Chapter 128: Chasing the Breakthrough

Chapter 128: Chasing the Breakthrough Chapter 128: Chasing the Breakthrough Friday, August 20, 2010 Friday morning arrived with a restless start, following a week of tension. Broadfield Stadium buzzed with anticipation, the training pitches wet from overnight dew, and dark rain clouds filled the sky. Niels drove into the training ground, the tires of his pickup crunching on the damp gravel. The air was thick with the smell of wet earth and coffee from a nearby van. Inside, he felt a mix of hope and pressure, the match against Preston could either spark Crawley’s season or push them further into doubt. The media’s criticism hadn’t softened, Friday’s papers hit hard: "Crawley’s Stumble Continues, Can Niels Find the Spark?" and "Midfield Muddle Dooms Niels’ Dream." The jabs hit hard, but Niels could sense a change in the squad, a determination to prove the doubters wrong after Thursday’s dinner. Friday’s training was precise, with Niels refining the tactics. In the meeting room, he diagrammed on the whiteboard, his marker squeaking as he spoke. "We drop the defensive line Liam, Reece, keep it compact. Midfield, form a tighter block. Pogba and Nate, screen the spaces. Freeman, exploit the gaps between their defense and midfield." The squad Max, Pogba, Freeman, Thiago, Dev, Nate, and the others studied the board, absorbing every detail, their expressions set with tactical intent. Pogba, more subdued since his outburst, asked, "How aggressive should we press, Coach?" Niels locked eyes with him, his tone controlled. "Assess the situation, Paul. Press only when we can win the ball, break their tempo." Freeman scribbled notes, his focus sharp, ready to implement the plan. Kieron, promised minutes, stood at the back, his body tense with anticipation, eyes fixed on the pitch, waiting to make an impact. Max clapped his hands, a fire in his eyes. "Let’s show ’em, lads!" The squad’s energy surged, their steps quickening as they headed to the pitch. The atmosphere crackled with intensity determined, hungry, and ready to make their mark. Saturday evening settled over Broadfield in a gritty, rainy dusk. The stands filled with restless yet hopeful fans, their red scarves damp but still waving. The pitch shimmered under the floodlights, the air heavy with the scent of wet grass and anticipation. Chants of "Come on, Crawley!" echoed through the mist, a pulse for the home side. Niels stood on the touchline, rain beading on his jacket, his clipboard tucked away. The squad took the pitch in their red kits, the 4-2-3-1 set. Kickoff: The whistle blew, and Broadfield erupted. Crawley started strong, their deeper defensive line disrupting Preston’s early attacks. Liam and Reece formed an impenetrable wall at the back, barking orders, while Pogba and Nate pressed tightly, breaking up play with precision. Freeman found space effortlessly, his touches sharp, drifting between defenders like a shadow. In the 12th minute, he flicked a ball to Thiago, who accelerated past a full-back, only to be fouled cynically. The crowd erupted, Thiago grinning as he sprang to his feet, eager and relentless. Thiago was a constant threat, his runs cutting through Preston’s defense, forcing fouls at every opportunity. In the 25th minute, he danced past two defenders, his boots slipping but his balance flawless, only to be taken down just outside the box. The referee waved play on, but the crowd’s roar fired up Crawley. On the opposite wing, Dev took on Preston’s left-back, his step-overs leaving the defender scrambling, though his cross just skimmed over Max’s head. In the 32nd minute, Crawley struck. Pogba read a loose pass, lunging to intercept in midfield, his long strides covering ground quickly. He slipped the ball to Freeman, who spun and threaded a perfect through ball, carving through Preston’s defense. Max, timing his run to perfection, latched onto it, his first touch a little heavy, but his second deadly, a low drive that beat the keeper’s dive. 1–0. Goooal! Broadfield erupted, the crowd leaping to their feet, scarves spinning in the air. Max roared, fist pumping, as Thiago and Freeman rushed to him, and the bench exploded in celebration. Niels nodded on the touchline, a brief flicker of relief in his eyes, but his voice remained firm. "Maintain the structure! Don’t fall back!" The first half ended with Crawley in the lead, their shape disciplined, the crowd’s chants a constant, rhythmic pulse. Halftime: Crawley 1-0 Preston The second half brought heavier rain, the pitch now slick and slippery. Preston pushed forward, their counters dangerous, but Crawley stood firm. In the 55th minute, Fletcher stretched to palm away a curling shot, his gloves stinging from the impact, while the crowd roared his name. Liam and Reece battled Preston’s towering striker, winning crucial headers, their voices cutting through the fog as they commanded the air. In the 68th minute, a stroke of bad luck hit Crawley. A Preston cross, half-cleared by Reece, took a cruel deflection off Nate’s shin, looping over Fletcher’s dive and into the net. 1-1. The away fans erupted, their cheers drowning out the stunned silence from the home crowd. Niels clenched his fists, his voice sharp and commanding: "Let’s refocus! Time to strike back!" Niels turned to the bench, his eyes locking onto Kieron. "You’re on, make an impact." Kieron sprang to his feet, ripping off his jacket, his face burning with determination. He replaced Dev in the 72nd minute, charging onto the pitch with relentless urgency. On his first touch, he pressed a Preston midfielder, stole the ball, and surged forward. His cross was deflected for a corner, but the crowd’s roar was deafening, Kieron’s intensity fueling them all. Kieron’s energy sparked a shift, his tackles fierce and his runs relentless. In the 80th minute, he pounced on a loose ball, feeding Freeman, whose shot was tipped wide. Pogba grew into the game, his challenges crunching and his passes sharper, a quiet redemption after Sheffield. Thiago, ever dangerous, drew another foul, earning a yellow for Preston’s right-back as the crowd roared for more. In the 88th minute, the moment arrived. Thiago collected the ball near the halfway line, his eyes burning with focus. He nutmegged a midfielder, powered past another, his boots slipping but his balance unwavering. With two defenders closing in, he unleashed a rocket from 20 yards out, the ball screaming past the keeper’s dive and into the top corner. 2-1. Broadfield exploded, the crowd deafening as players piled onto Thiago, who slid on his knees, soaked by the rain and roaring in pure elation. Max pulled him up, laughing, "You madman!" The final minutes were a frantic blur. Preston threw everything forward, but Fletcher’s gloves were solid as steel, clawing away a header in stoppage time. Liam and Reece stood resolute, throwing their bodies on the line. The whistle blew, 2-1 to Crawley. Broadfield erupted, the chants of "Crawley! Crawley!" shaking the very foundations of the stands. Fulltime: Crawley 2-1 Preston Niels exhaled on the touchline, rain dripping from his hood, a heavy weight lifting as the crowd’s chant of his name filled the air, something he hadn’t heard since May. He clapped in appreciation, his face tired but alive with the moment. Emma, standing beside him, grinned, her voice quiet. "Still think the fire’s out?" Niels chuckled, shaking his head. "Not tonight, Emma." In the locker room, the squad buzzed with energy, sweat-soaked and elated. Pogba, his confidence returning, fist-bumped Kieron, a small but meaningful sign of connection. "Good shift, mate," Pogba said, his voice steady. Kieron nodded, his fire still blazing but tempered with pride. Max, towel draped around his neck, stood tall and rallied the group. "That’s us! That’s who we are! More of that!" Freeman sat quietly, a faint smile breaking through, his performance a quiet answer to the doubters. Thiago, still buzzing, reenacted his goal to Dev, who laughed, "Mate, you’re unreal!" The room hummed with energy, the win a bandage on the week’s wounds. Online, message boards began to shift. "Thiago’s a star. Freeman’s improving. Pogba just needs rhythm," one fan wrote. Another wrote, "That’s the Crawley we know! Keep it up!" The mood wasn’t fully optimistic yet, but the harsh criticism was softening, replaced by a flicker of hope. Niels stepped outside to the bus, rain still drenching his jacket. He opened his laptop, watching Thiago’s goal again, a spark of pride igniting within him, fueling his determination to build on it. The win was a lifeline, a spark cutting through the fog. He scribbled on his clipboard: ’Win earned’. The words felt like a quiet vow, his hand steady even with the pressure weighing on him. There was still so much to do, but for the first time in a while, he felt sure of it. Niels leaned against the bus, rain tapping against his hood, its rhythm in sync with Crawley’s pulse. Broadfield’s lights cut through the fog, and he could feel the squad’s determination growing stronger, ready to fuel their next step forward.