I Coach Football With A System
Chapter 45: Vs Inter Milan (1)

Chapter 45: Vs Inter Milan (1)

The San Siro buzzed like a living creature as the camera panned across the endless rows of chanting fans. Flags rippled high above the crowd, scarves spun in slow circles, and the noise level never dropped for even a moment. From the ultras behind the goal to the curious neutrals who just came to watch a good game, everyone was caught up in the same tension. A roar of anticipation echoed through the colossal stadium, an anticipation that seemed to ask one question.

San Siro and Lecce?

Not just any Lecce, but one that had been breaking expectations and stepping over predictions all season long. This wasn’t the Lecce people were used to seeing fight relegation. This was a Lecce with something burning behind their eyes.

The broadcast flickered through different camera angles, zooming in on the packed home stand, the dugouts, the tunnel. Then it cut to the commentary box, where two seasoned voices broke the tension with incredulous warmth.

["At the beginning of the season, nobody would have believed this fixture would be one of the most anticipated matches of the year," the first commentator said, the awe in his voice barely hidden behind a calm exterior.]

["Inter Milan remain undefeated in Serie A, true, flawless to date," the second replied, his tone carrying both respect and curiosity. "But look at Lecce. Eight matches unbeaten. That’s a story no one saw coming."]

On the pitch, the camera followed the players as they lined up in the tunnel. The Inter side looked like seasoned gladiators, calm, sharp-eyed, and used to this kind of tension. Then it cut to Lecce. Their players were younger, more nervous maybe, but there was something raw in their body language. Something that didn’t look like fear. More like hunger.

And then came the tactical breakdowns, something fans always loved before a big match.

["Notice Lecce’s setup, 4, 4, 2," the first commentator pointed out, clearly intrigued. "That’s a departure from their usual three back system under Alex Walker."]

["Interesting," his partner chimed in. "A more attacking shape. Two strikers up front, wing backs and a balanced midfield. Maybe they’re here to fight, not to hide."]

The scene jumped again, this time to the dugout. There stood Alex Walker, arms folded across his chest, his eyes fixed ahead like he was already playing the match in his head. He wore a plain black sweater, no suit or club jacket, just something simple and clean. But it wasn’t about what he wore. It was about the aura. That presence.

The whistle blew.

Immediately, Inter pounced. No hesitation. It was like a coiled spring being released. Within two minutes, the Italian giants had already sliced into Lecce’s half like a hot knife through butter. Barella received the ball near midfield, flicked it forward to Lautaro Martinez, and darted into space. Martinez returned the ball with a precise backheel, the kind that made the crowd gasp, and Barella let fly from twenty yards out.

The ball curled, tight and vicious, aimed for the top corner.

But Falcone was ready.

Lecce’s number one dove full-stretch, fingertips grazing the spinning ball just enough to push it wide. The crowd’s collective breath caught in their throats.

From the resulting corner, Inter moved fast. The ball was played short, quickly recycled to the right side, and a driven cross came screaming toward the near post. Roma, charging in from deep, got his head to it.

But again, Falcone was there.

Palms raised, body strong, he deflected the ball to safety. His defenders swarmed him with pats and relieved sighs.

["What a save from Falcone. He just managed to get a fingertip to it and manages to keep his team from falling out of it so early in the match"]

Still, Inter kept coming.

A slick move unfolded down the left flank. Dimarco ran into space, slipped behind Gendrey, and delivered a sharp, low cross. Roma again made the run into the box, meeting the ball with a sliding attempt that looked dangerous, but his shot went a foot wide of the far post.

"So close!" the other commentator exclaimed. "Inter pushing hard, Lecce staying alert."

And then, just eight minutes into the match, something happened that no one had predicted.

Inter were attacking again, Martinez drifting between the lines, his movements fluid and tricky. He reached for a loose ball that had bounced off a Lecce midfielder, but just as he was about to collect it, Pongračić slid in with a perfectly timed challenge. He didn’t just block the run. He took the ball with surgical precision.

The crowd murmured. Some fans even applauded the clean tackle.

The ball rolled away, loose in midfield.

Berisha was already there, jogging into space like he knew what would happen before it happened. Calm, with his head on a swivel, he took one touch and immediately spotted the open space on the right side.

With a simple yet precise pass, he fed Gallo, who was already in motion.

Gallo didn’t wait. He pressed the pedal immediately. Sprinting down the right flank, he left Barella behind and kept going. The pitch in front of him stretched wide and open. Lecce had space. Real space. And for once, Inter looked like they had misjudged.

Halfway into Inter’s half, Gallo slowed just enough to lift his head. His eyes locked on something. Then, with a smooth motion, he launched a diagonal switch across the field.

The ball soared like a laser guided missile, curling toward the left flank where Lecce had silently built an overload. Dorgu was waiting.

First touch. Smooth. His cleats kissed the ball gently and stopped it dead.

He shifted it under his foot and stepped past his marker like it was the easiest thing in the world. The Inter defenders had already been pulled toward the right side from Gallo’s run, and that gave Dorgu just enough space to act.

He reached the edge of the penalty area, then delivered a deep, searching cross into the box.

It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t flashy. It was just right.

De Vrij reacted instantly, leaping to intercept. His head connected, but the angle was off. The clearance was weak.

The ball dropped to the feet of Rebić.

Waiting.

Right outside the zone, perfectly placed. He didn’t even take a touch to settle.

He just swung.

The strike was thunder. The ball flew like it had no intention of slowing down. It curved slightly, powered by pure instinct and muscle memory, and Sommer stretched desperately to reach it.

But he couldn’t.

The ball clipped off the inside of the top-right corner and dropped into the net.

There was a pause. A single heartbeat of stunned silence.

Then the explosion.

["ANTE REBICCC... OH MY WORD! WHAT A GOAL! LECCE HAVE TAKEN THE LEAD! LECCE HAVE TAKEN THE LEAD!!" the voice of the commentator rose to a shout. "Inside of eight minutes, the underdogs lead in the house of the big wolf!"]

["David has struck the temple of Goliath!" The second commentator said. "The underdog has sucker punched the big bad wolf. In their own backyard, Inter go one down to Lecce inside the first ten minutes!"]

The Lecce bench lost it. Coaches threw their arms up. Substitutes sprinted to the sidelines. Players on the pitch screamed and surged toward Rebić.

Fists pumped. Arms wrapped around shoulders. Some of them were laughing. Others just yelling. Not out of shock, but out of belief. This wasn’t a fluke. It was something they had worked for.

The camera panned back to the commentary box.

["What a thunderbolt of an opening!"]

["That move, Pongračić’s tackle, Berisha’s pass, Gallo’s run, Dorgu’s cross, flawless. And Rebić’s finish? Top corner. Absolutely perfect."]

The San Siro, once deafening with Inter chants, seemed to be holding its breath now. You could feel the energy shifting, not just in the stadium, but across the country. Around the world. This wasn’t just a moment. It was a ripple.

The world seemed to tilt for Lecce. This was their moment, a slice of history unfolding in real time. San Siro’s roar was no longer dominant. For a moment, it drowned in Lecce’s own cheer, their own shockwave of belief.

Inter stood frozen, players exchanging urgent glances and pointing at gaps that should not have existed.

That was how the eighth minute ended. An upset shaped before the match even reached its midpoint. A Chapter decked in defiance. Lecce, eight matches unbeaten, this one might redefine everything.