Chapter 89: FA Cup Final [4]

Chapter 89: FA Cup Final [4] Chapter 89: FA Cup Final [4] Saturday, May 15, 2010 Second Half The referee’s whistle blew at exactly 4:00 p.m. at Wembley. The match began under bright floodlights, making the field feel like a battlefield. The crowd roared—90,000 strong. Most of them were Chelsea fans, chanting "Chels-ea! Chels-ea!" in waves of blue. In one corner, Crawley’s smaller but passionate group shouted back, "Craw-ley! Craw-ley!" The field was slick with dew and sweat, the air filled with the smell of grass and tension. Max, Crawley’s striker and captain, hovered near Chelsea’s goal, determined and focused. Thiago sprinted down the right wing, his ribbon flying, full of fight. Luka held the midfield steady, remembering the plan he’d drawn on a napkin. Niels stood on the sidelines, wristband bright red, whispering to Milan, "They’re frustrated. Now’s our chance." Chelsea’s team was powerful Drogba dangerous up front, Lampard in control, Terry solid at the back, and Čech guarding the goal. Their fans roared, "Drogba’s king!" as the game kicked off and the stadium shook with excitement. Chelsea pushed forward with precision, their passes cutting through Crawley’s defense like a machine. Lampard tapped the ball to Malouda, who sprinted down the left wing, tearing up the turf. His cross flew into the box like a whip. Crawley’s fans shouted, "Hold them, Craw-ley!" but Chelsea kept coming. Their supporters shook the stadium with chants of "London is blue!" On the sidelines, Niels stayed calm, eyes locked on the play, yelling, "Keep it tight, boys! Lock it down!" Max challenged Terry, the two colliding shoulder to shoulder. Max growled, "You’re mine, mate." Thiago marked Ashley Cole closely, grinning, "Try me." Luka chased Lampard, sliding in with a clean tackle and muttering, "No way through." The energy was intense every pass felt electric, every touch charged. In the Crawley corner, Ollie stood on his seat and screamed, "Max, fight!" A girl next to him waved a sign that read, "Thiago, spark it!" Her chant caught on, rising up to challenge Chelsea’s roar. Five minutes into the second half, Chelsea struck. From the sideline, Ancelotti shouted, "Avanti! Finish!" as Ballack launched a long pass into the box. Drogba controlled it, spun past Harry Thompson, and fired a powerful shot. Fletcher dove, but the ball flew into the top corner. 1–0 Chelsea scored, and Wembley roared. Blue flags waved like waves in a storm. "Drogba! Drogba!" filled the air. In Crawley’s red section, silence fell. Scarves lowered. Ollie looked pale but stood firm, whispering, "Come on, Crawley." Max clenched his fists, eyes burning. "It’s not over," he said, steady and sharp. Fletcher slammed a boot against the post, frustration boiling. "My fault," he muttered. Niels clapped hard, voice cutting through the noise: "Heads up, lads! We’ve been here before!" Chelsea’s roar turned cruel: "You don’t belong here!" but Crawley’s corner fired back, "Craw-ley! Fight!" The goal hit like a knife, but Crawley refused to give in. Their fire was dim, but still burning. Chelsea pressed harder, sensing weakness. Malouda burst past Baxter and whipped in a cross to Anelka, whose header skimmed the bar drawing a collective gasp from the crowd. Moments later, Lampard unleashed a 25-yard rocket that screamed just wide. Fletcher dove full-stretch, landing hard, his gloves smacking the turf in frustration. Crawley were on the ropes. They held just 20% possession, their passing panicked under Chelsea’s relentless pressure. Thiago broke on the counter, but Terry shut it down with a ruthless slide, rising with a roar: "Ours!" Max clashed with Alex, their bodies locked in a fierce struggle. "Not done yet," Max growled. Niels stood on the sideline, whispering, "They’re overreaching. Time to shift." In the red corner, a boy waved his scarf high as the chant swelled: "Craw-ley! Kings!" The blue storm kept pounding, but Crawley’s ember still burned ready to flare up. At the 60th minute, Niels made his move. He signaled a new formation, three defenders at the back: Liam, Harry, and Reece, forming a strong wall. This freed wing-backs Nate and Dev to push forward. Max and Thiago led a fierce press. "Break their lines!" Niels shouted, his red wristband flashing. The change was bold, even risky, but Crawley’s fire returned. Luka intercepted a loose pass from Ballack, eyes sharp. "Now!" he called, racing forward to pass to Thiago on the right. Thiago sped past Cole, boots flying, his red ribbon flashing. Grinning, he taunted, "Dance with me!" His cross found Max, who controlled it, but Terry’s tackle hit hard, knocking Max down. The referee let play continue. Chelsea fans roared, "Blue army!" Crawley’s corner fired back, "Craw-ley! Fight!" Niels clapped, "That’s it, lads! Stretch them!" The shift worked as Crawley’s press squeezed Chelsea’s midfield, their chants growing louder: "Craw-ley! Kings!" Ollie screamed, "Thiago, go!" The momentum swung. Luka’s tackle on Lampard sparked a counter, his pass slicing to Nate, who tore down the left, his cross curling toward Max. Alex blocked it, but the ball spun out for a corner. The red corner exploded, "Max! Max!" a girl’s sign flashing, "Luka, strike!" With a soft nod, Niels said, "They’re cracking." Crawley’s press was relentless, their three-back system a gamble that stretched Chelsea thin, their fans’ roar faltering, "Chels-ea..." Crawley’s ember was now a blaze, the pitch a battlefield, the crowd’s pulse a war drum. At the 70th minute, Crawley struck back. Nate’s run won a corner, which Baxter swung in sharply under the floodlights. Max leapt high, eyes locked on the ball, as Terry grabbed at his shoulder. The crowd held its breath the air at Wembley crackled with tension. Max’s header blasted like a rocket, beating Čech’s gloves and crashing into the net. 1–1. Crawley has equalized. The red corner exploded with cheers: "Max! Max!" scarves flew, and Ollie’s scream shook the stands, "That’s our captain!" Chelsea’s fans went silent, their blue sea stunned, flags hanging limp. Max roared, pumping his fist, his armband shining. "For Crawley!" Thiago raced over, grinning, "Told ya we’d dance!" Luka nodded coldly, "There’s more to come." Niels punched the air, shouting, "That’s it, lads! Keep it burning!" Chelsea fans tried to rally, "Chels-ea!" but Crawley’s chant rose louder, "Craw-ley!" A boy waved a painted pebble, mirroring Max’s stone, sparking a chant: "Max, lead us!" The equalizer was a thunderclap Wembley lit up, Crawley’s heart now a wildfire. Chelsea hit back, rattled but fierce. Drogba’s shot from 20 yards was a missile, Fletcher’s dive parrying it wide, the red corner erupting, "Ad-am! Ad-am!" Lampard’s free-kick curled inches over, the crowd gasping. Crawley’s three-back system held, Harry’s block on Anelka a desperate sprawl, Jamal’s tackle on Malouda ripping the turf. Max pressed Terry, his growl fierce, "We’re coming." Thiago’s run tore past Cole, his shot skimming wide, the red corner roaring, "Thi-ago!" Niels whispered to Milan, "They’re fraying. We’ve got ’em." The clock ticked to 78 minutes, the score locked at 1-1, the stadium a furnace, the crowd’s roar a heartbeat. At the 80th minute, disaster struck. Max chased a loose ball and crashed into Alex in the box, their bodies tangled. A sickening crack echoed as Max hit the turf, clutching his ankle, face twisted in pain. The red corner went silent. Ollie’s voice broke through, "Max, get up!" The referee stopped play. Crawley’s players gathered around. Thiago’s eyes were wide. "Mate, you good?" Max gritted his teeth. "I’m... fine." Niels signaled for the physio, face grim. He whispered, "We need him." On the sideline, Korey Henry, a striker, moved with tense energy as he warmed up. Niels crouched beside Max. "Can you go?" he asked quietly. Max’s eyes burned with determination. "I’m staying." The physio taped Max’s ankle. Max limped up, testing it with a wince. The crowd held its breath. Chelsea fans sneered, "He’s done!" Crawley’s red corner roared, "Max-y! Fight!" A girl’s sign flashed, "Max, never quit!" Niels took a gamble, keeping Max on the pitch. His limp became a symbol of defiance. The clock ticked to 85 minutes. The score was still 1–1, and tension filled the air. Chelsea smelled blood, their press a relentless storm. Ancelotti barked, "Finish them!" Lampard’s pass found Drogba, whose volley screamed toward goal. Fletcher dove, gloves stretching to push the ball wide. The red corner erupted, "Ad-am! Our Wall!" Chelsea fans roared, "Drogba! Drogba!" waving a blue tide. Malouda tore past Baxter, his cross met by Anelka’s header. Fletcher’s fists punched it clear crowd gasping. Crawley’s three-back system held but was battered: Harry’s block on Ballack a desperate lunge, Jamal’s tackle on Cole ripping up the turf. Max, limping but fierce, pressed Terry, growling, "We’re still here." Thiago’s counter was cut short by Alex’s slide, the Chelsea defender’s roar ringing, "No way!" Luka’s interception sparked a break, his pass to Max deflected by Terry’s boot, the ball spinning out. The red corner roared, "Craw-ley! Fight!" Ollie’s scream pierced, "Hold on, captain!" The clock hit 90 minutes. Stoppage time ticked on, extra time looming like a shadow. In the 93rd minute, Chelsea launched one last assault. Lampard’s long ball found Drogba, who spun past Harry and fired a blazing rocket. Fletcher leapt, fingertips grazing the ball as it slammed off the crossbar with a deafening clang. The crowd held its breath, Chelsea fans gasping, Crawley supporters screaming, "Ad-am!" The ball spun loose, Drogba charging in with everything left in his tank, eyes blazing as he swung for one last, desperate shot. Jamal threw himself forward, every muscle straining, sliding in with a fierce tackle to clear the ball just inches from Drogba’s boot. The whistle was seconds away. The stadium held its breath, hearts pounding like thunder in the stillness. Every second stretched tight and heavy, as if time itself was waiting. This final chance was everything, the thin line between glory and defeat.