I Coach Football With A System
Chapter 50: Vs Inter Milan (6)

Chapter 50: Vs Inter Milan (6)

The second half trudged on like a brewing storm, the kind that hangs overhead with a low growl, not quite letting go but promising chaos. For the first ten minutes after Luca’s introduction, Inter Milan seized the reins again. They weren’t panicked, just methodical. Like a python curling tighter, evaluating, prodding, slowly testing Lecce’s resistance, eager to finish the job. The fans at San Siro had their hopes rekindled. The blue-and-black giants pressed higher, passed quicker, and surged forward with fresh venom in their veins.

They fashioned two sharp chances that pulled gasps from the Lecce bench and sighs of barely-contained panic from Alex himself. The first came in the 63rd minute, and it felt like the crack before the thunder.

Inter broke quickly from midfield after a sloppy turnover by Berisha. Bastoni, of all people, surged forward with elegance, brushing off his marker as if he weren’t even there. The grass beneath him seemed to glide. With his head up, Bastoni spotted a window and clipped an inviting, spinning pass into the box. Martinez, ever the fox, ghosted past two defenders like a shadow in a flash of light and met the ball inches from goal.

He took it on the volley, a swift, instinctive strike aimed low. But Falcone, Lecce’s wall between the sticks, reacted with a twitch-reflex save. The ball clattered off his outstretched heel and skidded wide of the post. It wasn’t the cleanest save in the world, and it wasn’t the cleanest shot either, but it didn’t matter. It had been enough. Enough to keep Lecce alive. Enough to rip their nerves into ribbons.

Falcone sprang back to his feet, chest heaving, arms wide, as if demanding his defenders wake up. His body shook from the heartbeat of the moment, eyes wild, scanning.

["That could’ve been curtains right there,"] cried one of the commentators, almost breathless. ["Lautaro Martinez, always lurking, always ready to punish you, and he very nearly did. But Falcone was alive, I mean properly alive, and made himself huge. That save was massive."]

["That’s why you want an experienced keeper in the net,"] another voice added with awe. ["He just might’ve saved Lecce’s season with that one moment."]

Barely had the dust settled when the second chance came crashing in like a wave.

This time it was from a set-piece corner. Dimarco stepped up, his eyes narrowing as he delivered one of his trademark floating crosses. It spun with venom, arching deep into the six-yard area with whip and curl. De Vrij rose without much contest, the defenders seemingly caught watching instead of acting. He met the ball full-force with a crunching header, sending it rocketing toward the top of the goal.

Falcone again.

The Lecce keeper hurled himself upward, pushing the ball with both hands. It slammed off the underside of the crossbar and bounced back out into play. Before anyone else could react, Falcone scrambled and palmed it away with a final desperate dive.

["There he is again!"] the second commentator nearly screamed. ["Falcone, man of the match already, no question. He’s rewriting what’s possible with these saves. That’s not reflex anymore, that’s instinct on a whole different level."]

["This guy is possessed,"] the other agreed, laughing in disbelief. ["They’re calling him crazy on the sidelines, but it’s the good kind of crazy. Lecce owe him dinner, drinks, a statue maybe."]

The Lecce players exhaled like men returning from the cliff’s edge. They were drawn back from the brink, from that narrow margin between despair and a second chance. And as Inter’s tempo finally settled, something shifted.

Lecce began to find their feet again.

Their hesitant, shapeless defensive line was gone. What took its place was a bold and flexible 4-3-3 shell. Gallo shifted to right wing-back, while Rebic floated wider as an inverted left winger. Ramadani sat deep, a rock in the middle. Berisha pushed forward just enough to link. And then there was Luca, drifting between lines at left mid, moving like a boy who had no idea this was supposed to be scary.

The formation looked foreign. It looked alive.

And Luca? He didn’t just fit in, he ignited it.

Gone was the hesitance, the tension that had infected Lecce’s midfield whenever Inter got close. Luca didn’t play scared. He didn’t look hurried or overwhelmed. He took the ball like it was his right, his breath, his heartbeat. He scooped a chest-high pass with his foot like it was nothing, turned with balance and calm, and pinged it across the pitch with the grace of someone who had been doing this for years.

His very first pass split Inter’s midfield like a wire through silk. A single ball, sharply driven, found Rebic streaking through space. The Croatian drove forward with purpose until Barella lunged in from behind and tugged him back to stop the counter.

Whistles filled the air. Yellow card. Lecce free kick.

["Who is this kid?"] the commentator asked, voice cracking with disbelief. ["Luca Ferretti is moving like he’s played a hundred of these. The composure, the sharpness of his movement, he’s not just playing, he’s controlling. He looks like the calmest player on the pitch."]

["Lecce might have found something special,"] his partner added. ["You can feel their confidence rising. The passes are cleaner, the choices sharper. That boy’s got the whole team breathing easier."]

Alex stood on the sidelines, fists clenching and unclenching, eyes never leaving Luca. The way the teenager slipped passes, played flicks into space, even the occasional dummy that threw off his marker, it was like he didn’t care about the reputation of Inter Milan. Every touch was fearless. Not arrogant, just knowing.

"How did no one notice him?" Alex muttered to himself. "What kind of blind idiot kept him buried in the academy all this time?"

He laughed quietly. Not from anger. From joy. That kind of joy you only feel when you see something pure, something perfect. Luca had lit a fire and Alex knew it was only getting bigger.

By the 73rd minute, Luca wasn’t just warm. He was on fire.

Ramadani fizzed a firm pass into his chest, and Luca absorbed it with soft control. Barella was already pressing tight, trying to clamp down, to remind him that this was the big leagues. But Luca didn’t even flinch. His head swiveled. His feet danced.

Then, with the grace of a street baller and the sharpness of a trained technician, he spun into a Cruyff turn that left Barella chasing ghosts. The crowd made a sound--half gasp, half cheer--because this wasn’t just smart. It was magic.

Luca carried the ball leftward with poise, pushing toward the final third. He flicked a quick pass to Dorgu on the overlap. Dorgu returned it instantly with a little poke and defenders drifted, unsure who to follow. The ball came back to Luca, who now stood at the edge of the box.

De Vrij closed in. The Dutchman loomed large, ready to knock the boy off his rhythm.

Still, Luca didn’t flinch.

He paused.

A single step-over slid past De Vrij’s patience. Then another half-movement pulled him just slightly off-balance.

It was enough.

Instead of forcing a cross to Krstović like everyone expected, Luca did something else entirely. He leaned back, lifted his foot, and flicked a back-heel pass without looking, threading the needle to Rebic’s feet like he had eyes in the back of his head.

["Oh my goodness,"] the commentator gasped. ["He’s just done a no-look back-heel assist inside the San Siro. This is madness. This is... art."]

["It’s like he’s inventing the game in real time,"] the other agreed, stunned. ["That wasn’t instinct. That was imagination. At sixteen years old. Are you kidding me?"]

Rebic took it clean, his first touch setting him for a quick whip into the box. Krstović rose like a hammer and met the cross with pure violence. The header slammed into the near post netting before Sommer could even react.

The net rippled. The Lecce fans erupted like thunder rolling across the pitch.

Alex leapt off the bench with both fists high in the air, not out of celebration alone, but out of belief. This wasn’t luck. This was conviction made manifest.

["GOAL! Lecce are level!"] the commentator roared. ["And what a stunning goal it is. Krstović with the finish, yes, but that buildup, my word. Luca Ferretti may not get the assist on paper, but make no mistake, that goal belongs to him. Only sixteen. Just... incredible."]

The San Siro trembled. Not with rage or fear. With something else. Admiration. Shock. Even the home fans couldn’t believe what they’d just seen.

Alex was grinning wide now. Chest heaving. Adrenaline washing through him like a tidal wave. Luca sprinted to him, and before either could think, Alex grabbed him into the tightest hug of his life.

"That’s why you’re here," he whispered into the boy’s ear.

Luca’s response was just breathless laughter, wide-eyed, heart pounding, his joy too bright to hide. His teammates swarmed in next. Rebic slapped him playfully on the head, Dorgu thumped his shoulder, and Krstović hugged him from behind.

They weren’t just teammates anymore. They were believers.

The substitution that once brought murmurs of doubt now looked like a turning point from the gods. Even the commentators were caught up in the moment.

["You asked about foolishness,"] one of them said. ["What a world if this is foolish. Alex Walker’s gamble looks like genius now. That boy doesn’t just bring composure. He brings creation. He changes games."]

["Luca Ferretti isn’t just surviving this stage,"] the other said, quieter now. ["He’s commanding it. That back-heel, that awareness under pressure, it’s scary how ready he looks."]

Alex wiped sweat from his brow, fingers trembling slightly. This wasn’t just a match anymore. It was a moment. A statement. A revelation. They had all just seen the kind of performance that rewrites stories.

He leaned in, one hand still on Luca’s back.

"You earned your chance," he said again. "Now take more."

Luca nodded, not even speaking, just radiating energy and confidence like the floodlights themselves.

The teams reset. The ball returned to the center circle. But everything had changed.

The energy on the pitch cracked like electricity in a storm.

Lecce were no longer underdogs.

They were a threat.

And on the San Siro pitch, under the San Siro lights, the game had shifted from heroic defense to electric promise.

The San Siro was alive.

And so were Lecce.

A/N: 3/3