Betting on Change

The Caffè Dante Bistrot, located at Piazza dei Signori 2 in the heart of Verona, is a popular spot among the city's affluent residents. 

Adjacent to this café is a sports shop offering a wide range of football equipment, as well as gear for volleyball and track and field. 

The owner of this sporting goods store is Pierino Fanna, a former player for the Italian national team during his youth. After retiring, he spent several years traveling before returning to his hometown of Verona to open the shop. As the only store of its kind in the area, it enjoys a natural monopoly and widespread popularity. 

When Mattia Cassani dragged his tired body and heavy steps into the store, Pierino was reclining comfortably with one leg propped over the other, sipping a cup of coffee with milk from the café next door. He wasn't fond of alcohol, and plain coffee was too bitter for his liking. With a bit of milk, however, the taste became much more enjoyable. 

"Hey, Mattia, what's going on? You look like you've just crawled out of a battlefield!" Pierino Fanna teased, laughing heartily. 

For this young talent, Pierino had always shown great care and appreciation. He firmly believed that among all the young players in Verona, if anyone had the potential to become a global star, it was Mattia Cassani. 

Pierino had first noticed him when Mattia was just seven or eight years old, playing in the local streets. Later, with Pierino's assistance, Mattia transferred to Hellas Verona's youth academy from a smaller neighborhood club at the age of 10, where he began to receive formal training. 

At that time, transfers for young players were rare in Italy, especially in smaller towns, where clubs and communities valued local loyalty above all else. However, Pierino's influence in Verona made the transfer possible, showcasing the respect he commanded in the city. 

Mattia slumped into the chair beside Pierino , exhausted. "Don't even start, Pierino. Just get me a new pair of boots!" 

"Boots?" Pierino looked down at Mattia's worn-out footwear. "Madonna mia, didn't you just buy these not long ago? How did you manage to ruin them so quickly?" 

Mattia groaned, leaning back in his chair. "It's the new youth coach. He's crazy! I swear he's not training us—he's conducting experiments on us!" 

"Oh?" Pierino's curiosity was piqued. He always kept a close eye on developments in Verona's football scene. "Tell me more." 

Mattia launched into a detailed recount of the grueling training sessions under their new coach. "Seven players have already quit because they couldn't handle his methods. And their parents? They've stormed into the club, demanding that he be sacked!" 

Pierino frowned, visibly displeased. "Parents meddling in football? What exactly is this coach doing that's so extreme?" 

Mattia sighed. "Everything! He divides the training pitch into grids and zones. Each zone has specific drills, and we have to memorize exactly where to move during each phase of play. He's obsessed with efficiency. Even when we sprint, he makes us carry the ball, but we have to do it as though transitioning into an attack—perfect weight, touch, and timing. If you're standing still with the ball, he says you're not playing football." 

Pierino's eyes widened. "Grids and zones? Sounds like he's training you like chess pieces." 

Mattia nodded, exasperated. "When we lose the ball, he makes us counter-press immediately as a team. He keeps yelling, 'Seven seconds! Win it back within seven seconds, or you're out of position!' It's relentless." 

"And how does he have your team move during play?" Pierino asked, leaning forward. 

Mattia frowned, trying to recall the intricate instructions. "He's obsessed with triangles. Always triangles. But not just simple ones. He makes us practice dynamic movements, where two players form a base and the third is always shifting to create new angles. And here's the crazy part—he's introduced overloads. He says one side of the triangle must always have an extra player moving into advanced space to force defenders out of position." 

"Overloads?" Pierino's brows shot up. "That's... not something I've heard often. It's certainly creative." 

"And he's not done," Mattia continued. "If I move forward into a channel, my teammate behind me has to automatically shift into the space I left, and the third rotates to provide an outlet. It's exhausting—like a dance, but it actually works! He says it creates what he calls 'rotational triangles,' which defenses can't predict." 

Pierino sat back, stunned. "This coach sounds ahead of his time. Who is he?" 

Mattia exhaled heavily. "His name's Aymar Zambo. And honestly, I don't know if he's a genius or a madman. But one thing's for sure—he's unlike anyone Verona has ever seen." 

"I know the ability of Pippo Glaviano, this guy. He's learned a lot of advanced techniques during his time away. The reason he returned to Verona was to play for his hometown team, but he's too young to understand patience and humility. He tends to retreat as soon as he encounters difficulties," Pierino Fanna said with a sigh. 

From his tone, it wasn't hard to sense Paolo's disappointment with Pippo. Perhaps he once had high expectations for the young talent, but in the end, Pippo had failed to live up to those hopes. 

"On the other hand, this new coach, Aymar Zambo, is intriguing. He's managed to see Pippo's raw potential and given him a chance to showcase his strengths with the youth team. That alone says a lot about Aymar's level of insight. And based on what you've described, his ability to create team tactics is quite unique." 

Hearing Pierino Fanna's praise for Aymar, Mattia Cassani was visibly annoyed. Over the past few weeks, Aymar's training methods had pushed him to his limits. "Unique? You think his tactics are the most advanced in the world?" Mattia asked, his voice tinged with frustration. 

Pierino smiled faintly and shook his head. "Mattia, let me remind you of something. In the world of football, there's no such thing as the 'most advanced tactics.' There are only appropriate tactics—those that suit the players and align with the current trends. If the right players are available, even an old-school 3-2-2-3 formation can work wonders." 

He continued, "Tactical formations themselves are merely tools; they're not inherently good or bad. What matters is how well the tactics match the players' characteristics and adapt to the demands of football. That's what sets great coaches apart." 

Mattia, sensing the deeper meaning in Paolo's words, understood that the older man was advising him not to let his personal grievances cloud his judgment. Still, Mattia wasn't ready to give in. "But what about his tactics? What makes them so special?" he pressed. 

Pierino chuckled softly. This boy was as stubborn as a mule. Once Mattia fixated on something, convincing him otherwise was like moving a mountain. Yet Paolo knew that once Mattia understood, he'd commit himself fully. 

"I don't know all the details, but I'm very curious to find out. From what I've seen and heard so far, Aymar's tactics seem to have qualities that most coaches today lack. His approach might even be ahead of its time." 

"You're going to watch him?" Mattia was caught off guard. 

From the time Mattia had joined Hellas Verona's youth academy at the age of 10, he'd always known Pierino Fanna to have considerable influence in Verona. But he had never seen Paolo visit the club or attend a single match. 

Now, hearing that Pierino planned to go watch Aymar in action felt surreal. "Are you serious? Is it going to rain outside or something?" Mattia quipped, still trying to process what he had heard. 

Pierino simply smiled, a glint of curiosity in his eyes. "Let's just say there's something about this coach that makes me want to see what he's doing with my own eyes." 

... 

... 

Aymar had no idea that at noon, Pippo Glaviano and Pierino Fanna were having a conversation in a shop in Verona's city center. After taking a short rest, Aymar prepared for the afternoon training session but was interrupted by a call summoning him to the chairman's office. 

The chairman of Hellas Verona, Giambattista Pastorello, was a man in his early fifties. His sharp appearance reflected years of experience in football management, though the weight of his responsibilities seemed to have aged him prematurely. His tenure at Verona had been defined by financial struggles and on-pitch mediocrity, much like the state of many Serie B clubs at the time. 

The chairman's office was housed in a modest building adjacent to the stadium. While functional, it lacked the polish of wealthier clubs, with faded walls and a bare, unadorned space behind the guest chair. It was said the office had only recently been moved to this location after years in even more dilapidated surroundings, a testament to the club's ongoing budgetary challenges. 

Pastorello sat at a simple wooden desk in the room's far corner. The office itself was sparsely furnished, with a blank section of wall standing out as the most noticeable feature. Its faded surface added an air of austerity, but also of unfulfilled ambition. 

"Many people have told me I should hang a picture here or repaint it," Pastorello said as Aymar entered the room and took a seat. "But I've never done it. Do you know why?" 

Aymar shook his head. Though well-versed in football, he was unfamiliar with the inner workings of Verona or Pastorello's personality. 

"When I became chairman," Pastorello continued, "I promised myself I would leave something behind—something tangible. A moment of glory for this club. A promotion, a trophy, anything that could give the fans something to remember. Something worthy of being framed and displayed here." 

For a fleeting moment, the chairman's eyes glimmered with determination, a stark contrast to the struggles he and the club faced daily. Yet, as quickly as it appeared, the fire faded, replaced by a quiet resignation. 

"But it hasn't happened yet," he admitted, his voice heavy with frustration. "Not yet. However, I'm confident we can still achieve it. And I believe Gillo Urso can be the key to making that happen." 

Aymar listened carefully, noting the mention of Gillo, Verona's head coach. Pastorello's trust in Gillo seemed unwavering, and Aymar began to sense the pressure that was quietly building on his own role as part of the coaching staff. 

No wonder, in the minds of many Italians, Gillo Urso was synonymous with top coaching. In his first season as head coach, he had led a mid-tier team to an improbable promotion, earning him a reputation as one of the most promising tactical minds in the country. Known for his confidence and charisma, Gillo was often referred to as "the face of Verona's future." 

Despite setbacks in his coaching career at higher levels, Gillo's stubborn determination had won the trust of Hellas Verona's management and fans alike. They still believed that, with time, he could guide the team back to prominence. 

Aymar listened silently as Giambattista Pastorello spoke, trying to decipher the chairman's true intentions. Was Pastorello reminding him that Gillo's position at the club was untouchable? Or was he warning him not to cause unnecessary conflict? 

"You're a very unique individual, Aymar," Pastorello said after a brief pause. "Like Pippo, you both bring something different to the table. But both of you have made the same mistake: you think the world should revolve around your vision. In reality, no matter who comes or goes, the world—and this club—will keep turning just as it always has." 

Pastorello leaned back in his chair before sliding a thick stack of papers across the desk toward Aymar. "These are the letters we've received in recent days—complaints from parents, objections from players, protests from fans. It's all here." 

Aymar glanced briefly at the stack in front of him but made no move to open it. His disinterest seemed to catch Pastorello off guard. 

"You're not even curious about what they're saying?" the chairman asked, a hint of surprise in his voice. 

Aymar shook his head. "No, I'm not. If I had that kind of time, I'd rather spend it on the training ground. At least there, I can work on instilling more discipline and ideas into my players. That way, they'll perform better in the near future, and those complaints won't matter anymore." 

Pastorello blinked in surprise, momentarily taken aback. Then a faint, bittersweet smile crossed his face. "You really are a stubborn young man, aren't you?" 

Aymar wasn't sure how to take the remark, whether it was a compliment or criticism. Either way, he felt no need to respond. Instead, he focused on his own goals—proving himself and building something meaningful at Hellas Verona, regardless of the obstacles or doubts around him. 

"You and Gillo made a bet—I know," said Pastorello. "He's explained the situation to me and asked that I not interfere with the agreement between you two. I respect his decision because I'm convinced he will win. You should be prepared, Aymar. You're still young, only 23, lacking experience, but with a great future ahead of you." 

It was clear that Pastorello saw himself as a supportive elder. Despite the confidence he placed in Gillo, Aymar could sense genuine concern in the chairman's words. Though slightly irritated by the assumption of his defeat, Aymar could not entirely dismiss the underlying care in Pastorello's tone. 

He was not the kind of impulsive young coach to lash out without thought. 

"I know that both you and Pippo are capable, forward-thinking young men," Pastorello continued. "But this is Verona. The people here have their own traditions and expectations. If you want to thrive in this environment, you need to adapt. Pippo has done a great job of that." 

Aymar suddenly laughed, surprising the chairman. "With all due respect, Mr. Pastorello, I honor Verona's traditions, its people, and its footballing culture. But I am a football coach. I am not a missionary, nor a savior attempting to change everything. I'm simply here to coach football." 

He emphasized the last sentence with deliberate intensity, asserting his identity as a professional. 

"I came to Verona with one purpose: to apply what I've learned. The bet I made with Gillo was not about personal pride or tradition—it was about football philosophy. It has nothing to do with the politics of north versus south or any other outdated divisions. Gillo and I both see this as a professional challenge, a gentleman's agreement." 

Pastorello blinked, surprised by how closely Aymar's words mirrored Gillo's own reasoning. 

"I don't need to read these complaints to know what they say," Aymar continued, gesturing to the stack of letters on the desk. "They likely claim I train too hard, that I'm harsh on the players, that I don't allow the fans into training sessions, or that I've imposed changes that make people uncomfortable." 

Aymar stood up, locking eyes with the chairman as he spoke with deliberate clarity. "Mr. Pastorello, I am more than willing to continue working at Hellas Verona until my contract expires. But that is conditional on one thing: the club must respect my profession and my methods. If the club feels my actions are inappropriate or tries to force me to change my approach, then I'm sorry—I will consider it a betrayal of my principles and resign immediately." 

He paused, softening his tone slightly before continuing. "However, if the club is willing to embrace these changes, I can promise you something. I will give this club a result that will surpass all expectations." 

As he said this, Aymar pointed to the large, bare wall behind the guest chair. His voice was brimming with confidence. "Maybe, it will be me you'll want to hang there." 

Pastorello stared at him, momentarily stunned by the young coach's audacity. But after a beat, he laughed, raising his hand in acknowledgment. "Are you telling me I'm being forced into a bet I didn't agree to play?" 

Aymar smiled, his confidence unshaken. "It's not a bet, Mr. Pastorello. It's an opportunity. I can't guarantee that if you miss this chance, you won't regret it later—for yourself and for Hellas Verona." 

With that, Aymar turned and strode toward the door. Before leaving, he picked up the stack of complaints from the desk. 

As Pastorello watched him go, he couldn't help but feel a mix of admiration and curiosity. There was something undeniably magnetic about Aymar's self-assuredness. Despite his arrogance, Pastorello found himself wondering: could this audacious young coach truly be the one to bring new life to Hellas Verona? 

... 

... 

30 Minutes Before Training. 

Standing in front of the second-team players, Aymar Zambo held a stack of complaint letters he had taken from Giambattista Pastorello's office. Clutching them in one hand, he occasionally slapped them against his thigh, the sharp sound cutting through the tense silence. 

The players shifted uneasily. Many recognized the complaint letters and felt a pang of guilt. They couldn't understand how these documents had ended up in the hands of their head coach. Did he have the chairman's trust? Or was this some kind of power play? 

Aymar raised the stack of complaints, his tone sharp. He scanned the first page, then flipped to the second, and a few more after that. His expression hardened. 

"Not a single name," he said, his voice carrying over the group. "Page after page, not one of you had the courage to sign your name. God, can anyone here tell me who wrote these letters? Even one name? No? Then I'll say it: cowards!" 

His eyes swept over the group. Most of the players stared at the ground, avoiding his gaze. All except Pippo Glaviano, who stood with his head held high, his expression defiant. 

"If I were going to complain," Aymar continued, "I'd write my name in bold letters across the top. You know why? Because it shows conviction. It gives weight to your words. But what do I see here?" He waved the letters dramatically. "Nothing but anonymous drivel. And do you know what I think of anonymous complaints?" 

Without waiting for a response, Aymar flung the stack of letters into the air. The papers fluttered down like snow, scattering across the training ground. 

"I think they're a joke. A stupid, childish joke." 

The players looked on in stunned silence as the complaint letters littered the grass. Aymar's next words hit like a hammer. 

"In my eyes, cowards have no right to complain. Cowards don't even have the right to resist. All they can do is accept. So, for those cowards among you, I'm sorry to announce this: today's training load will be doubled. The time remains the same." 

The groans and murmurs from the group were instant. Some players hung their heads in despair; others let out soft curses under their breath. They all knew what it meant. Doubling the training load within the same time frame was nothing short of brutal. It felt like a death sentence for the session ahead. 

Aymar ignored their protests, turning sharply on his heel and striding away. As he moved, his gaze landed on a figure standing just outside the pitch, watching. The man was middle-aged, distinctly Italian, and clearly not a club employee. Aymar frowned slightly, wondering who he was and why he was there.