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.