I Coach Football With A System
Chapter 46: Vs Inter Milan (2)

Chapter 46: Vs Inter Milan (2)

The San Siro was uncharacteristically silent after Lecce’s second goal.

It wasn’t the silence of disappointment or the lull that came from boredom. No, this was different. This was the hush of a stunned colossus, a stadium full of giants and believers who had just been punched in the mouth by someone they never saw coming. The away fans celebrated in a corner of the stadium like lunatics, waving their yellow and red scarves and leaping into one another’s arms. But for the rest of San Siro, it was as if someone had pressed pause.

Alex Walker didn’t wave, didn’t scream, didn’t even glance at the camera that had lingered on his face for three full seconds. He stood with his arms crossed on the edge of the technical area, mouth in a tight line, eyes tracking the shape of his team as they fell back into the new structure.

Lecce had gone defensive. And not just your regular low block. They had retreated into something brutal, something bold, something that looked almost impossible to break down unless you had a sledgehammer and ninety minutes of time.

A 6‑2‑2 shape.

Not even a flat five, or a flexible three center back system like before. This was something else. Two tight lines of midfielders clogging every lane. Two strikers up top, not dropping deep but staying high, always looking for a moment to pounce. Full backs who had tucked inside as auxiliary center backs. It wasn’t beautiful, but it was smart. Cynical. Sharp. Like someone had carved it out of solid steel.

["Look at this formation," the commentator said. "Lecce have completely shifted the balance. Inter’s creativity is smothered. The champions look lost here."]

And they were. For the next twenty minutes after the second goal, Inter Milan looked nothing like the team that had gone undefeated all season. Their attacking flair was dulled. Their transitions were sluggish. They passed sideways. They passed backwards. And every time Barella or Calhanoglu or Lautaro tried to thread a ball through the middle, they found a wall of yellow and red jerseys waiting, shifting as one, pressing the moment the ball entered the danger zone.

It wasn’t pretty. But it was working.

But this was still Inter. A team full of internationals, full of players who didn’t know how to panic. Champions don’t collapse easily, and Inter weren’t going to go down without testing every crack in Lecce’s armor.

In the 18th minute, something finally clicked. Martinez dropped deeper, received a bouncing pass, and spun away from Baschirotto in one smooth motion. The space on the left opened up, and he drove toward the penalty area with frightening speed. Baschirotto tried to recover, sliding in late, but Martinez was already past him.

From a tight angle, Martinez let fly with a low, venomous shot aimed at the far corner.

Falcone dove like he had springs in his boots.

His body stretched fully horizontal, and just at the last possible second, he got a strong glove to the ball, redirecting it past the post. The save was so sudden, so crisp, that even the home fans gasped. The sound echoed up into the rafters.

["What a reflex save!" the commentator snapped. "Falcone with feline movement, denying Martinez when Lecce needed them most. Lecce remains in the lead, perhaps for now"]

That could have been it. That could have been the moment Inter broke through the spell. But again, they were denied.

Two minutes later, Calhanoglu picked up the ball near midfield, scanned the pitch, and saw Dimarco making an overlapping run down the left. With a delicate chip, he found him in stride. Dimarco wasted no time, drilling a dangerous cross low and hard across the face of goal.

It flew past defenders. Past the keeper.

But it didn’t go in.

Rebić, tracking all the way back from his forward position, threw his leg out at full stretch. The ball caught his foot and deflected awkwardly.

It hit the crossbar.

Smacked it, really, with enough force that the whole frame rattled.

The ball bounced out into open space, and Pongračić, under pressure from two Inter players, managed to get his boot on it and send it flying clear. The crowd groaned. It was chaos. But Lecce had survived again.

["Still, Inter coming, again!" the commentator said. "Lecce scrambling, luckily it pings back off the woodwork! Lecce and Rebić get a little bit of a let off there, a few millimeters to the left and I’d be saying completely a completely different set of words right now"]

And suddenly, Lecce smelled something in the air.

Opportunity.

A few moments later, the ball came to Darmian, who tried to work the right flank for Inter. He got close to the box and won a corner, a small victory in itself. But the delivery was poor. Lecce headed it away, and the clearance fell to Berisha just inside his own half.

He took one glance up the field.

And then he ran.

There was no artistry in the way he carried the ball. No graceful dribbling or tricks. It was all raw power and straight lines. A bullet in human form. He juked past D’Ambrosio at the halfway line like he wasn’t even there. Then, two steps later, De Vrij tried to shoulder him off balance, but Berisha didn’t budge.

He just kept running.

The crowd stood up. You could feel the energy shifting again. The San Siro could see it happening, saw it unfolding in real time, but nobody could stop it.

Barella came flying in from the side, desperate to make the tackle. But Berisha saw him and pivoted, a lightning-quick turn that left Barella chasing shadows.

Berisha sprinted right down the middle of the pitch. The goal opened up. The penalty box grew larger with every step. He reached the six yard line, and just when the Inter defense collapsed on him, he played the perfect ball sideways.

There was Krstović.

Unmarked.

Calm as you like.

He didn’t go for power. He didn’t try to blast it. He just passed it into the bottom right corner, using the keeper’s momentum against him.

Lecce were two up.

And this time, the San Siro didn’t groan. It didn’t scream. It didn’t even really react.

It just went still.

Like something sacred had been broken.

["My word! That counter attack was explosive!" the commentator exclaimed. "Berisha from box to box, he tore through Inter like a ghost through walls, then the composed finish from Krstović. Lecce have stunned Italy’s giants."]

The Lecce bench was in hysterics, but Alex Walker didn’t lose himself in the moment. He pumped his fist once, sharp and tight, then went right back to pacing his zone like it wasn’t over yet.

On the pitch, Lecce’s players were breathing heavy. But they didn’t look panicked. If anything, they looked like they believed this was meant to happen. Like they had woken up early enough to meet destiny at the door.

But soccer never stays static.

By the 30th minute, Inter found a way back in.

Lecce had gotten just a little too comfortable, a little too eager to play out from the back. Ramadani received the ball near midfield, tried to clear under pressure, but his touch was heavy. It bounced up into Barella’s thigh.

Barella reacted first.

One second of luck was all he needed.

He caught the ball clean off the bounce and threaded a line breaking pass right between Lecce’s defenders. Martinez had already started his run. It was perfect timing. No one could catch him.

He took one touch, then another to skip past the last man, and finished smoothly into the far corner.

["And Inter are back in it!" the commentator blared. "Ramadani’s miscue gifting possession, Barella punishing it, Martinez floats it past Falcone. A momentary lapse has opened the door."]

The San Siro found its voice again.

Louder than ever.

They roared, not in celebration, but in relief. It was as if their team had finally woken up from the dream and remembered who they were supposed to be.

On the pitch, Lecce’s players looked like they had just been punched in the gut. A few bent over, hands on knees, gulping for air.

The camera zoomed in on the scoreboard. Inter 1, Lecce 2.

Alex Walker didn’t say anything. He just stood still, jaw tight, eyes scanning everything like a chess player who had just lost a rook. He knew that was a cheap goal to give away, and the game had changed.

The narrative had shifted.

What had begun as a miracle, as a fairytale full of boldness and shock, was now turning into something else.

Now it was about endurance.

Now it was about defense.

Now it was about holding onto what they had earned with blood and grit.

As the players trotted toward the touchline for a quick water break, both teams looked different. Inter seemed sharper. Their eyes burned with new determination. And Lecce? Lecce looked like dreamers who had suddenly realized that dreaming wasn’t enough. That the hardest part was yet to come.

They still led.

But the game, the real game, had only just begun.