Chapter 152: Holding Midfield Masterclass

Chapter 152: Holding Midfield Masterclass Chapter 152: Holding Midfield Masterclass Saturday, 16 October, 2010 The crisp October air at Dean Court carried a charged, familiar weight. This wasn’t just another League One fixture, it was a reunion laced with unfinished business. Crawley Town vs AFC Bournemouth. A rivalry reborn from last season’s fierce battles in League Two, now reignited on a higher stage. The tension was alive in the stands, in every stomp and shout, in the way fans clutched scarves tighter. For Crawley, this was more than a match. It was the unveiling of something new, Coach Niels’s bold tactical overhaul, tested not in training drills or quiet build-ups, but here, under floodlights and pressure. No more theory. No more talk. This was the proving ground. The squad, still riding the high of their Europa League run, had no illusions about tonight. The league was a different beast. Grittier. Less forgiving. But their eyes told a story of belief. They were ready, ready to adapt, ready to fight and ready to turn the page. The away dressing room was tight, the air thick with anticipation and the sharp tang of liniment. Boots thudded against tile, tape crackled, but all eyes were on Niels as he stepped up to the whiteboard. He drew quickly clean lines, sharp angles. "Narrow 4-3-1-2," he said, tapping the diagram. The marker squeaked. "Dev, you’re the ’1’. You float behind Max and Korey. You’re the core, the link, the spark. Find space, thread passes, drag their midfielders out of shape." He turned to the trio behind him. "Jamal. Tom. Kieron. You’re the engine room. You win the ball, keep it moving, control the tempo. No passengers tonight." The players leaned in, focused. The room was quiet, not tense but focused. Niels’s voice dropped to a steady, gravel-edged rumble. "It’s a new formation, yes. But the principles? They don’t change. We fight for every blade of grass. We press together, fall back together. We trust each other." He looked them in the eyes one by one until the silence was thick enough to feel. "Bournemouth knows us. They think they’ve seen everything we can do. Tonight, we show them they haven’t." Max stood, his voice a growl: "Let’s go shock ’em, coach." Kickoff: The whistle blew, and chaos followed. Bournemouth stormed out, dragging Crawley into a scrappy, physical fight. Niels’s new system, fluid on the whiteboard looked stiff and awkward on the pitch. The midfield, crowded with three Crawley players and the isolated Dev, became a warzone of bodies and flying boots. Dev Patel, usually so fluid on the wing, looked boxed in. Every time he turned, a Bournemouth shirt was already there, closing space before he could even lift his head. He tried dropping deep to find the game, but ran straight into Jamal and Tom both already parked in the same patch of turf. The middle was jammed, the movement confused. His passes normally crisp were hesitant, off tempo. For the first time in weeks, Dev looked uncertain. In midfield, the storm raged. Jamal Osei, newly back from minor injury, was supposed to be the calming presence, the pivot. But the pace of Bournemouth’s press had him gasping for breath. A beat slow here, a missed tackle there. Every time he tried to turn and pick a pass, there were three options and zero time. Tom Whitehall and Kieron Marsh ran themselves ragged beside him, covering ground, putting in tackles but the shape was off. The space Dev needed to work in, the pocket behind the strikers, was clogged. Too many bodies in one zone. Crawley’s midfield looked like a car crash in slow motion: relentless motion, but no direction. The new system bold on the whiteboard was starting to crack on the pitch. Niels watched from the touchline, his arms crossed, a frown creasing his brow. The team was playing with their heads, not their instincts. They were forcing the new system instead of letting it flow. In the 32nd minute, Crawley’s shape finally cracked. Dev Patel, under pressure and off-balance, played a loose pass in midfield, a gamble, a half-second too late. Bournemouth pounced. And two passes later, Crawley’s back line was exposed. A sharp cutback, a burst of pace, and the striker pulled the trigger. The shot tore past Fletcher before he could fully dive. The net rippled. 1–0, Bournemouth. It hit like a gut punch. Crawley’s shoulders slumped. That spark, the defiance that had carried them through European nights seemed to drain out of them, slipping away with every misplaced pass and second touch. On the touchline, Niels folded his arms, eyes narrowed. No shouting now. He was just watching. By the time the whistle blew for halftime, the scoreline felt right. Not cruel. Just honest. They hadn’t clicked. And now, they had 45 minutes to find themselves again or fall further behind. Halftime: Crawley 0-1 Bournemouth The dressing room was heavy with silence dense, suffocating. Dev Patel sat hunched on the bench, elbows on knees, head buried in his hands. The moment replayed again and again his pass, their break, the goal. One mistake, and it felt like the whole first half had cracked open because of it. Niels stood in front of them, still and calm. "It’s on me," he said quietly. "This is my system. My call. We’re trying to force it, and it’s not flowing yet. That’s not on you, it’s on me." A few players looked up. The tension didn’t vanish, but it shifted. He turned to Dev. "You’re a brilliant player," Niels said, voice steady. "But this role, it’s different. You’re used to flying down the wing, chasing space. Now, you have to create it. You’re the one pulling the strings." Dev looked up, eyes searching. "You have to draw defenders in," Niels continued. "Then release it quickly. You don’t need to beat them with pace. You beat them with timing. Think like the playmaker. Not the sprinter." Dev nodded, slow at first then firmer, like he was trying to believe it. Niels clapped his hands once. "This match isn’t over. We settle down, we play simple, and we play smart. We fix this one pass at a time." A few players stirred. Tom rolled his shoulders. Max tightened his armband. The second half waited and so did a chance to make things right. He then made the change that would define the game. "Kieron, you’ve worked hard, but we need more technical control. Danny Freeman, you’re on for him." The midfielder, with his neat and tidy distribution, nodded, a look of quiet confidence on his face. Niels turned to Paul Pogba. "Paul, I need you to play a bit deeper. You’ll control the pace, slow it down when we need to, speed it up when there’s space. Keep the ball moving side to side. Everything should go through you." Then he looked at Dev. "You’re still up top, but don’t stay in one spot. Keep moving. Your runs without the ball are more important than when you have it. Pull their defenders out of position, and use Danny and Paul for quick passes when they close in." The plan was a bold gamble, an admission that the physical battle was lost, and they would instead win with pure, unadulterated skill. Second Half: The second half began, and the change was immediate and palpable. The midfield, no longer a chaotic mess, was a fluid, dynamic unit. Paul Pogba, sitting deeper, was majestic. He wasn’t just passing the ball, he was conducting the game. He took control, finding small pockets of space to receive the ball, and then, with a flick of his wrist, he’d launch a pinpoint pass to a teammate. He was the anchor of this new midfield, a maestro pulling the strings. Dev Patel, now with the ball being fed to him at speed from Pogba, had a new sense of freedom. He stopped trying to force a goal and began to play within the system. He’d receive a pass with his back to goal, feel the pressure of a defender, and with a delicate, one-touch flick, find Danny Freeman running in support. Freeman, with his quick feet and intelligent movement, would then calmly send the ball back to Pogba, resetting the attack. This new midfield trio Pogba, Dev, and Freeman was a puzzle that AFC Bournemouth simply couldn’t solve. They were chasing shadows, their high press now useless against the one-touch passing and intelligent movement. In the 62nd minute, the new system bore fruit. Pogba, from deep in his own half, chipped a perfectly weighted pass to Dev in the center circle. Dev, surrounded by three defenders, didn’t hesitate. With a brilliant one-touch pass, he flicked the ball into the path of Danny Freeman, who had made a clever run to draw out a defender. Freeman, with a burst of pace, slid a perfect through ball to the onrushing Max Simons. Max took a touch and slotted it coolly past the keeper. GOAL! CRAWLEY TOWN! 1-1 The goal was a masterclass in team football. Every player had a role in the goal, from Pogba’s initial pass to Max’s perfect finish. The rest of the half was a display of Crawley’s new-found confidence. Even Thiago, who had been quiet, was now thriving. The space created by the central midfield allowed him to receive the ball on the wing with time and space to run at defenders. He was no longer just a flash of flair but a consistent threat, using his pace and skill to stretch Bournemouth’s defense. The game ended with a well-earned point. Fulltime: AFC Bournemouth 1-1 Crawley Town. The result wasn’t a win on the scoreboard, but it felt like one in every other way. Crawley had been tested, dragged into discomfort, and still found a way to respond. They struggled, adapted, and fought back not through individual brilliance, but through belief in the system and in each other. They had shown that the new approach could work, even under pressure. That it wasn’t just a plan, it was a step forward. As they walked off the pitch, there was no celebration, just a quiet, growing confidence. This system wasn’t born from desperation. It was a choice, a decision to evolve. And with it came a promise: Crawley’s journey wouldn’t rise or fall with any one player. It wasn’t about one player anymore. It was about the whole team, working as one.