It came like a spark in a cold room; the first real chance of the match.
Patrick Dorgu took possession deep in Lecce's half. With a burst of energy and an elegance that belied his defensive designation, he surged down the left flank, skipping past one Cagliari player, then another. His boots glided over the grass like they were on rails, and the crowd buzzed louder with each step he took. Past the halfway line, past the opposition's right wing-back, and now closing in on the final third.
Alex was already on his feet by this point, eyes locked on the progression.
["That's a beautiful solo run from Patrick Dorgu! Look at the confidence!" one commentator exclaimed with growing excitement.]
Dorgu drove into the box and fired a low cross, perfectly weighted, not too fast, not too soft. The ball curved with precision, bypassing the outstretched leg of a Cagliari defender.
Mohamed Kaba, alert and quick-witted, flicked the ball backward with a deft touch, redirecting it into the path of Ante Rebić.
The goal was gaping.
The stadium held its breath. Time seemed to freeze.
Rebić raised his foot, met the ball with the side of his boot...
...and somehow sent it flying over the crossbar.
["OH MY WORD! How has he missed that?!" shouted another commentator. "Ante Rebić, six yards out, an open goal, and he's blasted it into orbit! That's harder to do than score!" ]
The groans from the Lecce fans echoed like a thundercloud breaking. Dorgu slammed his hands on his thighs in disbelief, his run deserved an assist. Kaba looked at Rebić with wide eyes, still crouched from his flick. Even the Cagliari keeper, who had dived in vain, stayed on the ground for a moment, perhaps in shock.
Alex buried his head in his hands.
"How… how does that even happen," he muttered under his breath, pacing back toward the bench.
["That could come back to haunt them," one commentator murmured. "It's those kinds of misses that swing matches. Lecce have looked better so far, but if they can't convert..."]
The match resumed, and the sting of the miss still hung in the air like a bad smell.
And as if on cue, Cagliari suddenly found a window.
A hopeful clearance from their box was nodded forward by their midfielder, and Lecce's midfield was caught just a yard too high. The ball fell to Cagliari's forward, who quickly laid it off to their left wing-back overlapping into space.
He surged forward, with Venuti sprinting in pursuit. A quick one-two pass took Venuti out of the equation, and now the attacker was cutting inside.
Baschirotto stepped up but mistimed the tackle, completely taken out by the slick movement. The Cagliari winger found himself at the edge of the box, and with a snap decision, unleashed a curling shot with his right foot.
["Danger here for Lecce! Cagliari with their first real move of the game!" came the shout.]
The shot curled toward the far corner. Falcone dove, fully stretched.
["Falcone's at full extension here..."]
Thwack!
The ball clipped the outside of the post and went out for a goal kick.
["Off the post! Cagliari nearly took the lead against the run of play! That would've been a cruel blow for Lecce. They've dominated this game in terms of structure and tempo, but Cagliari are reminding them that one chance is all it takes."]
Alex exhaled slowly. That could've easily gone in. One inch to the right and they would've been behind.
He turned to his assistant coach. "We need to wake up. One slip and we'll be punished."
They reset, keeping their formation, keeping the press tight. Ramadani and Berisha recovered their rhythm in midfield, and the defensive trio settled after the scare.
Lecce tried to regain their grip on the match. Dorgu kept threatening on the left, drawing fouls and double-teams. Pongracic was conservative on the right but made himself available in buildup. Pierotti started drifting wider, looking for space as Cagliari sat deeper.
Then, at the 38th minute, Lecce had another golden opportunity.
This time it was Berisha who made the difference. With a shimmy and a drop of the shoulder, he ghosted past Cagliari's central midfielder and pinged a diagonal pass straight into the path of Pierotti. The Argentine wriggled between two defenders with quick feet and slipped a pass behind the defensive line.
Kaba was already making the run.
["This is promising! Kaba's through on goal!"]
The forward brought it under control with a single touch, and now it was just him and the keeper.
["Can he finish this one? Lecce looking to capitalize now!"]
Kaba shot low and hard to the far post, but the Cagliari goalkeeper read it well, diving at full length to push it out with strong hands.
Rebić was late to the rebound, and the defense cleared it with a frantic hack into the stands.
["Big save! Big moment! Kaba did everything right, but the keeper was equal to it. Lecce are knocking on the door now."]
Alex clapped from the touchline, encouraging them. "Keep pushing! That's better!"
The players responded with a little more urgency. Rafia's confidence grew. Dorgu became even bolder in his forward runs. Rebić tried to get involved more after his early miss, though the sting of that wasted tap-in still clung to him like static.
["Lecce are edging this half. You get the feeling something's going to give soon. But will they regret not scoring when they were on top?"]
The last minutes of the first half were a back-and-forth battle of attrition. Both sides had tasted a real chance and both had been denied. The energy on the field crackled now, every pass feeling like it carried consequence.
Then came the whistle.
Peeeeep!
Halftime.
Alex turned toward the tunnel with hands on hips. The players followed behind, each with their own thoughts stewing.
Rebić kept his head low. Dorgu gave him a pat on the back. Kaba looked frustrated but hungry. Falcone nodded toward the bench, calm despite the scare.
["Well, that was an interesting half of football. Lecce started the brighter, missed an unbelievable chance through Rebić, got another through Kaba, but Cagliari struck the post and reminded everyone this match could still go either way."]
As Alex walked off the pitch with his squad, he kept his face neutral. But deep inside, the thoughts roared.
They were close.
So close.
But close wasn't good enough.
Not in a relegation battle.
Not when the margins were razor-thin.
Not when three points meant life or death.
He knew the next forty-five minutes could define their season.
And in some strange way, define him too.