Chapter 122: Starting XI Practice

Chapter 122: Starting XI Practice Chapter 122: Starting XI Practice Monday, August 2, 2010 It had been three days since the team’s last intense session, and Broadfield Stadium buzzed with energy. The training pitches simmered under the relentless August sun, turning Crawley’s air into a heavy, almost suffocating heat. Niels pulled in at dawn, his pickup sputtering to a stop next to the training ground’s rusty gate. The air was thick with the smell of scorched grass and the distant scent of a fryer van’s grease. His heart raced, a mix of nerves and focus. The season’s opening whistle was just days away, like a storm brewing on the horizon. Today was all about pushing the squad to their limits with a full 11v11 match simulation, designed to mirror the raw intensity of League One. With Pogba and Freeman starting to settle in, this session could be the key to finalizing Crawley’s starting lineup and setting the tone for their battle ahead. Niels gripped a weathered clipboard, its edges frayed and stuffed with formation notes. A 4-2-3-1 setup was scrawled across one page, with Pogba and Freeman’s names circled, marking them as the midfield backbone. These two could be the engine that powered the team forward. But it wasn’t just about the formation. Niels knew the real test was how these players would bleed for each other on the pitch. Pogba and Freeman might control the flow, but it was the others Max’s hunger, Thiago’s flair, Dev’s unpredictability that would turn this blueprint into something dangerous. The team wasn’t just made of names; it was made of moments, decisions, and a relentless drive to rise together. He stepped onto the training ground, the buzz of players tightening their boots and the sharp clink of cones filling the air, like soldiers gearing up for a fight. Today wasn’t about finesse, it was about steel. Niels had one goal: test their limits and see who would break, and who would stand tall when the pressure hit. The pitch hummed with energy as the squad split into two sides for the 11v11. The starters, donned in red bibs, squared off against a mix of reserves and youth in yellow. Niels blew his whistle, loud and commanding and laid out the game plan. The reds would play a 4-2-3-1, with Pogba anchoring the midfield as the holding presence, and Freeman given the free role of the attacking #10, responsible for controlling the flow and igniting the attack. The stage was set; now it was time to see who could execute under the pressure. "Play like it’s Charlton next week!" Niels shouted, his voice cutting through the rustle of kits. "Full intensity, press, move, think fast. No holding back." The squad nodded in unison, their eyes locked in focus. The tension was palpable, the air thick with that familiar pre-match buzz, as every player knew today’s session would set the tone for the battles to come. The simulation kicked off with a burst of energy, players charging across the pitch as the reds pressed high. Pogba was dominant in midfield, his long legs covering ground quickly, intercepting loose balls and sending them straight to Freeman. Freeman, always on the move, slipped through gaps in the defense. With a quick touch of his left foot, he fired passes out to Max and Thiago on the wings, setting them up to attack with pace. Niels stood off to the side, clipboard in hand, keeping a sharp eye on the midfield’s flow. Pogba’s deep "Man on!" calls rang out, perfectly timed with Freeman’s quick nods, setting up a slick one-two that cut through the yellow team’s press. Max took Freeman’s pass and surged forward, but the attack fizzled when Pogba’s next ball went just a little too long. Niels scribbled a quick note, ’Timing is off. Need tighter calls’. The yellows quickly turned the tables, their press closing in on Freeman. Under pressure, he misjudged a pass, and Kieron Marsh’s stand-in intercepted it. Niels didn’t hesitate. "Luke, talk to Paul! Close that gap!" he barked. Freeman grimaced, trying to adjust, but the mistake exposed the gap in communication. It was clear, the midfield still had some tuning to do. Kieron sat on the bench, his knees bouncing with nervous energy, eyes locked on the action. He leaned in toward Nate Sutton and muttered, "I would’ve nicked that ball quicker." Nate chuckled softly, giving him a nudge. "Patience, mate. Your time will come. Just keep grinding." Kieron nodded, his jaw set, mentally mapping out every step it would take to earn his spot in the starting XI. Max, stationed centrally, was a constant threat. On the wings, Thiago and Dev created chaos, their movements in sync. Max’s runs dragged defenders toward him, leaving space for Thiago to explode down the flank. In one fluid sequence, Thiago faked a cross, cut inside, and unleashed a shot, Adam Fletcher dove to parry it away. "Class, Thiago!" Max called out, fist-pumping. Niels, ever the tactician, jotted down a note. ’Wing play sharp. Exploit this’. Thomas and the assistant coaches paced the sidelines, jotting down notes as they analyzed every shift in play transitions, pressing, and decision-making. "Pogba’s doing well in the holding role, but he’s slow to track the runners. We need to drill that," Thomas said, glancing at his assistant. The notes piled up: ’Crisp passing, but sloppy recoveries.Strong pressing, but weak set-piece marking.’ The simulation raged on, reds dominating possession but struggling against the yellows’ lightning-fast counterattacks. Dev Patel, playing for the yellows, twisted past Reece Darby, only for Liam McCulloch to step in with a crunching tackle that sent the ball flying. A roar went up from the reds. "That’s our wall!" Liam shouted, clapping his hands in celebration. A late goal came when Freeman floated a perfect ball to Max, who rose above the defenders and nodded it past the yellows’ keeper. The reds erupted in celebration, Max mock-saluting the empty stands. But Niels remained laser-focused, scribbling in his notebook as he caught a defensive lapse that nearly allowed the yellows to equalize. ’Backline too deep. Fix positioning.’ As the whistle blew, the squad collapsed onto the grass, sprawled out with chests heaving, kits streaked with mud. Niels gathered them for a quick cooldown, his voice steady but firm. "You’re clicking, but it’s not enough. Midfield’s sharper, but those lapses Freeman, Pogba, you need to stay locked in every second. League One won’t forgive those mistakes." Niels pointed to the wings. "Max, Thiago, keep that fire. You’re tearing through, but stay disciplined. Don’t chase glory and leave gaps." Max nodded, wiping sweat from his brow, while Thiago flashed a grin, tossing a water bottle in the air. "Mental sharpness is everything," Niels added, his gaze sweeping across the squad. "Know your role, trust your mate’s. Charlton’s press will test us. Stay calm, stay foused." The team absorbed it, some mentally taking notes, others exchanging determined glances. The gravity of it all settled in. Emma joined the group, her notebook tucked under her arm. "Fitness checks are clear, but hydrate and rest. No late nights," she said, half-coach, half-big-sister. Then, eyeing Pogba as he caught his breath, she added, "Ice those ankles, Paul. We’re not risking you." The squad dispersed, some lingering to stretch, others swapping banter as they headed to the locker room. Kieron stayed behind, kicking a stray ball, his eyes burning with determination. Niels caught his gaze, giving a slight nod, a silent promise: ’Your time’s coming’. Niels headed to the training office as the stadium settled into a dusk hush, floodlights buzzing to life. A worn team scarf hung on the wall, its colors faded but still bold, a symbol of Crawley’s stubborn spirit. He sank into his chair, the rain tapping softly against the window, its steady beat mirroring the town’s pulse. He opened his laptop, diving into clips of Charlton’s wingers, his mind sharpening as he picked apart their runs in preparation for the opener. His thoughts churned with the stakes. The fixtures were brutal Charlton, Sheffield United, Preston in the first stretch. No room for error. Pogba and Freeman were gelling, but the squad needed to click as a unit, and fast. He pictured the team in action: Adam Fletcher, calm and composed in goal, a steady rock; Liam McCulloch, barking orders at the back, a wall of grit; Reece Darby charging down the right, relentless in his pursuit. Thiago and Dev danced on the wings, their flair slicing through defenses. Nate Sutton picked out gaps with precision, while Kieron Marsh simmered, ready to explode. The season was closing in, the squad taking shape, but their rhythm was still forming, the first match a thunderhead on the horizon. Niels grabbed his clipboard, jotting in bold strokes: ’Lineup tested. Chemistry building. Sharpen the edge. Seize the fight’. The words felt like a vow, his hand steady despite the mounting pressure. He stood, pacing to the window, his breath fogging the glass as he stared at the pitch, its surface gleaming under the floodlights like a promise waiting to be kept. The rain fell harder now, a steady beat that seemed to echo Crawley’s heartbeat, a pulse that urged them forward. It wasn’t just about tactics or players anymore. It was about something deeper. ’This is where it begins.’