I Coach Football With A System
Chapter 49: Vs Inter Milan (5)

Chapter 49: Vs Inter Milan (5)

Lecce emerged for the second half with their eyes burning brighter, as though they’d all consumed something fierce together. The stadium lights reflected off their sweat-soaked kit, and each player stepped onto the grass with the kind of purpose that made even the San Siro seem smaller, more intimate. They remained in their 4-4-2 formation, but this time, they carried a hunger deeper than before. Alex Walker had told them to let go of the defensive shell they’d built in the first forty-five, to dance on the edge of bravery. They had obeyed, sweeping the ball neatly, forming tight triangles in midfield, stretching out wide, probing the dangerous zones between Inter’s lines.

Yet courage always carries a price, and Inter smelled the vulnerability.

By the 55th minute, the Nerazzurri had placated their nerves and pounced back. Martinez and Calhanoglu carved a pathway midfield, working quick one, two touches, shifting Lecce’s shape sideways until a gap opened down the right. Dimarco surged past Gallo with sleight-of-foot ease, then whipped in a low cross that cut through Lecce hearts. Martinez slid across, connecting with the ball, but it was Falcone who stood tallest. He rushed out to meet it, smashing out a firm fingertip save that rattled off the post. His reflexes were razor-sharp, his resolve stronger than armor.

["Falcone, yet again!"] the commentator roared, voice full of wonder. ["That was pure instinct, a godsend in this storm. He’s definitely been Lecce’s star man in this match. I think all the players would have liked to give him a kiss on the face right now. They must love him more than their wives."]

Lecce’s players let out breaths they didn’t know they were holding. They collapsed their frames a little, leaned on their teammates. They had thrown themselves into the fight, and now they prayed that their keeper would hold the line.

But Inter was relentless.

Three minutes later, Brozović pinged a long-range bullet toward Bastoni, who cushioned it with a masterful first touch. He slid it to Barella, who shrugged away Berisha like they were playing tag. Barella fired a ball across the face, where Thuram timed his volley beautifully. Falcone stretched, his left arm whipping out to block the shot with savage power, tipping it off Martinez’s shin and safely beyond the bar.

["Incredible!"] the co-commentator gasped. ["He’s keeping Lecce alive. Single-handed, one save and then another that kept that ball from crossing the line. He’s becoming a fortress out there."]

On the touchline, Alex’s heart drummed so loudly he feared it might tip from his chest. He felt that small crack forming in his carefully built defense, a split-second hesitance, a drifting mind, and he realized one might cost them everything. But in that moment, something in him flared.

He scanned the bench. His gaze locked on Luca Ferretti, standing tall and composed, watching every move, every breath of the game. Without hesitation, Alex barked to the assistant: "Luca warm up. Now."

The boy’s eyes snapped open, confusion flickering before focus sharpened. His chest rose and fell faster as he tugged at his training top, readying himself. This was no longer a training exercise. This was real.

And Inter continued to press.

A long ball broke forward and Martinez darted free. He shifted the ball just wide of Falcone’s outstretched arm, rattling the net without bothering the back of the goal. The San Siro trembled.

["Again!"] the announcer’s voice cracked, high with tension. ["Lautaro Martinez again, so close, but somehow Lecce keeps breathing. It seems like every time Martinez comes, he draws a gasp."]

Lecce’s supporters stood as one, faces tense, some scanning the sky as if begging the sun to rescue them. Alex leaned forward, lips tight, jaw clenched, palms pressing inside the pockets of his jacket. He spotted Luca now, halfway warmed, eyes locked on him like they’d been in training.

Then the moment came.

In the 60th minute, Inter won the ball back with a clever press. Brozović tipped it to Bastoni down the right flank. He controlled it, rolled it inside, and dispatched a bullet of a cross into the box. Martinez rose again, lurking like a prowler in the shadows, and flicked it clean with the outside of his boot.

3–2 to Inter.

For a heartbeat, Lecce’s stadium breath held still. A silence louder than any roar. The scoreboard glowed with that score, a glaring reminder of what had slipped right through their fingers. The players who’d fought so hard sagged, kneeling or bent over, mouths open, hands on knees. Even Falcone seemed smaller, heavy in the jersey that moments ago had been armor. The air turned heavy, suffused with doubt, with fear, with regrets unspoken.

But then something broke.

From somewhere deep, Alex’s voice shot out across the room: "No! Not done!"

It wasn’t a yell. It wasn’t a rage. It was the sound of belief, unshakeable and living. A shot of adrenaline to pride.

"Push! Earn it!"

He signaled to the fourth official, fists impatient. The substitutions began. Dorgu fell back, reclaiming his left midfield. And Luca, sixteen years old, walked on. His first touch carried the hush of a first breath after a plunge. The cameraman zoomed in on his pale face, pressed against the high-definition view, capturing that moment of transformation when a boy steps onto the field and becomes part of something larger.

["Hold up,"] the announcer said, voice soft but crackling. ["We have a teenager coming on at the San Siro—sixteen years old. Alex Walker has thrown a raw, inexperienced kid into the boiling heart of this battle. Is this madness, or inspired? Will it prove to be a gamble too far?"]

["It’s a mission of faith,"] came the quieter reply from the co-commentator. ["Either it’ll be genius, or it’ll backfire spectacularly. But one thing is sure, Alex Walker believes in this kid."]

The crowd murmured as Luca jogged onto the pitch, legs smooth and long, eyes focused. It wasn’t pity. It was curiosity. Maybe even hope. Maybe this was the spark they all needed.

Alex watched him run into position, swallowed his next breath, and gave one last, fierce glance inward.

From the bench, his eyes roamed over the rest of the team. They looked beaten. Broken. But the flicker of resolve was still there, an ember refusing to die.

"Sharp," he mouthed silently. "Steady. Make him matter."

The fourth official raised his board. Luca’s name glowed on the LED screen.

Inter adjusted, eyes narrowing. One more opponent to mark. One more unknown to analyze.

Alex’s hands tightened around the rails. He felt the tension again, the deep, cinematic weight of possibility. Not every debutor changed battles. Not every substitution spelled hope. But in that moment, he believed Luca could tilt the scale.

The stadium pulsed softly. The game teetered on a knife’s edge. Lecce had been brave, had clawed back, had almost lost. Now, on the edge of the moment, they had chosen to fight. All of them.

Luca crossed himself, a small, quiet prayer to himself. He tucked his jersey in, tapped the area over his heart twice, and then clipped tight the grass with his boot. He had no time for nerves.

’Now,’ Alex thought. ’We find out what you’re made of.’

And with that, the second half resumed, and Lecce took their next breath.

A/N: One more Chapter 🤞🏻