Chapter 90: FA Cup Final [5]

Chapter 90: FA Cup Final [5] Chapter 90: FA Cup Final [5] Saturday, May 15, 2010 The final whistle was just seconds away when Jamal’s desperate clearance flew out of the box, breaking the last thread of Chelsea’s attack. As the whistle blew, Wembley’s floodlights burned, the crowd’s roar a seismic quake. Players dropped to their knees, gasping for breath, sweat mixing with the cold night air. Crawley’s red corner erupted in wild celebration, heroes born in a single, fierce moment. But beneath the cheers, exhaustion settled in, and extra time loomed ahead. The battle was far from over. For a few tense minutes, players huddled around coaches, grabbing water and gasping for air. The referee checked his watch, the floodlights glowing brighter against the dark sky. Fans held their breath, the roar simmering into an expectant hush. Could Crawley defy the odds, or would Chelsea’s might crush their dream on the edge of eternity? Extra-time begins: Then the referee’s whistle cut through Wembley at 5:00 p.m., a razor-sharp call igniting extra time. The ball rolled on a pitch churned to mud, slick with sweat and blood. The crowd’s roar swelled a living beast of 90,000 voices. Chelsea’s blue sea swallowed the stands, chants deafening, "Chels-ea! Chels-ea!" Crawley’s red corner, a defiant flame, roared back, "Craw-ley! Kings!" The air was thick with grass, liniment, and raw desperation, floodlights casting long shadows like swords. Max, limping but fierce, prowled Chelsea’s box, his taped ankle throbbing, armband soaked, his painted stone’s vow burning in his chest: "For Crawley." Thiago darted to the right wing, a red streak, eyes blazing with relentless spark. Luka anchored the midfield, his napkin sketch a memory, focus a cold blade slicing through fatigue. Niels stood on the sideline, red wristband stark, voice low but firm, "I know you’re tired, but so are they. This is where it turns. One run, one tackle, one goal. That’s all it takes." Chelsea’s team was still powerful with Drogba leading the attack, Lampard controlling the midfield, Terry standing strong at the back, and Čech guarding the goal like a giant. Their fans roared, "Drogba’s king!" as the ball moved, and the whole stadium felt ready to explode. Crawley’s three-back line, Harry, Liam, and Reece held firm, with Nate and Dev pushing high as wing-backs. Max and Thiago led a fierce press. Chelsea struck first, their passing quick and precise. Lampard flicked the ball to Malouda, who sprinted down the left, tearing the turf. His cross curled dangerously into the box, Harry lunged and deflected it wide. The red corner erupted, "Har-ry! Har-ry!" while Chelsea fans roared, "London is blue!" Niels clapped hard from the sideline. "Stay sharp!" Max slammed into Terry, growling, "I’m not done yet." Thiago stuck close to Cole, his grin wide. "Come on, then show me something." Luka cut down Ballack with a clean tackle, muttering, "Pick another day." The air was electric, every pass a spark, the crowd’s noise pounding like war drums. Ollie stood on his seat in the red corner, shouting, "Max, don’t stop!" A boy next to him waved a scarf, a sign flashing, "Thiago, burn them!" sparking a chant that rose and clashed against Chelsea’s blue wave. By the 95th minute, Chelsea smelled blood. Ancelotti barked from the sideline, "Avanti! Break them!" as Ballack’s long ball dropped into the box for Drogba. Reece dove, but Drogba spun like lightning, his shot a piledriver Fletcher blocked with stinging gloves, the ball skidding off into the boards. The blue sea exploded "Drogba! Drogba!" flags whipping like a storm. Crawley’s red corner roared back, "Ad-am! Our Wall!" cutting through the noise: "Hold on, Adam!" Lampard’s follow-up curled just inches wide. The crowd gasped. Crawley fans clutched scarves like lifelines. Max, still limping, pressed Alex, pain searing through his ankle, but his snarl was sharp: "We’re not done yet." Thiago tried to counter, but Terry’s sliding challenge thundered through the pitch. "Ours!" the Chelsea captain roared. Niels leaned forward on the sideline, eyes sharp. "They’re pushing too hard. Let’s break them." Chelsea’s press was relentless. Possession climbed to 70%, Crawley’s legs heavy, lungs burning under the weight. A girl in the red corner waved a sign "Luka, strike!" and a chant rose behind her, "Craw-ley! Fight!" Chelsea fans shouted, "You don’t belong here!" But Crawley’s ember still burned small, defiant, and alive in the heart of the storm. At the 100th minute, Chelsea attacked again. Malouda slipped past Dev and sent a perfect cross to Anelka, who headed the ball toward goal. Fletcher jumped high and punched it away. Crawley’s fans exploded, shouting, "Adam! Adam!" Chelsea’s supporters booed, shouting, "Finish them!" Ancelotti yelled from the sideline, "Now!" Lampard took a powerful shot from 22 yards out. Fletcher dived, barely touching the ball before it slammed against the post with a loud clang. The whole stadium held its breath. Chelsea’s roar quieted, while Crawley’s fans screamed, "Adam! Hero!" Max, still limping, patted Fletcher on the back, saying, "You’re a wall, mate." Harry threw himself to block Drogba’s follow-up shot, sending the ball spinning away. The red corner chanted, "Harry! Harry!" as a boy waved his scarf high. Niels nodded, watching closely. "They’re tiring. Keep pushing." The score was still 1-1, but Chelsea’s attack kept crashing, and Crawley’s defense stood strong, with their fans giving them hope. As the whistle blew for the break in extra time, players staggered off the pitch, sweat mixing with the cold night air. The floodlights glared down on a muddy field, the weight of the battle heavy on every shoulder. In the tunnel, Crawley’s squad huddled close, Niels steady and calm. "Rest now. This is where we prove who we are." The crowd roared in anticipation, knowing the final act was yet to come. The second half of extra time began under the weight of exhaustion and hope. Both teams shuffled back onto the pitch, muscles heavy but spirits unyielding. The crowd’s roar rose again, a tidal wave of noise echoing through Wembley’s night air. Every touch, every run carried the promise of glory or heartbreak. At the 108th minute, chaos erupted. Thiago broke free on the right, boots a blur, his ribbon flashing as he tore past Cole. His low cross found Max in the box. Max chested it down, his limping leg straining. Terry lunged, bodies crashing Max hit the turf with a grunt. The ball spun loose. Crawley’s fans screamed, "Penalty!" Ollie’s voice cut through, "Hey Ref, that’s a foul!" But the whistle remained maddeningly silent. Fury exploded in the red corner with scarves torn from hands, boos crashing like waves. A girl’s sign flashed defiantly in the shadows: "Justice for Crawley!" Chelsea’s fans sneered back with venom, "Diving scum! No foul!" Ancelotti’s cold smirk cut through the tension like a blade. Niels snapped, storming towards the fourth official, voice shaking with rage, "Are you blind? That was robbery!" Milan caught him just in time, voice low but urgent, "Control yourself, Niels, don’t lose it now. Keep your head cool." Max staggered to his feet, every breath agony, eyes blazing with pure, burning fury. Through clenched teeth he spat, "Forget them. We’ll make them pay, for this injustice." Thiago’s glare was colder than ice, a silent vow of retribution. "They won’t get away with it." The crowd’s fury ignited a wildfire within the team. Crawley’s press became a relentless storm, their chant thundered louder than ever: "Craw-ley! Kings!" The clock’s final seconds dripped like poison. The score locked at 1-1. The tension was suffocating poised on a knife’s edge, ready to snap. At the 114th minute, Crawley dug deep. Max, his ankle blazing with pain, pressed Terry, growling fiercely, "We’re still here." Thiago burst past Cole, his shot brushing Čech’s gloves as the red corner screamed, "Thi-ago!" Luka’s fierce tackle on Lampard sparked a counterattack, but Dev’s pass was cut off by Alex’s slide, the defender’s roar ringing out, "No chance!" Crawley’s three-back system stood as a crumbling wall Harry’s desperate block on Anelka, Liam’s tackle on Malouda tearing up the turf. Fletcher was a titan, his full-stretch dive saving Drogba’s 25-yard rocket, the ball thudding hard against the boards. The red corner chanted, "Ad-am! Ad-am!" Ollie’s voice cut through, "Hold on, captain!" A boy waved his scarf high, a sign flashing, "Max, never break!" Chelsea’s fans roared, "Bury ’em!" Their blue tide relentless, but Crawley’s ember burned brighter spirits unyielding, hearts on fire. At the 119th minute, Chelsea threw everything forward in a furious assault. Lampard’s threaded pass found Drogba bursting into the box, muscles straining, eyes burning with intent. His thunderous shot crashed against the crossbar with a deafening clang. The crowd gasped, Chelsea’s fans roaring, hope surging like a tidal wave. But Crawley wasn’t beaten yet. The loose ball rolled toward Thiago, who exploded past Chelsea’s tired defenders with a burst of speed. His eyes locked on Max, who, limping but fearless, took the ball in stride. Max shrugged off Terry’s desperate challenge, planted his foot, and fired a fierce shot toward goal but it hit the crossbar. The stadium seemed to hold its breath. Before anyone could react, Luka lunged for the rebound, snatching it from the chaos. Without hesitation, he sent a laser-quick pass slicing through the crowded penalty area to Nate. Nate surged forward, weaving through a sea of bodies, every muscle screaming, as the red corner erupted into a deafening chant: "Craw-ley! Craw-ley!" With the final whistle mere seconds away, every heartbeat echoing like a drum in the electric silence. Could they flip the script and claim glory? Or would Chelsea snatch victory in the dying moments? Would this fierce battle end in heartbreak or heroism, or drag into the cruel lottery of penalties?