Harbinger Of Glory

The four people beside Piatelli now had their files already open, pens lined up as the session began.

”Enrico,” he began, voice calm but firm, ”we’re going to get straight to it. There are several issues we need to address regarding your tenure with the Under-21s.”

Baldini leaned back, folding his arms.

He didn’t respond, just waited.

One of the men, silver-haired, glasses low on his nose, pushed a folder forward.

”We’ve reviewed your performance across the cycle,” he said.

”Results aside, the overriding concern is the trend. The team has regressed under your management. The win rate is low, but more importantly, the way the team plays shows no clear progression.”

Another staff member, the woman with the laptop, glanced up.

”We’ve monitored training sessions. There’s been little tactical variation. You also seem not to be actively involved in the session. You leave it to your assistant, who actually seems to have a better understanding of your own players than you do.”

”During trainings with you in charge, the players repeat patterns that don’t fit their profiles, and when matches shift, the team fails to adapt. That reflects on preparation.”

Baldini’s fingers drummed once against his forearm, but he stayed quiet.

The younger man beside her picked it up.

”We also have to address selection patterns. Several players who should’ve been evaluated weren’t. In the last two camps, multiple recommendations from the scouting department were ignored.”

He slid a sheet across the table.

”Some of these players haven’t even been tested in friendlies.”

”It’s the coach’s job to choose who he trusts,” Baldini muttered.

”And it’s the federation’s job,” the man replied, ”to ensure that trust isn’t based on personal preferences rather than the team’s needs.”

Piatelli didn’t react to the small spark.

He kept his tone steady.

”We’ve tried to give you space,” he said.

”We’ve tried to let you work in your way, even when it meant shelving ideas we believed would help the group. But at some point, results and development have to align, which they haven’t.”

He opened a folder of his own, turned it toward Baldini.

”And then we come to Slovenia.”

The room stiffened a bit as they knew the direction they had gone in now.

Baldini stared at the papers but didn’t reach for them.

”You subbed off the entire team,” Piatelli said.

”Including the keeper. Down 2–1. With twenty minutes left.”

He paused, then added, ”You left one player on the bench. The only one who hadn’t played.”

One of the men beside him leaned forward.

”Enrico, you know how that looks. It wasn’t tactical. It wasn’t strategic. It looked like a statement. And not for the benefit of the team.”

Baldini finally uncrossed his arms, resting his hands on the table, jaw tight.

”We all know the history here,” Piatelli continued.

”I’m not pretending we don’t. But your issue with me can’t spill into the squad. That’s the line.”

The woman with the laptop nodded.

”We spoke to your staff. Several felt uncomfortable. They didn’t understand the choice and couldn’t justify it from a technical perspective.”

Another added, ”And the players sensed it. That affects the atmosphere, the confidence, the culture we’re trying to rebuild. We can’t have the Under-21s dragged into old frustrations.”

The words hung there with no drama and no raised voices.

Just a clean, professional dismantling of everything that led them to this moment.

Piatelli closed the folder gently, palms resting on it.

”You’ve been in this job long enough to know these things matter,” he said quietly.

”We’re not here to ambush you. We’re here because the situation isn’t improving, and yesterday made it impossible to ignore.”

He watched Baldini for a long second.

”Before we continue,” he said, ”do you have something you want to say?”

Baldini didn’t hold back.

He let out a sharp breath through his nose, then pushed his chair back a little, not enough to stand, but enough to square himself against everyone in front of him.

”Fine,” he said. ”Since we’re putting everything on the table, I’ll say it. Yes, I rebelled. Yes, I’ve made decisions you don’t like. And yes, it’s because of him.”

He jabbed a finger toward Piatelli.

”Because every time I try to run this team my way, he finds a way to meddle.”

None of the four reacted.

They just watched him unravel it all.

”You think I didn’t notice?” Baldini went on.

”You send scouts to the Championship out of nowhere for a kid we’ve never tracked. No prior reports, no youth caps, nothing. And suddenly, suddenly—he’s on my squad list. And if I don’t play him, I’m the problem.”

He scoffed, leaning back again.

”Look, I’ll admit it. He’s good. Very good. I’m not blind. But being good doesn’t mean he gets shoved into the team because Piatelli here decides he’s found the next golden boy.”

The woman with the laptop glanced at Piatelli, then back at Baldini, who still made no attempt at a response.

Baldini’s laugh came out sharp and bitter.

”He got rid of my father. Now he wants to get rid of me, too. Isn’t that right?”

He pointed again, sweeping the room with his arm.

”It’s clear. Replace me with his own son. Marco Piatelli, my assistant. Groomed and ready.”

The silence hit harder this time.

Even the air-conditioning hum seemed to drop.

Piatelli sighed quietly, leaned forward, fingers laced, elbows resting gently on the table.

”That’s exactly what I intend to do,” he said.

A couple of breaths caught in the room as Baldini stared at him, eyes wide, before breaking into a humourless grin.

”See?” he snapped. ”He admits it!”

”Yes,” Piatelli replied, tone even. ”I admit it because Marco is better than you.”

The words didn’t come out cruel, but rather came out factual.

That somehow made them sharper.

”And since we’re being honest,” Piatelli continued, adjusting his glasses before setting them down on the folder in front of him, ”you brought up Leo, so let’s address that too.”

Baldini’s expression soured further.

”I pushed him into the squad,” Piatelli said.

”I wrote his recommendation myself. Not because of politics or nepotism, but because he earned it. Numbers don’t lie. Seventeen minutes on the pitch against Japan. Seventeen. In that time, he completed every pass. One hundred per cent accuracy. Didn’t lose the ball once. Controlled the tempo more than anyone else wearing our shirt. And then he produced the assist that won the match.”

He tapped the table lightly with one finger.

”Those are facts.”

Baldini looked away, jaw grinding.

”And Marco,” Piatelli went on, ”has made your job easier than you seem willing to admit. He runs your sessions. He structures the prep. He communicates with the players. He keeps reports. And you’ve taken advantage of that. You disappeared for three days before the camp, Enrico. Three days. No one in the federation knew where you were.”

He paused, letting that sit there. ”And training still ran well. Because Marco handled it.”

Baldini stiffened, but said nothing.

”So yes,” Piatelli said, voice calm but firm, ”if I have people who are qualified, who do the work, who help the team move forward, I will put them in positions where they can do that.”

He held Baldini’s gaze, steady and unmoving.

”And I won’t apologise for that.”

The room settled into a thick silence after Piatelli finished.

Even Baldini, who had been loud and sharp only moments before, stayed glued to his chair.

Piatelli let the quiet hang for a moment longer before he straightened.

”I could sack you myself,” he said plainly.

”Do it today, issue the statement tomorrow, put Marco in charge, and the worst I’d get is a few awkward looks. Maybe a few comments about timing.”

He shrugged lightly.

”But I won’t do that.”

Baldini frowned, unsure if it was a trick or an insult.

”That’s why they’re here.” Piatelli gestured toward the three men on the opposite side of the table.

”I recuse myself. No influence. No final word. The decision is theirs. Three votes. Odd number, no ties. You stay, or you leave.”

The woman slid a folder across the table toward the trio.

”The petition to remove Coach Baldini is inside.”

One of the men flipped it open, scanning the summary before nodding.

The other two read more slowly but reached the same place, tight mouths, resigned expressions.

”Let’s begin,” Piatelli said.

There was no suspense.

No whispered side talk.

The first man raised his hand. ”Dismiss.”

The second: ”Dismiss.”

The third didn’t hesitate. ”Dismiss.”

Baldini’s face pulled tight, the colour draining from it as he stared at the three as if they’d betrayed him personally.

One of them spoke, tone calm but worn.

”The pressure is on all of us, Luca. We didn’t qualify in 2018. And in a few weeks, the world will watch the 2022 World Cup without Italy again. People want answers. They want change. We can’t ignore that anymore. Not at senior level, not at youth level.”

Another added quietly, ”We feel the heat too. We can’t justify inconsistency and internal fighting right now.”

Baldini looked down at the table, jaw clenched so hard the muscle near his temple twitched.

Piatelli stood, buttoning his jacket.

”Effective immediately,” he said, meeting Baldini’s eyes, ”you are no longer the head coach of the Under-21s. Staff will help you collect your things from your office.”

A long breath escaped Baldini, more like a scoff as he pushed his chair back.

The legs scraped against the floor, and he stood without looking at anyone.

As he turned toward the door, Piatelli rose as well and extended a hand across the table.

”Thank you for your service, Enrico.”

Baldini paused for half a second, looked at the hand like it was some kind of provocation, then let out a short, bitter snort.

He walked out, the door swinging shut behind him with a dull thud.