Chapter 99: A Night of Champions League

Chapter 99: A Night of Champions League Chapter 99: A Night of Champions League Friday, May 28, 2010 Niels settled into his seat on the short flight from London to Milan. As the plane hummed quietly, he stared out at the clouds below. His old backpack was in the overhead compartment, packed with a few clothes, a battered novel, and a notebook he’d sworn was just for thoughts, not football tactics. He’d left Crawley the night before, quietly slipping away after a week of calm following his decision to stay. The "Niels Stays!" banners, red-iced pastries, and kids chanting near Broadfield Stadium had all faded, leaving behind a quiet that made him crave some distance from the weight of the town’s hopes. He hadn’t gone anywhere since deciding to stay in Crawley just kept to himself, letting the town’s quiet support settle around him. Now, Milan was his first real break, a short escape before the season’s demands pulled him back to Broadfield’s empty pitches. The plane landed at Milan Malpensa, and Niels stepped into the busy terminal, filled with the smell of espresso and the buzz of travelers. He’d booked a small hotel in the Navigli district, drawn to its quiet canals and cobbled streets far from the spotlight of football. As the taxi carried him through the city, past a mix of old stone buildings and sleek glass towers, he felt something rare: lightness. No media, no pressure, just a city that didn’t know who he was. But football was never far behind. Tonight, the UEFA Champions League Final between Inter Milan and Bayern Munich would set the city roaring. Niels, with his strange gift of knowing the future, was certain Inter would win, a masterclass crafted by José Mourinho. But it wasn’t just the score that held his attention.. it was the unfolding battle of tactics, the heartbeat of a game alive with passion and precision, one that could ignite a fire within Crawley’s dreams. He discovered a small café by the Navigli canal, where wooden tables spilled onto the sidewalk and string lights cast a warm glow as dusk settled. Inside, the air buzzed with the clink of espresso cups, soft Italian voices, and the hum of a TV hanging above the bar. Niels settled at a corner table, his backpack tucked beneath his chair and a steaming black coffee before him. The café buzzed with life, old men debating over cards, young couples sharing wine, and a bartender polishing glasses with practiced ease. As the match began, the room’s energy shifted—eyes locked on the screen, voices rising with every pass. But Niels was captivated not by the score he already knew, but by the skill and artistry unfolding on the pitch. Inter’s tight formation, ruthless discipline, and the way they soaked up Bayern’s relentless pressure before striking with surgical precision, it was a masterclass in control, a true showcase of Mourinho’s genius. When Diego Milito scored in the 35th minute, a sharp finish after a flowing move the café erupted. Glasses clinked and shouts filled the air. But Niels stayed still, eyes focused, taking in every detail. He pulled out his notebook, breaking his own rule, and wrote: Bravery isn’t chaos. It’s control. Inter’s shape was a thing of beauty tight and unyielding, every player a vital part of a machine that smothered Bayern’s flair. Wesley Sneijder’s vision opened spaces, Samuel Eto’o’s tireless work pinned defenders, and Milito’s killer instinct struck like a blade. It echoed Crawley’s grit, Max’s fight, Luka’s fire, Thiago’s flair but more refined and perfection, a blueprint for what Niels could create. As the match went on, Bayern pressed hard, their attacks crashing like waves. But Inter stood firm, their mental strength a solid wall. When Milito scored again in the 70th minute to seal the 2-0 win, the café erupted—locals hugged, wine spilled on checkered tablecloths. Yet Niels’s mind raced, his pen moving even faster. He thought of Crawley’s muddy pitches, the empty stands of Broadfield, and a vision of what they could become, not just survivors in League One, but a force to be feared. A spark of raw ambition ignited in his chest, burning hotter than the coffee he’d barely touched. He wrote, his pen pressing hard into the paper: I don’t just want to survive League One. I want to dominate it. The words felt like a vow, a fire kindled by Mourinho’s masterpiece. Niels knew the future, he knew which players would rise and which teams would change the game but seeing Inter’s disciplined ferocity and their refusal to break made him eager to shape Crawley’s path with the same sharp precision. He jotted down more notes, formations, pressing triggers, names of young talents he believed would shine in the years to come, and loan players who could fuel Crawley’s fight. The café’s noise faded, the world narrowing to the game and the possibilities it inspired. He pictured a midfield rebuilt to bring new steel, a defense drilled to stand firm like Inter’s, and an attack that struck sharp like Milito’s blade. When the final whistle blew, Inter were crowned champions of Europe. The café erupted as locals sang, waved Inter flags, and spilled out into the street, but Niels stayed seated, notebook open, heart pounding. He’d known Inter would win, but the match held him not for the score, but for the lesson. Mourinho’s team didn’t just play, they controlled the chaos, turning ambition into reality with every careful move. Niels wanted more than just a scrappy promotion push, he dreamed of leading a team that left opponents stunned, fans roaring, and the football world whispering their name. Not just Crawley, but any top club that would want him at the helm. He paid his bill, leaving a few euros on the table, and stepped out into the quiet Milan streets. The canals shimmered under the city’s lights, their ripples dancing beneath a star-streaked sky. The air was cool, scented with river water and distant cigarette smoke, and the hum of celebration from nearby bars faded as he walked along the cobblestones, his boots echoing softly. Each step pulsed with the fire ignited in that café. He thought of Crawley, the empty pitches at Broadfield, kids in the park copying Max’s shot, the old man’s trembling voice at The Red Lion, the note in his pocket: Keep going. We’re behind you. The town’s love was a weight he gladly carried, but tonight, it was fuel for something bigger. His mind raced with plans. The transfer window was weeks away, yet he was already mapping out targets, hungry young players, loan signings eager to prove themselves, hidden gems ready to break through. He pictured a Crawley team that didn’t just fight for points but played with the ruthless clarity he’d just witnessed. Emma’s words ’Rest, reflect, recharge’ echoed in his mind, but rest already felt impossible. Milan was just the start of his journey away from England, and this match had ignited a fire in his soul unlike anything before. He paused by the canal, leaning against a stone railing as the water lapped softly below. The Milan skyline stood sharp and defiant against the night. His choice to stay with Crawley felt clearer now not a burden, but a spark. He’d turned down Barnsley, Forest, Mainz, Torino not because of lack of ambition, but because Crawley was his canvas, his chance to create something extraordinary. The note from the kid, the school’s murals, the fans’ chants, they were his fire. He pulled out his notebook, the canal’s ripples catching the moonlight, and added one last line: ’Build a team that controls the game. Make them fear us’. His heart raced as he slipped the notebook back into his pocket, the cool night air grounding him. The Champions League final had been a mirror, showing what he could achieve with Crawley if he pushed harder, thought sharper, and dreamed bigger. He started walking again, Milan’s quiet streets alive with possibility, each step bringing him closer to the season ahead. He imagined Broadfield packed once more the roar of the crowd, Max leading the line, Luka charging through the rain, Thiago weaving past defenders. This was no longer about just surviving League One, it was about dominating it, building a team that played with the same fire and control he’d witnessed tonight. As he turned a corner, the distant chant of Inter fans echoed through the night, but in his mind, it was Crawley’s voices calling, ready for the next fight.