I Coach Football With A System
Chapter 77: Prepping for Atalanta

Chapter 77: Prepping for Atalanta

A/N: Alright, so I got a bit of feedback from someone. He said that he doesn’t really use the system and all so from now on, I’m going to make the system more involved. Now there’s a thin line between it being involved and him being too reliant on it so if you feel like the latter is becoming the case, please leave a comment and I’ll work on it.

____

Alex left the chairman’s office with a strange mixture of exhaustion and adrenaline coursing through him. His body felt heavy from the long day, his legs still carrying the weight of training drills and shadow formations, but his mind was running laps. Fast ones. That meeting had stirred something, not fear, but a sense of magnitude. He had just been handed the keys to something bigger than himself. Something that, if handled right, could outlive him at Lecce.

As he stepped into his car, the interior still warm from sitting under the sun, he didn’t even bother turning on the radio. He needed silence. Not the kind that echoed, but the kind that cleared room. His hands tightened around the wheel as he drove, windows cracked just enough to let the breeze whistle through. Lecce passed by his windows in quiet, soft blurs, buildings soaked in the orange hue of a late afternoon.

By the time he got home, the sun was brushing against the horizon. He stepped through the door, kicked it shut behind him, and dropped his keys on the kitchen counter with a metallic clink. His apartment was quiet, still, like it had been waiting for him to come home all day.

He didn’t go to the fridge. Didn’t change clothes. Didn’t even take his shoes off.

Instead, he walked straight to the living room. Past the bookshelf filled with matchday journals, past the framed photo of his last professional goal, past the untouched couch cushions. He stopped in the center of the room, not sitting, not pacing, just standing there like a man waiting for a verdict.

Then he slapped his forehead lightly, as if reminding himself he’d left the stove on.

"Right... System."

[Ding!]

There it was.

No screen. No glowing lights. No futuristic interface projected into thin air. Just the voice, or maybe the absence of one, existing in the space between thought and speech. Like a whisper that came from nowhere, yet belonged completely in his head.

He smiled slightly.

"Alright," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, loosening the tension that had sat there since the boardroom. "Let’s talk Atalanta."

[Generating match approach suggestions...][Analyzing previous Lecce vs Atalanta encounters...][Comparing Atalanta’s last 5 matches...]

Alex stood still, waiting. He could feel the information lining up before it ever arrived. The rhythm was familiar now. Patterns first. Then weaknesses. Then opportunity.

[Summary: Atalanta press high but are vulnerable to quick, vertical transitions. Their left-back often pushes up aggressively, leaving space behind. Recommended: 4-2-3-1 shifting to 4-4-2 off the ball, exploiting wide channels.]

He nodded to himself. That tracked with what he had seen. But something about it still felt obvious.

[Additional Note: Overload right side in build-up. Atalanta’s midfield trio tends to collapse centrally.]

[Player recommendation for key roles:]

[Ferretti as right-sided central midfielder (8), late runs into box.]

[Banda as left winger, high and wide.]

[Krstovic to pin both centre-backs. Avoids double press.]

Alex’s lips curled into a faint smirk. He started pacing now, slow, thoughtful strides across the wooden floor.

"Not bad," he murmured. "But they’ll expect that. Everyone sees the left-back gap. Everyone tries to hit the vertical balls."

He paused by the window, watching as the sun finally dipped below the rooftops.

"What if we let them press? Bait it. Invite the overload, then spring the trap."

[Risky. But effective with disciplined backline. Adjust fullbacks to hold positions.]

He clicked his tongue. "Yeah. Yeah. We keep Gallo a little deeper. Let Dorgu play as the outlet."

He looked around the room, but it wasn’t the walls he was speaking to. It was the storm inside his mind, the rhythm of formation changes, spacing calculations, instinct and data colliding in real time.

The ideas were swirling now, falling into place like a reverse-engineered jigsaw puzzle.

[Reminder: Player recovery levels below optimal. Consider rest rotations.]

Alex exhaled sharply. "Yeah, well, too late for that now. I gave them a damn day off."

The system said nothing. It never replied to sarcasm. Only logic.

He finally dropped onto the couch, the cushions sighing beneath him, and stared at the ceiling. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there. Could have been ten minutes. Could have been an hour. He muttered names, shifted mental positions, altered trigger points in his press structure. By the time he forced himself to bed, he had played through five versions of the Atalanta game in his head.

Each one sharper than the last.

____

The next morning came with a grey sky. Not quite overcast. Not quite clear. A strange in-between that mirrored Alex’s own mindset. There was clarity about what needed to be done. But the execution still loomed ahead, like fog on a mountain path.

He arrived at the training ground before anyone else.

He always did, but today, he was even earlier than usual. The gates were still locked. The air smelled like fresh dew and cut grass. The pitch looked like a canvas, untouched and wide open.

He sipped his coffee slowly from a Lecce-branded thermos and watched as the groundsmen painted fresh lines into the turf. A quiet ritual. White streaks dividing the field with precision, the same way Alex divided spaces in his mind.

By ten o’clock, the players began to arrive. Some earlier than others. Banda shuffled in with a hoodie up and headphones on. Ferretti walked in behind him, yawning into his sleeve. Gallo had that morning look on his face like he had been up until four playing FIFA and drinking electrolyte drinks.

Training started slow, but Alex didn’t mind. He knew how to build momentum.

They opened with positional drills. Shifting from a 4-2-3-1 into a compact 4-4-2 block. Midfield rotations under pressure. Defensive pressing triggers based on wingback positions. Alex moved between groups, correcting body angles, spacing, calling for quicker passes and sharper turns.

He barked at Ramadani to talk more. Told Pongračić to step two meters earlier on the press. Reminded Helgason to time his drops into the pivot instead of drifting without purpose.

Then came the possession work.

Tight-space rondos. Starting with 5v2s, then escalating to 7v3s. Each progression came with more pressure, fewer touches, and more laughter when someone got megged. At one point, Pongračić pulled off a roulette through two pressing players, drawing a mock groan from the watching group.

Alex didn’t laugh.

"Save that for Instagram," he said without breaking stride, "not for the defensive third."

By now, the sun had pierced through the clouds. Shadows stretched across the pitch like slow-moving sails. Sweat glistened on foreheads. Shirts clung to skin. Banda had already switched to a sleeveless top. Krstovic’s socks were down by his ankles.

Alex ran them hard. He had to. Atalanta wouldn’t wait. Neither would he.

By the end of the session, a few of the younger players dropped onto the grass like they had been shot.

"Legs gone," Gallo mumbled to no one in particular.

Alex usually stayed after training. Ran extra drills with the attackers. Discussed movement patterns. Tweaked finishing shapes. But today, as he glanced at his watch, he felt his stomach drop slightly.

"Shit. Press conference."

He jogged toward the edge of the pitch, calling over his shoulder.

"Cool down properly! Don’t just jump in the ice bath like idiots!"

A few players mock-saluted. Banda whistled and gave him a thumbs up. Ferretti collapsed into a stretching pose and gave a lazy peace sign.

Inside, Alex wiped the sweat from his brow with a towel he grabbed from a passing staff member. He moved quickly through the changing room, stripping off his wet top and pulling on a fresh polo.

After that, he decided to go to his office a bit, and rest himself mentally before Isabella inevitably came to drag him off for the press conference.

I don’t even know why it’s necessary.

Alex shut his eyes for a few seconds, then opened it and sighed. He just got a very familiar notification

[Ding!]

[Reminder: Pre-match presser in 12 minutes. Recommended talking points uploaded.]

He didn’t even look for them. Not today.

He didn’t need a prompt. He didn’t need suggestions. He already knew what he was going to say.

The storm was coming.

The build-up was almost over.

And Alex Walker, head coach of Lecce, was ready to make some noise.