I Coach Football With A System
Chapter 81: Vs Atalanta (2)

Chapter 81: Vs Atalanta (2)

The stadium had barely calmed after Banda’s goal when Atalanta seized control of the game with an almost manic urgency that felt like a summer storm rolling in off the Adriatic. They weren’t rattled by Lecce’s opener. If anything, it provoked them, like a heavyweight boxer waking up after taking a sharp jab to the chin, shaking the cobwebs from their head, rolling their shoulders, and stepping forward to return fire.

Alex could see it from the touchline at Stadio Via del Mare, arms folded across his chest, cap low on his forehead, eyes scanning the field with predatory focus. The humid air was thick, vibrating with the distant hum of the Lecce supporters, their chants still echoing in the corners after Banda’s goal, but now muffled by the growing tension on the pitch. Gasperini’s men pressed with a cold, ruthless synchronization, suffocating Lecce’s midfield, squeezing the spaces until every touch from a yellow shirt felt heavy, every pass under pressure, every clearance desperate.

It wasn’t long before the chances began to roll in, each one a wave building higher and faster, slamming against Lecce’s defensive line, pulling them deeper and deeper toward their own goal.

In the 17th minute, Ederson picked up the ball near the center circle, his gaze shifting quickly, weighing his options, before he decided to carry it himself, pushing forward with strides that cut through the midfield like a blade. Ramadani tried to step across, but Ederson brushed past him like he wasn’t there, the Lecce midfielder’s attempt at a shoulder barge absorbed without even slowing Ederson’s momentum.

A quick, precise pass found Charles De Ketelaere drifting between the lines, moving like smoke curling up through cracks in a wall, unnoticed until it was too late. His first touch settled the ball, his head lifted, and in the same breath, he lobbed a delicate, clever ball over the top toward Lookman.

Lookman took it down with a soft, controlled touch, letting it bounce once on the dry grass before pulling back his leg to strike low and hard toward the bottom corner, eyes locked on the far post.

Falcone read it like a book.

He exploded off his line, diving full stretch to his right, fingertips grazing the ball, just enough to send it skidding past the post, the Lecce fans behind the goal holding their breath before erupting in grateful applause.

["OHHHHHH, WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT FROM WLADIMIRO FALCONE! THAT IS ABSOLUTELY MAGNIFICENT GOALKEEPING! If you want to show your kids what world-class reflexes look like, just show them that save, because Lookman thought he had scored, Atalanta thought they were level, but Falcone said NO!"]

Alex clapped once, firmly, the sharp sound cracking through the humid air.

"Stay tight! Don’t drop too deep!" he shouted, voice calm but iron beneath the surface.

But the waves kept coming, each one heavier than the last, pressing Lecce back, the yellow shirts gathering like a fortress under siege.

Three minutes later, Koopmeiners found himself in space outside the box. Lecce had dropped too deep again, the midfield too passive, their shape a few yards too low. Koopmeiners took a touch, looked up, eyes narrowing, and pulled his foot back for a shot he had practiced countless times in training.

The ball curled, an elegant arc toward the far post, every eye in the stadium following its path, the Lecce fans holding their breath, Falcone frozen for a split second.

It sailed just wide, grazing the outside of the post before bouncing behind the goal, and the collective exhale of relief from the home supporters was almost as loud as a goal celebration.

["ATALANTA ARE KNOCKING, KNOCKING, KNOCKING! That strike from Koopmeiners had Falcone beaten all ends up, but the post, the post is Lecce’s best defender right now! That was inches away from being the equalizer, and Lecce have to wake up before one of these goes in!"]

Alex’s jaw tightened, the muscles moving beneath the stubble on his face. He turned toward Ramadani, raising a hand, gesturing forward.

"Ramadani, push! Don’t get stuck in there, push up!" His voice was calm, but the edge in it was sharp, like a wire pulled too tight.

The players glanced at him, then at each other, the fatigue of early pressing visible in their body language, but they stepped up, just a few yards, enough to buy themselves breathing room for a moment.

But the third warning came soon after, sharper, more dangerous, the kind that made a coach’s stomach tighten.

In the 24th minute, a quick interchange between Ruggeri and Lookman opened a lane down Lecce’s right. Gendrey had stepped too high, caught in the push forward, and suddenly the space behind him was a runway for Lookman’s pace.

Ruggeri’s pass was perfect, slipping Lookman into the channel with terrifying simplicity. Lookman burst forward, accelerating past Gendrey with ease, cutting inside onto his left foot, eyes on the far post.

He curled a shot with venom, the ball screaming past the near post, so close that the net rippled from the wind it left behind, but the ball didn’t nestle inside.

["AND AGAIN, ATALANTA COME SO CLOSE! LOOKMAN IS A CONSTANT NIGHTMARE DOWN THAT SIDE, AND LECCE ARE LIVING DANGEROUSLY! You can feel it, can’t you? That goal is coming, the question is how much longer Lecce can keep holding on!"]

Alex had seen enough.

He turned toward the players on the sideline, his gaze sharp, voice cutting through the chants of the Curva Nord.

"Ferretti! Drop in deeper! Ramadani, you’re screening too slow, push the line forward, don’t just drift!"

There was a sharpness in his tone, the edge of a man who knew how quickly a match could slip away under pressure, and Ferretti nodded, adjusting his position, while Ramadani pressed higher, pointing and shouting to the back line to step forward with him.

Lecce adjusted, the midfield stepping up a few yards, Ferretti closing the spaces in front of the back line, Gallo seeing the ball again on the wing, pushing forward with Banda drifting centrally to draw fouls and slow Atalanta’s momentum. It wasn’t control, but it wasn’t chaos either. For a few minutes, they could breathe, stringing together short passes, drawing frustrated whistles from the Atalanta bench.

But the calm didn’t last.

In the 30th minute, Atalanta struck with the inevitability of thunder rolling in behind lightning.

Koopmeiners received a simple lateral pass near the final third, his touch soft, composed, eyes up, scanning, and in the heartbeat before Lecce could react, he slid the ball to De Ketelaere.

De Ketelaere barely took a touch, already spotting Lookman hovering in the half-space, Lecce’s defenders a step too slow, just one step too late.

A quick, sharp pass, and Lookman let the ball roll across his body, shifting it onto his right foot.

He looked up.

And he struck.

The shot wasn’t hopeful. It was angry, precise, a bullet fired low and true, the ball spinning with a hiss through the air, cutting through the humid Via del Mare night.

Falcone dove, throwing himself with every ounce of muscle, but the ball was past him before his gloves could even come close.

The net bulged.

["OOOOHHHHHHH, THAT IS ABSOLUTELY UNSTOPPABLE FROM ADEMOLA LOOKMAN! AN ABSOLUTE MISSILE INTO THE BOTTOM CORNER! ATALANTA ARE LEVEL HERE IN LECCE, AND YOU COULD FEEL THAT BUILDING WITH EVERY PASS, EVERY CHANCE, EVERY RUN! LECCE HAVE BEEN HANGING ON, BUT ATALANTA HAVE FINALLY BROKEN THROUGH!"]

[Ademola Lookman. Would you look at that goal man?! What a goal, what a finish. There’s no hope for Falcone there. I don’t think any goalkeeper in the world is getting to that"]

The away section roared, their blue and black flags a patch of color in the yellow sea of the Via del Mare, their voices cutting through the night air. The drummers pounded harder, the chants grew louder, and for a moment, the entire stadium felt like it was shaking under the weight of the moment.

And among the roar, there was a different sound, sharper, targeted.

Booing.

Directed at one man.

Alex Walker.

["You can hear it now, can’t you, folks? The Lecce faithful, they know exactly who’s on that touchline. They remember Alex Walker, the man who scored 282 goals in his career, 30 of them against Atalanta across three different clubs. He haunted them, year after year, and now they want him to know they haven’t forgotten."]

Alex stood there, arms folded, cap low, face a mask that showed nothing. He didn’t react to the jeers, didn’t look at the crowd, didn’t acknowledge the insults that were hurled from the stands just meters away.

But inside, he could feel it.

The fire.

The kindling of old battles, the taste of years spent slicing apart defenses in stadiums exactly like this one, silencing crowds exactly like this one.

Now, they wanted to silence him.

He moved back to the bench slowly, sitting down, face unreadable, the game still alive, still waiting for the next move.

A/N: New book out now. Touchline Ascension: I Play Football With A System. Please search for it, it hasn’t been vetted yet so you probably won’t see it on my profile