I Coach Football With A System
Chapter 58: If You’re Good Enough, You’re Old Enough

Chapter 58: If You’re Good Enough, You’re Old Enough

Alex sat behind the wooden podium in the softly lit press room of the Milan hotel where all away teams checked in. The beige walls were dull, the kind that absorbed sound instead of bouncing it. Polished floors reflected soft yellow light, and the air was filled with the familiar mix of overused cologne, faint coffee, and freshly printed media sheets. Rows of neatly dressed journalists, laptops on their knees, filled the room with a low, electric murmur.

He sat still, spine straight, but his shoulders sagged just slightly. The fatigue clung to him, not heavy enough to break him, but insistent enough to be felt. Last night’s flight still tugged at his limbs like ghost weights, a dull ache that reminded him he hadn’t rested properly. Two days ago, his team had played one of their most emotionally exhausting matches of the season, and now, they were staring down AC Milan, another giant standing at the gates.

He inhaled slowly. Not sharp or dramatic, just enough to steady himself. This wasn’t his first press conference, but tonight felt different. The tension wasn’t hostile, just thicker than usual. He could sense it in the way the reporters stared at him, like spectators watching a man walk a tightrope.

In the far corner of the room, Isabella stood beside a black pillar, hands folded neatly, tablet in one hand, subtle nod at the ready. Her presence grounded him. She was the steady force behind the scenes, always a step ahead.

The murmur died down, voices fading like a radio being turned off.

"Good evening, coach," said a tall man in a gray suit, stepping forward slightly. A small metal badge clipped to his lapel read Calcio Notte. "I’m Marco Rossi. Lecce is about to face AC Milan, a historic club with its own giants and legacy. Do you feel that the rivalry, especially after the Inter match, plays into your tactical or mental preparation?"

Alex leaned forward slightly, his fingers lightly gripping the edges of the podium. The wood was cold under his hands. He looked past the rows of cameras, past the blinking lights, straight into one lens. That one. The center lens. He focused his thoughts.

This is your moment, he told himself.

"With Inter, our focus was clear, win. For Milan, it’s the same. We’re not chasing rivalries or headlines. We’re chasing results," he said, his voice low but steady, words dropped like stones into calm water. "Being at Lecce doesn’t change that. Qualifying for the quarter-finals, that’s our true objective. Everything else is secondary."

The room didn’t move, but the shift in energy was noticeable. A wave of typing followed, rapid keystrokes and scribbling pens. The kind of sound that meant his words would be on screens in five minutes, on paper by dawn.

But the calm didn’t last.

Another voice broke through, sharp and calculated.

"Paolo Fonseca from AC Milan said earlier that his team will win easily, seems pretty confident. Does that sort of public comment affect your players? Does it shake you at all?"

Alex’s mouth curled into a half smile. Not the smug kind, but the kind of smile you give when someone tells a joke you’ve heard before. He hadn’t expected the question so early in the night, but Fonseca had practically handed it to the media on a silver platter. Predictable. The kind of jab that made headlines but didn’t leave bruises.

He let out a soft laugh, not mockery, just bemused amusement, like a chess player who’d seen this exact opening before.

"I imagine he believes his team will win. He’s a coach, coaches speak from belief. Of course, if and when Fonseca’s statement shakes Milan, you can ask him after the match whether speaking about opponents publicly helped or hurt them," Alex replied, leaning in just slightly, his tone still calm. "Everyone’s entitled to an opinion. Fonseca believes in his team. Good, he should. But we’ll let the pitch settle whose belief had the better footing."

Cameras clicked again. A few murmurs broke through, and he could tell some of the journalists were already mentally framing their headlines. He didn’t care. He wasn’t here for the stories they would tell. He was here for one thing, tomorrow’s match.

There was a lull, just for a second. Then a younger voice chimed in, clearer and more direct.

"Alex, if I may: Luca Ferretti. He’s not starting yet, but training lights up when he’s in drills. Will he be part of your starting XI tomorrow?"

The question touched something deeper. Behind Alex’s eyes, something flickered, brief but unmistakable. Luca’s name carried weight now. The sixteen-year-old had changed training dynamics since his promotion. Fast. Sharp. Creative. But Milan? That was a different beast entirely.

He paused before speaking, just long enough for it to feel intentional. Then he leaned back slightly.

"If you’re good enough, you’re old enough. Luca has been performing. We’ll pick the team that stands up to Milan’s challenge. If that includes Luca, then yes. But we won’t rush it just for headlines," he said, his voice warm but grounded.

That line earned a small stir in the room. Some of the reporters looked up from their screens. It wasn’t a confirmation, but it wasn’t a denial either. It was the kind of quote that gave everyone something to write about.

Then, from the left side of the room, a woman with dark hair stood. She wore a black blazer, held a booklet from La Repubblica in her hands, and her voice was firm.

"Coach Walker, Lecce have surprised in recent weeks: first Inter, now Milan, they’re proving they can compete. What do you say to fans who see a quarterfinal run as unrealistic?"

Alex blinked slowly, as if gathering every part of himself to answer. The question wasn’t sharp, but it was honest. And it reminded him of something. Of where Lecce had come from. Of the weight these players carried, the fight they had shown. He cleared his throat and spoke not just as a coach, but as someone who’d grown with these players, day by day.

"Football is about belief, but belief must be earned," he said. "Our players have worked for each step. We haven’t flirted, this is earned. But the quarter-finals aren’t a birthright. They’re a destination you fight for. We’ll prepare, respect Milan’s strengths, and exploit our weaknesses as best we can."

There was a soft hum of approval, a few nods, and even a flicker of a smile on the face of the woman who asked.

But the next question came in hard, like someone trying to shake the calm.

"With Dorgu reportedly attracting Manchester United, and speculation about possible winter departures, how is that affecting the dressing room, and more importantly, your lineup options tomorrow?"

Alex’s jaw tensed for half a second. Just half. Then he pushed the thought aside. He’d already spent too many hours looking at contract clauses, balance sheets, scouting updates. But none of that mattered right now.

"Patrick is a great talent, and if a move makes sense for him and the club, we’ll consider it. But I expect he’s here tomorrow, ready to play. My job is preparing for Milan, not next window’s rumors," he said, keeping his tone even.

Isabella made a small motion from the corner, a practiced gesture that meant time was running out. Just a few more.

A young man in a cheap blazer and a Calciomercato badge leaned forward next.

"Alex, Lecce are riding a wave of confidence. Fans are saying it’s Alchemy, or maybe ’Haram Ball Plus’. What’s your message to your players heading into San Siro?"

Alex smirked, just a little, like someone who appreciated the humor in the question but took the answer seriously. He took a breath.

"I tell them, approach with belief, yes, but not recklessness. We’ll play to our strengths, disciplined mid-block, fast transitions. We’ve proven it works at big venues. But Milan is another level. Our message is care and courage, light feet, clear heads."

That felt like a proper note to end on, but one last hand rose. It was Marco again, the same man who had started the session.

"Coach, just one more from me. If Milan score early, does anything change?"

Alex paused. Not because he didn’t know, but because he wanted to answer carefully.

"We adapt. Stay within shape. Show patience. You don’t panic without cause. We know how to respond, trust in the system, trust in each other."

Silence followed, just for a moment. The kind that settles when the final word has been spoken.

Isabella stepped forward at last, her movements quiet but certain. She clicked her tablet shut, sent a polite look toward the crowd.

"That’s it. Thank you, coach Walker."

Alex stood slowly. His joints ached a little, not from age, but from the weight of the hours behind him. He nodded, once, firm and professional, then turned and stepped off the podium.

Isabella was waiting in the hallway. She didn’t speak at first, just walked beside him. After a few steps, she reached up and lightly adjusted the edge of his collar, smoothing it like a mother fussing over her son before a school photo.

"Still with you?" she asked quietly.

Alex turned his head toward her. His eyes held more than just tiredness now. They held gratitude too. A kind of silent appreciation.

He managed a small smile.

"Always."

She gave him that moment, let it sit between them. Then she nodded once, her voice soft.

"Good luck tomorrow."

He stepped forward, just close enough to give her a brief, tired hug around the shoulders.

"Night, Bella."

She returned the gesture.

"Night."

And with that, Alex turned away, his steps slow but firm as he moved down the corridor. The press room was behind him. The San Siro awaited. His thoughts had already left the hotel, spiraling forward into tactical notes, back-four shape, attacking triggers, and the looming battle that would define what came next.

His journey was only just beginning.

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