I Coach Football With A System
Chapter 60: Vs AC Milan (1)

Chapter 60: Vs AC Milan (1)

The San Siro roared to life under the lights, a living, breathing colossus of sound. Flares burned red in the upper stands like angry stars. Flags waved wildly, covering sections of the crowd in black and red. The energy rolled across the grass in pulses, feeding into the players on the pitch.

Alex Walker stood on the sideline with his arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes unblinking. The pitch glowed under the floodlights, and his players held their shape like soldiers trained for siege. Lecce were lined up in a compact 3-5-2, no fancy tricks, no risky openings. Just discipline. Resolve. They were not here to be tourists in football’s cathedral. They were here to fight.

AC Milan, decked in their iconic red and black, moved like a machine with golden gears. Each pass was crisp, confident. From the start, they were patient, almost surgical. They didn’t rush. They didn’t panic. They simply began to probe, to test, to stretch Lecce’s structure and look for the first crack.

["Well folks, here we go. This is not just any Coppa Italia quarter-final. This is Lecce, the underdog story of the season, standing up to a footballing giant under the blazing lights of San Siro. Can they survive the opening storm? Can they ride it and hit back? We’re about to find out!"]

In the eleventh minute, Milan finally struck.

It began at the back, a simple rotation. Kalulu rolled the ball across to Tomori, who let it run for a beat before releasing it to Tonali. The midfielder took it on the half-turn, a picture of calm amid chaos. Morata, drifting between Lecce’s defensive lines, raised his hand subtly.

The ball zipped to his feet. One touch. Head up. And then a perfectly measured pass through the channel, slicing between Pongračić and Berisha.

Leão exploded into the space on the left. He took the ball in stride, cut inside with a feint that wrong-footed Sala, and darted toward the edge of the box. The timing was perfect. Lecce’s defense scrambled, but they were a half-step too slow.

Leão hit a low cross into the danger zone. It was sharp, venomous, hard to clear.

Pulisic was there.

The American darted into the box like a hawk, met the ball with a first-time sweep of his right boot, sending it angling toward the bottom corner. It had precision. It had power. It screamed past the defenders and looked destined to ripple the net.

But Falcone was already in motion.

The Lecce keeper dove full stretch, fingers reaching, body flying like a dancer in the storm. Somehow, impossibly, he got a fingertip to the ball and redirected it onto the post.

The ball clanged off the woodwork and rebounded away.

["Ohhhh my goodness! What a save! What a save from Falcone! That is world class! Pulisic did everything right, and still, still, he is denied by a keeper playing out of his mind tonight!"]

The San Siro exhaled in disbelief. Milan fans groaned, clutched their heads. Some even applauded. Lecce’s bench exploded with claps and shouts.

Alex didn’t move. He blinked once, exhaled, and whispered under his breath, "That’s one. Stay sharp."

By the fifteenth minute, Milan pushed again. This time, they worked the left side. Tonali again dictated rhythm, the conductor with invisible strings. He slipped the ball to Pulisic who, ever mobile, had floated wide left. The American controlled and flicked a clever backheel to Morata, who barely even looked before playing a weight-perfect pass into Leão’s path once more.

The Portuguese winger danced forward, and this time he didn’t bother with the cut. He saw daylight, opened his body, and curled a shot toward the far top corner.

Falcone, already on his knees, sprung like a jack-in-the-box, extended both arms, and punched the ball wide.

Another roar. Another sigh. Another Milan corner. But Lecce were still standing.

["Again! Again he saves it! Leão hit that like a dream, like a laser guided missile, and somehow Falcone just says nope! He’s not just in form, folks, he’s in some kind of goalkeeping trance!"]

On the sideline, Alex finally clapped. One clap. Two. That was it.

No panic. Just focus.

For the next few minutes, Lecce absorbed wave after wave. They closed lanes. They forced Milan backward. They delayed. They frustrated. And then, in the eighteenth minute, the moment they had trained for arrived.

Berisha lunged into a midfield challenge and toe-poked the ball free. It spilled loose, bouncing once, and found its way to a pair of pale blue boots.

Luca Ferretti.

Sixteen years old. Sleeves rolled. Eyes clear. The whole of San Siro around him, and still, he looked as calm as if he were playing futsal back in Lecce.

One touch to control.

Second touch to turn.

He spotted Banda on the left and zipped a fast, angled pass toward him.

Banda took it on the run. Instantly, two Milan defenders were drawn to him, worried by his pace. That was the trap.

Just as they committed, Banda stopped dead. He checked back, rolled the ball to Luca, who had continued his run.

One touch. Pause. Spin.

And then, from just beyond the final third, Luca saw the space behind Milan’s defensive line and delivered a beautiful through ball that sliced right through them.

It was perfect. Perfect weight. Perfect angle. Banda didn’t even have to break stride. He was behind Tomori in an instant.

The stadium gasped.

Banda took the shot first time, aiming for the near post. No hesitation. Just instincts and ice.

["Ohhh my word, what a pass that was! Ferretti, this kid is playing like he was born in this stadium! Banda’s through, he’s winding up, the strike is coming, this is huge, this is absolutely massive!"]

Time slowed.

The grass felt frozen. The floodlights felt like spotlights. And Banda, for a single moment, was alone in the world with only Maignan to beat.

Alex held his breath.

So did 70,000 others.

The keeper lunged.

Banda’s shot flew—

Right into the side netting.

For a heartbeat, everyone thought it was in.

And then, slowly, realization.

A groan rolled through the stadium like thunder.

Alex exhaled deeply, hands still clenched.

Banda smacked his hands together and looked up to the sky, cursing under his breath. Luca jogged over, gave him a light slap on the back.

"It’s coming," he said. Simple. Steady.

["He missed! Ohhh it’s wide! Banda had the goal at his mercy, and he just, just pulled it! But what a moment! Lecce are not just here to defend, they are here to play, and my oh my, what a ball from Ferretti. Remember that name, folks. Remember it well."]

Alex turned to his bench, his voice sharp.

"Reset shape! Everyone back!"

The assistant coach nodded, echoing the call.

And Milan... well, Milan now knew they were in for a match.

This wasn’t just some Serie A bottom-feeder hoping for a miracle. Lecce had a spine. They had courage. They had a teenager pulling strings and a keeper keeping dreams alive.

A/N: Just the one Chapter today. I’ve been vomiting all over the place so it’s taken me everything to even update my books today