The whistle blew, sharp and piercing, and from the very first second, it was clear Lecce had come to play.
Alex Walker stood near the edge of his technical area, arms folded, eyes locked onto the pitch. Around him, the atmosphere was electric. The crowd roared like a living, breathing organism, flags waved like wild flames, and the pounding of the ultras' drums created a relentless beat that echoed across the entire stadium. But in Alex's mind, it was quiet. Deathly quiet. That was how it always was for him in these moments. A strange silence that cut through the chaos and narrowed his focus to just one thing- his team.
He wasn't listening to the chants or feeling the tremble of the concrete beneath his boots. He was watching movement. The way his players shifted across the field, the speed of their press, the tightness of their lines. It was everything he had preached in training. Now, it was real.
Lecce came out like wolves hunting in packs.
Their 3-4-3 formation stretched Monza's backline from touchline to touchline. At the back, the trio of Marin Pongracic, Federico Baschirotto, and Ahmed Touba held a high line, squeezing Monza's space until it felt suffocating. In the middle, Ylber Ramadani and Medon Berisha played like men possessed, snapping into tackles, recycling the ball at lightning speed, always keeping it moving. The wingbacks, Antonino Gallo and Roberto Sala, roamed up and down the flanks with relentless energy, creating width and options. And up front, Nikola Krstovic served as the spearhead, with Lameck Banda on the left and, in a bold twist, Patrick Dorgu out on the right.
It was a system that demanded bravery, and for the first few minutes, Lecce delivered exactly that.
In the sixth minute, the first real chance came. Gallo, sharp and purposeful, surged down the left, played a neat one-two with Banda, then whipped in a beautiful curling cross. Krstovic rose like a tower and powered his header toward goal. It had the keeper beaten, but it skimmed just wide of the far post.
The crowd groaned, hands flying to heads in unison.
"Good run! Keep it going!" Alex shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth.
And they did.
Just two minutes later, Lecce came again. Berisha intercepted a sloppy pass in midfield and played a quick ball to Sala. The wingback threaded a line-breaking pass down the channel for Dorgu, who, with a burst of acceleration, skipped past his man. He squared the ball low into the box. Banda slid in, toe-poked it, and it trickled inches wide of the post.
The pressure was building. The air was thick with anticipation.
Then came the breakthrough.
In the twelfth minute, it was Berisha again, the engine of the midfield. He read a telegraphed Monza pass, cut it out with ease, and instantly pinged a cross-field ball to Gallo. The wingback took a touch to settle it, looked up, and whipped in a teasing ball to the far post. Banda, arriving like a ghost from the blindside, leaped above his marker and hammered his header into the net.
Pandemonium.
The Stadio Via del Mare erupted in color and sound. Banda sprinted to the corner flag, arms outstretched like wings, beaming. Krstovic and Dorgu caught up to him and jumped on his back, laughing and shouting. The rest of the team followed, a red and yellow wave crashing into the corner.
Alex allowed himself a small smile, nothing more. A tight nod, a clenched fist. He didn't jump or shout. This was expected. This was what they had worked for all week. Satisfaction, yes. But no relief.
Lecce didn't let up. They pressed high, hunted in pairs, and moved the ball with purpose. Ramadani, in particular, looked like a man reborn. He dictated tempo, sprayed passes with calm authority, and barked instructions at his teammates with the poise of a field general. Berisha was right beside him, snapping into duels, always available. And Dorgu, raw and unfamiliar in his new role, was dangerous. He wasn't polished, but he was fast, unpredictable, and unafraid to take on his man.
Alex watched all of it with a calm exterior, but inside, his heart was thudding. This was working. It was actually working.
But football is cruel. Football remembers your mistakes.
In the twenty-second minute, Lecce were attacking again. Ramadani cycled the ball out to Sala, who quickly gave it to Dorgu in space. The teenager looked up. He had options. Krstovic making a run near post. Banda drifting in at the edge of the box. Ramadani arriving late.
Dorgu hesitated.
He shifted the ball to his left. Tried to cut inside.
One touch too many.
The Monza defender did not hesitate. He pounced, nicked the ball clean, and immediately launched it forward. It was a direct, hopeful clearance, but it exposed Lecce's high line in an instant. The ball bounced into the empty half like a grenade.
"Drop! DROP!" Alex bellowed, his voice cracking through the air.
Too late.
Monza were already on the move. Their striker peeled off Baschirotto's shoulder and sprinted into the gap. Pongracic scrambled back. Touba hesitated. The ball was shifted wide, then cut centrally again. It was fast, ruthless, and efficient.
A neat through ball split the backline. Their number ten broke through, in full stride, and suddenly it was him versus Falcone.
The finish was cold. Low and hard, off the inside of the post, and into the back of the net.
1-1.
The away end exploded, and a pocket of red and white flares lit up in celebration. The Lecce players froze. It was as if someone had flipped a switch. The confidence, the flow, the rhythm, they were gone.
Dorgu stood there, near the touchline, like a statue. His face was blank, but his eyes told the story. Shock. Regret. Shame. His shoulders drooped, and he stared at the grass like it might swallow him whole.
Gallo ran past him, clapping his hands, trying to rouse the team. "Come on! Heads up! Let's go again!"
Alex didn't move. He didn't kick a bottle or scream at the fourth official. He just pressed his lips into a firm line and let out a quiet breath through his nose.
He knew this feeling too well. He had lived it, breathed it, coached through it. The feeling of control slipping away in an instant. You dominate for twenty minutes, play beautiful football, and then one mistake unravels everything. That was football. That was the game.
The noise in the stadium dipped, turning into a murmur. Unease settled over the home crowd. They had seen this before. Leads thrown away. Momentum lost.
Alex turned to his bench, eyes scanning. He didn't speak, not yet. But his mind was already racing, calculating. Adjustments. Possibilities. Contingencies. Who could settle the midfield? Who could help Dorgu regain his nerve?
There was still time. A lot of time.
Plenty of minutes left to play. A game still to be won.
But now, they were in a fight.
And Alex Walker knew better than anyone that momentum was a dangerous thing. When it turned against you, it did not ask for permission.
It just took.