I Coach Football With A System
Chapter 55: The Irony

Chapter 55: The Irony

Alex woke in the pale morning light, head throbbing like a storm echoing through his skull. The room smelled faintly of stale beer and spent sorrow, like emotions that had fermented overnight into something heavier. He groaned, untangling himself from the covers that clung to his legs like vines. It took more effort than it should have to pull himself upright. His back ached, his eyes burned, and his mouth felt like cardboard soaked in regret.

It had only been one drink, or at least that was the excuse he kept rehearsing in his mind. But deep down, he knew better. It wasn’t the alcohol weighing him down, it was the weight of everything else. The pressure. The expectations. The feeling that no matter what he did, he was always dancing on a wire above disaster. The memory of last night’s emotions pressed on him harder than any hangover could.

Outside, Lecce was already deep into December’s chill. The city had begun to dress itself for Christmas. Wreaths hung on doorframes, lights draped across balconies and lamp posts, and faint carols drifted from half-open café doors. Tinsel glittered in shop windows like stars fallen from the sky. People smiled more easily, and the air carried a sense of anticipation, of comfort. But Alex felt none of it. Not even a flicker.

He dressed slowly, deliberately. A dark shirt, clean but wrinkled from where it had sat at the bottom of his wardrobe. Trousers that fit just right. Then, over it all, he threw on a thick knit sweater coat. Black, flecked with threads of gold that caught the light faintly when he moved. It was heavy and warm, the kind of garment that made him feel grounded, like he could disappear inside it. He tugged it tightly around his shoulders, then around his throat, as if he could bundle himself up from the inside out.

His breath misted in front of him as he stepped out. The cold bit at his nose and fingertips, but it also helped clear the fog in his head. He moved through Lecce’s streets without urgency, letting the rhythm of his footsteps pull him forward. Holiday lights blinked lazily overhead, but tonight had left something raw inside him. Some ache that no warmth could reach.

He tried to shove it aside. He had work to do, plans to finalize. Today wasn’t just any day. It was important. Tactically, emotionally. After the wild draw with Inter, he’d told Luca that they’d be back. That it wasn’t the end, that it was only the beginning. And now, by some twist of fate or poetic irony, they were returning to San Siro. But this time, it wouldn’t be Inter waiting for them. It would be AC Milan, and this time it was the Coppa Italia round of sixteen tie.

It felt like a story someone else was writing. One where the lines were already inked in, and Alex was just chasing after them with a pen of his own, trying not to fall behind.

By 8:30 a.m., he arrived at the training facility. Centro Sportivo di Torre Rinalda was quiet when he pulled in, the kind of calm that felt like the deep breath before a storm. Holiday decorations had made their way inside too, small things, garlands above doorways, paper snowflakes taped to the windows. But inside, the scent was the same as always: turf, sweat, and ambition.

He went straight to his office, just off the main lounge. It was small but private, his own little bubble where he could think clearly. He shrugged off the coat and let it fall onto the back of his chair before dropping into the seat like a stone into water.

On the monitors, footage from the Inter match played on loop. He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, hands steepled together in thought. The way Lecce had come alive once they shed the low block, how they had surged forward with purpose. That spell of play had stuck with him. It haunted him, in a good way. It reminded him that these players could do more than just hang on, they could dictate, dominate, even dream.

He rewound the second goal again. The way Rebić rose to meet the ball, the flick, Luca’s calm composure, the movement from Krstović. The build-up had been electric. Gallo’s drive down the flank, the shift inward, the ball slicing lines apart. It was beautiful. And it told Alex something important.

That freedom mattered. That maybe he’d been holding them back with too much caution.

The back-three low block had its purpose. It was safe. It gave them bodies behind the ball, structure when facing giants. But AC Milan wasn’t Inter. They wouldn’t batter Lecce with brute force. They would try to wear them down, dominate possession, press with calculated precision. If Lecce wanted to survive, no, to win, they’d need more than a bunker.

A four-back might be the answer. Two center-backs and two full-backs who could drift when needed, stepping into midfield or sitting deep depending on the phase of play. It would give them a shape to absorb pressure, but also a vehicle to spring forward on the counter. A more dynamic, responsive system. Not passive, but alive.

His coffee had gone cold. A wet ring marked the desk like a target. He didn’t care.

His phone buzzed, dragging him out of the moment. It was the physio, sending post-recovery reports. He skimmed them with quick eyes.

Falcone -> stable, in good form

.Pongračić -> tight calves, but nothing to sideline him.

Baschirotto -> above average energy readings.

Gallo -> excellent.

Dorgu and Luca -> sharp, mentally and physically.

Krstović -> a light knock from the Inter game, manageable.

Rebić -> muscle soreness, as expected.

Berisha and Ramadani -> fine. Good to go.

The physio suggested they keep today light. Just tactical review and light morale-building. Nothing too strenuous.

Alex folded the report and slipped it into a folder labeled simply, "Milan." He pressed his fingers against the wood of the desk and exhaled slowly. Then he stood.

Time to lead.

He stepped onto the training pitch just as the players began to trickle out. They wore thick warm-ups over their kits, and their breath came in small clouds. They looked tired, sure, but there was something else too—an energy. That post-Inter buzz hadn’t faded. They’d been through something together. And they knew it.

As Alex walked along the edge of the pitch, he felt their eyes on him. Quiet. Expectant. Like they could sense that something was coming.

He motioned them in.

"Morning, everyone," he began, his voice rising above the clatter of cones being set up and the faint hiss of the pitch watering system in the background. They gathered into a semi-circle, boots crunching lightly on the frost-dusted turf.

"I saw the Christmas lights on the way in. It’s almost festive times," he said, and a few chuckled.

Rebić made a joke to Kaba, who grinned and said something about scoring gifts. Alex gave them a flat look and they went quiet again.

"I want to talk about the other day. San Siro. Inter," he said. That sobered them. The memory hung in the air like breath in the cold. "We played really well. We attacked. Took the lead. Twice. And we weren’t afraid."

Some nodded. Others just stared, remembering.

"That match meant something. To the board. To the fans. To Lecce. We went into one of the toughest stadiums in Italy and looked like we belonged." He paused. "But you all know what it felt like to let it slip."

A few heads dipped.

"Our next match is Wednesday. Back to San Siro. But this time, it’s AC Milan. Coppa Italia quarterfinal. A whole different beast."

The reaction was subdued. Milan was strong. Organized. Efficient. Nobody needed to be reminded.

"But here’s the thing," he said, voice firm. "We’re not just going up there to defend and pray. We’re going up there to prove something. Again."

He took a slow breath, then nodded. "I want us to experiment. The back-three has served us. But for this match, I’m thinking four at the back. Maybe a flat 4-4-2, maybe a 4-2-3-1 that adapts. The goal is simple, structure with control, freedom with discipline."

He pointed down to the turf. "This shape lets us press when needed. It lets wingbacks overlap or drop in. Midfield stays strong. Attack has options. We don’t just react. We shape the match."

He looked at them, saw understanding on some faces, curiosity on others. Luca looked particularly thoughtful.

Alex smiled. "We’ll go light today. Walk through the shape. Tomorrow, we run it. Full rehearsal."

The players broke with purpose. Cones were lined up. Groups formed. Kaba pumped a fist. Gallo gave him a subtle thumbs-up. Luca caught his gaze again, quiet, thoughtful.

Alex stood at the side and watched drills take shape. Triangle passes. Midfield switches. Wingback rotations. Even with just light movement, something was building. A rhythm. A pulse.

After an hour, he called them in. "That’s it for today. Go rest. Go believe. Go win."

"Yes, coach!" they said, almost shouting.

Luca lingered to collect cones. Alex joined him.

"Well done today," he said gently.

Luca looked up, nervous. "Thanks, coach."

Alex nodded. "We trust you. This match... it might just be your biggest stage yet."

Luca took a slow breath. "I’ll be ready."

As the boy walked away, Alex turned back toward his office.

He flicked on the monitor. Milan’s analytics appeared. Heat maps. Press triggers. Shot zones. Clack. Clack. His fingers danced across the keyboard.

He straightened his tie.

The winter had only begun, but tomorrow, they’d write the next Chapter.

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