Como Locker Room - Halftime
The Como locker room door slammed open with enough force to rattle the hinges, and their coach stormed in with his face red and veins visible on his neck. The players who'd been catching their breath on the benches immediately sat straighter.
"Two-nil," he spat, and nobody spoke as the room fell dead silent except for heavy breathing and the faint sound of cleats shifting on tile.
"Do you know what's embarrassing?" The coach's voice was low now, dangerous. "It's not that we're losing, it's that we're losing to one player."
He grabbed the tactical board and wheeled it to the center of the room before tapping it hard with his marker. "Number eight. Walter. Both goals were created by him—his passes, his vision. Not their striker, not their wingers. Him. A midfielder controlling everything."
The two holding midfielders who'd been responsible for marking Demien exchanged glances but said nothing as the coach drew Como's 4-4-2 shape on the board. "We sat deep, we stayed compact, we did everything right defensively except for one thing—we let number eight control the game from thirty yards out."
He circled the space between Como's defensive and midfield lines, and when one of Como's center backs raised his hand tentatively to speak, the coach cut him off. "Their movement was excellent because he made it excellent. Without him, they're ordinary. With him, they look like a Serie A team."
He erased the board and started drawing again, this time with more aggressive lines as he switched to a four-two-three-one formation. "Two holding midfielders," he said, pointing at the two players who'd been marking Demien loosely in the first half. "You two. Your only job second half is number eight. I don't care if he goes to the bathroom—you follow him."
"Both of us?" one asked, and the coach's expression hardened.
"Both of you. If he touches the ball, I want both of you on him immediately—no space, no time, no comfort." He drew arrows showing the double-team converging on Demien's position before adding, "And when I say mark him, I don't mean stand near him. I mean on him. Shirt-pulling, body contact, make every touch difficult, make him think twice before he asks for the ball."
The right-back spoke up. "What about their wing-backs? First goal came from—"
"I know where the first goal came from," the coach interrupted, his jaw tight. "But that wing-back doesn't get the ball without number eight finding him. Cut off the source, the supply dies."
He looked around the room, making eye contact with each player as he continued. "They'll probably make substitutions—it's a friendly, they'll rotate players—but I'm betting number eight stays on. He's their engine. We shut him down, we get back in this game."
Como's striker, their best player, finally spoke. "And if they adjust? If he drops deeper or moves wider?"
"Then you follow him deeper, you follow him wider," the coach's voice was steel. "I don't care if he plays goalkeeper—you mark him. Physical, aggressive, within the rules, but make him earn every centimeter."
He capped his marker and nodded toward the coolers. "Get some water. Two minutes."
As they moved toward the water, Como's captain muttered to his teammate, "Two on one for forty-five minutes. Kid's eighteen years old."
"Coach wouldn't do it if he wasn't worried."
"That's what scares me."
********
Second Half Begins
The referee's whistle pierced the afternoon air, and Como kicked off as their striker touched it back to the midfielder, who immediately launched it forward toward Atalanta's half. The ball sailed high and long, and Mancini read it early, positioning himself under it before chesting it down cleanly and playing it to Greco on his right.
But Como's press was different now—faster, more aggressive, with clear purpose—and their left winger closed Greco down in three quick strides before he could settle. Greco took one touch and looked up as the pressure arrived immediately, then played it to Conte at right wing-back while Como's winger followed the pass, refusing to give space.
In the directors' box, Gasperini leaned forward. "They've changed something."
"Formation," Belotti confirmed, checking through his binoculars. "Four-two-three-one. Two holding midfielders sitting deep."
"Smart," Gasperini said as his pen was already moving. "They're trying to cut off the supply."
On the pitch, Conte played it back to Mancini under pressure, and the center back took a touch, then another, scanning for options as Demien showed for the ball between the lines, dropping into space. The moment Mancini's pass left his foot, two Como midfielders converged on Demien—not jogging, but sprinting—and Demien's first touch was clean, taking the ball to his right, but before he could turn, a Como midfielder was on his back with his hand on his shoulder and body pressing close.
He tried to spin away as the second midfielder arrived, cutting off the angle, and trapped with no time for anything else, Demien played it simple, back to Greco.
"Pressure's on him immediately," Gasperini observed as Belotti added, "Double-marking. Every time he touches it."
Rossi saw it too from the touchline, turning to his assistant. "Como's shadowing Walter. Two on one."
"Want to adjust?"
"Not yet. Let's see how he handles it."
*******
The clock showed 47 minutes when Atalanta tried to build again, and Lombardi at left wing-back received from Torres before playing it inside to Riccardo. The captain took one touch, scanning forward as Demien had dropped into space between Como's lines, showing for the ball with his hand raised slightly, and Riccardo found him with a sharp pass.
The moment the ball left Riccardo's foot, Demien could see them coming—two Como midfielders sprinting from different angles as the trap was closing fast. His first touch took the ball to his right, and one stride, two, he could feel the presence behind him before the contact came as the midfielder on his left grabbed his shirt, fingers digging into the fabric with not a subtle pull but a full grip, yanking hard enough to twist Demien's body backward.
Demien tried to spin away, planting his right foot and turning his hips, but the defender's grip held with the shirt stretching as the second Como player arrived from the right, closing the space. For a moment, Demien was caught between them—one pulling from behind, one blocking ahead—and he dragged the ball with his right foot anyway, fighting through the hold, trying to create separation as his shoulder twisted uncomfortably when the shirt pulled tighter.
The referee's whistle cut through the noise, sharp and immediate. "Foul!"
The Como midfielder let go instantly, stepping back with his hands raised. "I got the ball!"
"You got his shirt," the referee said, pointing at him while already reaching into his pocket. "Yellow card. Holding."
"Ref, come on!" The Como player's protest was half-hearted, and his face showed he knew exactly what he'd done as the referee pulled out the yellow card and held it high. "Clear foul. No argument."
Como's captain jogged over, placing a hand on his teammate's shoulder. "It's fine. Just be smarter about it."
The carded midfielder nodded once, his jaw tight, and he glanced at Demien, not with hostility, but with acknowledgment—You're the target now—while Demien stood slowly, rolling his shoulder where the fabric had dug in before tugging his shirt back into place with the collar stretched slightly out of shape.
Riccardo appeared beside him. "You good?"
"Yeah."
"They're going to keep doing that all half."
"I know."
Luca jogged over from the left wing. "That was dirty."
"That's football," Demien's voice was calm, matter-of-fact, as he'd seen this before in David Drinkwater's thirty-seven years—he'd been on the receiving end of worse—and from the touchline, Rossi's voice carried across the pitch. "Stay composed! Don't react!"
Demien nodded, more to himself than anyone else, as the message was clear now—Como had decided how to stop him, and this was going to be a long forty-five minutes.
The free kick was taken quickly at the 48-minute mark with Riccardo playing it short to Demien near the halfway line, and this time Demien didn't try to turn because he knew they were coming. One touch—his right foot redirected the ball forward into space where Romano was making a run from the right wing, and the pass split the two defenders who'd been closing on him, arriving perfectly weighted.
Romano collected it in stride, drove forward ten yards, then cut inside toward goal as Como's center back stepped across to block, and Romano shot low and hard toward the near post. The keeper dove with his fingertips brushing the ball, deflecting it wide, and from the left wing, Luca shouted, "Close!"
In the directors' box, Gasperini made a note. "Under pressure. Two defenders on him. Still created the chance."
"One-touch pass," Belotti observed. "Didn't try to do too much."
"That's intelligence."
*******
At the 50-minute mark, Como cleared the ball long from the corner, and it sailed over Atalanta's midfield before dropping into space behind the defensive line where Como's striker was already running, having timed it perfectly and staying onside by inches. Torres tried to recover but the striker was faster, controlling the ball with his chest before taking one touch forward, and suddenly he was through, one-on-one with Bellini.
Twenty yards. Fifteen. Ten.
Bellini rushed out, spreading himself wide to cut the angle, and the Como striker shaped to shoot left, making Bellini commit before dragging it right instead and opening up his body for the finish. But Bellini had read it, and his left hand stretched out with fingers grazing the ball just enough to push it wide as the shot missed by a meter, rolling harmlessly past the far post.
"Good save!" Greco shouted while Como's striker dropped his head with hands on his hips—that was their best chance—and Rossi clapped once from the touchline. "Stay focused! Don't drop off!"