The air in the Unipol Domus grew thick with tension as the second half pressed on. Both Lecce and Cagliari had traded missed opportunities, their players growing wearier with every passing minute. The weight of the match hung over the pitch like humidity before a storm. Every tackle, every sprint, every touch of the ball carried consequence.
Alex Walker stood on the edge of his technical area, arms folded, lips pressed in a tight line, eyes flicking between the field and the clock. His coat hung open, collar ruffled by the stiff breeze sweeping through the stadium, but he didn't notice. All of his focus, his attention, his very breath, lived within the confines of the green rectangle in front of him.
His team had fought well. They had dominated large spells of possession, pushed Cagliari back into their own half for stretches, and still, they trailed. The scoreboard stubbornly read 1–0 in favor of the home side. A sucker punch of a goal in the 53rd minute—a well-placed strike from Nandez off a second ball after a corner—still lingered like a bitter taste.
The energy in the stands shifted every time the home side touched the ball, the crowd urging them forward with thunderous chants. Despite the sea of red and blue in the stands and the thudding rhythm of drums echoing across the terraces, Lecce refused to lie down.
In the 70th minute, Santiago Pierotti had come closest. A wayward clearance from Goldaniga fell invitingly at the edge of the box. Pierotti pounced, controlling the ball expertly with his chest before sending a powerful volley just over the crossbar. Alex had winced, already imagining the net rippling. That had been the moment—or so he thought.
Cagliari responded almost immediately. Zito Luvumbo, who had been a menace all game, skipped past Dorgu with a burst of speed, drawing a collective gasp from the home fans. His cross was vicious, low and curling, aimed perfectly at the near post. Lapadula timed his run well, getting in front of Baschirotto, but his header flashed wide.
["Oh, that's another warning for Lecce! Lapadula again, he's looking hungry today,"]
["You have to credit Cagliari's threat in transition, but Lecce are living dangerously now. That goal seems to have energized the home side."]
Despite the pressure, Lecce didn't collapse. The players fought for every loose ball, pressed with urgency, and chased every pass like it might be their last. The midfield duo of Ramadani and Berisha ran themselves into the ground, covering space, breaking lines, and recycling possession. Even the defenders, so often maligned in recent weeks, stood firm. Baschirotto, in particular, played like a man possessed, barking orders, making crunching tackles, and putting his body on the line time and again.
Alex's jaw tightened as the match ticked into the 80s. His mind raced through possibilities. He had Banda and Krstović on the bench, both capable of injecting pace and unpredictability. But he hesitated. He had worked all week to build chemistry between this eleven, to instill discipline and structure. He didn't want to abandon that just yet. Not unless he had to.
Another close call jolted the dugout. A Cagliari counterattack nearly doubled their lead in the 83rd minute. A lofted ball over the top found Lapadula again, who shrugged off Touba and pulled the trigger from inside the box. Baschirotto, sliding in at the last second, blocked it with his thigh. The rebound fell dangerously in the six-yard box before Früchtl smothered it.
["Both teams are giving everything here. You can feel the intensity. Lecce aren't done yet, not by a long shot,"]
["They need a hero, though. They need someone to make that final connection. Dorgu's been excellent, but the final touch has been missing. Will Walker turn to his bench now?"]
But Alex didn't. He stuck with the eleven on the pitch. Maybe it was stubbornness. Maybe it was belief.
The minutes dragged. The home fans grew louder, their chants more defiant with each clearance and counterattack. Every second off the clock was a victory for them.
And then, in the 90th minute, it finally happened.
It started innocuously enough. Cagliari were trying to keep the ball, to kill the game. But under pressure from Lecce's press, they faltered. Makoumbou, fatigued and sloppy, tried a short pass into midfield. Ramadani read it like a book.
He stepped forward, intercepted cleanly, and immediately surged ahead. One touch, then a quick look up. Berisha was already anticipating it. The pass found the Algerian in stride. He didn't panic, didn't rush. With two defenders converging, he slipped it left to Dorgu.
Dorgu had been Lecce's outlet all game. Tireless. Relentless. And now, with space to run and the ball at his feet, he took off. Zappa tried to match his pace, but he couldn't. Dorgu flew past him like a sprinter chasing daylight. He hugged the touchline, one hand pointing ahead as if guiding himself. The crowd rose in anticipation.
He reached the byline and didn't pause to think.
The cross was low, flat, and venomous—an absolute laser.
Inside the box, Kaba and Rebić made their moves. Kaba darted toward the near post, dragging both center backs with him. It was a selfless run, a decoy by design.
That left Ante Rebić alone.
The Croatian timed it perfectly, adjusting his run and angling his body. The ball came across his forehead like a guided missile. He met it cleanly, redirecting it with precision and intent.
The ball arced towards the far post, curling away from Radunovic's outstretched hand.
Silence.
Then sound.
The net bulged.
The stadium erupted—but it was the sound of disbelief from the home fans, of celebration from the traveling Lecce faithful.
["GOAL!!! LECCE HAVE EQUALIZED IN THE 90TH MINUTE!"]
["Would you believe it?! It's Dorgu again with the delivery, and Lecce—after everything—have found the equalizer! What a moment!"]
["What a goal for Ante Rebić. It has been far from his best match in Lecce colors but he has brought his team back from the jaws of despair. In a match where some would argue that Lecce should've walked away with the win, he has just scored a last-minute equalizer for the team."]
The bench erupted. Players jumped from their seats. The substitutes ran to the corner flag. Even Früchtl sprinted from his goal to join the celebrations.
Alex stood frozen for a moment.
Then he allowed himself a smile.
He pumped a fist, a single motion of pure release.
Relief washed over him like a wave.
He didn't lose his first game.