I Coach Football With A System
Chapter 84: Vs Atalanta (5)

Chapter 84: Vs Atalanta (5)

The roar inside the Via del Mare was deafening, almost primal, the sound of thousands of voices rising as one, surging, falling, then surging again like the waves that crashed against the Puglia coast not far from the stadium. The scoreboard glowed 2-2, harsh and bright in the warm night, and with just over thirty minutes remaining, the match had become a chaotic symphony of heavy breaths, crunching tackles, and the relentless pounding of feet on grass.

Neither Lecce nor Atalanta seemed interested in playing it safe anymore. There were no thoughts of caution, no thoughts of retreat. They were trading punches now, blow for blow, and everyone in the stadium could feel it deep in their bones, the weight of every pass, every clearance, every run into space.

["Thissss one... this match... it’s gone completely off the rails, folks! It’s chaos, it’s drama, it’s raw, it’s beautiful, and right now it is anyone’s game!"]

The first warning shot of the coming storm fell to Atalanta. Of course it did. It was Lookman again, he was everywhere, a phantom cutting through Lecce’s backline with the confidence of a man who could smell blood in the air. De Ketelaere, always scanning, always finding that impossible angle, spotted Lookman’s diagonal run behind Baschirotto and pinged a precise ball that skipped over the grass like a stone over water.

Lookman brought it down with a touch so clean it was almost disrespectful, cut inside on his right, eyes narrowing as he picked his spot, and let fly from the edge of the box with venom and hope combined. The shot was low, hard, destined for the far bottom corner.

Falcone flung himself across the goal, arms outstretched, fingertips straining, and with a loud smack of glove on leather, he parried it wide, the rebound skidding out into chaos before Pongracic arrived to clear it with a desperate lunge, sending the ball high and far.

["FALLLCOOONNNNEEE! OH MY WORD, THAT IS WORLD CLASS GOALKEEPING FROM THE LECCE NUMBER ONE, STRETCHING EVERY INCH OF HIMSELF TO KEEP THAT OUT! THAT WAS DESTINED, DESTINED FOR THE BACK OF THE NET, AND HE SAID NO!"]

The Via del Mare roared in approval, the sound rolling like thunder.

Lecce responded immediately. The clearance found its way to Luca Ferretti, the teenager with a heart too big for his frame, who took the ball under control and with a quick drop of the shoulder, danced past one, then two Atalanta midfielders, leaving them grasping at air as he surged forward. His eyes lifted, spotting Banda peeling away from his marker, and with a clever, disguised pass, Ferretti slid the ball through into space.

Banda didn’t hesitate. He took a single touch to steady himself and then shot low and hard, trying to sneak it past Carnesecchi before the keeper could set himself. But Carnesecchi was quick off his line, closing the angle, throwing himself forward with a knee out, and the ball ricocheted away, safe, cleared by Scalvini before Krstovic could pounce.

["IT’S END TO END NOW! THIS IS PURE SERIE A THEATRE! BANDA WITH THE BREAKAWAY, THE CROWD ON THEIR FEET, AND CARNESSECCHI WITH A HUGE, HUGE SAVE TO DENY HIM!"]

The stadium was a cauldron, every fan on their feet, scarves waving, voices hoarse, hearts pounding in time with the rhythm of the game.

Atalanta came again. There was no pause, no time to breathe. Zappacosta found space down the right, his feet a blur as he knocked the ball past Dorgu, sprinting into the final third before lifting a teasing, curling cross into the box. It hung in the air, shimmering under the floodlights, before Koopmeiners, arriving like a ghost, rose unmarked to meet it.

His header was strong, directed with intent toward the far post, and for a moment the world seemed to slow.

It flew just inches wide.

Falcone didn’t move. He was rooted, eyes following the ball as it whistled past the post, the collective gasp of the crowd a single, sharp intake of breath before the noise returned.

["IT’S CHAOS OUT THERE, FOLKS! LECCE HAVE TO WAKE UP, THEY HAVE TO STAY ALERT DEFENSIVELY, BECAUSE THEY WERE JUST CARVED OPEN, AND KOOPMEINERS ALMOST, ALMOST PUT ATALANTA BACK IN FRONT!"]

The game was alive, a living thing that breathed with the crowd.

And then Lecce surged forward once more, refusing to be cowed. Gallo, who was playing the game of his life, full of confidence and purpose, skipped past his man down the left flank with a flick of the ankle that sent the Atalanta defender stumbling. The space opened, and Gallo drove down the line before cutting inside and sending a low, driven cross into the chaos of the box.

Krstovic lunged, stretching out a toe to redirect the ball toward goal, the slightest of touches sending it spinning toward the bottom corner, only for Scalvini to throw himself in front, blocking the shot with his thigh, the impact thudding across the pitch.

["OH MY GOODNESS, WHAT A BLOCK! SCALVINI PUTTING HIS BODY ON THE LINE, SACRIFICING HIMSELF FOR HIS TEAM, BECAUSE KRSTOVIC WAS SO, SO CLOSE TO GIVING LECCE THE LEAD AGAIN!"]

The next few minutes were madness, the kind that made your heart pound and your lungs burn, even if you were only watching.

Atalanta’s Ederson picked up a loose ball near the top of the Lecce box, the defenders scrambling to close him down, but he didn’t wait. He shifted the ball onto his right foot and curled a shot with the inside of his boot, aiming for the top corner. The ball flew, curving through the air, before sailing just over the crossbar, drawing groans of frustration from the Atalanta fans and a wave of relieved sighs from the home supporters.

["YOU CAN JUST FEEL IT, CAN’T YOU? SOMETHING’S COMING, SOMETHING HAS TO GIVE, BECAUSE BOTH TEAMS ARE THROWING EVERYTHING THEY HAVE, EVERY OUNCE OF ENERGY, EVERY PIECE OF THEIR SOULS INTO THIS GAME!"]

Back the other way came Lecce. Helgason, Banda, and Ferretti combined in a slick sequence of passes that moved the ball through Atalanta’s midfield like a hot knife through butter. Ferretti, always fearless, always seeing angles others didn’t, chipped a delightful ball over the top for Gallo, who had ghosted in behind the line.

Gallo chested the ball down, letting it bounce once, before striking it on the volley with venom. Carnesecchi reacted, diving to his left, palming the ball away with a desperate save that left him sprawled on the ground.

["OH MY LORD, WHAT A GAME WE ARE WITNESSING HERE TONIGHT! THIS IS VINTAGE, VINTAGE SERIE A DRAMA! GALLO CAUGHT THAT SO CLEANLY, AND CARNESSECCHI, SOMEHOW, SOMEWAY, KEEPS IT OUT!"]

The crowd was electric, every moment charged with possibility.

Atalanta’s next chance was almost the one that broke Lecce. De Ketelaere slipped into the half-space, drifting where defenders couldn’t quite reach him, and sent in a low, zipping cross that screamed across the six-yard box. Pasalic arrived, sliding, stretching, making contact, but his effort cannoned off the outside of the post, the sound of it hitting the woodwork sharp and cruel.

Lecce responded with what would have been the most poetic goal of the night. Ferretti, again at the heart of everything, received the ball just outside the D, took a breath, stepped past Koopmeiners with the grace of a dancer, and unleashed a curling strike that bent, bent, bent-

But it didn’t dip enough, brushing the top netting on its way over.

["FERRETTI... HE IS PAINTING TONIGHT, PAINTING WITH HIS FEET, WITH HIS VISION, WITH HIS PASSION! THAT WOULD HAVE BEEN A STUNNER, A GOAL TO REMEMBER, BUT IT WAS JUST, JUST TOO HIGH!"]

The game moved into its final minutes, the crowd standing, unable to sit, unable to breathe, waiting for the moment that would decide everything.

And then, in the eighty ninth minute, it happened.

The hammer blow.

Koopmeiners broke up a Lecce pass in midfield, the stadium groaning as the ball was lost, and immediately launched a counterattack with ruthless efficiency. The ball found De Ketelaere, who barely needed a touch, just turned, head up, scanning, and found Lookman, who was already streaking forward, already leaving defenders in his wake.

Pongracic tried to step up, but he was too late. Lookman raced past him, past Baschirotto, past the half-hearted tackle of Gendrey, the stadium holding its breath with every stride.

Falcone came charging out, desperate, fearless.

Lookman slowed, shifted the ball with his left foot, waited, waited—

And then, with the calm of a man playing in his backyard, he lifted the ball gently, almost casually, over Falcone, the ball spinning softly before dropping into the net.

["LOOKMAN! LOOKMANNNNN! HAT TRICK HERO! HE’S ABSOLUTELY DESTROYED LECCE HERE IN THE FINAL MINUTES, WITH ICE IN HIS VEINS, WITH THE CALM OF A KILLER, WITH THE HEART OF A CHAMPION! THAT IS WHY YOU NEVER, EVER GIVE UP ON A COUNTERATTACK!"]

The Atalanta bench erupted, bodies flying off seats, fists pumping the air. Their fans exploded in the away section, flares lighting up the night, blue smoke swirling, voices roaring with savage celebration. Lookman sprinted toward the corner flag, sliding on his knees, arms wide, eyes wild with the joy of it.

Alex Walker sat back down.

His jaw clenched, the muscle ticking, his eyes fixed on the pitch, unblinking. The weight in his chest felt real now. Heavy. Sinking.

The Lecce players looked dazed, some standing frozen, others with hands on hips, chests heaving, eyes distant. Broken? No. But dazed, reeling from the blow.

Still, there was a flicker. A spark that refused to die.

In the fourth minute of added time, Banda, refusing to give in, refusing to let it end, drew a foul near the halfway line, dragging the ball away from two defenders before being hacked down. Helgason took the free kick quickly, rolling it short to Ferretti, who looked up, saw the Atalanta defenders retreating, too deep, too cautious.

And so he struck it.

From thirty five yards, with everything he had left.

A rocket, pure venom, the ball screaming through the air, leaving a trail of hope behind it. Carnesecchi stretched, flying, fingertips reaching-

The ball missed.

Just wide.

["FERRETTI... OH MY WORD, THAT WAS NEARLY, NEARLY A MIRACLE! A GOAL THAT WOULD HAVE SHAKEN THIS STADIUM, A GOAL THAT WOULD HAVE GIVEN LECCE A POINT THEY DESERVED! BUT IT’S WIDE, JUST WIDE!"]

And then... it was over.

The final whistle blew.

No music. No cheers.

Silence.

For the first time in his short managerial career, Alex Walker had lost a game of football.

He stood frozen for a second, hands on his hips, feeling the weight of it, letting it settle.

Then he turned toward his bench, toward his players.

They were already shaking hands, heads down, bodies exhausted. Gallo with his head lowered, Ferretti hunched, hands on knees, Dorgu wiping sweat from his brow like it might wipe away the scoreboard.

Alex didn’t speak.

Not yet.

There would be time to talk. Time to reflect.

But not now.

Now was for feeling it.

And he did.

He felt every second of it.

["Football. It gives. It takes. And tonight, it has taken from Lecce. But what a performance. What a match. These boys, Alex Walker’s boys, they left their soul on that pitch."]