Lessons from Defeat

The first warm-up match for Verona's second team was against an amateur side from the nearby Veneto region. This team competed in the regional divisions, effectively part of Italy's Eccellenza league structure—the fifth tier of Italian football. 

Despite their low status, Aymar Zambo approached this game with meticulous preparation. Having experienced firsthand the chaos that could arise from underestimating an opponent, he knew the danger of complacency. The lessons from his previous life loomed large in his mind—giants had fallen to much smaller sides when the basics of preparation were ignored. 

Aymar studied the opposition closely through the CoachMaster Guidance System. The amateur side favored a 3-5-2 formation, but their tactical discipline and individual player abilities were glaringly weak. According to the system, their best player's current ability was only 54, roughly equivalent to the lowest-performing players on Verona's second team. Their defense was highlighted as their weakest link—disorganized and vulnerable to pace and incisive passing. 

"Amateur defenses can be exploited," Aymar murmured to himself, mentally sketching out his plan. This match would be an opportunity to implement his ideas and evaluate his new signings under competitive conditions. 

For the starting lineup, Aymar made calculated decisions. Emanuele Torrisi and Gianluca Nicco began on the bench, as he wanted to ease them into the team's rhythm while observing their adaptability from the sidelines. However, Luigi Sepe was chosen to start in goal. His composure and talent as a young goalkeeper were assets Aymar wanted to test under real pressure. Meanwhile, Mattia Cassani was deployed in a shadow striker role, his strengths in short passing and tactical awareness crucial to Aymar's plan to break through the amateur side's fragile defensive line. 

The match took place at Verona's training ground, a modest facility that offered little in terms of grandeur. The small crowd consisted mostly of club staff, a handful of local supporters, and family members of the players. It was a far cry from the roaring stadiums Aymar dreamed of, but it didn't matter—every game was an opportunity to build something greater. 

Originally, Aymar Zambo thought the warm-up match for Verona's second team against FC Luparense—a semi-professional side playing in Italy's Eccellenza, the fifth tier—wouldn't attract much attention. After all, it was just a friendly match meant to test the waters for his new squad. However, to his surprise, nearly 500 people turned up, filling a significant portion of the modest stands. 

What shocked him even more was the hostility radiating from the crowd. As Aymar entered the field alongside assistant coach Pippo Glaviano and his players, a harsh chorus of boos erupted from the stands. Insults followed, cutting through the warm Italian afternoon air. A few disgruntled fans even hurled crumpled paper and discarded cups toward the aisle leading to the home bench. 

"Go back to Cameroon, you don't belong here!" 

"This club doesn't need some nobody foreigner to ruin our team!" 

The venom in their words took Aymar by surprise, though he masked his reaction well. He had anticipated skepticism; after all, he was an outsider in a country where football traditions ran deep, and Verona's fans had little patience for perceived experiments. What he hadn't expected was the outright hostility from a portion of the supporters. The sting of their words gnawed at him, but he remained composed, his face betraying none of the turmoil inside. 

"It's not about you, Aymar," Pippo Glaviano said quietly as they made their way to the dugout. "This is frustration leftover from the first team's recent failures and skepticism about the second team's direction. Most of them don't even care about this match—they just needed someone to blame." 

Aymar clenched his jaw but gave a nod. "It's fine. They can shout all they want. Let the results speak." 

As they passed the players on the way to the dugout, Aymar noticed smirks among some of the senior squad members. It wasn't hard to guess why—many were still harboring grudges from the intense training sessions and Aymar's strict approach. They saw the jeers as validation, as if the crowd was giving voice to their own unspoken frustrations. 

One player, however, stood apart from the rest: Mattia Cassani. His face betrayed none of the smug satisfaction worn by his teammates. Instead, there was a glimmer of discomfort as he observed the fans' reactions. While he had been wary of Aymar's methods initially, his recent improvements on the pitch had softened his opinion. Cassani felt a pang of unease seeing his coach targeted so blatantly. 

As the team took their positions, the boos persisted, but Aymar's focus remained razor-sharp. He turned to Pippo. "Let's see how they react when we start playing our game." 

The referee's whistle blew, and the match kicked off. Verona's second team began under a cloud of animosity from their own fans—a test not just for the players but for Aymar's resolve as well. 

... 

... 

The warm-up match against FC Luparense, a fifth-tier Italian football team, was an opportunity for Aymar Zambo to evaluate his players under competitive pressure. But by halftime, the performance on the pitch was disappointing. 

Despite the clear tactical plan Aymar had laid out, only a few players seemed to be putting in genuine effort. Hutt, Cassani, and Sepe were the exceptions, carrying the team through their individual determination and skill. Cassani, wearing the captain's armband, tried his best to orchestrate attacks, but his well-placed passes and off-the-ball movement were often wasted by teammates who were indifferent or simply not playing to their potential. Hutt, alongside a lackluster defensive line, worked tirelessly to keep the opposition at bay. Meanwhile, Sepe made several outstanding saves, ensuring the score remained 0-0. 

As the referee blew the whistle for halftime, Aymar could feel the frustration building within him. He had known coming into this role that resistance would be inevitable, but seeing it manifest so openly on the pitch—through players who refused to give their all—was infuriating. Still, he held his composure as the team gathered in the locker room. 

"If this is your idea of football, you might as well stay here when we head back to Verona," Aymar said, his voice low but sharp, cutting through the tense silence. His eyes moved deliberately across the room, meeting each player's gaze in turn. "This isn't just about me. When you step on that field, you represent this team, this city. So, decide now if that matters to you." 

He turned his attention to Nicco and Torrisi, who had been waiting for their chance on the bench. "You're in for the second half. Show me what you've got." 

The second half began with Nicco taking charge of the midfield alongside Cassani, while Torrisi slotted into the defense with Hutt. The shift was immediate. With five players now fully committed to Aymar's vision, the team's energy transformed. Cassani found support in Nicco, whose tireless work rate and precise passing allowed for smoother transitions into attack. Torrisi's composed presence in defense gave Hutt much-needed support, stabilizing the backline. 

In the 60th minute, Nicco intercepted a loose pass in midfield and surged forward, linking up with Cassani in a swift one-two combination. Cassani unleashed a curling shot from the edge of the box, only to see it parried by the Luparense goalkeeper. Minutes later, Torrisi made a crucial interception in defense, defusing a dangerous counterattack and immediately releasing the ball to Nicco, who orchestrated another offensive play. 

Sepe, in goal, continued to stand tall, pulling off an incredible save in the 70th minute to deny Luparense's striker in a one-on-one situation. His quick reflexes and confident presence underlined why Aymar had brought him into the team. His sharp distribution also ensured Verona's transitions remained swift, feeding the ball directly to Cassani or Nicco to initiate attacks. 

Despite dominating possession and creating several clear chances, Verona's second team couldn't find the back of the net. Sepe, Hutt, Cassani, Nicco, and Torrisi stood out, their efforts drawing reluctant applause from the sidelines. But it was clear that the rest of the team still wasn't fully on board. 

Disaster struck in the 90th minute. A casual, poorly executed back pass from one of the disengaged players was intercepted by a Luparense striker. Before Torrisi or Hutt could react, the striker broke free and slotted the ball past Sepe, who had no chance to save it. 

The final whistle blew seconds later. FC Luparense had secured a 1-0 victory. 

Aymar stood on the sideline, his expression unreadable. Cassani, Hutt, Nicco, Torrisi, and Sepe walked off the pitch with their heads held high, knowing they had given everything. The rest? Some walked off with indifferent shrugs, while others even wore smug grins, as if to say, "This is what you get." 

As Aymar approached Pippo Glaviano, his frustration was palpable. "Is this their way of getting back at me?" he asked quietly, his tone cold and measured, though his eyes betrayed a deep-seated frustration. 

Pippo hesitated for a moment, choosing his words carefully. He understood that, for Aymar, this match wasn't just a warm-up game—it was a chance to make a statement. Under the shadow of Gillo Urso's strong performances with the first team, Aymar carried the weight of enormous expectations. Losing a game like this, especially to such a preventable mistake, felt like a blow to everything he was trying to build. 

"It's possible," Pippo admitted, though his voice carried a note of caution. "But it's also clear who was playing for you and who wasn't." 

Aymar sighed, his jaw tightening as he glanced toward the retreating players. The sight of some of them smirking, almost reveling in the team's failure, only deepened the sting. Days of tireless preparation, of studying the opponent's tactics and weaknesses, had been undone by apathy and dissent within his own squad. 

But what hurt the most was seeing the efforts of those who believed in him—Cassani, Hutt, Torrisi, Nicco, and Sepe—fall short because of the indifference of their teammates. It wasn't the opponent that defeated them; it was the fractures within their own team. 

"I put everything into this," Aymar muttered, almost to himself. "Every detail. And in the end…" He shook his head, unable to finish the thought. 

Pippo looked at him, his expression conflicted. "It's a hard loss," he said softly. "But if it proves anything, it's that you've already earned the trust of a few. That's where it starts. Build from that." 

Aymar didn't reply. His mind was already racing ahead, calculating how to address the division in the team, how to turn this setback into a catalyst for change. He wouldn't let this loss define him—or his players. 

... 

... 

"Is this what you mean by surprise, Pierino?" Giambattista Pastorello asked with a sneer from the stands. 

Pierino Fanna, sitting beside him, wore a grim expression, especially as he watched Aymar Zambo walk off the field with an almost soulless demeanor. Concern etched across his face—this loss could deal a significant blow to Aymar's confidence, especially for someone so proud and ambitious. 

One couldn't help but wonder—what remains of a coach like Aymar who loses that extraordinary self-belief? 

"Luparense is just a fifth-tier amateur team. The first team performed poorly in their matches, but even they managed to score goals. I thought this would be an easy test for the Cameroonian kid, at least enough for him to pull off a win. But this? It's worse than I expected." 

It was clear that Pastorello was unimpressed with Aymar. From the beginning, Aymar's bold attitude had provoked Gillo Urso, the coach Pastorello heavily relied on, and by extension, challenged Pastorello's authority and vision for Verona's football. 

"You were wrong, Pierino. Maybe he's just an academic—a student who talks a good game but has no real experience or understanding of the brutal reality of football." 

Pierino Fanna remained silent, unable to refute the claim. He understood the cruel truth of football: a single loss often invalidates any excuses or defenses. Results are everything, and everything else becomes background noise. 

"So, what are you saying, Giambattista? You're ready to fire him now, aren't you?" Pierino asked calmly, his tone carefully measured. 

Pastorello hesitated, then shook his head with a sigh. "You still want to defend him, even after this?" 

"I believe in my vision," Pierino replied confidently. 

Pastorello studied Pierino for a moment, then sighed again and relented. "Fine. I'll give him another chance, but my patience is wearing thin. However, Pierino, I want you to promise me one thing." 

Pierino didn't need to ask what that promise would entail; he already knew. 

"If you're ever completely disappointed with Zambo, then come back. Take over the youth team, the adult team, or even join the club's management. Whatever you want, it's yours—I'll make it happen." Pastorello didn't wait for an answer, turning on his heel and leaving the stands. 

Pierino Fanna watched him leave, lost in thought. He understood the stakes. If Aymar truly failed, Pastorello's request would be impossible to refuse. 

"Don't tell me you're just another empty talker—someone who can preach all day but can't lead a team to success," Pierino muttered under his breath, his gaze fixed on the field. 

Then, as if answering his own doubt, he added quietly, "No, Aymar. I'm betting on you. But if you turn out to be a fraud, then I'll accept my fate—even if it means losing everything I've staked on you." 

Meanwhile, murmurs rippled through the stands. 

"Haha, it's perfect! I want everyone to know that Verona's second team lost today. That self-righteous, arrogant foreign coach was humiliated!" one fan jeered loudly. 

"Will he keep failing?" 

"Yes! He's done for. Lost the game, lost the locker room… I didn't even see him at the end of the match. Probably hiding somewhere, crying his eyes out. Haha!" another heckler added. 

Amid the ridicule and laughter, Pierino remained silent, his expression unreadable as he silently resolved to see this through—no matter what it cost. 

... 

... 

The streets of Verona buzzed with chatter, as radio hosts on FM 102.1 dissected the outcome of the warm-up match between Hellas Verona's second team and FC Luparense. Despite the amateur nature of the match, it had drawn widespread attention, though for all the wrong reasons. 

"Welcome back to FM 102.1, Radio Verona. We're discussing today's surprising defeat of Verona's second team against the fifth-tier FC Luparense. Let's connect with our next caller… Hello?" 

Verona was abuzz with chatter. FC Luparense fans reveled in their improbable 1-0 victory over Verona's second team. At the same time, Verona's own supporters seemed oddly pleased with the loss, using it as ammunition to criticize Aymar Zambo, the head coach they viewed as arrogant and unqualified. 

Amid the city's strange atmosphere, Aymar walked aimlessly through Verona's dimly lit streets. His steps were slow, his shoulders heavy with the weight of disappointment. Though the match had been a mere warm-up, the implications were anything but trivial. The loss exposed his team's fragility, his players' lack of trust in him, and his own overconfidence. 

The game had been a stark lesson. While Cassani, Hutt, and Sepe had put in commendable performances, the rest of the squad had played half-heartedly, their resentment toward Aymar's harsh training evident. Even with the introductions of Torrisi and Nicco in the second half, the team's performance improved only marginally. An error in the 90th minute had sealed their defeat—a bitter blow that underscored the depth of his challenge. 

"They did just enough to avoid outright sabotage," Aymar muttered, his voice tinged with bitterness. "But not enough to win." 

He sighed, rubbing his temples as he replayed the match in his mind. Despite his players' shortcomings, Aymar couldn't deny his own role in the defeat. His tactics, while innovative, were too advanced for this level. Concepts like coordinated pressing, positional play, and structured transitions—ideas second nature to him—were far beyond the grasp of his semi-professional squad. Even Cassani, his most diligent player, had struggled to implement his instructions. 

"I asked too much, too soon," Aymar admitted, his voice heavy with frustration. "No wonder the system rewards five achievement points for a first win—it's going to take a miracle." 

Unconsciously, Aymar found himself in Verona's historic Piazza Bra, near the imposing Verona Arena. The ancient amphitheater stood bathed in moonlight, its enduring presence a stark contrast to his own fleeting confidence. He sighed, drawing a measure of solace from the monument's resilience. 

"Un monumento impressionante, non è vero?" a melodic voice asked from nearby. 

Startled, Aymar turned to see a tall, elegant woman standing a few paces away. Her golden hair caught the glow of the streetlights, framing her striking features. She wore a faint smile, her expression a blend of curiosity and amusement. 

"Sì, è impressionante," Aymar replied, his tone guarded but polite. 

The woman tilted her head slightly, studying him with keen interest. "Di dove sei?" she asked. 

Aymar hesitated, sensing her curiosity but also the subtle implication behind her question. "Indovina," he said with a faint smile, deciding to test her assumptions. 

She laughed softly, the sound light and pleasant. "Non sei italiano, questo è certo," she replied, her tone playful. "Cameroonese, forse?" 

Aymar's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Bravo," he said, genuinely impressed. 

The woman smiled knowingly. "Your Italian is good, but your accent gives you away," she explained. "Besides, Verona isn't exactly known for its diversity." 

Aymar chuckled, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "Fair point. And you? Local?" 

"Not exactly," she said, glancing toward the arena. "But I've lived here long enough to feel at home." 

Her gaze returned to Aymar, her expression softening. "You seem troubled." 

Aymar hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. "Rough day," he admitted eventually. 

The woman nodded, as if she understood more than he'd said. "Sometimes, a little history helps put things into perspective," she said, gesturing toward the arena. "Did you know it's one of the oldest Roman amphitheaters still standing? Wars, earthquakes, centuries of neglect—it's endured it all." 

Her words carried a quiet wisdom that struck a chord with Aymar. "Endurance," he murmured, his eyes drifting back to the arena. "It's a lesson I could use right now." 

The woman studied him for a moment, then offered a gentle smile. "You're not the first to feel this way, and you won't be the last. But remember—imperfections don't weaken us. They shape us." 

Her words lingered as she turned to leave, her presence as fleeting as it was profound. Aymar watched her go, a faint spark of resolve rekindling within him. 

Minutes later, he found himself walking toward Piazza dei Signori, the heart of Verona. His feet carried him to a familiar neighborhood, and soon he was standing outside a small storefront: Pierino Fanna's sports shop. The lights were off, the shutters drawn, and a note on the door read, Chiuso per inventario—Closed for Inventory. 

Feeling both restless and hungry, Aymar wandered into the nearby Caffè Dante Bistrot. He selected a corner table by the window, resting his chin on his hand as he stared out into the quiet square. The smell of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries filled the air, but Aymar barely noticed. His mind was a storm of doubts and plans, all revolving around one burning question: How do I turn this around?