Chapter 82: Vs Atalanta (3)
The tension inside Stadio Via del Mare had reached a knife-edge after Lookman’s stunning equalizer, the air itself vibrating with the noise of the away fans. The Atalanta supporters, newly energized, roared with unfiltered venom from the corner of the stadium, their flags a restless wave of blue and black, their chants stabbing into the humid Lecce evening like iron nails.
The commentary box was buzzing, voices trembling with excitement, spitting out words soaked in the weight of history, every mention of Alex Walker’s name dragging the ghosts of his playing career out of the past like reluctant shadows. His 30 goals against Atalanta had become folklore, a legend recited even here in Italy, each mention an incantation that made the crowd hiss and jeer.
But on the touchline, the man himself didn’t flinch.
If anything, the fire in Alex Walker’s eyes burned brighter, that cold blue flame that had terrified defenders in England now alive in the dugout of Lecce. His arms were folded, jaw clenched, a thin line on his lips as he watched the field with an intensity that seemed to cut through the noise.
Lecce weren’t here to roll over.
And slowly, they started to fight back.
It began in the 33rd minute, almost like fate clearing its throat. Falcone, standing tall in his box, adjusted his gloves before taking a deep breath, the world narrowing to the ball at his feet. His booming goal kick wasn’t just a clearance. It was a statement. His foot cracked against the ball, sending it soaring into the humid air, a comet of hope.
The ball dropped awkwardly near the halfway line, spinning like a dying star. Helgason and Ferretti collided with Koopmeiners and Ederson, bodies bouncing, elbows flying, the ball pinging between legs and shins until Ferretti, ever the scrappy technician, managed to dance away with it under pressure, the ball stuck to his feet like glue.
Ferretti didn’t hesitate. He drove a pass wide to Banda, Lecce’s electric Zambian winger, who received it with a touch that killed the speed instantly before he burst forward, cutting inside with that sudden acceleration that made the crowd hold its breath.
He beat one defender. Then another. His feet were a blur, and the Atalanta backline reeled.
Then, with the calm of a killer, Banda slid a low ball into the path of Krstovic, Lecce’s powerful striker, who ghosted into the box from the left. Krstovic took it in stride, eyes narrowing, and fired from a tight angle, the ball screaming toward the far post.