Rise or Fall Together

There were people passing by from time to time, but none of them recognized Aymar Zambo. He thought they might have stopped if it were someone like Pierino Fanna or even Gillo Urso, but Aymar was not yet famous. His name held little weight here, a fact that stung more than he cared to admit. 

Am I really inferior to Gillo Urso? 

For the first time since his arrival in Verona, Aymar doubted himself. But he quickly dismissed the thought, shaking his head as if to physically cast it away. Self-pity was a luxury he couldn't afford. 

"You look like you're trying to solve all the world's problems," a light, teasing voice interrupted his thoughts. 

Startled, Aymar glanced up to see the blonde woman he had spoken to earlier near the Verona Arena. Now, she stood beside his table, her smile warm and inviting. 

"Is this seat taken?" she asked, gesturing to the empty chair across from him. 

Aymar scanned the room. The bistro was packed, and every other table was occupied. With a faint nod, he gestured for her to sit. 

The woman settled in, ordering something quickly before turning her attention back to him. Aymar, meanwhile, returned his gaze to the window, his frown deepening as his thoughts churned. 

"You seem troubled," she said, her tone casual but curious. 

Aymar glanced at her briefly. She was strikingly beautiful, but he wasn't in the mood for small talk or distractions. Still, he gave a polite nod and said nothing. 

Unbothered by his silence, the blonde leaned back in her chair, a soft smile playing on her lips. "You know," she began, her voice warm and steady, "when I was struggling once, my teacher told me something that stuck with me. Let me share it with you." 

She didn't wait for Aymar to respond, her tone shifting into the rhythm of a storyteller. "There was a small village, and in that village lived a carpenter. One day, the carpenter's apprentice came to him, deeply upset. 'I've tried everything to make something great,' the apprentice said. 'But no matter how hard I work, everything I make feels useless. What am I doing wrong?' 

"The carpenter smiled and said, 'Take this piece of wood and carve it into a walking stick.' The apprentice was puzzled. 'But I wanted to create something grand,' he protested. The carpenter only nodded and replied, 'Do as I've asked.' 

"The apprentice, disappointed, set to work. For days, he poured his energy into carving the stick—smoothing the wood, polishing the grain, making sure every detail was perfect. By the time he finished, something surprising had happened. The apprentice wasn't frustrated anymore. Instead, he felt proud. And when he handed the stick to the carpenter, the older man asked, 'Do you feel fulfilled now?' The apprentice nodded. 

"The carpenter smiled and said, 'Sometimes, we get so caught up in chasing greatness that we forget the joy of creating something meaningful, no matter how small.'" 

Francesca paused, watching Aymar thoughtfully. "It might sound simple, but I've found that when I focus on what's in front of me, things start to feel a little clearer. Maybe it'll help you, too." 

Aymar couldn't help but smile faintly, her words settling into his mind like a drop of water into a still pond. "That's an interesting story," he admitted, his tone softening. "And maybe you're right." 

"See?" Francesca teased, her eyes lighting up. "A smile suits you." 

"Aymar Zambo," he said finally, extending his hand. "It's nice to meet you." 

"Francesca Bianchi," she replied, her tone playful. But then a flicker of recognition crossed her face. "Wait... aren't you the coach they were talking about on the radio?" 

Aymar winced inwardly. Of course, she'd heard about the program where disgruntled fans had mocked him. He nodded reluctantly, his expression tinged with embarrassment. 

"It's just football, isn't it? No need to be so hard on yourself," Francesca said gently, her tone light yet encouraging. 

Aymar chuckled bitterly. "It's not about the football itself. It's what it represents—what I saw in their reaction." 

"What do you mean?" Francesca asked, leaning in with genuine curiosity. 

"It turns out Italians aren't as rigid as I thought," Aymar said with a wry smile. "The fans who called the radio to mock me? I have to admit, they were surprisingly creative. In a strange way, it reminded me that there's a spark of imagination here—maybe even enough to believe in the potential of this team." 

Francesca blinked, momentarily stunned, before bursting into laughter. She hadn't expected such a dry sense of humor. "You're really something," she said, her voice light and amused. "You manage to poke fun at yourself while throwing a jab at the fans. I think I'm starting to see why they're paying attention to you." 

Aymar leaned back in his chair, his smile softening into something more resolute. "Let them question me. I'll make them eat their words. I swear it." 

Francesca paused, taken aback by the sudden shift in his tone. The determination radiating from Aymar was palpable, a force so strong she could almost feel it. She opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, Aymar stood abruptly, his movements decisive. 

"Thank you for this," he said, his expression sincere. "I owe you one. Let me take you to dinner tonight to repay the favor." 

Without waiting for a response, Aymar headed to the front counter, paid his bill, and strode out of the bistro, leaving Francesca momentarily stunned. 

Moments later, the waiter returned with the meal Aymar had ordered. Francesca assumed it was for her and began eating, only for a second identical plate to arrive a few minutes later. It was then that she realized what had happened—they had unknowingly ordered the same dish. 

She glanced at the half-eaten plate before her, then at the untouched one now set on the table. Her fork hovered mid-air as she stared at the uncanny coincidence, unable to suppress a smile. 

... 

... 

When Aymar Zambo returned to his apartment, Pippo Glaviano was pacing nervously by the kitchen counter. It was clear he'd been fretting about Aymar ever since the match ended. 

As soon as Aymar stepped through the door, Pippo rushed toward him. "Aymar—" 

"Hold on," Aymar interrupted, raising a hand. "Don't say anything yet, Pippo. Just listen to me first." 

Pippo nodded, falling silent, though his anxious expression didn't fade. 

"But before we get into it," Aymar added, glancing toward the counter, "can you do me a favor and heat up some food? Anything simple will do." He realized, belatedly, that leaving the café in such a rush had been a mistake. If he'd stayed, eaten properly, and collected his thoughts, he might have avoided this gnawing hunger—and maybe even had more time to speak with Francesca. 

"No problem," Pippo said with an almost comical eagerness, heading straight to the kitchen. 

In a few minutes, Pippo returned with a plate of fried plantains and grilled chicken—leftovers from the previous night. The familiar aroma comforted Aymar, and he wasted no time digging in. He bit into a piece of chicken, only to burn his tongue on the piping-hot food. 

"Take it easy," Pippo chided, shaking his head. 

Aymar waved off the concern, chewing quickly as he looked up at Pippo. "Losing today's match—it stings, but it's also shown me a lot. Don't worry about me losing heart. If anything, I'm more determined now to beat Gillo Urso at his own game." 

Pippo studied him carefully, noting the fire in Aymar's eyes. His demeanor was energetic, even after such a disappointing day, and his conviction was impossible to ignore. 

"We'll tackle two things starting tomorrow," Aymar said, pointing his fork at Pippo for emphasis. 

Pippo instinctively reached for his notebook and pen, ready to jot down instructions. 

"No need to write it down," Aymar said, waving him off. "It's simple enough to remember. First, we're going to make those who sabotaged us today regret it. If I don't take decisive action, this team will stay divided, and I can't work with that. Tomorrow, I'll announce that the ringleader is being expelled from the squad." 

His voice carried a sharp, unyielding resolve. Even as he spoke, Aymar had stopped eating, his focus entirely on the plan. Pippo hesitated for a moment but quickly nodded in agreement. He had a good idea of who Aymar was referring to and knew this decision was necessary. Without removing that toxic influence, the second team would never stabilize. 

"Second," Aymar continued, leaning forward, "we're going to change the tactics." 

Pippo blinked in surprise. "Change tactics? Completely?" 

From the very first day Aymar Zambo began coaching Verona's second team, he had implemented his modern tactical system. It was intricate, demanding, and designed for a higher caliber of players than what the squad currently possessed. While Pippo Glaviano had noticed gradual improvements, he also understood that most players struggled to grasp the concepts. Now, hearing that Aymar wanted to change tactics entirely, Pippo was surprised. 

"Are you serious?" Pippo asked. "You've spent weeks drilling the current system into them. Why change now?" 

Aymar nodded firmly. "Yes, Pippo, it's abrupt, but I have to do it. The reason is simple: with the current level of skill and understanding among the players, they just can't play the kind of football I want. That's an objective fact, and I'm not blind to it." 

He leaned forward, his tone more resolute. "So instead of forcing them to adapt to my vision and ending up with players who are four steps behind where they need to be, I'm going to adjust the tactics. I need to create a system that matches their abilities while maximizing their strengths." 

Pippo paused, considering Aymar's explanation. It made sense. Aymar's original tactics were complex and advanced—even Pippo had struggled to fully comprehend them without Aymar's patient breakdowns. It wasn't surprising that the players couldn't execute such a system effectively. 

"Fair enough," Pippo admitted. "But won't simplifying the tactics feel like giving up?" 

"No," Aymar replied sharply. "It's about pragmatism, not defeat. Coaching the second team is about producing results, and I need to show progress quickly. There's no time to wait for them to catch up, not when the pressure is mounting." 

Pippo nodded. He understood the stakes. Verona's second team wasn't just Aymar's project; it was also his proving ground. Success here was essential if Aymar wanted to stay in charge and eventually make his mark on the first team. 

"So, how do you plan to play now?" Pippo asked. 

Aymar's eyes lit up with clarity. "We'll simplify the game. Fewer intricate passing patterns and less reliance on constant positional rotations. Instead, we'll play direct, straightforward football. The midfield will be key, so I'll form a central trio with Mattia Cassani, Emanuele Torrisi, and Gianluca Nicco to drive the attack. Louis Hutt will anchor the defense, and Luigi Sepe will remain our solid presence in goal. We'll prioritize players who are disciplined and willing to follow instructions over those with more raw talent but questionable attitudes." 

Pippo listened attentively, nodding in agreement. After the disastrous first warm-up match, Aymar's desire for a clear-out was entirely understandable. Aymar's focus on loyalty and effort over flair made perfect sense given the situation. 

"But are you sure about Louis Hutt?" Pippo asked. "He's solid, but he's not exactly exceptional at anything." 

"Exactly," Aymar said with a sharp grin. "Hutt may not excel in heading, marking, or tackling, but he also doesn't have any glaring weaknesses. Sometimes, what people call mediocrity is just another way of saying well-rounded." 

Pippo frowned, trying to process the idea. 

"Hutt is reliable," Aymar continued. "He's not flashy, but he's consistent and hardworking. On the pitch, his dedication is worth ten times more than the talent of players who refuse to put in the effort." 

At that, Pippo finally understood Aymar's reasoning. His coach's determination to rebuild the squad from the ground up, even if it meant losing some of the more technically skilled players, was clear. 

"It looks like a lot of players are about to have a bad day tomorrow," Pippo remarked with a wry smile. 

Aymar's expression hardened. "They brought it on themselves. Anyone who thinks they can undermine me and get away with it is in for a rude awakening." 

It was clear to Pippo that Aymar wasn't the kind of coach who would allow rebellion to go unpunished. His resolve to turn things around, no matter the obstacles, was unwavering. 

... 

... 

"Did you hear Radio Verona last night?" 

"Yeah, it was hilarious! They were mocking that foreign coach mercilessly." 

"I know! Hey, Domenico Rinaldi, weren't you the one who called in and shared that story?" 

Domenico Rinaldi strolled confidently through the group of players clustered near the training pitch. He stopped, his smirk oozing satisfaction. "What do you think? After the match, that guy was nowhere to be found. Probably hiding somewhere, crying his eyes out." 

The players erupted in laughter as Domenico continued, mimicking the tone he'd used during his call to the radio. His exaggerated voice and smug attitude sent waves of laughter rippling through the group, a clear display of their collective disdain for Aymar Zambo. It was no secret—they all wanted him gone. 

"Domenico, your father's on the club's board, right? Has he said anything? Are they going to sack that guy?" 

"Yeah, I saw Giambattista Pastorello outside the training ground yesterday," another player chimed in. "He looked furious. Do you think he'll fire him?" 

Domenico shrugged theatrically, a sneer tugging at his lips. "Who cares if they fire him? What matters is that we've made it clear to him—he doesn't belong here. If I were him, I'd save myself the embarrassment and resign. Better to leave with a shred of dignity than to be booted out." 

He chuckled, his voice dripping with mockery. "Although, honestly, no matter how he leaves, he's already the biggest joke Verona's had all year!" 

The group burst into laughter again, their jeers echoing across the training ground. 

Not far away, Emanuele Torrisi, Gianluca Nicco, and Mattia Cassani stood off to the side, silently observing the scene. They had joined the team only recently and found themselves thrust into this toxic atmosphere. Though they said nothing, the disdain some of the players showed for Aymar left a sour taste. Even with their limited time at the club, it was clear to them how deep the divisions ran. 

"Hey, Mattia!" Domenico called out as Cassani approached. A few of Domenico's lackeys turned to watch. "What was with all the effort you put in during yesterday's match?" 

Mattia's expression was neutral, his tone measured. "I just wanted to win." 

"Is that so?" Domenico's laugh was sharp and mocking. "Are you sure you're playing for that foreigner?" 

He turned to Louis Hutt next, his voice dripping with scorn. "And you, Louis? Didn't you hear what I said before the match?" 

Hutt's face paled. He stammered, "I… I didn't… I don't know…" 

"Pathetic," Domenico sneered, leaning closer. "You're spineless, you know that? Can't even manage a proper response." 

Mattia's jaw tightened as he watched the exchange. Domenico turned back to him with a smirk. "Just so we're clear, Mattia, I don't care what you do out there. But as long as that guy is still here, you'd better think twice before stepping out of line." 

"Are you threatening me?" Mattia asked, his voice calm but edged with steel. 

Domenico leaned closer, his smirk widening. "What do you think?" 

As Domenico and his group walked away, he stopped suddenly, turning back to Louis. "Hey, kid! You'd better learn your place," he sneered, slapping Hutt's cheek lightly in mock condescension before laughing and striding off. 

Mattia watched them go, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. When he turned back to Louis, he found the younger player standing frozen, his head bowed in shame. It was no secret that Hutt was one of the quieter, more timid members of the squad—qualities that made him an easy target. 

"You're better than this, Louis," Mattia said quietly. But Louis didn't respond, his gaze fixed firmly on the ground. 

... 

... 

A few minutes later, when Aymar Zambo appeared on the training ground alongside Pippo Glaviano, Domenico Rinaldi and his group were visibly taken aback. The coach they had mocked relentlessly last night had arrived as though nothing had happened, walking with calm confidence. 

"Good morning, boys!" Aymar greeted the group with a warm smile. 

"Good morning, coach!" the players responded in unison. 

Aymar's eyes swept across the team, his smile unwavering. "We played a match yesterday, and unfortunately, we lost 0-1 to a fifth-tier amateur side. That stings, doesn't it? But life goes on. The only thing that matters now is looking ahead—to the next match, to the future. Am I right?" 

"Yes!" the players echoed, though Domenico and his friends exchanged sarcastic glances, their expressions laced with mockery. 

"As we agreed before, I'll evaluate every match and reward or penalize players accordingly. Today, we'll start with the rewards from yesterday's game." 

The players froze, stunned. None of them had believed Aymar would actually follow through on such an unusual approach. 

"The best player yesterday," Aymar announced, "was Luigi Sepe!" 

The young goalkeeper stepped forward hesitantly as Aymar beckoned him. "Thank you for your performance yesterday, Luigi. You kept us in the game with some outstanding saves. You're still young, but I believe if you keep working hard, you'll become one of the best goalkeepers in Italy." 

He pressed a 5-euro note into Sepe's hand. 

"This…" Sepe began, looking unsure whether to accept it. 

"Take it," Aymar said firmly. "It's a rule and an order." 

Sepe clutched the note tightly, a hint of pride flickering in his expression. For the first time, he felt like he had earned something tangible through football. 

"Mattia Cassani!" Aymar called next, and the midfielder stepped forward confidently. 

"I don't know how you feel about yesterday's game, Mattia, but I'll tell you this: through that match, you reminded me why I gave you the captain's armband. You gave me—and everyone watching—hope. You showed the spirit of a leader, someone who fights until the very end." 

He paused, locking eyes with Mattia. "Losing the game is one thing—we can win again in the future. But if we lose our fighting spirit, if we stop caring, then it's all over. Promise me, Mattia, that no matter what you think of me—good or bad—you'll hold onto that fighting spirit and continue to lead this team forward." 

Cassani's eyes glistened as he nodded firmly, his voice catching as he replied, "I promise, coach." 

And now," Aymar continued, "the third standout player from yesterday… Louis Hutt." 

The entire group erupted into murmurs. Many hadn't expected Hutt's name to be called. Even Hutt himself looked surprised, blinking in confusion before hesitating to step forward. 

"Come on, Louis," Aymar called again, gesturing for him to approach. 

Hutt froze for a moment, glancing nervously at Domenico Rinaldi, whose glare carried an unspoken threat. Hutt's hesitation was palpable, and he seemed ready to retreat. 

Aymar closed the distance, standing just a few steps away. His voice softened, but his tone carried weight. "Louis, your biggest weakness isn't your skill. It's not your effort on the pitch. It's your fear. Your hesitation. Your cowardice." 

Hutt's head drooped slightly, but Aymar pressed on, his voice unwavering. 

"You were a starter yesterday, Louis, and you worked tirelessly for the team. You showed resilience and dedication when others gave up. But here's the thing—you hesitate. You let fear dictate your actions. That's what holds you back." 

"You have good physical attributes. You may not be the most naturally gifted player, but talent isn't everything. Greatness comes from hard work, effort, and the courage to show up and fight. And Louis, you've shown flashes of that. You have the potential to be a solid professional player, but you need to believe in yourself first." 

He leaned in slightly, locking eyes with Hutt. "I don't know what's holding you back. But I'll tell you this—you can be better. You can be part of something bigger. But it starts with you stepping forward. Trust me—you can do it." 

Louis Hutt couldn't believe what he was hearing. No one had ever given him this kind of confidence or encouragement—not when he was a child, and not since he'd started playing football. He had hoped football would make him stronger, that it would give him courage, but even here, at Verona, he had found himself bullied and belittled. 

Now, staring into Aymar Zambo's confident eyes and hearing his words of encouragement, Hutt asked himself, Can I? Can I really do this? 

Part of him wanted to step forward, to tell Aymar that he believed him, that he wanted to change. But doubt lingered. He hesitated, glancing toward Domenico Rinaldi to gauge his reaction. Yet when he turned his head, it wasn't Domenico he saw—it was Mattia Cassani. The team captain stood between them, his eyes locked on Hutt. Cassani nodded, his expression firm and reassuring. 

He believes I can do it? The captain—the best, strongest player on the team—thinks I can? 

Something inside Hutt shifted. A surge of confidence unlike anything he had ever felt before welled up within him. Straightening his back, he took a deep breath, lifted his chest, and stepped forward. 

Aymar's face broke into a wide smile as he walked over to meet Hutt, pulling him into a firm embrace. "Good job, Louis! That's it—step out. You can do this!" 

Hutt nodded, his chest heaving as a wave of emotion overcame him. He didn't know when his eyes had grown wet, but he blinked rapidly to clear the tears that threatened to fall. 

"Don't cry," Aymar said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Be strong. Like a man." 

Hutt nodded again, blinking furiously as he rubbed his eyes dry. "Yes, coach," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. 

From a distance, Pierino Fanna watched the scene unfold. He had been skeptical of Aymar at first, but this moment stirred something in him. Aymar had not only lifted himself out of the disappointment of yesterday's loss, but he had also used it to galvanize his players. Fanna couldn't help but admit that, in this regard, Aymar had qualities he himself lacked. He could never have handled the situation this way. 

After clapping Hutt's shoulder a few more times in encouragement, Aymar motioned for him to return to the lineup. Then, stepping in front of the assembled players, his voice grew sharper. 

"Now," he announced, "it's time to name the player with the worst performance from yesterday's game." 

The air grew tense. Every player stiffened, except for Mattia Cassani, who stood calm, already anticipating what was coming. The others exchanged nervous glances, their minds racing with worry. Even the bolder players knew Aymar's punishments wouldn't be lenient. 

"Domenico Rinaldi!" Aymar called out. 

At that moment, Domenico was leaning toward Hutt, likely about to hurl another insult. The mention of his name froze him mid-motion. His face twisted into a mask of disbelief and anger as he stalked out of the lineup. 

Aymar's tone was cold and measured. "Your performance yesterday was shameful. I don't know why a club like Verona would keep a player like you. Yes, you heard me correctly. I said it—shameful." 

The players exchanged shocked glances as Aymar continued, his words cutting through the air. "If your only issue were poor footballing skills, I'd have no problem. We'd train and work together to improve. But yesterday wasn't just about skill—it was about effort. You gave none. And let's not pretend otherwise; you didn't just play poorly—you sabotaged us. Do you think you're retaliating against me? Let me tell you something: you're not. You're betraying your teammates, yourself, and this club." 

Aymar began pacing slowly, his eyes sweeping across the group. "Let me spell it out for you. Hellas Verona isn't mine. I'm just an employee, here to do a job and earn my salary. If this were an official match, the Italian Football Federation would launch an investigation into match-fixing. And the conclusion would be clear: Verona's second team threw the game. If that happens, I can pack my bags and leave—find a coaching job elsewhere in Europe." 

His voice dropped, sharp and precise. "But you? And this club? You'll carry the shame of that forever. Verona will forever be remembered as a team that played dirty. And you, Domenico, will be at the heart of that disgrace." 

The players stood frozen, the weight of Aymar's words sinking in. Even Domenico, who had started out glaring defiantly, now shifted uncomfortably under the intense scrutiny. 

"I know what you're thinking," Aymar continued, his voice cold but deliberate. "You've been gossiping about me—mocking me, undermining me. But let me tell you this: none of it is funny. You're not retaliating against me. You're trampling on the dignity of Hellas Verona and everything this club stands for." 

He paused, sweeping his gaze across the team. "Most of you grew up here in Verona, or you've lived here long enough to call this city your home. You care about this club. You care about these people. And yet, because of him—Domenico Rinaldi—you let this team suffer a disgraceful defeat." 

Aymar's voice grew softer but no less cutting. "Someone must pay for it." 

Turning sharply, Aymar took a few measured steps forward before stopping. His finger pointed directly at Domenico. "Starting today, Domenico Rinaldi will no longer be a player for Hellas Verona." 

Gasps rippled through the team. Domenico stood rooted to the spot, his face pale with disbelief. 

"You're out!" Aymar's voice cracked like a whip. 

The words hit Domenico like a thunderclap. At just 19 years old, he had never imagined such a day would come. His father's role as a club sponsor and board member had always shielded him from consequences. But now, under Aymar's uncompromising gaze, all of Domenico's arrogance and bravado crumbled. He looked as though he might collapse on the spot. 

"Leave the training ground. Now," Aymar ordered, his tone unrelenting. 

For a moment, Domenico stood frozen, his mouth opening as if to protest, but no words came out. Shoulders slumped, he turned and began the slow, humiliating walk toward the exit. His once-proud swagger was gone, replaced by the hollow shuffle of a man stripped of his power. 

Behind him, the rest of the second team watched in silence. Some of Domenico's co-conspirators glanced nervously at each other, fearful they might be next. Others quietly celebrated, relieved that the team's toxic ringleader was finally gone. And some stood still, quietly vowing never to repeat Domenico's mistakes. 

Aymar's voice broke the silence. "As for the other two players who conspired with him—" he paused, his gaze darting toward two visibly shaken teammates. "You're banned from training with the second team effective immediately. You can either train with the youth squad or on your own. But mark my words—you will not be part of this team again until you prove you're worthy." 

The two accomplices slunk away, their faces a mixture of shame and fear as they joined Domenico's retreat from the training ground. 

When the three expelled players had finally disappeared from sight, Aymar turned back to the remaining squad. His expression had softened slightly, but his tone remained firm. "Let this be a lesson to all of you. Verona's success isn't about me or any one individual. It's about this club and what it represents. If you're unwilling to give your all for this badge, then you have no place here." 

He let the words hang in the air for a moment before stepping back. Though Aymar had removed the disruptive elements, the sting of losing that game still lingered. The triumph over Domenico and his allies felt hollow against the reality of the 0-1 defeat—a stark reminder of how far the team still had to go. 

"Listen closely, everyone," Aymar began, his voice steady but filled with purpose. "I came here to lead this team for one reason: to win. Some of you might say it's because of my rivalry with Gillo Urso, or that I'm just trying to advance my own career. And maybe you're right—winning is important to me. But let me ask you this: what about you? Why are you here?" 

The players exchanged uncertain glances as Aymar paced in front of them, his gaze unwavering. 

"You're playing professional football now, and professional football has one defining standard: honor. Honor comes with results—titles, championships. If you want a career in this game, if you want football to put food on your table, you need to prove that you have the potential, the drive, and the strength to make it. And that starts here." 

He stopped, turning to face the group directly. "I'm your head coach. I hold your future in my hands. But at the same time, I can't step onto the pitch for you. You and I—we're in this together. My job is to study the opponents, develop tactics, and set you up for success. Your job is to execute those tactics, to give everything you've got on the pitch. Only if we work together can we succeed. Only together can we win." 

He paused for effect, his tone growing sharper. "But let me be clear—I'll be fine regardless of what happens here. I have my UEFA coaching license. If I lose to Gillo Urso, I'll leave Verona and find work elsewhere—maybe in Serie B, maybe even with a Bundesliga club. My coaching career will continue. But what about you?" 

His words hit like a hammer, his eyes scanning the group as the weight of his point began to settle over them. "You're not getting any younger. If, in the next year or two, you don't make an impact, if you don't show the world that you have what it takes, your careers will be over before they've even begun." 

Aymar's voice dropped, cutting through the silence. "I don't care if you dislike my coaching style. I don't care if you resent me for taking this job. And if you're holding onto some prejudice because I'm a foreigner, then that's on you. But here's what you need to ask yourselves: are you fighting for a future? Or are you just fighting to prove a point?" 

He let the question hang in the air for a moment before continuing. "If all you want to do is vent your frustrations, fine. Keep clashing with me—I'll even welcome it if it amuses you. But if you're serious about becoming professional players, if you're serious about building a future for yourselves, then you have only one choice." 

Aymar placed his hand firmly on his chest. "Follow me. Follow my tactics. Execute the plans I lay out for you. Give your all in every match. If you do that—if you truly commit—I promise you'll find yourself on the path to becoming the professional players you've always dreamed of being. You'll see your potential turn into a reality." 

With those final words, Aymar turned and walked off the training ground, leaving the team in stunned silence. He handed the morning's training session over to Pippo Glaviano. As he passed by Pierino Fanna, the older man gave him an approving nod, his expression warm with appreciation. 

There was no doubt in Pierino's mind—Aymar had just done something he himself could never have managed. He hadn't only addressed the fractures within the squad; he'd shown them a vision of a brighter future. It was a vision that only a leader like Aymar could inspire.