The November sky over Salento hung low and heavy, a soft grey quilt tinged with warmth, as if the sea had kissed the clouds and wrapped the land in a salty embrace. There was no bite in the air, no true cold—just a Mediterranean stillness that hinted at rain but never quite followed through. It was a quiet kind of tension, the sort that mirrored the one curled in Alex Walker's chest.
He stepped out of the club's black SUV at the Acaya Golf Resort, Lecce's training ground and retreat nestled in the countryside, and paused for a long moment. Gravel crunched beneath his polished shoes. The breeze smelled of olive branches and old stone. This wasn't Lisbon, with its damp mornings and crowded trams. It wasn't Milan or Madrid or Manchester. It was something smaller, simpler.
But maybe, just maybe, that was what he needed.
The facility was serene. Too serene. The silence didn't feel entirely welcoming. Most of the players were still away on international duty, and those who remained were working on light recovery sessions or seeing the medical team. The resort, usually a hive of intensity and tactical drilling, now felt like a hotel caught between guests.
He pulled his blazer tighter against the wind. A formality, nothing more. Because today wasn't about comfort.
Due to lingering paperwork surrounding his UEFA Pro License-bureaucracy, always bureaucracy-Alex wasn't officially allowed to lead full training sessions just yet. Italy's football federation was meticulous about such things. He could observe. Talk. Analyze. But until the license was fully processed, he couldn't step fully into the fire. Still, the club had given him the green light to introduce himself and start planting seeds.
He walked into the main building, the soles of his shoes echoing lightly against the tiled hallway. Heads turned—staff, physios, youth players in bright bibs. Some nodded respectfully. Others looked up and away, unsure whether to approach or retreat. His reputation preceded him, for better or worse. A few of the younger players stared as if they'd just seen a hologram walk through the door.
It made sense.
Not every day did a former Champions League winner walk into their dressing room.
Alex Walker wasn't just a former player. He was a name. A brand. A man whose face once graced billboards and FIFA video game covers. And even though his managerial record was far from stellar, Italy hadn't forgotten who he was on the pitch.
Pantaleo Corvino, the club's iconic sporting director, stood beside him like a proud chaperone. With his thinning hair and sharp brown eyes, Corvino looked more like a professor of ancient Latin than the man responsible for finding some of Italian football's brightest gems. But behind that mild exterior was a legend—an architect of talent.
"Walker," Corvino said, his accent thick and unmistakably southern. "Meet the lads. Try not to scare them too much."
Alex cracked a smile. "No promises. I'm only scary when we're losing."
They started with the heart of the defense.
"Federico Baschirotto," Corvino introduced.
Alex stepped forward and extended his hand. "Ah, the warrior. I've seen the clips. You play like a man who's already seen the worst of football and decided never to lose again."
Baschirotto's lips curled into a grin. "You've seen the clips, huh?"
"I've also seen you cover for three defenders at once. We'll talk."
Next came Lameck Banda, the Zambian bullet with rocket boots for legs and a tendency to sprint even when standing still.
"I used to be fast," Alex told him, chuckling. "Now I just yell at fast people. Keep stretching those hammies, alright?"
Banda's laugh was a bark. "Yes, mister."
Then came Nikola Krstović. Towering. Wide-framed. Built like a Serie A version of a Balkan battering ram. The kind of striker defenders hated to face on cold nights.
Alex gripped his hand. "We'll work on your link-up play. I'm not expecting Benzema. Just hold the ball up and score when it matters."
Krstović offered a small nod. "I'm ready, mister."
The lineup continued.
Valentin Gendrey, the French fullback with endless lungs and a motor that never quit. Marin Pongračić, the composed center-back who always seemed to have time on the ball. Joan González, the silky but inconsistent midfielder still trying to find himself in a red and yellow shirt. And Ylber Ramadani, the Albanian engine—always moving, always barking instructions, never shying from a challenge.
Finally, there was Wladimiro Falcone, the goalkeeper. Commanding. Confident. Though his feet were still a work in progress, his hands were trusted by every man in front of him.
Alex shook each of their hands. Gave them a line or two. A joke. A compliment. A challenge. He wasn't here to be adored. He didn't need to be feared. What he needed was respect. And if he couldn't win that with tactics, he'd earn it with presence.
After the introductions, he changed into the club's training gear, navy with crimson accents, and strolled out to the far training pitch. There, a few academy players were doing rondos, supervised by assistant coaches. It wasn't official training, so technically, he wasn't breaking any rules.
Still, old habits died hard.
He triggered the mental interface only he could see.
[Ding! Coaching System Activated]
Processing squad metrics…
Tactical Identity: Undefined
Formations used: 4-3-3, 4-2-3-1
Pressing Intensity: Low-Medium
Transitions: Disjointed
Morale: 49%
Cohesion: 58%
Fitness: 73%
Attacking Efficiency: 36%
Defensive Stability: 55%
Recommended Tactical Setup: Direct Counterattack
Optimal Formation: 3-4-3 / 3-4-2-1 Hybrid
Adjustments:
Baschirotto as central stopper in a back three
Pongračić and Touba for wide CB roles
Wing-backs: Gendrey (RWB), Dorgu (LWB)
Double Pivot: Ramadani + González
Banda and Almqvist behind Krstović
Emphasize wide transitions, mid-block compactness
No true deep-lying playmaker, progress play via wide CBs and inverted wing-backs
Alex exhaled and closed the system window.
No fantasy. No tiki-taka idealism.
Just smart football.
He raised his whistle and blew, catching the attention of the loitering players and staff. Technically, he wasn't allowed to lead training. But no one said he couldn't talk.
"Alright lads," he called out. "I'm not here to rip up the script. But I've read it... and I don't like the ending."
That got a few chuckles. Even a smirk from Banda.
"I'm seeing a lot of individuals. Some of you have talent. Some of you are raw. Some of you probably think I'm a washed-up has-been from old Football Italia reruns. And maybe you're right."
He stepped forward, voice steady.
"But I didn't come to Lecce to make friends. I came here to win. To prove something. And if you've ever been laughed at in the press, if you've ever been doubted, then maybe you'll want to prove something too."
Baschirotto folded his arms. Krstović's brow furrowed. A few of the academy players exchanged glances.
"I'll give you a free session tomorrow," Alex continued. "Optional. Just so you know what I'm about. Show up if you're curious. Don't if you're not. But remember: if you're here, I'll make you better. I'll make you accountable."
He turned to Corvino, who was watching from a few paces away with an expression somewhere between amusement and admiration.
"See you in the office."
That evening, as the sun began to set over the olive fields and terracotta roofs of Salento, Alex sat alone in the manager's room. The windows were open. The scent of the sea drifted in.
He mapped it all out: a 3-4-2-1 system. A blitz of counters and controlled chaos. Banda and Almqvist buzzing behind Krstović like hornets in half-spaces. Ramadani and González in the pivot, one the muscle, the other the mind. Baschirotto anchoring the back line like a wall carved from Apulian stone.
It wasn't about flair. It wasn't about domination.
It was about survival. About fire. About belief.