"Mr. Pastorello, journalist friends, I'm sorry, but you can't enter!"
The group of reporters stopped in their tracks, stunned. They exchanged glances before turning their questioning eyes to Giambattista Pastorello.
The club president hesitated before stepping forward. "Pierino, they just want to ask Mr. Zambo a few questions. It won't interfere with the team's training."
Pierino Fanna's polite but firm demeanor didn't waver. "I'm sorry, Mr. Pastorello, but the head coach has issued strict orders. During training, no one is allowed near the pitch or to observe from the sidelines. If they wish to interview him, he'll make himself available after the session."
"So, we're expected to just wait around for him?" one reporter snapped, his frustration evident.
Pierino offered a diplomatic smile. "That's entirely up to you."
Without another word, Pierino turned on his heel and jogged back to the pitch at Aymar's call, leaving the reporters visibly displeased.
"Mr. Pastorello, is this his way of asserting dominance?" one journalist muttered.
Pastorello frowned, uneasy. He knew how crucial it was to maintain a good relationship with the media, but he also understood Aymar's reasoning. The young coach's insistence on strict training protocols had caused uproar even at the second-team level, once driving away parents who lingered near the sidelines to watch their sons train. That incident had sparked a flurry of complaints, but Aymar had remained steadfast in his approach.
Now, it seemed, he was applying the same philosophy to the first team.
Pastorello glanced toward the pitch. Despite his initial doubts, he had to admit that the players were complying with Aymar's demands. There was no slacking, no arguing—just focused effort. Remembering the authority he had granted Aymar, Pastorello sighed and waved the reporters away.
Reluctantly, the so-called "big-name" journalists left, grumbling about the indignity of waiting for a coach with no professional pedigree. By the time Aymar finished the morning training session and made his way to the office, only one journalist had stayed behind—a young reporter from La Gazzetta dello Sport.
"Francesco Granelli, intern reporter," the young Italian introduced himself, rising to shake Aymar's hand. "Thank you for taking the time to speak with me."
Aymar surveyed the empty room with a wry smile. "You're the only one who stayed? That's some dedication."
"Thank you," Francesco replied earnestly.
"Aymar Zambo," the coach introduced himself, noting the reporter's earnest demeanor. "Go ahead. What would you like to know?"
Francesco took out his notebook and pen, his movements brisk and professional. "Hellas Verona has only earned 4 points so far this season, with no victories after 21 rounds. The team sits at the very bottom of Serie B. What's your take on the situation?"
"An accident," Aymar replied without hesitation. "An absolute accident. This team has the talent to be far from the relegation zone. The results don't reflect the true quality of the squad."
Francesco raised an eyebrow, momentarily surprised by the young coach's confidence. "Do you genuinely believe you can lead Verona to avoid relegation?"
Aymar's smile widened. "Yes."
The reporter paused, as though unsure he had heard correctly. "You do?"
"Yes," Aymar repeated firmly. "I'm confident in this team's potential. I told the players earlier today that it doesn't matter what happened in the first 21 matches. What matters is what we do in the next 21. If we can secure 36 points, we'll have a real shot at staying in Serie B. It won't be easy, but it's possible. The fight starts now."
Francesco stared at him, stunned by the bold claim. To accumulate 36 points in 21 matches was no small feat, especially for a team that had managed just 4 points so far.
"That's quite the target," Francesco said, a faint, skeptical smile playing on his lips.
Aymar Zambo shook his head firmly. "No, you're wrong. I didn't say 36 points is the goal. I said that with 36 points, we could avoid relegation. But that's not my ambition."
Francesco blinked, confused by the distinction. "Then what is your goal?" he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.
Aymar leaned forward slightly, his expression serious but calm. "Can you guarantee that what I'm about to say will be published in La Gazzetta dello Sport tomorrow?"
Francesco paused, weighing the question, before nodding confidently. "Yes, I promise."
Satisfied, Aymar straightened up, his demeanor suddenly charged with intensity. He fixed Francesco with a stare that made the young journalist shift uneasily in his seat, as if the weight of the moment was pressing down on him.
"Let me be perfectly clear to everyone—every fan, every critic, and every doubter," Aymar began, his voice firm and unwavering. "Hellas Verona's goal isn't to scrape past relegation with 36 points. No. Our target is 55 points. There are 21 matches left, and we're going to fight for every single one of them. This isn't arrogance. It's belief in what we're building here. The Verona you saw in the first half of the season is gone. What's coming is something no one is prepared for. Watch us."
Francesco's jaw dropped. He sprang to his feet, his pen frozen mid-air. "Fifty-five points?"
"Yes," Aymar said, his tone resolute. "Publish it exactly as I've said. In fact, I encourage every newspaper and media outlet to reprint it. I want everyone to know."
Francesco nodded, still in shock, and hastily scribbled down the words. Fifty-five points.
As Francesco left the office and climbed into a taxi, he found himself staring at the hastily scrawled note in his notebook. The number "55" seemed almost surreal, distorted by the tremor in his hand as he had written it. He couldn't shake the disbelief settling over him.
At present, Hellas Verona had just 4 points. If Aymar's claim of reaching 55 points held true, not only would the club comfortably avoid relegation, but they might even climb into contention for promotion.
In Serie B, where competition was fierce, such a turnaround seemed absurd. At the time, Verona was adrift at the bottom of the table, and the gap between them and the league leaders, Juventus and Napoli, seemed insurmountable. The midtable positions were tightly contested, with only a handful of points separating teams from 8th to 18th. The idea of a team winning almost every match in the second half of the season was nothing short of audacious.
And yet, as improbable as it sounded, Francesco couldn't forget the unwavering confidence in Aymar's eyes. The young coach didn't just believe his words—he seemed to breathe them.
Francesco couldn't help but feel a spark of curiosity. Could Aymar Zambo truly pull off what seemed impossible? Could he lead Hellas Verona to a miraculous turnaround?
Shaking his head to clear the thought, Francesco tried to dismiss the idea as foolish optimism. But no matter how hard he tried, the image of Aymar's resolute expression stayed with him. Against all logic, Francesco realized he wanted to see how the story would unfold.
Would Hellas Verona truly defy the odds? Or would Aymar's bold proclamation become another forgotten footnote in the long history of improbable dreams?
...
...
When Francesco Granelli returned to the headquarters of La Gazzetta dello Sport with his interview draft, the editor-in-chief immediately inquired about the story's details and progress.
In Verona, where local pride was closely tied to the fortunes of Hellas Verona, any news about the club commanded attention. A young coach making bold claims of an improbable turnaround was too good a story to pass up.
The editor-in-chief read Francesco's exclusive interview with Aymar Zambo and immediately recognized its potential. "This could make waves," he said, tapping the paper thoughtfully. With no major domestic or international football news dominating the day, he decided to feature it as the headline of the next issue.
The next morning, the front page screamed with a provocative title: An Impossible Task?! The article chronicled Aymar Zambo's audacious claim that Verona could reach 55 points and overturn their dismal start. The coach's words created a stir among readers.
Public reactions poured in swiftly. Many Verona fans ridiculed the statement, calling Aymar's confidence delusional. Social media and fan forums buzzed with sarcasm, while critics dismissed him as an inexperienced outsider with no grasp of Serie B's realities. Despite the skepticism, the headline drew widespread interest and boosted newspaper sales.
Seeing the attention, La Gazzetta dello Sport leaned into the controversy. The next day, they invited a veteran Verona supporter to analyze the club's relegation chances. The conclusion? Impossible.
But the backlash only heightened curiosity. Fans and skeptics alike wanted to see whether Aymar Zambo could deliver on his promises or collapse under the weight of his words.
What started as a local story soon gained traction beyond Verona. Major Italian sports outlets like Corriere dello Sport and Tuttosport picked up the narrative, captivated by the audacity of Aymar's declaration. Even international media reported on the story, framing it as a mixture of bravado and naivety. Within days, Aymar had become a figure of national intrigue.
Yet, as the media buzzed, Aymar remained resolutely focused. His attention was squarely on Verona's upcoming matches, particularly the next one against Triestina in the 22nd round of Serie B. Hours were spent analyzing footage, dissecting Triestina's recent games, and identifying tactical opportunities. The CoachMaster Guidance System worked overtime, offering detailed breakdowns and suggesting strategies for neutralizing Triestina's strengths.
"This one," Aymar muttered to himself, "this one, we have to win."
But tactics weren't his only focus. Aymar made a point of targeting his players' mindsets, holding one-on-one conversations to motivate and prepare them for the intensity of the challenge ahead. His drills on the training pitch were relentless, with each session designed to simulate the pressure they would face in the match.
The growing noise around his bold claims only spurred him on. If they think I'm all talk, I'll show them what belief and preparation can achieve.
...
...
Marco Ferrante, 35 years old, was nearing the end of his illustrious career. Best known for his time at Torino, where he became one of the club's all-time leading scorers, Ferrante had seen it all in Italian football. He had played in Serie A and Serie B, leading the line for various teams and earning a reputation as a reliable goal scorer. But now, in the twilight of his career, his stint at Hellas Verona was shaping up to be one of his most challenging experiences.
Standing outside Aymar Zambo's office, Ferrante hesitated. His hand hovered near the door, ready to knock, but doubt crept into his mind. What could this young coach, nearly 12 years my junior, possibly teach me about the game I've dedicated my life to?
But memories of Zambo's fiery demeanor on the training ground gave him pause. Despite his skepticism, Ferrante had to admit there was something compelling about the young coach's approach. Taking a deep breath, he finally knocked.
"Come in," Zambo's calm but firm voice called out.
Ferrante stepped inside, finding Zambo seated behind his desk, reviewing tactical notes. Without looking up, Zambo gestured toward the chair opposite him.
"Marco," Zambo began as he placed the notes aside, his gaze sharp and focused. "This season hasn't gone the way anyone expected. Last year, you were scoring consistently—16 goals if I recall correctly. But this season, just three so far.
Ferrante shifted uncomfortably in his seat but remained silent. As a striker, he knew the numbers didn't lie. Excuses wouldn't change them.
Zambo leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "I've watched you closely in training. Despite the team's struggles, you're the first one out on the pitch and the last to leave. Your work ethic is evident, and that's something I admire."
Ferrante raised an eyebrow, slightly surprised. "You've noticed?"
"Of course," Zambo replied, his tone unwavering. "But here's the thing—a striker can't thrive without the right support. You've spent your career making something out of nothing, but even the best need service. A team that creates a dozen good chances per match will make any forward look like a star. But when you're getting scraps, it doesn't matter if you're Marco Ferrante or Gabriel Batistuta—you'll struggle."
Ferrante nodded, appreciating the honesty. "So, you don't think this is entirely on me?"
"Not at all," Zambo said firmly. "But you're not just another player, Marco. You're the leader of this team. The younger guys look up to you. They need to see you fighting, not just for goals, but for them. That's what I need from you—your professionalism, your experience, and your drive to inspire the squad."
Ferrante leaned back, his arms crossed. For a moment, he studied the young coach, weighing his words. After a pause, he nodded. "You'll get my best."
As Ferrante stood to leave, Zambo called out, "Marco, one more thing. You're 35 now, right? You'll be 36 by the season's end."
Ferrante paused, his hand on the doorknob, glancing back with a wary look.
Zambo got up and circled the desk. "I was reading up on your career, especially your time at Torino. You were unstoppable. Over 100 goals, leading the club's revival. But now... do you ever think about those days? About what it felt like to be the one everyone feared on the pitch?"
Ferrante's expression hardened. Memories of his time at Torino flooded back—his peak years, where he felt untouchable. But those years felt distant now.
Zambo's voice sharpened. "If I were you, Marco, I'd be furious. Furious that people think you're done. Furious that the only thing they talk about now is your age. But here's the question—do you still have that fire? Do you still want to prove you're not finished, or are you content to let the years drift by?"
Ferrante's jaw tightened, and his fists clenched at his sides. A fire flickered in his eyes, ignited by Zambo's words.
"Do you think what I said to the reporter from La Gazzetta dello Sport was nonsense? Do you think I made bold claims for no reason? Don't be foolish. I'm not crazy. Every word I said came from the heart—it's what I truly believe!"
Aymar Zambo's voice was firm, his intensity palpable. He stood from the sofa and began pacing, his gaze sharp and unwavering as he addressed Marco Ferrante.
"Everyone thinks we're finished. Everyone has already relegated us in their minds. But I'm here to prove them wrong. I'm here to show the world that as long as the fight isn't over, nothing is impossible!"
He stopped beside Ferrante and placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, the gesture both reassuring and challenging. "Every coach, every player dreams of leaving behind a legacy. They want moments of pride to reflect on when their careers are over. You want that too, don't you?"
Zambo's voice softened, but the weight of his words remained. "When you look back on your career, Marco, what do you see? Goals at Torino, yes. Moments of brilliance, no doubt. But what about now? What will people remember if this is how it ends?"
He stepped back, letting his words sink in before continuing. "Right now, you have a chance. A chance to rewrite the story. To stand with me, lead this team, and create a miracle—something so extraordinary that it will echo in the history of football."
Zambo's pacing resumed, his gestures animated. "Imagine this: many years from now, when new fans join the terraces, the old supporters will tell them about Hellas Verona's impossible season. How, in 2007, with just 4 points from the first 21 matches, we turned everything around. How we didn't just avoid relegation but fought our way to safety with grit, determination, and pride."
He turned back to Ferrante, pointing first to him and then to himself. "And who will they say made it happen? You, me, and every player in this squad. Together, we can make this season unforgettable. Together, we can leave a legacy that no one will ever forget."
Zambo placed both hands on Ferrante's shoulders, his tone now calm but no less resolute. "Think about it. This is your chance, Marco. A chance to silence every doubt and leave behind a career with no regrets."
Ferrante stood silent, his expression unreadable. After what felt like an eternity, he gave a slow nod, then turned and left the room without a word.
Moments after Ferrante departed, Andrea Cossu, Verona's creative playmaker, knocked on the door and entered.