Chapter 45: Vs Inter Milan (1)
The San Siro buzzed like a living creature as the camera panned across the endless rows of chanting fans. Flags rippled high above the crowd, scarves spun in slow circles, and the noise level never dropped for even a moment. From the ultras behind the goal to the curious neutrals who just came to watch a good game, everyone was caught up in the same tension. A roar of anticipation echoed through the colossal stadium, an anticipation that seemed to ask one question.
San Siro and Lecce?
Not just any Lecce, but one that had been breaking expectations and stepping over predictions all season long. This wasn’t the Lecce people were used to seeing fight relegation. This was a Lecce with something burning behind their eyes.
The broadcast flickered through different camera angles, zooming in on the packed home stand, the dugouts, the tunnel. Then it cut to the commentary box, where two seasoned voices broke the tension with incredulous warmth.
["At the beginning of the season, nobody would have believed this fixture would be one of the most anticipated matches of the year," the first commentator said, the awe in his voice barely hidden behind a calm exterior.]
["Inter Milan remain undefeated in Serie A, true, flawless to date," the second replied, his tone carrying both respect and curiosity. "But look at Lecce. Eight matches unbeaten. That’s a story no one saw coming."]
On the pitch, the camera followed the players as they lined up in the tunnel. The Inter side looked like seasoned gladiators, calm, sharp-eyed, and used to this kind of tension. Then it cut to Lecce. Their players were younger, more nervous maybe, but there was something raw in their body language. Something that didn’t look like fear. More like hunger.
And then came the tactical breakdowns, something fans always loved before a big match.
["Notice Lecce’s setup, 4, 4, 2," the first commentator pointed out, clearly intrigued. "That’s a departure from their usual three back system under Alex Walker."]
["Interesting," his partner chimed in. "A more attacking shape. Two strikers up front, wing backs and a balanced midfield. Maybe they’re here to fight, not to hide."]
The scene jumped again, this time to the dugout. There stood Alex Walker, arms folded across his chest, his eyes fixed ahead like he was already playing the match in his head. He wore a plain black sweater, no suit or club jacket, just something simple and clean. But it wasn’t about what he wore. It was about the aura. That presence.