I Coach Football With A System
Chapter 57: The Day Before

Chapter 57: The Day Before

Alex woke before the sky had even begun to change color, long before the soft blue of morning touched the horizon. The darkness clung to the windows, and for a few seconds, he just lay there, staring at the ceiling. His heart was already beating too fast. Not from fear, not from dread, but from the kind of anticipation that churns deep in the gut, reminding you that today isn’t just any day.

It was the day before one of Lecce’s biggest matches of the season, a Coppa Italia knockout clash against giants AC Milan.

There were no snowflakes outside, no heavy fog, just the crisp air of December, pressing softly against the town. Lecce still held that festive charm, twinkling lights on the streets, and garlands decorating store windows, but inside Alex’s world, there was no time for holiday magic. Inside the training ground, inside his mind, it was all business. All focus.

He dressed in silence, pulled on his warm black jacket, and left the apartment. His steps echoed against the pavement. Not many people were out this early. By the time he entered the training ground’s main building, the light buzzed overhead, and he could already hear the first pair of boots tapping against the tiled floor.

He didn’t need to speak to anyone yet. He just stood in the hallway for a moment, letting the air settle. The smell of grass from the pitch, the faint aroma of strong coffee from the break room, the muffled voices of staff, it all told him the same thing. Today mattered.

This wasn’t the time to experiment. Not like he had done with the hybrid 4–2–3–1 against Inter. That formation had worked, had brought a thrilling game to life. But today was a cup tie. Win or go home. Knockout football. One mistake could be fatal. So the 4–2–3–1 would wait.

Instead, he would return to the system the players trusted most. The 3–5–2 counter-block. They had bled in that formation. They had grown through it. Three central defenders at the back, wing-backs hugging the sidelines, two enforcers in midfield to do the dirty work, and two forwards ready to spring forward at the first sign of weakness.

It was no frills. No glitter. But it was what got them here.

By the time Alex walked out to the edge of the pitch, the first players were filtering in. Their black warm-ups caught the morning light as it crawled over the stadium roof. There was no loud music. No banter. Just short nods of greeting, firm handshakes, and the quiet focus of professionals ready to do their job.

Captain Marin Pongračić caught his eye and gave him a short, steady nod. There was something in the way he did it that calmed Alex more than any data analysis or heat map ever could. It said, we’re with you. We understand.

"Morning, lads," Alex called out, his voice strong, though not loud. "Today’s not about heavy drills. It’s about clarity. Positioning, discipline, knowing your roles. We’ve been here before. You know what’s coming tomorrow. Let’s make sure your minds and bodies are tuned."

The players fanned out across the pitch. There were no sprints, no full-contact drills. Just focused movement. Positioning patterns. Shadow play. Shifting into the shape they knew so well.

Antonino Gallo and Patrick Dorgu stretched their limbs, then began pacing the wings, marking their spaces. They moved like fencers, calculating their range.

In midfield, Medon Berisha and Ylber Ramadani snapped their heads left and right, practicing rotations and ball shadows, making the invisible lines of play appear with each step. Further up, Lameck Banda and Nikola Krstović rehearsed their pressing triggers, mirroring each other’s movement like dancers in sync. Their legs were loose, but their minds were locked in.

Alex walked among them, hands in his coat pockets, his breath visible in the morning chill.

"Patrick, pinch in early when the ball shifts. Don’t wait for them to overload the flanks," he said, tapping at the air with two fingers.

"Ramadani, anticipate. Not react. You’re the shield, not the broom."

They were absorbing it all. Faster than usual. That spark from the Inter game had carried over. It was in their eyes.

After about forty-five minutes, Alex blew the whistle sharply.

"That’s it. Enough for today. Save your legs. Stretch, hydrate, rest." He pointed toward the tunnel. "Tonight, you need peace. Not noise. Sleep well. Think about your role. Visualize it."

The players began to jog off. The support staff quickly got to work, packing cones and bibs, rolling up practice goals. The training ground hummed with quiet efficiency.

Alex took one last look at the empty pitch, then made his way to his small office at the corner. It was barely more than a repurposed storage container with a heater and a coffee machine, but today, it was his headquarters.

He sat down at his desk and opened his laptop. Notifications pinged immediately. The official press release for tomorrow’s game. A message from the nutritionist. Player wellness check-ins. He scrolled through them all, then quickly drafted a note to Isabella.

"Formation confirmed: 3–5–2. Analysis attached. Tell the board no surprises. No experiments. We play what works."

By late morning, the rest of the squad had begun to gather again, this time not for training, but for travel.

Their bags were packed. Team gear zipped up. Cleats stuffed into duffels. They assembled outside the facility, talking softly, some joking to ease nerves.

Patrick Dorgu nudged Luca’s gym bag with his foot, a playful smirk on his face. "Mate, hope you’re ready for Milan. We’re gonna need that midfield brain of yours."

Luca laughed lightly. "Only if the rest of you lot keep your shape."

Behind them, Lameck Banda grinned. "Tomorrow’s our day. You’ll see."

The energy on the bus was lighter, almost boyish. Excitement mixed with nerves. Alex took his seat near the front and didn’t say much. He just watched. That was enough. He needed to see how they carried themselves, how they leaned into the moment.

The bus rolled through Lecce’s outskirts, past the last signs of Christmas lights in windows, past sleepy shops and shuttered cafes. The road to the airport was quiet, just a ribbon of asphalt stretching into opportunity.

At the airport, the team moved like clockwork. Staff scanned passports, the kit manager checked bags, players filed through security with the casual rhythm of men used to the routine.

On the plane, Alex found himself in seat 23F. Aisle seat. Luca took the middle. The team physio, Dr. Moretti, sat on the window side, already scribbling down notes on injury recovery times.

Alex glanced out the small round window. Lecce was falling away behind them, literally and metaphorically. The small town, the familiarity, the comfort, it was all shrinking below the clouds.

He turned back to his tablet, flicking through tactical reports, match footage, passing maps. AC Milan was dangerous. Not unbeatable, but smart. Their midfield rotations, their wing overloads, their transitional discipline, it all demanded the perfect counter.

Two hours later, they landed. Milan greeted them not with cold or rain, but a soft gray blanket of city sky. There was no hospitality in the air, just business. That was fine. Alex wasn’t here for warm welcomes.

A convoy of minivans waited on the tarmac. The players and staff shuffled inside. No one said much. They just stared out at Milan’s streets as they zipped by.

Their hotel was sleek, polished, the kind of place with silent elevators and efficient staff. The players filed in, collected key cards, nodded to concierges. It all felt a little surreal. Cups like these had been dreams not long ago. Now, they were in Milan, preparing to face one of the biggest clubs in Italy.

Alex dropped his luggage in his room and immediately collapsed on the bed. It was nearly six in the evening. He hadn’t eaten more than a protein bar and three sips of coffee all day.

His muscles ached. Not from physical strain, but from mental fatigue. He considered closing his eyes. Just for a few minutes.

But then came the knock.

Perfunctory. Firm. Business-like.

"Come in," he muttered.

Isabella entered, dressed in professional black, tablet in one hand, folder in the other. Her face was calm, but her eyes showed a familiar weariness.

"Sorry to disturb, coach," she said. "Press conference in ten minutes."

He groaned and sat up. "Ten already?"

She handed over the folder. "They’re going to ask the usual. But expect questions on travel fatigue, team rotation, your choice of formation."

He rubbed his eyes, then nodded. "Right. Let’s do this."

They walked together through the hallway. The carpet absorbed their footsteps. The hum of the city didn’t reach inside. Just fluorescent lighting and the low murmur of voices.

The media room was tucked into a corner of the hotel, partitioned with drapes and set up with microphones and rows of chairs. A tray of breadsticks and water stood forgotten at the back.

Alex took his place at the front. Isabella stepped aside.

The lights were bright. The reporters were already waiting, their murmurs soft, but expectant.

He took a breath. Just one.

This was part of the job. This was part of the battle.

Isabella gave him a small nod from behind the cameras.

"Whenever you’re ready, coach."

Alex leaned forward, hands steady on the mic.

And just like that, the press conference began.

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