I Coach Football With A System
Chapter 47: Vs Inter Milan (3)

Chapter 47: Vs Inter Milan (3)

The noise inside the San Siro was deafening, rolling in thick, thunderous waves that pulsed with every Inter Milan attack. The stadium was a living beast now, a storm made of concrete and voices. Ever since Inter clawed one goal back, something had changed. There was a shift in the atmosphere, subtle at first, like a gust of wind that you could feel but not see. But now, it was unmistakable. The crowd had caught the scent of momentum. Blood, even. And Inter’s players, sensing it too, began to move with an urgency and sharpness that made even Lecce’s most composed defenders clench their jaws and brace for impact.

Alex Walker stood right at the edge of his technical area, his coat zipped up to the neck, hands buried deep in his pockets. The camera caught his face in a close-up, but the emotion wasn’t there. His expression was flat, almost bored, but that was only the surface. Inside, his mind was buzzing with tension, thoughts swirling around like smoke from a fire. They were still in the lead. Just barely. But he could feel the pitch tilting beneath his feet. The game was shifting. Slowly. Gradually. But undeniably. The weight of Inter’s presence was growing, and it was getting harder and harder for Lecce to breathe.

In the 33rd minute, it almost unraveled.

A throw-in. Something simple. Something harmless.

But that was the danger of facing a team like Inter. Even the mundane could be a weapon. Federico Dimarco took the ball on the sideline and zipped a pass inside to Barella. One touch was all it took. One perfect touch to dance past Berisha, and suddenly Lecce’s midfield looked scattered.

The gap opened.

Barella didn’t hesitate. He chipped a delicate ball over the top, and Lecce’s defensive line was caught in that terrible, in-between space. Thuram, lurking between the center backs, made his move. He controlled the ball on his chest, let it drop, and then snapped a low shot toward the near post.

It was fast. Precise. And almost deadly.

But Wladimiro Falcone was ready. Lecce’s keeper dove sharply to his right, almost impossibly quick for his size, and got his palm to the ball. A strong, confident save. The kind that goalkeepers dream about.

["Falcone again! Lecce’s keeper is standing tall like a fortress!"]

["You get the feeling Inter are turning the screws here. Lecce are just about holding on!"]

The pressure was relentless. Like waves pounding against cliffs, again and again.

Lecce tried to slow it down. A few passes. A bit of calm. But there was no real relief. Not two minutes later, Inter were charging again. This time, it started from deep. Bastoni, comfortable with the ball at his feet, pushed forward. He played a one-two with Calhanoglu and kept running. Like a train building momentum, he carried it right to the edge of the Lecce penalty area. Just before being closed down, he slipped the ball wide to Dimarco, who barely needed a second.

The cross came in fast and vicious, curling toward the far post.

And Lautaro Martinez was there.

He rose high, meeting it with a thunderous header.

Falcone didn’t move.

But the ball struck the crossbar. A loud, ringing clang echoed through the stadium like a warning bell. The rebound dropped into the box, chaos followed, and Pongračić, under immense pressure, managed to hack it clear with a wild, desperate swing of his boot.

["Off the bar! My god, Lautaro had the equalizer in his sights!"]

["And Lecce are living dangerously now. Inter are just inches away from drawing level."]

Alex let out a breath, long and heavy. He hadn’t even realized he’d been holding it until that moment.

The crowd had risen to a fever pitch. Every chant, every scream, felt like it was pressing in on Lecce’s players. But then, something strange happened.

In the 38th minute, Lecce began to pass.

Really pass.

["You know, some of the Inter Milan players may look back on the opportunities that they’ve missed and feel a little bit of regret. They’ve had enough chances to have two, three goals and they’re still behind]

["Speaking of opportunities, Lecce have just got one now!"

Not just clearances or hopeful long balls. It was short. Measured. Intentional. Berisha dropped deep, his boots dragging slightly across the grass as he slowed everything down. He exchanged a pass with Ramadani, who stayed close like a shadow, always ready to sweep up danger. Then the ball moved left, to Gallo. He took his time, glancing upfield before nudging it across to Baschirotto, who calmly played it back into Berisha.

It was patient. Purposeful. The kind of possession that made defenders shuffle and attackers pause.

Berisha looked up.

Krstović was dropping into the pocket, giving just enough movement to invite a pass. The ball zipped into his feet. One clean touch. Then, in the same motion, he laid it back into Berisha’s path.

And in that half-second of confusion, when one of Inter’s center backs took a step forward, Berisha saw the window.

A slicing diagonal through ball, curling between three Inter players. Perfect weight. Perfect direction. And Patrick Dorgu, already on the move, caught it in stride.

The Lecce bench was suddenly on its feet.

Dorgu sprinted. One touch to settle. One touch to accelerate.

He burned past Darmian with raw pace, the kind that made defenders panic. Sommer came rushing out, trying to cut down the angle.

Dorgu opened up his body, eyes on the far post.

And shot.

The ball curled—

And missed.

Wide. Just barely.

It skimmed the paint on the outside of the post and kept rolling.

["Krstovic back to Berisha, Berisha passes-- oh my word, what a pass! And Dorgu’s got the ball and he’s gone past Dimarco, it’s just him and Sommer now. Dorgu versus Sommer! DORGU VERSUS SOMMER!! PATRIC DORGUUUU-- misses. Oh my days! He has missed the goal. How on earth did he not score that?!"]

["Maybe it was the pressure, maybe it was the angle but he’s thrown away that chance now. Lecce had the chance to restore a two goal lead but now they can only sigh in disappointment, one of the best chances of the game so far, wasted. Just like that"]

Gasps rippled across the San Siro like a collective heartbreak.

Alex turned around and rubbed his face, almost like he didn’t want to believe what just happened.

And Inter didn’t wait. They didn’t need to.

From the restart, Sommer played fast. A sharp pass to Bastoni, who immediately took two strong touches forward. Then came the switch. A crossfield missile to Dimarco, out on the left flank.

Gallo was caught high. Too high.

Dimarco ran onto the ball like he had rockets in his boots. No hesitation. He took a single glance and whipped in a cross that skimmed the grass, fast and low.

And Lautaro Martinez, the man who always seemed to be in the right place, arrived.

He slipped between Pongračić and Baschirotto with ease. It was like he became weightless for a second.

Then came the flick.

Outside of the boot. Just enough to redirect the ball.

Just enough to beat Falcone.

2–2.

The San Siro exploded.

["Goal! Inter are level and it’s their captain Lautaro Martinez!"]

["What a response after that Dorgu miss. Inter went from defence to attack in seconds!"]

["That’s the kind of quality that separates the good teams from the best. Lecce were dreaming of a two-goal cushion, and now they’re back to square one."]

Alex didn’t move.

Not physically, at least.

But inside, he was already deep in review mode, replaying the entire sequence over and over. From the missed chance to the counter to the goal.

From 2–1 to a chance for 3–1, then suddenly back to 2–2.

He rubbed the back of his neck slowly, eyes locked on the field.

This match was going to test every inch of their resolve.

And there was still a whole half to go.