Chapter 87: FA Cup Final [2]

Chapter 87: FA Cup Final [2] Chapter 87: FA Cup Final [2] Saturday, May 15, 2010 Kickoff: Crawley Town Vs Chelsea The referee blew his whistle at exactly 3:00 p.m. The ball rolled across the pitch under Wembley’s bright floodlights. The stadium erupted with 90,000 fans roaring. Most wore Chelsea blue jersey, chanting loudly, "Chels-ea! Chels-ea!" But in one corner, Crawley’s fans stood strong, shouting back, "Craw-ley! Kings!" The field was slick with early dew. The air smelled of grass, sweat, and muscle rub from the sidelines. Max, Crawley’s captain, stood in the box, his armband tight on his arm. He thought of the lucky stone taped in his locker and whispered, "For home." Thiago sprinted to the right wing, his red ribbon shining under the lights. His eyes burned with confidence. Luka took his spot in midfield, focused and ready, watching for any opening. Niels stood near the sideline, his red wristband sharp against his jacket. He fixed his gaze on the field and said firmly, "They’ll come at us fast. We have to be ready." Chelsea’s team looked strong and unstoppable Drogba moved like a lion, Lampard controlled the game, Terry stood like a wall in defense, and Čech guarded the goal like a giant. Their fans roared louder still: "Drogba’s king!" And then the ball moved. Wembley exploded. The battle had begun. Chelsea struck first, their passes quick and precise, cutting through Crawley’s defense like a knife. Lampard sent the ball to Malouda, who raced down the left wing, tearing up the grass. His cross flew in like a whip. Crawley’s fans yelled, "Come on, hold ’em, Craw-ley!" but Chelsea kept coming, their supporters shaking the stadium with chants of "London is blue!" Coach Niels stood sharp on the sideline, eyes burning with focus. His voice rang out fierce and commanding, urging the team to tighten up, block every chance, and never give an inch. In the box, Max battled Drogba, their shoulders crashing. Max growled, "Not an inch, mate." Thiago sprinted to mark Ashley Cole, grinning, "Come on, try me." Luka stuck to Lampard, stealing the ball clean. "You’re not getting free," he muttered. Every pass, every tackle felt like a battle. The crowd was buzzing, full of noise and nerves. In Crawley’s corner, Ollie stood on his seat, yelling, "Craw-ley! Fight!" Next to him, a girl waved a sign that read, "Max, stand tall!" Her cheer sparked a wave that pushed back against Chelsea’s roar. By the 12th minute, Chelsea controlled 75% of the ball, their passes smooth and sharp, slicing through Crawley’s defense like a knife through cloth. Ancelotti paced the sideline in a sharp suit, shouting in Italian, "Avanti! Press!" Drogba powered into the box and fired a low, vicious shot. Adam Fletcher, Crawley’s goalkeeper, dived left and blocked it with stinging palms, sending the ball skidding into the boards. The Crawley fans exploded: "Ad-am! Ad-am!" Ollie’s voice rose above them: "You’re a wall!" Chelsea’s end roared even louder, "Drogba! Drogba!" waving a storm of blue flags. A moment later, Lampard’s corner curled just over the bar. The stadium gasped. Crawley fans clutched scarves and held their breath. On the sideline, Niels clapped hard. "Brilliant, Adam! Keep them out!" he shouted. His plan was clear soak up the pressure, strike on the counter but Chelsea kept coming, their attack as tight and constant as a vice. At the 18th minute, Chelsea threatened again. Malouda slipped past Baxter and whipped in a perfect cross. Drogba rose to meet it, but Liam launched himself too, their bodies colliding mid-air with a heavy thud. The ball skimmed wide. Liam crashed to the turf, winded, his breath coming in gasps. The referee waved play on. Chelsea’s fans erupted: "That’s a penalty!" But Crawley’s red corner answered just as loud: "Craw-ley! Hold on!" Liam scrambled to his feet, eyes blazing. "Stick to him!" he shouted to Harry Thompson. Harry nodded, then launched into a crunching tackle on Anelka, sending the ball spinning out for a throw-in. The crowd’s roar grew deafening. Chelsea’s chants pounded like a drumbeat: "Blue army!" On the sideline, Niels leaned in, voice low and steady, "They’re coming hard... but they’re overreaching. We wait, and we hit back. This is where we hold." Crawley’s defense looked battered sweat-soaked kits, legs aching under wave after wave but their line didn’t break. Their heart held firm. At the 25th minute, Chelsea’s pressure peaked. Ballack’s long ball found Anelka, who danced past Jamal, his shot a curling strike. Fletcher dove, his fingertips brushing the ball, deflecting it onto the post with a sickening clang. The red corner exploded, "Ad-am! Hero!" Chelsea’s fans booed, their chants surging, "Finish ’em!" Fletcher sprang up, his eyes fire, shouting to his defenders, "Stay up, lads!" Liam clashed again with Drogba, their bodies a tangle in the box, Liam’s growl fierce, "You’re not through." Harry’s desperate slide blocked Malouda’s follow-up, the ball rocketing into the stands, Crawley’s fans roaring, "Har-ry! Har-ry!" A boy in the red section held a sign that said, "Thiago, light the fire!" which started a chant. Chelsea’s fans shouted, "League Two kids!" but Crawley’s fans stayed strong and didn’t lose hope. By the 30th minute, Crawley was crushed deep in their own half, their possession down to a meager 25%, their passes frantic under Chelsea’s relentless press. Lampard’s shot screamed wide from 22 yards. Fletcher dove late but was ready, his gloves thudding hard against the post in frustration. The red corner roared, "Keep it tight!" A girl held a sign high: "Max, lead us!" Chelsea’s fans jeered, relentless, "Back to the minors!" Their blue wave crashing down. Jamal met Anelka with a strong tackle that made the crowd catch their breath. He smiled quietly, "Not past me." Thiago sprinted back, snatching the ball from Cole with a fierce laugh: "Mine now!" The ball landed at Luka’s feet. He launched a counter, but Terry’s thunderous slide smashed the pass to Max away. The captain’s roar cut through the noise: "That’s ours!" Crawley’s fans fought back, voices raw, "Craw-ley! Stand!" Max spun on his heel, eyes burning, shouting to Thiago, "Keep pushing!" Niels watched calm but tense, whispering, "Their line’s creeping up. It’s coming." Fletcher was Crawley’s backbone, his saves a lifeline. Drogba’s header from a corner met Fletcher’s fists, punched clear with a grunt, sending the red corner into a roar: "Ad-am! Wall!" Chelsea’s fans chanted, "Bury ’em!" their blue flags whipping like a storm. Fletcher’s voice came raw and steady, "Stay focused, guys!" Harry threw himself at Ballack’s shot, the ball thudding off his shin as he sprawled across the turf. Sweat dripped down his face as he rose, shouting to Jamal, "We hold!" Jamal’s block on Malouda’s next run was desperate his slide tore up the turf, the ball spinning away. Crawley’s fans exploded with cheers, "Ja-mal! Hero!" Ollie stood on his seat, his voice cracking, "Keep fighting!" A fan tossed a red scarf into the air, caught by a boy who waved it high, sparking a chant: "Craw-ley! Kings!" From the sideline, Niels nodded, voice low and firm, "That’s it, lads. Bend, don’t break." The clock ticked to 34 minutes. Chelsea’s pressure was a relentless tide but Crawley’s wall held firm, traps coiled tight, Max’s hunger up front burning bright, ready to ignite. As the clock ticked toward halftime, the tide finally broke... Chelsea’s high line surged forward, but Lampard’s pass to Anelka slipped just beyond reach, skimming the slick turf. Luka pounced like a hawk, snatching the ball cleanly, eyes blazing with fire. "Go!" he urged himself, bursting through midfield, the roar of Wembley splitting like thunder Chelsea’s fans screaming, "Close him down!" while Crawley’s red corner erupted, "Lu-ka! Lu-ka!" Ollie’s voice cut sharp through the chaos, "Run, Luka!" Luka’s pass sliced through Ballack’s desperate lunge, a razor’s edge finding Thiago racing down the right wing. The ribbon tied to his arm whipped in the wind, his boots flashing like lightning on wet grass. His grin was fierce, wild with defiance: "Let’s dance!" Thiago’s cross curled low and lethal, cutting across the box like a guided missile toward Max. Free from Terry’s shadow, Max exploded forward a streak of red lightning his heart pounding, every beat screaming the vow: ’For Crawley’. The crowd held its breath. Wembley’s air grew thick, every eye fixed on Max. The red corner was on its feet, a girl’s sign glowing bright: "Max, score!" Max broke free, the goal stretching wide before him. Čech launched himself from his line, a towering wall of blue moving fast. Max’s heart pounded. Time slowed down for a moment. Every step, every breath stretched out. His painted stone’s promise echoed in his mind. His boot connected with the ball, a fierce, blazing rocket cutting through the still air. The ball arced toward the net, spinning in slow motion. Čech’s fingers reached out, stretching, desperate to stop it. The ball flew, closer and closer... And then The silence was electric. Would the ball hit the net? Or would Čech’s hands turn it away? The answer hung frozen in time.