Chapter 66: Vs AC Milan (7)
After Lecce pulled one goal back, everything became a lot harder for them. Milan didn’t want to play anymore. Not really. They just wanted to survive. They weren’t interested in possession, or passing, or building anything from the back. All they wanted to do was stall, waste time, and hold onto their slim lead. It was shameless. And it was effective.
The ball would go out of play, and they’d take an extra thirty seconds to throw it in. Players stayed down longer after tackles. Maignan started taking goal kicks like he had arthritis in both knees. It wasn’t beautiful, but it was what desperate teams did when they had something to lose.
Lecce, meanwhile, were chasing ghosts. They had the ball. They moved it. But Milan had dropped into a deep block, and that meant there was barely any room to breathe. The passing triangles were tight, the openings microscopic. Every time they probed forward, they’d get pushed back. It was like playing chess with a wall.
But in the ninetieth minute, something snapped.
It started with Berisha. Milan were wasting time again, trying to pass the ball around lazily near the halfway line. But Berisha pounced, pressing hard, getting a toe in and stealing it clean. He fired a short pass to Helgasson, who was already moving.
Helgasson didn’t stop to think. He nudged the ball forward, danced past one defender, then slipped it through another’s legs. The bench shot to their feet. He kept going, charging up the flank like a man possessed. One defender came at him, he turned. Another closed in, he spun again and kept moving. His legs pumped, his chest heaved, and the roar of the Lecce fans filled the air.
Dorgu appeared on the overlap, and Helgasson flicked the ball behind him with the outside of his boot. Dorgu didn’t need a second invitation. He took one touch, got his head up, and whipped a low cross into the box.
It wasn’t clean. Pavlovic lunged and got a toe on it. The ball popped awkwardly upward, spiraling into the night sky.
And then Banda struck.
He was at the near post, twisted sideways, body contorted into something only adrenaline could allow. His left foot lashed out, met the ball with power and chaos. The strike wasn’t clean either. But it didn’t need to be.
The ball cannoned into the net.