I Coach Football With A System
Chapter 82: Vs Atalanta (3)

Chapter 82: Vs Atalanta (3)

The tension inside Stadio Via del Mare had reached a knife-edge after Lookman’s stunning equalizer, the air itself vibrating with the noise of the away fans. The Atalanta supporters, newly energized, roared with unfiltered venom from the corner of the stadium, their flags a restless wave of blue and black, their chants stabbing into the humid Lecce evening like iron nails.

The commentary box was buzzing, voices trembling with excitement, spitting out words soaked in the weight of history, every mention of Alex Walker’s name dragging the ghosts of his playing career out of the past like reluctant shadows. His 30 goals against Atalanta had become folklore, a legend recited even here in Italy, each mention an incantation that made the crowd hiss and jeer.

But on the touchline, the man himself didn’t flinch.

If anything, the fire in Alex Walker’s eyes burned brighter, that cold blue flame that had terrified defenders in England now alive in the dugout of Lecce. His arms were folded, jaw clenched, a thin line on his lips as he watched the field with an intensity that seemed to cut through the noise.

Lecce weren’t here to roll over.

And slowly, they started to fight back.

It began in the 33rd minute, almost like fate clearing its throat. Falcone, standing tall in his box, adjusted his gloves before taking a deep breath, the world narrowing to the ball at his feet. His booming goal kick wasn’t just a clearance. It was a statement. His foot cracked against the ball, sending it soaring into the humid air, a comet of hope.

The ball dropped awkwardly near the halfway line, spinning like a dying star. Helgason and Ferretti collided with Koopmeiners and Ederson, bodies bouncing, elbows flying, the ball pinging between legs and shins until Ferretti, ever the scrappy technician, managed to dance away with it under pressure, the ball stuck to his feet like glue.

Ferretti didn’t hesitate. He drove a pass wide to Banda, Lecce’s electric Zambian winger, who received it with a touch that killed the speed instantly before he burst forward, cutting inside with that sudden acceleration that made the crowd hold its breath.

He beat one defender. Then another. His feet were a blur, and the Atalanta backline reeled.

Then, with the calm of a killer, Banda slid a low ball into the path of Krstovic, Lecce’s powerful striker, who ghosted into the box from the left. Krstovic took it in stride, eyes narrowing, and fired from a tight angle, the ball screaming toward the far post.

It grazed the outside of the post, a whisper away from glory, curling just wide as the Lecce fans behind the goal threw their hands to their heads.

["OHHHHHH MY WORDDDD! CAN YOU BELIEVE HOW CLOSE THAT WAS? KRSTOVIC PUTTING THAT ONE MERE MILLIMETERS AWAY FROM THE BOTTOM CORNER! THAT COULD HAVE BLOWN THE ROOF OFF THIS STADIUM!"]

Alex clenched his fists, knuckles whitening. So close. He let out a slow breath, forcing himself to stay composed, but inside, the fire was dancing. They were getting there.

The momentum kept building, each pass sharper, each tackle harder, the yellow shirts moving with a new urgency that made the stadium’s heartbeat quicken. In the 36th minute, Lecce came again, refusing to let Atalanta settle.

It was Ferretti once more, the young midfielder with the engine of a marathon runner and the instincts of a street footballer, making a late run into the box that caused panic among Atalanta’s defenders. Gallo, drifting wide after a clever overlap with Helgason, found himself with a sliver of space near the touchline.

He didn’t rush.

He glanced up, saw Ferretti’s run, and lofted a cross into the box, the ball spinning under the floodlights, a teasing arc that made the defenders hesitate.

Ferretti rose, unmarked, eyes locked on the ball, his forehead meeting it cleanly.

But the header was too tame, lacking the venom it needed, and Carnesecchi, Atalanta’s keeper, stepped forward, hands confident, and plucked the ball out of the air as if it were a warm-up drill.

["AHHHH, HE’LL WANT THAT ONE BACK, WON’T HE? FERRETTI GHOSTED INTO SPACE LIKE A WHISPER, BUT THE HEADER JUST LACKED THE BITE, THE SNAP, THE POWER TO TROUBLE CARNESSECCHI!"]

Still, Lecce were clawing back, refusing to disappear into the shadows of the match. They slowed the tempo for a moment, circulating possession through Pongracic and Baschirotto, making Atalanta chase shadows, forcing the blue and black shirts to run, to sweat, to feel the weight of Lecce’s belief pressing against them.

In the 39th minute, Banda found himself on the ball again, his eyes sharp, legs ready, the crowd rising with him. A clever one-two with Krstovic allowed Banda to burst into the final third, slicing between defenders with the grace of a dancer and the ferocity of a lion.

Helgason was making a darting run to his left, waving for the ball, and Banda saw it, threading a perfectly weighted pass into his path. Helgason let it run across his body, his left foot swinging back like a hammer.

He struck with force, the ball low, hard, slicing toward the bottom corner.

It missed by inches, skimming the grass as it flashed past the post.

["THE CROWD ARE GASPINGGGG! LECCE ARE ALIVE AGAIN, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! THEY’RE STINGING ATALANTA WITH REAL PURPOSE NOW, TESTING EVERY NERVE, EVERY INCH OF THIS DEFENSE!"]

Alex was pacing the touchline now, the cap low on his brow, his hands cupped around his mouth as he barked encouragements, pushing his players, demanding more. He could feel it in his bones, the shifting of momentum, the taste of a goal coming, the electric charge of belief crackling in the air.

But Atalanta were not a team that would back down.

Almost immediately, they retaliated, refusing to let Lecce have their moment uncontested. De Ketelaere, drifting into a false nine position, found himself with a pocket of space. He turned, the ball at his feet, and with a nonchalant flick of his boot, played a no-look through ball that sliced open Lecce’s midfield like a surgeon’s scalpel.

Lookman was onto it in a flash, surging forward with terrifying speed, his eyes up, feet dancing, the defenders backing off with each touch. He entered the box, adjusted his body, and curled a shot toward the top corner, a shot that looked destined to break Lecce’s hearts again.

But Falcone was ready.

He leapt, every muscle in his body stretching, his fingertips grazing the ball and pushing it over the bar with the faintest of touches.

["THATTTT’S A PHENOMENALLLL SAVE! WLADIMIRO FALCONE READS THAT LIKE A NOVEL, PAGE BY PAGE, AND SLAMS IT SHUT WITH AUTHORITY! THAT, RIGHT THERE, IS WORLD-CLASS GOALKEEPING UNDER PRESSURE!"]

Alex applauded, clapping hard, nodding once at Falcone. They needed him, and he had delivered. But he knew Atalanta’s bite was still sharp, still dangerous.

In the 42nd minute, Atalanta came again. Zappacosta, finding space on the right, overlapped with a burst of energy and delivered a teasing cross into the six-yard box, a ball that floated just over the heads of the defenders.

Muriel leapt, unmarked, eyes wide, but he mistimed it horribly, his header flying harmlessly over the bar.

["OH HE’S MISSED IT! LUIS MURIEL KNOWS THAT WAS A GOLDEN OPPORTUNITY, AND ATALANTA ARE THROWING PUNCHES, THROWING EVERYTHING FORWARD TO TRY TO TAKE CONTROL OF THIS MATCH BEFORE THE BREAK!"]

The game was chaos and rhythm, a symphony conducted on fast-forward, the players moving with urgency, the fans sensing that the next goal could tip the balance in a way that would decide everything.

And then... it happened.

Minute 44.

Atalanta had a corner, Koopmeiners swinging it in with a perfect trajectory, but Falcone, unshaken, punched it clear with authority, his fist crashing into the ball, sending it out of the box like a cannon shot.

The ball fell to Ferretti just outside the Lecce box, bouncing once.

He didn’t hesitate.

One glance. One pass.

He pinged a diagonal ball that cut through Atalanta’s stretched defensive line like a blade through silk, the pass splitting the defenders with such precision that the entire stadium seemed to gasp.

Krstovic took off, sprinting after the ball with the desperation of a man chasing destiny, legs pumping, arms driving, the crowd rising, screaming, the air vibrating with hope.

The ball bounced perfectly in front of him.

Carnesecchi rushed off his line to close the angle, eyes locked, ready for the shot.

Krstovic narrowed his eyes. He saw Gallo.

And instead of going for glory, he squared the ball at the last moment, a pass that sent Carnesecchi sprawling helplessly across his line.

Gallo.

The right-winger had been sprinting, unnoticed, a ghost on the far side of the box. And now, he had an open net.

He didn’t waste the opportunity.

A simple side-foot.

The ripple of the net.

2-1.

["GOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLLL! GALLO PUTS LECCE BACK IN FRONT! FROM COAST TO COAST, FROM BOX TO BOX, FERRETTI STARTS IT WITH A PASS THAT BELONGS IN THEATRES, KRSTOVIC UNSELFISHLY DELIVERS IT, AND GALLO FINISHES IT WITH THE COMPOSURE OF A SEASONED POACHER! THAT, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, IS COUNTERATTACK FOOTBALL WRITTEN IN PURE POETRY!"]

The Lecce bench exploded, players leaping from their seats, arms in the air, shouting, embracing each other in disbelief and joy. Alex turned toward his bench, his mouth wide open with a laugh of pure, disbelieving joy, pumping both fists in the air as the stadium roared.

Gallo wheeled away toward the corner flag, arms outstretched like an airplane, sliding on his knees across the grass as Banda, Ferretti, and Helgason came crashing into him, a pile of yellow shirts and raw emotion.

["THIS TEAM, THIS LECCE TEAM, THEY BELIEVE, FOLKS, THEY REALLY BELIEVE! AND WHO CAN BLAME THEM AFTER A GOAL LIKE THAT? THAT WAS FOOTBALL AT ITS MOST DEVASTATING, AT ITS MOST BEAUTIFUL!"]

The Lecce fans were losing their minds, the stands a sea of yellow and red, scarves twirling, drums pounding, voices rising in a roar that swallowed the stadium whole. They were drowning out the Atalanta fans now, turning Stadio Via del Mare into a cauldron of hope and fire.

Alex caught a glance at the Atalanta bench across the field. Stunned faces. Players with hands on their hips, shaking their heads. They had been caught, and Lecce had punished them without mercy.

The referee checked his watch, blowing a short, sharp whistle.

The first half was almost over.

But the war was far from finished.

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