured their hearts out in the stands. Chants of "Stay, Leon! Stay!" rang out before the first whistle.
Reporters couldn't help but recall the scene when Milan fans had tried to keep Kaká from leaving.
Back then, Kaká also hesitated—but in the end, for the good of the club's finances, he boarded that flight to Madrid.
And now, just two years later, the man many dubbed "the new Kaká" was walking the same path, summoned home by Real Madrid.
The déjà vu was painful.
Leon's eyes swept over the crowd, lips pressed tight. His expression was conflicted, but he didn't raise a hand, didn't wave.
The match itself? Nothing to write home about.
Bologna sat just above the relegation zone—comfortable, but not safe. Milan, meanwhile, treated the game as a warm-up for the cup final.
Both sides held back. Minimal risk, minimal aggression. The final score: 0–0.
Quiet. Tactically dull. But once the final whistle blew, the media storm hit hard.
Because no one was talking about the football.
They were talking about Leon.
About how he didn't wave to the crowd.
About how the fans begged, screamed, pleaded for him to stay.
And about how the board still hadn't issued a statement.
To Milan fans, it felt like Kaká, Part Two. Only this time, the wound was fresh—and far more personal.
Every major sports outlet in Italy raced to report the emotional scene at San Siro, where Milan fans once again pleaded for Leon to stay.
Then, on the night of May 10th, just before the second leg of the Coppa Italia semi-final against Palermo, that exact scene repeated itself—this time at Palermo's home ground, the Stadio Renzo Barbera.
Traveling Milan fans, while passionately supporting their team, also unfurled massive banners: "Leon, Stay in Milan!"
Leon, who started and played the full ninety minutes, once again wore a complex expression as he waved to the fans after the match. Despite Milan's convincing 2–0 win on the night—and 3–0 aggregate victory—there was a strange calm among the supporters.
Because by now, everyone knew: Leon was leaving.
He had made no statements to the press, no social media posts, no official farewells—but his silence said everything.
Leon was returning to Real Madrid, answering Mourinho's call. He would be going back to La Liga, to a higher platform, to keep climbing.
Yet no Milan supporter held it against him.
His time in Milan had been short—but brilliant.
Too brilliant.
So brilliant that all they could remember were the countless moments of joy and astonishment he had delivered.
So, after the sadness and regret faded, the fans began to let go, bit by bit.
Before the Coppa Italia final, Serie A wrapped up its season.
Milan hosted a grand Scudetto celebration at San Siro after their Round 37 match.
On that day, Milan exploded with cheers. No one talked about Leon leaving anymore. The triumph, the joy, the tears—drowned everything else.
Leon, too, found peace.
It was the ending he had hoped for: fans choosing joy over sorrow, celebration over lament.
With the celebration over, every Milan player locked into preparations for one last match—one final shot at silverware.
May 30th, the Coppa Italia Final.
AC Milan vs. Inter Milan, in Rome, at the Stadio Olimpico.
It was their third meeting this season.
Milan had won the first two. The second victory had even ended Inter's title hopes.
That gave Milan players a strong mental edge. But Allegri, wise and careful, refused to let them grow complacent.
He knew that finals aren't won on paper.
So, his strategy was clear: defensive discipline first.
In the early stages, Milan would stay compact, test Inter's attacking rhythm, and avoid any reckless aggression. With this conservative style, it was almost impossible to collapse.
At exactly 21:00, the final kicked off. Inter had the first possession.
Leonardo, still smarting from his last defeat to Milan, deployed an aggressive strategy to start.
He'd planned heavily for this, wary of the Zlatan-Cassano duo, and made specific tactical plans to neutralize Leon—who had tormented them in the league meeting.
But Milan came out even more defensive than Inter had anticipated.
Leon didn't press, didn't break forward—not once did he cross the halfway line during the entire first half.
Alongside Gattuso, he anchored a deep, tight midfield blockade. The Inter attack couldn't find a single crack.
It wasn't just defending—it was absolute refusal to play open football.
Inter pushed. Milan held.
Then Inter stopped pushing. They waited.
The match turned into a staring contest.
In England or Spain, fans might have booed. In Italy, this was normal. Finals were often like this—tactical, patient, tense.
Both teams needed this trophy. For Inter, it was a chance to salvage a season of disappointments. For Milan, it was the perfect finish to a dream campaign.
No one wanted to make the first mistake.
So the crowd waited, hoping the second half—or maybe even extra time—would bring fireworks.
By the 73rd minute, neither side had changed formation.
Then, in the 75th, Allegri called Pato over to warm up.
A straightforward substitution. Get fresh legs on before extra time.
Leonardo responded, sending a few of his attackers to warm up as well.
But then—in the 88th minute, as the clock ticked toward stoppage time, everything changed.
Leon, who hadn't once surged forward all game, suddenly exploded into action.
A sharp, unexpected tackle on Sneijder won the ball clean. Without hesitation, Leon charged forward.
Boateng followed immediately.
Milan's two midfield bulldogs broke the line together—and Inter panicked.
Their backline scrambled to adjust.
Leon looked up—Zlatan was ahead of him, perfectly positioned.
Everyone assumed the pass was going to Ibra.
Instead, Leon whipped the ball diagonally, across to the right edge of the box.
Pato, already prepared, met it in stride.
He shaped his body, and—left-footed chip!
Ranocchia arrived a step late. Too late.
The ball arced high, spinning, curling—past a diving Julio César—
And clipped the inside of the top corner.
GOAL.
The noise was deafening. The stadium shook.
Leon's ears were ringing. His vision blurred. The thunderous joy of the Milan fans surged like a tidal wave, crashing over everything.
Milan had scored.
In the final minute of regulation.
They were going to win their second trophy of the season.
On the sidelines, Allegri lost it—just like the 70,000 Milanistas in the stands.
He leapt, roared, and grabbed his assistants in a bear hug, screaming with pure, primal joy.
On the pitch, Zlatan wrapped his arm around Leon's shoulder, pushing him toward the team huddle.
But Leon... was lost in the crowd.
As he looked toward the corner flag, to the sea of red-and-black, to those faces chanting his name—his eyes welled up.
He didn't want to be seen crying.
So he lifted his jersey and covered his face.
But his raised arms, his waving hands—the Milan fans understood.
This moment still belonged to their little lion.
He wasn't gone yet.
He had chosen to say goodbye with this goal, with this match, with this trophy.
No words were spoken.
But every Milanista in the stadium heard it loud and clear:
"Forza Milan!"
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