Chapter 74: The Roar at Broadfield

Chapter 74: The Roar at Broadfield Chapter 74: The Roar at Broadfield Wednesday, April 21, 2010 Crawley Town stood on the brink third in League Two, chasing promotion, with the FA Cup final against Chelsea on the horizon. Their 2-1 win over Lincoln kept the dream alive, but tonight, Broadfield was the battlefield. Shrewsbury Town stood in their way, 6,000 fans roaring, most in red. With six league games to go, Niels had to rally tired legs, harness belief, and push Crawley closer to glory. The Build-Up to Shrewsbury Crawley woke on April 21, the town alive with pride. High Street pulsed, shop windows shouting "Red Devils to Chelsea!" Fans snapped photos, a boy’s cry, "Max, our hero!" echoing in the morning mist. At Broadfield, 9:00 a.m., the squad gathered with legs heavy from Lincoln, but spirits high, the air rich with grass and liniment. Niels brought back Reece Darby and Nate Sutton, resting Flynn and Dev Patel to keep pace fresh. Max’s scuffed boots from Sincil Bank sat like a talisman, each player tapping them. Baxter joked, "If Shrewsbury steal my ball, I’m blaming young Ollie!" nodding to the stands, where 12-year-old Ollie, red scarf waving, watched wide-eyed. Niels faced the squad in the training room, his voice sharp as a blade, cutting through the morning chill. "Shrewsbury’s tough, lads. They’ll sit deep, counter fast, wingers slicing inside. Press high, choke their build-up, force errors. Thiago, Nate, stretch their defense with pace. Midfield, stay tight, block their lanes. Set-pieces, Max is our weapon. Every tackle, every sprint, is for Crawley’s heart." Max’s eyes burned, his captain’s armband a vow, "For the town, boss, we fight to the end." Luka’s quiet nod to Jamal was sharp. "See the gaps, mate." Niels checked his phone, Elise had texted: "The town’s on fire, Niels. Every window’s red. Don’t let it slip." Milan’s words hit like a command "Wembley’s shadow waits. This war is promotion and we fight it to the last breath." By 3:00 p.m., Broadfield thrummed, fans flooding the gates, 4,000 Crawley supporters chanting, "Red Devils!" their scarves a red sea under darkening skies. A Chelsea-themed banner unfurled in the main stand, "Red Devils vs. Blues!" its bold letters shimmering, young Ollie waving his scarf beside it, his shout, "Thi-a-go, score!" piercing the air. The local press crowded around Max. One reporter asked, "Chelsea’s coming up, but tonight it’s Shrewsbury. How do you keep your head in the game?" Max’s voice was steady and strong. "Every game’s for Crawley. This is what we live for." The dressing room buzzed, Max taping his boots to his locker, his ritual a silent oath, the crowd’s anthem, "Reds to Glory, Wembley’s Story!" seeping through the concrete, shaking the walls. Broadfield Stadium erupted by 7:45 p.m., 6,000 fans, Crawley’s 5,000 a roaring tide of red, their anthem thundering, the Chelsea banner glowing under floodlights like a war cry. A veteran fan, his face weathered, red paint streaked across his cheeks, bellowed, "Craw-ley, rise!" his chant igniting the stands, scarves twirling like flames in a storm. Niels stood pitchside, his notepad scrawled: "Press high, break fast, no gaps." The tunnel loomed, Crawley in red, Shrewsbury in blue and amber, their captain’s glance sharp, meeting Max’s unyielding stare. The squad huddled, Max’s boots on a bench, each player’s touch a vow. Max’s voice was a firestorm, "This is our ground, lads. For every kid like Ollie out there, every dream, we fight to our last breath. Promotion is ours, Chelsea, it’s all one war!" Liam’s nod was iron, "With you, captain." The referee’s whistle called them out, Broadfield’s roar crashing like a tidal wave, 5,000 voices thundering, "Red Devils!" Ollie’s cry, "Max-y, make us proud!" sliced through the din, his young face alight with hope. Kickoff: The whistle blew at 8:00 p.m., Shrewsbury’s kickoff crisp, their deep block a fortress, wingers probing with menace. In the 5th minute, their right winger darted inside, Reece Darby’s tackle, Instinct Lens [Grit] flaring, crunching the move, fans chanting, "Reece!" Shrewsbury pressed, a 9th-minute shot curling wide, Harry Thompson’s pressure, Instinct Lens [Grit] glowing, sparking, "Har-ry!" Crawley settled, Jamal Osei’s 11th-minute block, Instinct Lens [Steel] flaring, halting a striker’s run, fans roaring, "Ja-mal!" Niels signaled high press, Thiago and Nate tearing down the flanks, Max stalking the box, his breath visible in the cool night air. Crawley surged in the 14th minute, Luka’s pass, Instinct Lens [Vision] blazing, slicing through Shrewsbury’s midfield, finding Thiago, Instinct Lens [Silky technique] flaring. His stepovers danced past a defender, his curling shot tipped wide by the keeper’s glove, the stands exploding, "Thi-a-go!" The veteran fan’s chant roared again, "Craw-ley, rise!" scarves waving like a red hurricane, Ollie jumping, his scarf twirling. Shrewsbury countered, a 17th-minute cross headed over, Liam McCulloch’s block, Instinct Lens [Steel] glowing, igniting, "Li-am!" Niels clapped, "Stay tight, lads!" his pulse hammering, sweat beading under his cap. Crawley pushed, Nate’s 20th-minute sprint down the left, his low cross to Max blocked by a desperate slide, fans chanting, "Na-ate!" Ollie’s shout, "Keep fighting, Reds!" echoed, his young voice a beacon in the chaos. Shrewsbury’s defense held, a 25th-minute shot forcing Adam Fletcher’s dive, his save a blur of red, sparking, "Fletch-er!" The game tightened, Broadfield’s air thick with tension, every pass a heartbeat, every tackle a promise. Baxter’s 30th-minute free-kick, Instinct Lens [Creative spark] flaring, curled to Max, his header sailing inches over, the stands roaring, "Max-y!" A woman’s cry, "It’s coming, Crawley!" pierced the night, raw with hope. The first half ended 0-0, Broadfield buzzing, players gasping, their breath steaming in the floodlit air. Niels gathered them close, voice cutting through the noise. "They’re cracking under pressure. Don’t let up push harder, widen the gaps. Max, take control in the box. Fletcher, make them frustrated with every save. This is Crawley’s fight give everything!" Max rallied, his eyes blazing, "For every soul out there, for Ollie, we don’t stop!" The whistle blew for the second half, the stands a cauldron, the Chelsea banner waving like a promise, Ollie’s eyes wide with awe. Shrewsbury pushed in the 50th minute, a winger’s shot skimming wide, Callum Haines’ pressure, Instinct Lens [Grit] glowing, sparking, "Cal-lum!" Crawley hit back, Thiago’s 55th-minute run, Instinct Lens [Silky technique] blazing, jinking past two defenders, his shot deflected, fans chanting, "Thi-a-go!" The game was a battlefield, every duel a clash of wills, Broadfield’s roar a relentless drum. Niels subbed Miguel Cardoso for Tom Whitehall in the 65th minute, fresh legs in midfield, Marc’s hustle drawing, "Nice!" as he won a duel. The defining moment came in the 70th minute. Luka, Instinct Lens [Vision] flaring, lofted a pass over Shrewsbury’s backline, a perfect arc under the floodlights. Max sprinted free, his eyes locked on the ball, his shot low and venomous, tearing through the net, 1-0. Broadfield erupted, 5,000 fans leaping, "Max-y!" scarves twirling like a red storm, the Chelsea banner, "Red Devils vs. Blues!" waving wildly, Ollie screaming, "Captain!" Max sprinted to the stands, fist pumping, his roar, "For Crawley!" shaking the concrete, Ollie’s grin splitting his face. Niels’ heart soared, his notepad falling to the turf, forgotten in the ecstasy. Shrewsbury threw everything forward, a 75th-minute shot forcing Fletcher’s sprawling save, his glove grazing the ball wide, fans roaring, "Fletch-er!" Liam’s 80th-minute block, Instinct Lens [Steel] glowing, stopped a striker cold, the stands thundering, "Li-am!" Niels’s tone stayed steady, eyes scanning. "Stay compact. Close every gap, keep the shape tight." Crawley pushed, Baxter’s 85th-minute corner, Instinct Lens [Creative spark] flaring, cleared by a desperate header, fans chanting, "Bax-ter!" Stoppage time loomed, three minutes signaled, Broadfield trembling like a battlefield. Shrewsbury’s final push, a 92nd-minute header, sailed wide, Harry’s pressure, Instinct Lens [Grit] glowing, sparking, "Har-ry!" The whistle blew, Broadfield shaking, Crawley victorious, 1-0. Fulltime: Crawley Town 1-0 Shrewsbury Town Post-Match and Recovery: The stands exploded, 5,000 fans a red sea, "Reds to Glory!" thundering, the Chelsea banner waving like a war cry. Thiago jogged to Ollie in the front row, signing his scarf with a grin, "For you, kid!" Ollie’s eyes shone, his shout, "Thankyou, Thiago!" sparking cheers. The veteran fan’s chant roared again, "Craw-ley, rise!" scarves twirling. Max faced the stands, his voice raw, "This is for you, Crawley! For Ollie, for every dream, we’re not done!" Fans chanted, "Max-y!" A local reporter cornered Niels, "Promotion and Chelsea, how do you balance it?" Niels stayed calm, eyes steady. "There’s still time for final. Right now, every inch, every heart, it’s all about promotion." Milan embraced him pitchside, his voice thick, "You’re writing history, son." The dressing room was a furnace of joy, sweat and triumph mingling. Niels stood tall, his voice ringing with pride. "You’re legends, lads. Shrewsbury’s behind us. Barnet’s next—and we’ll come back stronger. Rest now, then let’s set the fire blazing again." Thiago’s nod was bright, "Chelsea’s ours, boss." Fletcher’s gloves, scuffed from saves, sat beside Max’s boots, a symbol of their fire. April 22 dawned, Crawley back at Broadfield for recovery. Thiago’s flair lit up a drill, his stepovers drawing gasps from young fans, a girl shouting, "Thi-a-go!" Max clapped Marc’s shoulder, his advice, "Own the midfield, mate," sparking a nod. Baxter quipped, "If Barnet’s pitch is mud, I’m stealing Max’s boots!" laughter rippling through the squad. Niels sketched Barnet tactics: "Press early, hit flanks, stay compact." Milan called, "Chelsea’s a titan, Niels. Keep the lads hungry." The FA Cup final loomed ahead, but the fire for promotion burned even hotter in their veins. With Barnet waiting, Crawley faced their next fierce battle, a crucial step in their relentless climb toward glory. [League: Matches: 41, Wins: 25, Draws: 7, Losses: 9, Points: 82, Position: 3rd]