I Coach Football With A System
Chapter 79: The Match Starts

Chapter 79: The Match Starts

The matchday air was thick.

Not with rain, or wind, or any tangible weather, but with something else entirely. A tension that could not be seen, only felt. It hummed through the walls of the locker room like static, as if even the bricks themselves knew that today’s match would be a test unlike any other. It wasn’t just another game on the calendar. It was Lecce versus Atalanta. A clash that had become the talk of the city, the whispers of fans in bars and cafes, the lingering suspense on every local news channel and football podcast.

And for the first time since Alex had taken charge, his players were not bouncing off the walls before kickoff.

No music. No dancing. No laughter or banter echoing around the changing room like usual. Just silence, profound and pressing broken only by the soft, methodical sounds of preparation. The sound of boots being laced. The occasional stretch-induced grunt. The gentle tap of shin pads being adjusted into place. Even the usual hiss of sprayed muscle warmers was absent.

Alex Walker stood in the center of it all. Arms folded. Shoulders relaxed but eyes sharp.

He didn’t speak right away. He watched them. One by one. Studied the little rituals. The quiet signs of focus. Banda leaned forward on the bench, eyes locked onto the floor, as if mentally sketching the pitch out in his mind and plotting his first sprint. Dorgu sat with elbows pressed into knees, hands clasped tightly as though mid-prayer. His eyes were closed, lips moving slightly, either speaking to a higher power or simply to himself.

Luca Ferretti had not said a single word since arriving at the ground. Not even his usual warm greetings to the staff or playful shoulder bumps with the squad. His normally bright, curious gaze had been replaced by something sharper. Something more calculated. Determined. Ready.

Even the more vocal personalities were muted. Krstovic was silent. Gallo, usually the spark plug of the group, hadn’t cracked a joke in over fifteen minutes. Each of them was caught in his own bubble, lost in thoughts of tactics, responsibilities, and maybe even dreams of glory.

But it wasn’t fear. That much Alex knew.

No, this wasn’t fear.

It was awareness.

Every single one of them knew what Atalanta represented. They weren’t just another Serie A side. They were a machine. A well-drilled, aggressive, pressing side that could suffocate you before you had the chance to string three clean passes together. It wasn’t just their physical game. It was mental. Relentless. Like being hunted in your own half.

Lecce had ridden the high of their miraculous comeback against AC Milan. That was a night that would be talked about for years, maybe even decades in Salento. But this, this was a different mountain entirely. A different kind of beast waiting to be tamed.

Alex clapped his hands once. A loud, sharp sound that sliced through the silence like a knife.

Heads turned. Eyes snapped toward him.

He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t need to.

"Right," he began, pacing slowly in front of the benches. "You’ve all heard what they say about us, haven’t you?"

He didn’t wait for a reply.

"The underdogs. The fluke merchants. The team that got lucky. That’s what they call us. They think we only beat Milan because Milan took their foot off the gas."

A quiet scoff escaped from Banda, and a faint smirk crept onto Dorgu’s face.

"Let them think that," Alex continued, his tone calm but laced with a subtle edge. "Let them believe they’ve already won. Let them prepare to dance, only to realize the floor has caved beneath them."

He stopped walking. Stood directly in front of Luca, then turned his gaze slowly across the room.

"Here’s what I believe," he said. "I believe in all of you. I believe in the way we train. I believe in the work you put in when the cameras are off and the crowds are gone. I believe in the sweat and the grind, and the fact that no matter what anyone says about Lecce, they cannot say we don’t fight."

The words hung in the air, weighty and charged.

He pointed toward the door, where the tunnel awaited.

"Out there, they’re waiting to write our story for us. Flip the script. Make them rip it up. Play with your heads, yes, but more importantly, play with your hearts."

The energy shifted. Heads began to nod. Shoulders straightened. Gallo cracked his neck with a sharp twist and exhaled like a soldier marching into a war zone. Dorgu stood, bounced once on his heels. Krstovic let out a small growl, barely audible but full of heat.

The silence broke, subtly at first. A few murmurs passed between players. Then quiet affirmations. Then hand slaps and firm nods.

Alex grinned. Not wide. Just a flicker of satisfaction across his face. He had them.

"Now go out there," he said, voice low and steely, "and remind them who the hell we are."

The players filed out with purpose. No shouting. No fire-breathing. Just that unshakable steel of a side that had bought into something bigger than themselves.

Outside, the crowd was already alive.

["Welcome back to Stadio Via del Mare, folks. It’s Lecce versus Atalanta today, and from what we’ve seen in the early warmups, Lecce seem to have altered their approach quite a bit."]

["Yeah, you can see it in their shape. They’re not committing numbers forward during the drills. They’re working through compact blocks, interesting shift. Alex Walker may be parking the bus today."]

["Or maybe something even more complex. We know how adaptive he’s been with his tactics this season. Could be he’s planning to pounce on Atalanta’s high line with counterpunches."]

From the mouth of the tunnel, Alex heard the commentators’ voices echoing faintly through the concrete walls. They were right to speculate. The changes had been intentional. Tactical. Calculated. He exhaled slowly and stepped into the light.

The sun hit his face instantly, but it wasn’t the brightness that took his breath away.

It was the sound.

A roar.

Not one of chaos, but of unity. Of belief.

Then came the singing.

Loud. Passionate. Defiant.

Hundreds of voices, then thousands, chanting in perfect rhythm. It started in the curva where the ultras stood. The die-hard fans. Scarves held high. Flags flapping wildly. Drums beating in their chests. Then it spread across the entire stadium like a flame licking dry timber.

["Ohhhh Alex Walker! He knows what we need! Ohhh Alex Walker, with him we’ll take the lead!"]

The chant echoed with such force that it seemed to vibrate through the pitch.

["He’s got no fear, and we believe! Oleee, Alex, Alex, Lecce will never leave!"]

Alex paused on the edge of the pitch.

He did not need to look behind him to know it was for him. The fans weren’t just singing about the team anymore. They were singing for him. Because of him. The sound filled his chest, wrapped itself around his ribs, and pulled at something deep inside.

It reminded him of Old Trafford. Of those unforgettable nights when he had stepped onto the pitch not as a coach, but as a player. When chants surged like fire, turning even the coldest nights into cauldrons. But this was something else entirely.

This was his team.

He raised a hand and waved. Not a rehearsed gesture. Not something for the cameras. Just a simple motion born out of raw emotion.

The response was immediate. The crowd grew louder. Louder than before. The drums beat harder. Flags waved higher. Some fans even jumped in perfect rhythm to the chant, creating a ripple across the stands like a rising tide.

Alex took his seat on the bench, finally. The emotion settled in his chest, shifted into something more useful. Not nostalgia. Not sentiment.

Focus.

He was back in his element. Where he belonged.

The players emerged from the tunnel behind him. One by one.

Luca came out first. Jaw tight. Gaze locked on the Atalanta huddle. His steps were light but firm, like a soldier walking across thin ice, knowing every movement mattered.

Then came Banda, bouncing on the balls of his feet, trying to shake off the nerves by channeling them into rhythm. He flexed his hands, exhaled, and looked toward the stands for a brief moment before returning to the zone.

Gallo followed, clapping twice and pointing toward the back line. His voice, though low, carried intent. Instructions. Encouragement.

Krstovic was last. He moved slowly, murmuring something under his breath. Maybe a prayer. Maybe a promise.

Each player wore the game in his own way. Each carried the pressure differently. But all of them shared the same fire.

["Here come the players. And listen to that reaction for Lecce’s eleven, this crowd has become something special. It’s like they believe anything’s possible under Walker."]

The camera panned to the Atalanta bench. Calm. Composed. Professionals, through and through. They sat like a unit, confident in their own structure and method. But even they couldn’t pretend they didn’t hear it. The roar. The tremor that ran through the stadium. The thunderous energy that said today would not be a routine three points.

The referee brought both captains together at the center circle. Coin toss. Shake hands. Standard protocol.

And then the whistle blew.

Lecce versus Atalanta.

The fight had begun.

A/N: Alright, from now on updates will be one Chapter a day, along with the extra Chapters. I need to focus on my other books so some sacrifices will have to be made for the greater good. Updates will be back to normal in the near future, I just need the other books to have a certain number of Chapters