Chapter 83: Burning for Wembley

Chapter 83: Burning for Wembley Chapter 83: Burning for Wembley Saturday, May 8 FA Cup Final Training Grind The day off had set Crawley alight, its streets pulsing with red scarves, murals, and dreams after the 4-3 triumph over Notts County. Now, with Wembley few days away, Niels drove the squad into a relentless training routine, determined to harden them for the battle ahead. They were preparing to face Chelsea’s giants Ancelotti’s sharp tactics, Drogba’s fierce aggression, and Terry’s unbreakable defense. Every sprint, every pass, every tackle was for the town, for the kids chanting in the streets, for the scarves waving like flames. Could this grueling test of sweat, heart, and pride forge Crawley’s spirit strong enough to stun the world or would Chelsea’s power crush their dream into dust? On May 8, a cold morning settled over Broadfield. Under a dark, heavy sky, the training ground felt like a pressure cooker. The grass was wet with dew, the air filled with the sharp smell of liniment and a deep hunger to make history. Niels gathered the squad at 8:30 a.m., his voice cutting through the morning chill like a growl, his eyes burning with intensity. "Lads, Chelsea’s a f*cking war machine fast, ruthless, built to break you. Drogba’s a beast, Lampard’s a sniper, Čech’s a goddamn fortress. But we’re Crawley heart, guts, inferno. But we’re Crawley. We’ve got heart, guts, fire. We train like Wembley’s today. Every pass, every breath do it for the town, for every kid wearing our scarf!" Max, armband tight as a vice, roared, "For Crawley, for glory, we burn!" Thiago’s grin flared bright, "We shall dance, captain!" The squad exploded, fists pounding chests, their medals shining in the lockers like war trophies. Outside, the fence rattled with roaring fans, a girl’s cry slicing through the air, "Reds to Chelsea!" like a thunderbolt. Drills exploded, Niels mimicking Chelsea’s 4-3-3, their wingers slashing inside, Drogba’s shadow a towering threat. Thiago’s feet were lightning, weaving through cones like a street magician, his stepovers a blur, a boy at the fence bellowing, "Thi-a-go, king!" José Baxter’s free-kick screamed past the post, curling like a comet, fans gasping, chanting, "Bax-ter!" Max led a pressing drill, his voice a war cry, "Shut ’em down, lads! Leave no f*cking space!" his boots hammering grass like a blacksmith’s anvil. Luka’s passes sliced the practice defense, threading to Nate, whose shot smashed the bar, fans erupting, "Wow!" Jamal Osei’s tackle crunched a scrimmage run, his snarl a spark, igniting, "Ja-mal!" Harry Thompson’s header blasted a mock corner away, drawing, "Har-ry!" Niels roared, "Mark tight, leave no gaps! Drogba thrives on fuck-ups!" his whiteboard a battle map: "Flanks wide, press Lampard, Luka central." The air crackled, sweat burning eyes, Crawley’s fire forging in a storm of grit. May 9 burned fierce at Broadfield, the pitch a furnace under the blazing sun. Niels’ voice cut through the heat: "Chelsea’s faster, smarter lethal. Ancelotti’s a master tactician, but we’re warriors. Thiago, Nate, tear their wings off. Luka, slice through midfield. Max, break Terry’s bones." Max’s eyes burned bright: "We fight like demons!" Thiago spun the ball, "We dance through them!" Luka’s voice was sharp: "One strike, one kill." Training roared on Ellis Flynn’s tackles sparked shouts, Dev Patel’s crosses kissed the post, Korey Henry’s headers shook the air, Adam Fletcher’s saves sparked the fire. The squad moved as one, fueled by hunger and fight. Tempers detonated in the heat, Max and Jamal colliding in a scrimmage, boots scraping, voices raw, "Back the f*ck off!" Niels’ whistle pierced like a siren, "Save it for Chelsea, lads! They’re the goddamn giants!" Max gripped Jamal’s shoulder, "We’re brothers, mate. Let’s burn." The squad reset, their fire honed to a razor’s edge. Niels huddled them, his whiteboard a slaughterhouse: "Press Čech’s kicks, choke Lampard, cage Drogba." Milan watched, his nod a flint spark, "You’re forging a weapon, Niels. It’s lethal." A reporter ambushed Max, "Chelsea’s giants can you win?" Max, sweat running down his face, paused, eyes locked with the reporter’s. "They’re giants, yeah. But we’ve come too far, fought too hard. Crawley’s not just a club—it’s home. And you fight for home with everything you’ve got." A spontaneous scrimmage pushed the squad to breaking, Niels barking, "Play like it’s 90 minutes at Wembley!" Thiago’s flair dazzled, nutmegging Dev, sparking laughs and cheers, "Thi-a-go!" Baxter’s curling pass found Nate, whose volley grazed the crossbar, fans roaring, "Na-ate!" Luka’s vision unlocked a gap, his pass threading to Max, who headed it wide, growling, "Again!" Niels clapped, "That’s the fire! Keep it burning!" The session ended with sprints, lungs burning, legs screaming, but the squad pushed harder, Ollie’s voice from the sidelines, "Craw-ley, kings!" a spark that kept them moving. A girl at the fence tossed a red scarf to Thiago, who tied it round his wrist, grinning, "For you, we dance!" The town’s love was their fuel, every chant a hammer strike in the forge. May 10 saw training peak, but Crawley’s streets roared louder, a volcano of pride that shook the earth. High Street was a battlefield, the mural Max and Thiago’s roar, Luka’s strike swarmed by hundreds, phones flashing, a girl, 10, tracing "Believe" with trembling fingers, whispering, "We can win this." Pubs detonated, Friday’s Messi and Drogba chatter obliterated under bellows for Crawley’s heroes, pints slammed to "Reds to Glory!" Shopfronts blazed with red banners, kids reenacting Luka’s screamer in car parks, old-timers chanting, "Craw-ley, kings!" over steaming chips. Ollie led a rally at the mural, his banner a crimson beacon, screaming, "Craw-ley, rise!" as hundreds joined, scarves a red ocean, a boy’s voice cracking, "Thi-a-go, king!" A local band pounded drums, fans belting, "Max-y’s gonna get ya!" The Crawley Observer’s cameras rolled, the clip exploding online, captioned, "Crawley’s coming for Chelsea!" Niels drove past, his heart a war drum, the town’s roar a fire in his veins. The squad felt it Max pausing drills to fist-bump a kid through the fence, Thiago tossing a wristband to a girl mid-chant, Luka signing a boy’s scarf, his nod steady. The town wasn’t just behind them it was their blood, every cheer a spark, every scarf a flame. A man in a pub roared, "Burn Chelsea down!" the crowd answering, "Reds to Glory!" like a battle anthem. A spontaneous street vigil formed at dusk, candles flickering under the mural, a girl’s whisper, "For Max, for Luka," echoing like a prayer. Training ended on May 10, Broadfield’s pitch scarred like a warzone, the air heavy with sweat, dust, and unbreakable purpose. Niels gathered the squad in the tactics room, his whiteboard a killing field: Čech’s saves, Terry’s blocks, Lampard’s control, Drogba’s strikes. No loud cheers just quiet determination as they gathered their gear. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows over Broadfield. Max wiped the sweat from his brow, catching the eye of Thiago and Luka. Without a word, they shared a nod a silent pact to leave everything on the pitch. The locker room buzzed softly with low conversation, boots hitting the floor, the weight of the challenge ahead settling in. Outside, the distant roar of fans reminded them who they fought for. It wasn’t about words. It was about the work, the will, the moment waiting to be seized. The squad scattered, medals glinting in lockers like embers of Notts County’s fall. Max lingered, gripping his medal, growling, "For Crawley." Thiago jogged home, kids chasing, screaming, "Thiago!" Luka pored over Chelsea tapes, his eyes locked on Drogba’s runs, plotting surgical strikes. Niels stayed late, his headache a sledgehammer, the whiteboard’s arrows a blur: "Press Čech, choke Lampard, cage Drogba." Milan’s voice echoed, "You’ve defeated giants, Niels. Chelsea’s just the bigger giant next." Night draped over the town like a shadow, but the streets burned with restless fire. Inside the pubs, voices muttered like distant thunder, low and fierce. A boy’s cry sliced through the darkness "For Crawley. For everything." Scarves flickered in the cold wind, trembling hands clenching tight. Somewhere, a battered guitar strummed a slow, haunting rhythm that echoed through empty alleys. After training, Niels went to a local restaurant for dinner. As he walked in, a few heads turned, and someone called out, "Coach!" He nodded and smiled politely, making his way to a quiet corner table. A kid nearby nervously held up a drawing of Max scoring at Wembley. Niels caught his eye and waved him over. "Hey, this is great," Niels said, taking the drawing and signing it with a careful hand. "Keep believing in us, alright?" The boy beamed, clutching the paper tightly. Around them, diners chatted softly, glasses clinked, and the smell of food mixed with laughter. A nearby fan raised his glass and whispered, "We’re all behind you, coach." Niels smiled, the weight of the moment settling over him. It wasn’t just a game, it was their town, their people, their fight. Back at Broadfield, Niels sat alone in the empty locker room, marker in hand but mind racing. The FA Cup final wasn’t just a game it was a mountain looming ahead. Crawley were the underdogs unassuming yet relentless, taking on giants from a different world. But the team’s spirit was real. Wembley wasn’t a distant dream anymore. It was a challenge they’d face in just five days. 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