I Coach Football With A System
Chapter 80: Vs Atalanta (1)

Chapter 80: Vs Atalanta (1)

The first whistle had not even fully faded into the Lecce sky before chaos unfolded across the pitch, in a way that made the entire stadium hold its breath for a moment that felt like it might last forever.

Barely a minute had ticked off the clock, and already Lecce, dressed in their blood-red home kits, were on the front foot, as if they had been waiting all week just for this exact moment, under these exact lights.

It all started with Krstovic pressing Atalanta’s centre-back like a man possessed, like a wolf that had caught the scent of fear and was not going to let go until it got what it came for.

His pressure forced a sloppy clearance that bounced awkwardly and was recovered by Blin in midfield, who looked up with determination burning in his eyes as he scanned the options in front of him.

From there, the ball was shuffled right to Guilbert, who was already moving into space with sharpness in every step, and he cut it centrally to Luca Ferretti.

Ferretti, with his hair slightly tousled and head constantly on a swivel, turned with one touch like a street footballer playing on concrete, and then clipped a cheeky outside-of-the-boot pass out wide to Gallo.

The young left-back was playing as a makeshift winger today, pushed high up the pitch in Alex Walker’s latest tactical experiment that had raised eyebrows among fans during the week.

Gallo did not hesitate for even a second. His first touch was a cross, low and zipping across the grass with venom that made defenders flinch as it sliced through the box.

["That is early, that is dangerous from Lecce, they are coming out swinging!"] shouted the commentator, his voice laced with surprise and a hint of disbelief that was clear to everyone watching.

Helgason, who was loitering at the top-right corner of the penalty area, reacted quickly, like he had been waiting for that exact ball all morning. He slid in, flicking the ball with the outside of his boot, and it ricocheted upward off a defender’s shin like a rogue firework, spinning into the air, awkward and uncontrolled.

And then, Krstovic was there, like a predator stalking its prey in the wild under the hot sun.

He attacked the floating ball with all the hunger in his body, leaping higher than his marker like gravity had loosened its hold on him. Time seemed to stretch as he connected with his forehead, eyes locked on the target, every muscle tensed.

But the ball kissed the top of the crossbar and flew just over, leaving the net untouched but shaking with the wind of its passing.

["Oh my days! What a start from Lecce! Krstovic rising like a hammerhead shark, just could not guide it down! Atalanta were caught napping, and they need to wake up,"] roared the commentator, with a laugh that betrayed how much he was enjoying the chaos unfolding.

Alex Walker’s fingers tightened slightly on the edge of the dugout as he watched it all unfold in front of him. He did not clap. He did not cheer. He simply nodded once, with calm in his eyes.

"That is the idea," he murmured to himself, so quietly that only the wind could hear.

But Atalanta were not the type to get rattled. Not for long, and not without a fight.

The resulting goal-kick saw their tempo change in a flash, as if a switch had been flipped. Carnesecchi played it short to Scalvini, who took a touch and switched it diagonally to the far flank with the confidence of a man who knew exactly where every player was.

With a flick-on header and a perfectly timed overlap, suddenly Koopmeiners was through on the wing. His legs pumping fast and his eyes scanning the field, he played a quick one-two with De Ketelaere, dancing past Blin and Guilbert like a ghost slipping through a wall that no one else could pass through.

["This is the Atalanta we know, fluid, fast, surgical. They can kill you in a blink if you give them space,"] came the commentator’s voice, with respect in every word.

The ball found Lookman at the edge of the box, and he took a sharp touch to his right before unleashing a curling shot toward the far post, with venom in the strike.

But Falcone, Lecce’s ever-steady guardian, was already mid-air, ready for the strike with his eyes locked on the ball from the moment it left Lookman’s boot.

His body stretched horizontally like a cat pouncing after prey, fingertips grazing just enough of the ball to tip it wide, with the crowd gasping in relief as they watched it skid past the post.

["Falcone with the save! Massive from the Lecce keeper, that was curling in, no doubt about it. This match has started,"] the commentator’s voice cracked with adrenaline as he banged the desk in front of him.

The crowd roared with equal parts relief and disbelief. Falcone thumped his chest once, eyes scanning the field like a soldier checking for snipers, ready for the next attack.

Back and forth the game flew, with neither side willing to give an inch. The midfield was less a battlefield and more a blur of movement, clashing bodies, and clever touches that turned defenders inside out.

Ramadani threw himself into tackles like a madman on a mission, fighting for every blade of grass. Ferretti danced through pressure with clever shimmies and first-time passes that made the fans clap in appreciation. Atalanta responded in kind, but Lecce’s press was coordinated, aggressive, unforgiving, and it kept their visitors wary and cautious.

By the tenth minute, Lecce surged again, with the same hunger that they had shown from the first whistle.

It was Ferretti again who started the move, nicking the ball off an under-pressure Pasalic in the middle of the park like a pickpocket who had been waiting for the perfect moment. He quickly turned away from pressure and played a splitting ball toward the left channel, where Helgason had drifted inside with intent.

Helgason did not hesitate for even a moment. He took one touch with his instep to settle the ball like it was glued to his foot, and then glanced up with sharp eyes. Banda was already moving, curling between Atalanta’s last two defenders with ghostlike subtlety that left them a step behind.

["Look at that movement from Banda, he has sniffed it out, Helgason sees him,"] the commentator’s voice was rising with excitement, every word quicker than the last.

The Icelandic midfielder slid a perfectly weighted pass into the corridor of uncertainty, neither fully for the keeper nor for the defenders. It was a tease, a dare, a challenge.

Banda accepted it with joy in his stride as he accelerated like a bullet off a rail, getting a toe to the ball just ahead of Carnesecchi’s outstretched gloves and poked it under the keeper’s lunging body, with ice in his veins.

["Goooooooooooooooooooooooooaaallllllllllllllllllllll! Banda has done it! He has done it! Lecce strike first! This team refuses to read the script! Absolutely beautiful from Lecce, absolutely beautiful!"] screamed the commentator, his voice shaking with the pure energy of the moment.

Banda sprinted away toward the corner flag, arms spread like a child playing airplane as the stadium exploded with noise. He slid on his knees and thumped his chest twice, eyes wide, teeth flashing under the bright lights as the fans roared his name.

Helgason chased after him, leaping onto his back as the Lecce bench exploded with cheers and fists pumping in the air, with coaches hugging each other and substitutes screaming into the sky.

Alex did not celebrate immediately. He stared at the goal for a full second longer than anyone else, like he wanted to make sure it was real, like he wanted to burn the image into his memory forever.

And then, he cracked. A clenched fist punched the air, with a quiet roar wrapped around him like a warm wave, pulling him deeper into the moment.

["Lecce are flying here. It is not just luck. It is not just passion. They have come with a plan, and they are executing it to perfection,"] the commentator said with genuine wonder as the camera panned across the sea of Lecce fans.

In the stands, the Lecce ultras were singing his name again, their voices strong and unified, rising above the chants of the Atalanta fans.

["Aleeeex Walkerrrr, la la la la la la,"] they sang as scarves waved in the air.

This time, he let himself feel it, letting the noise wash over him like a wave. His heart did not race. It swelled with pride and purpose, and the certainty that this was only the beginning of what they could achieve together.

The match was far from over.

But Lecce had drawn first blood.

And they looked hungry for more.

A/N: Bonus Chapter for five more Golden Tickets! Thank you to everyone that voted!