Chapter 109: Building the Belief

Chapter 109: Building the Belief Chapter 109: Building the Belief Saturday, July 3, 2010 The morning sun broke through Crawley’s gray clouds as Niels walked into Broadfield Stadium, the smell of wet grass and liniment filling the air. Yesterday’s win in London, securing Thomas as the first part of his coaching team had strengthened his resolve. Today, he would face the board, pushing for Thomas to be hired full-time as fitness coach, a key step in building a culture that could take Crawley beyond League One. The new season was approaching fast, like a coming storm. But Niels felt ready, his heart beating with excitement. He was building something bigger than a team, he was building a legacy, right here on Broadfield’s muddy pitch, where the town’s belief would come alive. Niels stepped into the boardroom a small, worn space with faded wallpaper, a long table cluttered with coffee cups, and a cold draft slipping through a cracked window that looked out over the pitch. Emma stood near the window, her sharp eyes scanning the empty stands. She was calm, steady, a quiet anchor in the room. The board, five members in formal suits watched Niels closely, their expressions a mix of doubt and cautious interest. Hargreaves, the chairman, leaned forward. He had a thick Sussex accent and a face shaped by decades in local football. Niels took a breath and began. "We’re not just building a team for this season, we’re building a legacy, something that lasts beyond any one person, including me. Whether I’m here next year or not, I want to leave behind a structure that makes this club stronger." "Thomas, the fitness coach I met in Amsterdam, is the first step. His methods are modern, detailed, and focused on recovery and resilience. He’ll help keep our squad sharp through the grind of League One. He’s ready to start now, fully paid by the club." Hargreaves frowned. Then Claire, a younger board member with a keen look spoke up, her tone sharp. "He’s not from here, Niels. He’s not part of Crawley’s DNA. We’ve got local coaches who know this club. Why hire a Dutch freelancer?" Niels felt a spark of frustration but held his ground, his eyes meeting Emma’s for a moment, her subtle nod urging him on. "Crawley’s DNA isn’t about where you’re born," he countered, his voice firm but measured, echoing Erik’s wisdom from Eindhoven. "It’s about heart, trust, and a shared story. Thomas gets that. His preseason model, individualized workloads, recovery phases, integration with our high-press system will give us an edge. Max’s relentless runs, Luka’s playmaking vision, Thiago’s explosive flair, they’ll thrive under him." Emma stepped forward, cutting through the tension in the room. "I’ve reviewed his plans," she said, sliding a folder across the table. Inside were Thomas’s notes from Amsterdam, carefully organized with charts and timelines. "This isn’t just about fitness. It’s a full system that builds mental strength, reduces injuries, and fits perfectly with Niels’s tactics. He may not be local, but he’s the right person for where we’re heading." The board members murmured among themselves. Hargreaves’s scowl faded slightly, though he still looked unsure. After a long pause, he finally spoke, his tone gruff but giving ground. "Alright. We’ll approve him for preseason but we’ll be watching. Prove he’s worth it." Niels let out a breath. It was a small but important win, the first step in building the culture and staff he believed Crawley needed for the future. Later, Niels met Thomas at The Red Lion, a local Crawley pub with scratched wooden tables and faded photos of old matches on the walls. The air smelled of ale and fried chips. Thomas slid into the booth with a clipboard in hand, a big grin on his face, though his eyes were sharp with focus. "So, I’m in?" he asked, his Dutch accent cutting through the low pub noise. Niels nodded and raised his pint, the amber beer catching the dim light. "For now. The board’s cautious, but they’ll see your value in preseason. You’re the start of something bigger." As they talked, the pub chatter faded around them. Their conversation turned to vision and philosophy. Thomas grabbed a napkin and quickly drew a timeline, his pen moving fast. "Individual training loads," he said, pointing to a rough grid. "Max needs stamina for his runs, Luka needs agility for his passing, Thiago needs explosive speed. Then short, intense recovery sessions followed by rest. It’ll keep them sharp all season. Integration phases to sync it all with your pressing style. Like Inter under Milan, structured but aggressive." Niels nodded, already imagining Crawley’s squad moving in rhythm sharp, energized, and mentally united, fueled by a clear plan and shared belief. Their conversation carried on into the afternoon. The pub’s windows glowed with the soft light of the setting sun, while dark clouds gathered outside, a sign of the challenges to come. Niels shared his vision: a coaching staff united by a clear philosophy, one that could travel and adapt anywhere. Just like Thomas had said back in Amsterdam. He spoke of hiring a youth coach to connect the academy to the first team, analysts to refine tactics, and assistants who truly loved the game and understood its spirit. "It’s not just about winning," Niels said, his voice calm but full of conviction. "It’s about building a team that fights for each other, for the town, for something real." Thomas’s eyes lit up. His usual grin was gone replaced by a serious, determined nod. "Let’s turn Broadfield into a fortress," he said, clinking his glass against Niels’s. The sound echoed in the quiet booth, a moment that felt like a pact. The fire they’d started in Amsterdam was now alive in Crawley. They spoke about mental strength, how to help Luka stay focused under pressure from Parma, how to keep Max motivated despite interest from Levante. As they left, rain began to fall softly against the windows. Niels felt the weight of the season ahead a storm of transfers, board doubts, and tough matches. But he also felt ready, knowing Thomas would be right there beside him. That evening, back at Broadfield, Niels sat alone in his office. The stadium was silent, the pitch hidden in darkness, lit only by the faint glow of the floodlights cutting through the rain. The soft drumming on the window matched the steady rhythm of Broadfield’s muddy heart. It grounded him. He opened his Future Stars notebook. The names lit up the page like sparks in the dark: Ross Barkley, Conor Coady, Wilfried Zaha, Nick Powell, Nathaniel Clyne, James Tarkowski, Paul Pogba, Danny Drinkwater, John Lundstram. With the board watching the wage bill closely, Niels knew he had to be careful smart, not scattered. He began drafting an email to Emma. His fingers moved steadily over the keyboard, surrounded by the clutter of his office: old matchday programs, a chipped mug, and a photo from their FA Cup run. Midfield shortlist: Danny Drinkwater (loan - progressing well, United open to talks, strong work rate)Paul Pogba (early talks, agent interested, focus on game time and exposure)Ross Barkley (on Everton’s youth radar, creative spark, big potential)\(n)ovel(.)co(m) He paused, then typed one more line: I’m not building a squad. I’m building a future. It wasn’t just a sentence, it was a vow. A reflection of what he’d learned in Eindhoven: Build a staff that fights for the story, not the scoreline. The transfer window loomed like a dark cloud Levante pushing hard for Max, Parma scouting Luka, and the board’s tight budget limiting every move. But Niels felt a surge of energy. The challenge lit a fire in him. Drinkwater’s work ethic could steady the midfield. Lundstram was a smart, affordable option with big upside. And Pogba, still a long shot could change everything. His vision and power could be the foundation for a new Crawley. Niels pictured Max, armband tight on his sleeve, turning down La Liga to lead his hometown club. He saw Luka staying, threading passes through tough matches, choosing Broadfield’s muddy heart over Parma’s shine. He imagined a rebuilt midfield: Drinkwater’s grit, Barkley’s creativity, maybe even Pogba’s control, playing alongside Thiago’s energy, Max’s drive, and Luka’s quiet brilliance. Thomas was just the beginning. His preseason plan was more than training, it was the first layer of a team built to rise, a staff ready to follow Niels’s vision, wherever it led. Niels leaned back in his chair as the rain picked up outside, a steady beat on the window that matched the battles still to come. The clutter around his office grounded him, old match programs piled up, the chipped mug from countless late nights, and a photo from the FA Cup run that captured Crawley’s spirit. The board’s doubts, Levante’s pressure, Parma’s interest, the tight budget—these weren’t setbacks. They were tests. And Niels welcomed them. He closed his notebook, the note in his pocket a quiet reminder of the town’s belief in him. The season had arrived. It would be tough, urgent, and full of hard choices but he was ready. He would fight to keep Max and Luka. He would scout smart, look for players like Pogba and Drinkwater. He would build a staff, starting with Thomas, that shared his vision.