Chapter 67: The Road to Wembley

Chapter 67: The Road to Wembley Chapter 67: The Road to Wembley Tuesday, March 30, 2010 Crawley Town’s 2-1 triumph over West Ham United at Upton Park had set football ablaze, Thiago Otero Silva’s 75th-minute strike and Max Simons’ header a lightning bolt that stunned 30,000 Hammers fans and rippled across the world. Third in League Two with 69 points, five points shy of second-placed Bournemouth, promotion was a pulse pounding in their veins, but the FA Cup semifinal against Aston Villa at Wembley on April 18 loomed like a mountain. With ten league matches left until May 8, including three before the semifinal (Grimsby, Bournemouth, Torquay). Could Crawley’s flame blaze through Wembley’s spectacle, with a potential FA Cup final against Chelsea or Tottenham on the horizon, or would the weight of glory flicker under the floodlights? Tuesday: Town Ignited Crawley woke with a roar, West Ham’s defeat a spark igniting every heart. High Street pulsed with life, a butcher’s window splashed with "Crawley 1, West Ham 0!" in bold red, a café hawking "Wembley-Waffles" shaped like the FA Cup trophy, their sugary scent drifting through the morning air. Schoolchildren skipped past lampposts draped in red ribbons, chanting, "Red Devils on!" their voices echoing down the lanes. The squad’s arrival at Broadfield Stadium unleashed pandemonium, some 250 fans mobbing the car park entrance, their roars, "Wembley-ny!" shaking the gray dawn. A boy, barely nine, clutched a crayon drawing of Max Simons’ soaring header, thrusting it at the captain, "For you, Max-y!" Max knelt, his eyes soft, "That’s my goal, lad," tucking the artwork into his jacket, a vow to the kid’s beaming grin, his role as Crawley’s leader carved in every gesture. Niels stepped off the bus, his boots crunching gravel, the town’s fervor a tidal wave crashing over him. Elise’s call buzzed, her voice crackling with joy, "Niels, Crawley’s gone wild! Wembley-bound, you’re legends! Mum’s thinking of baking a Thiago cake!" Thiago overheard, grinning, "First slice is mine, boss!" His laughter warmed Niels, but Milan’s call cut through, gruff and sharp, "Villa’s wingers, Niels, Ashley Young and Stewart Downing, they’ll tear you apart if you give ’em space. Mark ’em tight, leave no gaps." Niels’ chest tightened, his notepad scrawled with Villa’s threats: Young’s searing pace, Downing’s pinpoint crosses, Gabriel Agbonlahor’s lethal runs. The Crawley News screamed, "Wembley Awaits!" Thiago’s sprint splashed across the cover, a girl’s shout, "Thiago’s our star!" ringing as Niels slipped into the training ground. The changing room buzzed with energy, Thiago’s laugh bright as he juggled a ball, his West Ham goal a spark still blazing. Liam McCulloch clapped Adam Fletcher’s shoulder, "You shut down Cole, mate, a wall!" his captain’s nod a rock anchoring the squad. Nate, his knee taped heavily, nudged Luka Radev, "Wembley’s ours, mate," his grin fierce, but Niels’ eyes lingered, the joint’s fragility a quiet worry gnawing at his heart. A groundsman poked his head in, grinning, "Town’s painting a mural for you lot, boss, it’s massive!" stirring Niels’ chest. He gathered the squad, his voice firm, "West Ham’s done, lads. You slayed a Premier League giant. Villa’s next, another giant, another fight. Three league games before Wembley, ten total, promotion’s our lifeblood. We rest, we plan, we rise." The squad roared, "Crawley!" their fire a blaze, Villa’s shadow looming, Grimsby’s league clash a hurdle just few days away. Tuesday’s Street Festival By dusk, Crawley’s town square throbbed with a festival, stalls lining the streets, their awnings red with "FA Cup Fire!" banners fluttering in the breeze. A band, inspired by Thiago’s Brazilian flair, drummed an infectious rhythm, fans swaying, a vendor tossing "Wembley-Bound" scarves into the crowd, their red threads catching the fading light. A colossal mural unveiled on a library wall stole breaths: Max leaping for a header, Thiago sprinting past West Ham’s defense, Fletcher diving to deny Cole, all framed by 2,000 Crawley scarves under Upton Park’s floodlights. A woman, paint smudged on her hands, shouted, "That’s our heart!" her eyes glistening, the crowd’s cheer, "Crawley!" a thunderclap shaking the square. Max and Thiago, dragged to a makeshift stage, grinned as kids swarmed, one thrusting a football, "Sign it, Max-y!" Max scrawled his name, his boots still muddy from Upton Park, "For Wembley, kid," his vow met with the boy’s awe. Thiago danced with a girl, her red cap bright, the band’s beat sparking laughter, his samba spark a fire in the crowd. Niels watched from the edge, his throat tight, the mural a mirror of their fire, their dream painted in bold strokes. A local DJ spun fan chants, a boy’s voice booming, "We’re giant-killers!" through crackling speakers. Milan’s text buzzed, "Town’s alive, Niels. Keep that fire burning." Niels’ pulse raced, Villa’s 4-4-2 a puzzle to crack, the league’s ten matches a gauntlet, Grimsby’s physicality a storm brewing. Wednesday’s Squad Prank Wednesday’s training was gentle, Broadfield’s pitch soft under a gray March sky, the squad stretching legs weary from West Ham’s battle. Mischief brewed as Thiago and Dev Patel swapped Niels’ tactics board for one doodled with cartoonish flair: Max’s header a rocket blasting off, Thiago’s goal a lightning bolt splitting West Ham’s net. Niels, mid-brief on Villa’s wingers, froze as the squad snickered, his glare melting into a laugh, "Nice art, lads, but Villa won’t draw cartoons!" He tossed the doodled board back, pulling out his real one, its lines detailing Villa’s threats, "Ashley Young cuts inside, rapid as hell. Downing’s crosses are low, deadly. Reece, Callum, no space, stick to ’em." The prank eased the squad’s tension, Max’s grin to Liam, "Boss took it like a champ," warm and grounding. A youth academy lad, 14-year-old Ollie, joined drills, his eyes wide with awe. Luka, Instinct Lens [Vision] glowing, mentored him, guiding a pass, "See the gap, Ollie, thread it through." Ollie’s shot clipped the post, the squad erupting, "Go on, kid!" Niels nodded, "Future Red Devil, that one." Thiago’s stepovers, Instinct Lens [Silky technique] flaring, drew Ollie’s gasp, his whisper to Luka, "He’s pure magic." Some eighty fans clapped from the stands, a dad’s shout, "Smash Villa!" bright in the breeze. Niels’ voice boomed, "Grimsby’s Saturday, lads, a physical scrap. Lock their striker, hit the flanks with Thiago’s pace. Villa’s next, we mark their wingers tight, no mercy." The squad nodded, their fire steady, Grimsby a hurdle, Villa a mountain. Thursday’s School Visit Thursday morning, Max, Liam, and José Baxter visited Crawley Green Primary, some 200 kids packed into the hall, their banners, "Wembley Reds!" fluttering like flags. Max read a girl’s poem, "Max-y scores, Thiago soars," his voice soft, "That’s us, kids, that’s Crawley." A boy piped up, "Will you beat Villa, Max-y?" Max’s grin was steel, "We’ll give our best, mate." Baxter, Instinct Lens [Creative spark] glowing, juggled a ball, kids gasping, Liam’s nod to a teacher, "These kids are our spark, miss." A kid gifted Thiago a drawing of his West Ham goal, Thiago’s eyes bright, "Thankyou!" his laugh warming the room as he tucked it into his bag. Back at Broadfield, training was focused, Niels mapping out the league’s immediate stretch before Wembley: Grimsby (April 3, home), Bournemouth (April 7, away), Torquay (April 11, home). The remaining seven matches followed: Lincoln (April 15, away), Shrewsbury (April 21, home), Barnet (April 24, away), Accrington (April 27, home), Northampton (May 1, away), Crewe (May 4, home), Port Vale (May 8, away). "There’s a tight schedule with just few days of rest, lads," Niels said, his voice firm, "We need to secure top-three position and promotion is ours." "We’ve got ten league games left. If we win five and draw the other five, that’s enough to get us promoted. But we can’t afford mistakes. Every match matters now no slip-ups, when we are this close to promotion. We need to give everything. Nate rests for Grimsby, Dev starts to keep him fresh for Villa. Max, Thiago, lead the line, set-pieces." Max’s boots, scuffed from West Ham’s turf, sat by his locker, his ritual of tapping them a vow to carry Crawley forward. Liam’s voice was low, "League’s our life, boss, but Villa’s our dream, Wembley’s calling." The squad nodded, their eyes burning, Villa’s wingers a riddle, Grimsby’s grit a test. Later that evening The pub buzzed with football talk, Crawley’s FA Cup run igniting debates about the wider game in March 2010. An older fan with a drink in hand said, "Man United’s on top, but Drogba’s a beast. Chelsea might just steal it." Another fan countered, "Arsenal’s flair’s unreal, but they lack steel, they’ll fade." The UEFA Champions League quarter-finals, set for next week, fueled the chatter, "Inter’s Mourinho will lock down CSKA Moscow," a woman insisted, while a lad shouted, "Barcelona’s Messi’s a wizard, Lyon’s got no chance!" La Liga talk swirled, "Real Madrid’s splashing cash, but Barca’s tiki-taka’s the real deal," a fan said, sparking nods. Crawley’s Thiago, compared to Messi by a tipsy regular, drew laughs, "Our boy’s got that samba spark!" The squad, catching snippets on the pub’s TV, felt the weight of their own stage, Max muttering to Liam, "Villa’s like Barca, fast and wide, we gotta be Inter, solid." Training was razor-sharp, set-pieces clicking under a pale sky, Baxter’s corners curling perfectly for Max, his headers deadly, his captain’s role undeniable. Niels’ voice cut through, "Grimsby’s rough, lads, counter their press with Luka’s passes, Thiago’s pace. Villa’s wingers, Young and Downing, are like lightning. Reece, Callum, mark tight, no crosses. Liam, Jamal, cage Agbonlahor, leave no space for his runs." The squad roared, "Crawley!" their fire a blaze. Luka’s pass to Ollie, the academy kid, sparked cheers, "Future star!" Niels watched, his notepad scrawled with Villa’s 4-4-2, their pace a riddle to solve, Grimsby’s physicality a storm to weather. Niels stood alone that evening, the training ground silent, Broadfield’s pitch a canvas for dreams. Ten league games left, it was a tough road to promotion. But the dream of Wembley was louder than ever. Could Crawley’s fire rise at Wembley, blazing past Villa’s stars? Or would Premier League power break their dream? Niels faced the fight Grimsby, Torquay, Bournemouth, cup glory on one side, promotion on the other. But the dream burned bright. Wembley was calling, and Crawley was ready to answer. ⚽ Enjoying the story? ⚽A Golden Ticket or kind gift is like a last-minute winner, it lifts the squad and boosts the novel’s visibility! Your support keeps the story charging forward. ????Let’s keep the run alive, together! ❤️