As the players filed out of the tunnel and onto the pitch, Alex Walker erged from the dugout for what felt like the second first ti of his career, of course it actually was. The buzz of the Unipol Domus filled his ears, a cocktail of jeers, chants, drums, and whistles. It wasn’t Old Trafford or the Bernabéu, but it had the sa sting of anticipation, the sa pre-match crackle in the air that reminded him why football was both a drug and a curse.
He followed his team to the bench, one slow step at a ti. There was sothing sacred about this walk. It reminded him of a hundred Saturdays from a lifeti ago, when he still laced up boots instead of barking orders. He couldn’t help the little smirk that touched the corner of his lips.
Patrick Dorgu gave him a sideways glance, as if trying to gauge the gaffer’s mood. Alex just nodded.
As he reached the touchline, he glanced once across the pitch, soaking it in. He felt the sun warming his face despite the late-November air. The grass looked healthy, fast. A good pitch for pressing. He could already imagine how quickly the ball would move across it, how it would zip into feet, encouraging his side’s quick combinations and sharp transitions.
The announcer’s voice bood across the stadium speakers, interrupting his thoughts.
"Ladies and gentlen, welco to the Sardegna Arena for this crucial Serie A fixture between Cagliari and U.S. Lecce!"
Alex inhaled deeply and took his seat on the bench.
"And now\... the starting eleven for Cagliari Calcio!"
The ho fans roared as each na was read out. Alex barely listened. His eyes flicked between his players warming up in position and the System interface faintly visible through his smart glasses. The familiar HUD blinked gently in his periphery, displaying player stats, heart rates, positional heatmaps, all updating in real-ti.
Then it was their turn.
"...And now, U.S. Lecce, managed by Alex Walker!"
More boos than cheers. Expected.
"In goal: Christain Früchtl"
"Right center-back: Marin Pongračić! Central center-back: Federico Baschirotto! Left center-back: Ahd Touba"
"Right wing-back: Antonino Gallo Left wing-back: Patrick Dorgu!"
"Central midfielders: Ylber Ramadani and don Berisha"
"Attacking midfield: Santiago Pierotti!"
"Forwards: Mohad Kaba and Ante Rebić!"
As the final na echoed through the stadium, Alex sat back and exhaled. He hadn’t even realized he was holding his breath. He took a final glance at the System, everything in the green.
The referee checked his watch, gave one look to both goalkeepers, then raised his whistle to his lips.
Peeeeep!
Cagliari kicked things off.
The match started with energy but not much direction. Cagliari’s midfield tried to link up with their attackers, but Lecce’s shape held strong. The back three remained solid, with Ramadani and Berisha screening intelligently in front. Whenever Cagliari attempted to move the ball through the center, they were t with a wall of yellow shirts, forcing them to play sideways or backward.
Alex stood quietly on the edge of his technical area, arms folded, eyes scanning the field. The press was working. It wasn’t a high-octane gegenpress, but it was organized and efficient. Whenever Cagliari took a touch too many in the midfield, Kaba or Pierotti would pounce, shadowing passing lanes and funneling them into traps.
The ho side tried a few long diagonals to bypass the pressure, but Touba and Pongračić dealt with them comfortably, using their aerial dominance to keep the threats away from Falcone’s goal.
It wasn’t perfect football. Lecce, for all their shape and press, hadn’t created much going forward either. Pierotti looked lively in the pocket between the lines, but he often found himself isolated, with Kaba and Rebić struggling to connect cleanly with him.
There were monts when the press won the ball high up the pitch, yet the resulting attacks fizzled out before they could truly build montum. Sotis a miscontrolled touch, sotis a pass a yard too wide. Still, Lecce were the ones playing with intent, while Cagliari seed stuck in damage control.
Alex barked the occasional instruction, but he didn’t want to interrupt the rhythm too much. This was the plan in action. Compact, aggressive, and hungry. A bit rough around the edges, sure, but it was promising.
The fans began to get restless. Cagliari had barely entered Lecce’s final third. Their striker was drifting deeper just to touch the ball. Their fullbacks hesitated before every forward movent. The pressure was starting to show.
Lecce’s midfield, especially Ramadani, was bossing the central zones. His positional discipline gave Berusha more freedom to roam, and the Algerian was doing his part, breaking up play and initiating quick transitions. Pierotti, with his low center of gravity and clever feet, spun away from pressure several tis, drawing fouls and gaining territory.
One particular sequence brought a murmur of approval from the away fans: a triangle of one-touch passes between Berisha, Venuti, and Kaba that broke Cagliari’s second line of pressure. It didn’t lead to a shot, but it was a statent. Lecce were here to play.
It was beginning to feel like Lecce’s ga. They just needed to make it count.
The minutes ticked on. Still no clear-cut chance. Rebić dropped deeper to try and link play, leaving Kaba to stretch the line. The movent was improving. The chemistry was starting to show. Dorgu began pushing higher, adding width and drawing defenders out of position.
Alex crouched at the edge of the technical area. His heart thumped, but he didn’t let it show. His jaw tightened, his eyes never blinked. He could feel the match tilting in their favor, one small victory at a ti.
And then it ca.
The first real chance for Lecce.
A crisp buildup. A clever movent. The press turned into attack, and suddenly there was a mont.
Alex stood upright on instinct, eyes wide.
Here we go.
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