The tension was unbearable at the FCSB Steaua training ground. Head coach Marius Dumitrescu had spent weeks drilling his squad for the crucial derby match, but disaster struck in the final minutes of training.
As the players gathered, wiping sweat from their brows, Dumitrescu paced furiously. Then, he snapped.
“Who did it? WHO?” he bellowed.
Silence. Only the sound of nervous shuffling.
The coach’s eyes locked onto his star midfielder, Andrei Popescu. “Popescu! Was it you?”
Popescu swallowed hard. “Coach, I swear, I didn’t—”
But Dumitrescu had seen the evidence with his own eyes. The culprit had committed the ultimate sin: knocking over his freshly brewed, imported Italian espresso. A tragic accident? Or a reckless crime against caffeine? It didn’t matter. The damage was done.
Frustration boiled over. Dumitrescu, in a fit of rage, swung his hand—intending to slap the culprit. But in the heat of the moment, he miscalculated. Instead of Popescu, his hand connected forcefully with his own thigh. The shockwave of pain shot through him, and he let out a yelp.
The players stared. A few tried to suppress chuckles. The assistant coach turned away, his shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter.
Dumitrescu straightened up, trying to salvage his dignity. “Let this be a lesson!” he barked. “No one—NO ONE—disrespects my coffee!”
And with that, he stormed off.
That evening, the locker room was filled with whispers. Some said Dumitrescu had meant to slap Popescu. Others claimed he had just been overwhelmed by emotion. One thing was certain: from that day forward, no one dared touch the coach’s coffee again.
