The stadium had barely calmed after Banda's goal when Atalanta seized control of the game with an almost manic urgency that felt like a summer storm rolling in off the Adriatic. They weren't rattled by Lecce's opener. If anything, it provoked them, like a heavyweight boxer waking up after taking a sharp jab to the chin, shaking the cobwebs from their head, rolling their shoulders, and stepping forward to return fire.
Alex could see it from the touchline at Stadio Via del Mare, arms folded across his chest, cap low on his forehead, eyes scanning the field with predatory focus. The humid air was thick, vibrating with the distant hum of the Lecce supporters, their chants still echoing in the corners after Banda's goal, but now muffled by the growing tension on the pitch. Gasperini's men pressed with a cold, ruthless synchronization, suffocating Lecce's midfield, squeezing the spaces until every touch from a yellow shirt felt heavy, every pass under pressure, every clearance desperate.
