I Coach Football With A System
Chapter 65: Vs AC Milan (6)

Chapter 65: Vs AC Milan (6)

After that second goal, San Siro felt electric and weary at the same time. The Milan fans were roaring, faces lit by flares and hope, but somewhere in the shadows of the colossal stadium, Lecce’s bench burned with something far more desperate. Fire. Refusal. A belief born not from pride, but from defiance.

Alex Walker stood still, legs planted like steel, his mouth drawn into a tight line. Around him, coaches paced, substitutes buzzed with uncertainty, but he remained unmoved. He knew exactly what this moment called for. Not panic. Not caution.

It called for boldness.

He turned sharply toward his bench and shouted, voice slicing through the din like broken glass.

"Ramadani, out. Helgasson, you’re in. Gallo, off. Guilbert, get ready."

No one questioned it. Not tonight. Guilbert, the right fullback with a no-nonsense edge, nodded once and pulled on his vest, no hesitation. This was war now, and he was more than ready for the front lines.

Alex inhaled deeply, eyes fixed on the pitch like a tactician studying a battlefield. Then he spoke again, calm but commanding.

"We switch now to 4-2-3-1 hybrid. Press high. Fast transitions. Overload the midfield. No sitting back. We take the fight to them."

He pointed directly at Luca Ferretti.

"Luca, stay disciplined. You’re the pivot now. You connect us. You shield the back four and drive us forward."

He clenched his fist, then slammed it into his palm with the force of conviction.

"We’re hunters now. They parked the bus, fine. Then we pull them out and break the doors down. Attack them."

No more words were needed.

The substitutions were made. The digital board lit up. Serie A stats flashed across the backroom monitors. Heat maps. Possession charts. Milan had clearly dropped back. They were protecting their lead now. But that meant the roles had flipped.

Lecce, once the prey, were now the ones chasing.

On the other side, Milan’s bench was in chaos. Coach Fonseca stalked the sideline, barking into his headset, eyes darting across the pitch. His message was simple.

Contain. Drop deep. Lock it down.

Milan responded quickly. Their midfielders sagged back into tighter lines. Their forwards hovered, waiting for scraps. The shape was clear, compact, narrow, cautious.

Kick-off came. The hum in San Siro was no longer confident. It was anxious.

Then the pendulum began to swing.

Lecce attacked with the raw energy of a team that had nothing left to lose. They moved faster, sharper, with teeth bared and hearts open. Each touch felt heavier, each pass like a threat.

On Milan’s bench, Fonseca’s color drained. He paced harder, then stepped to the touchline and waved urgently at his fullbacks.

"Park the bus. Retreat. Contain. Contain now."

By the 80th minute, Milan’s shape had compressed into a fortress. A well-drilled line, defenders tucked in deep, midfielders sitting just ahead. They weren’t playing football anymore, they were surviving it.

But Lecce refused to back off.

In the 82nd minute, a sliver of light broke through. Ferretti, now pushed forward into a box-to-box role, sprinted from midfield like a boy chasing a dream. He spotted Krstović drifting into the right half-space and threaded a pass into his path.

Krstović turned, just once, and immediately saw Banda peeking into space on the opposite wing. With the flick of a boot, he delivered a cutting ball across the field.

Banda, already running, took it in stride. Into the box he went, stepping over, dancing past his marker. Then he turned, opened his body, and curled the ball toward the far post.

It missed by inches.

A collective gasp swept the stands. Guilbert had already jumped, arms raised, thinking it was in, but then he saw the flag. Offside.

Still, something about that moment lit a spark.

["Banda nearly makes it!"] the commentator shouted, voice rising with disbelief. ["He twisted inside, he let it fly, and for a second the whole world stopped! Lecce are not going down without a fight, and I love it!"]

Two minutes later, it was Helgasson with a flash of magic.

He found a patch of space near the center circle, turned with a calmness that defied the occasion, and picked out Ferretti with a disguised pass. Luca received it near the top of the box.

One touch. A feint. He cut inside, then out, then struck low.

Maignan dove, fingertips stretching as far as they could go. He pushed the ball just wide of the post.

Corner.

The away fans rose to their feet, clapping and shouting. For a moment, it felt like they believed again.

["Ferretti again, the touch of class!"] the commentator whispered, almost reverent. ["He’s only sixteen but he’s playing like a general out there. Calm. Creative. He’s the heartbeat of this Lecce team tonight!"]

The stadium quieted, unnaturally so. Milan’s fans were feeling it. The unease. The possibility.

Berisha sent in the corner. A sharp flick at the near post from his boot sent the ball looping. Krstović leapt and caught it sweetly with a side volley.

Maignan spilled it for a second, but clutched the rebound on the ground like it was gold.

["Still going!"] the commentator gasped. ["Lecce will not stop, not now, not when they smell blood! They believe something special is happening, and so do we!"]

Maignan held the ball for a few seconds longer than allowed. Nobody cared. He was stalling, sure, but at this point, anything went. This was survival.

He launched a long kick toward Pulisic, who controlled it near the sideline and passed it backwards. Milan were trying to slow the game now, to drain the life out of Lecce’s rhythm.

But Lecce didn’t allow it.

The ball cycled back to Guilbert, who took a clever touch, then clipped it forward down the left wing. Banda met it, charged toward Calabria, danced past him with one slick move, and cut the ball across the box.

There was Krstović, positioned perfectly.

He turned, glanced, then saw Ferretti arriving.

A quick one-two, like they had done it a thousand times in training. Luca chipped the return over Milan’s back line, just soft enough to drop at Krstović’s feet.

Krstović didn’t think. He just hit it.

Low. Fast. Ruthless.

The ball crashed into the bottom corner.

The away section became a tsunami.

Blue and white flags waved violently. Chants shook the rafters. Players poured onto the pitch to celebrate. Luca collapsed to his knees, arms limp, tears streaming down his face. Sixteen years old and carrying the weight of an entire city.

On the bench, Alex Walker clenched his fist and raised it into the air. His eyes shimmered, not from sadness, but from the glow of a miracle unfolding before him.

["They’ve done it!"] the commentator shrieked at the top of his lungs. ["Lecce, two goals down, backs to the wall, and now they roar back into life! This is unreal!"]

["From the edge of despair to the edge of glory!"] the co-commentator howled. ["This is what football is all about! David has struck again, and this time, he’s done it with style!"]

For five full seconds, the stadium went silent. No chants, no drums. Just stunned air. San Siro had become a cathedral.

A place where miracles could happen.

In the dark corner of Milan’s dugout, Fonseca paced like a man possessed. He turned, clenched his jaw, and barked into his headset again.

"Defensive. Double pivot. Lock the midfield. Do not let them through again."

Milan responded quickly, players shouting to each other, re-forming. The shape shrank. The lines tightened. They gave up more space but didn’t care. Shape mattered more now.

["The game is reborn,"] the commentator said, voice hushed but heavy. ["It’s still 2–1 to Milan, but the tide has turned. Lecce are not the hunted anymore. They are the hunters now. And Alex Walker, battered, bold, relentless, he stands on the edge of the touchline ready for the final charge."]

A/N: 2/3. Final Chapter should be coming later today.