The Coaching System-Chapter 162: Bradford vs Norwich 2

48th Minute – Norwich finally found a crack.

Maddison had been quiet all game, shadowed every step by Ibáñez and Vélez, but this time, just for a second, he found space. He barely needed to look—one touch, one perfect, slicing pass that split the Bradford backline in half.

Barnes turned, but he was too late.

Sargent was already gone, sprinting onto the ball like a predator scenting blood. One-on-one with Okafor.

Jake barely had time to process it.

Sargent took a touch, steadied himself, then pulled the trigger. A low, driven strike, arrowing toward the bottom corner.

Okafor exploded forward, closing the distance.

A split-second decision—go down, stay up, spread wide?

The Nigerian goalkeeper threw out a leg—pure instinct.

The ball deflected off his shin, spinning away from goal.

Valley Parade gasped. A half-second of silence.

Then Barnes was there, sliding in, hacking the loose ball clear before Rowe could react.

Jake exhaled. That was too close.

On the sideline, Norwich's assistant coach clapped his hands, urging his players on. They had smelled weakness.

But Okafor had slammed the door shut.

52nd Minute – GOAL! Bradford 1-0 Norwich

Norwich was still reorganizing, still adjusting after that near-miss. They weren't ready.

Bradford smelled blood.

Ibáñez won the ball in midfield, calm as ever, and lifted his head. One glance. He saw Bardghji peeling away down the right, acres of space ahead. No hesitation. A clipped pass over the top, perfectly weighted, dropping just beyond the full-back's reach.

Bardghji's first touch was pure silk. Killed it dead, let it roll into his stride.

He accelerated, cutting inside, defenders scrambling, the box in chaos.

Costa was already moving. He read it before anyone else.

Bardghji didn't hesitate. One look, one whipped cross—low, hard, deadly.

Costa arrived right on time.

First-time. Instinct. Precision.

The ball kissed the inside of the post and nestled into the net.

Gunn didn't even dive. No chance.

Valley Parade erupted. Jake clenched his fist.

Bradford led.

55th Minute – Bradford Substitutions

Jake wasn't waiting. A one-goal lead wasn't enough. He wanted fresh legs, energy, control.

Min-jae was the first to come off. He had put in a shift, but Norwich was starting to exploit the space behind him. Fletcher replaced him—strong, fresh, and ready to organize the backline. Barnes gave him a nod as he jogged on.

Next, Taylor. The left-back had battled hard, but his legs were heavy. Holloway came in, younger, quicker, ready to cover ground and add more dynamism on the left.

Then came the attacking changes.

Silva was done. He had tormented Norwich's defense but had run himself into the ground. Rasmussen took his place—a different kind of threat, direct and aggressive.

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Costa had scored, but Jake wanted more running in behind. More pressure on the Norwich backline. Obi was the answer. Big, powerful, relentless.

And finally, Mensah. He had worked tirelessly, but his race was run. Richter came in, fresh, sharp, hungry.

Five changes. New energy.

Jake clapped his hands. "Let's finish this."

66th Minute – RED CARD! Norwich Down to Ten!

Norwich was losing their grip on the game, and it showed. Bradford had them pinned back, Vélez pulling the strings, dictating every move.

Then, a moment of recklessness.

Vélez skipped past his man with ease, gliding into open space in midfield. He took a touch forward—then another. Norwich's defensive line backed off, wary of his vision. He was about to release Obi through on goal.

And then—impact.

Hanley came flying in from behind, both legs off the ground. A reckless, desperate lunge.

Vélez never saw it coming.

His legs were swept from under him, his body twisted mid-air before crashing onto the turf. Valley Parade erupted in fury. Vélez clutched his ankle, rolling over in pain.

The referee was already sprinting over, hand reaching into his back pocket before Hanley had even gotten up.

Straight red.

Norwich's players swarmed the referee, shouting, pleading. Hanley threw his arms out in disbelief. He knew what he'd done, but he wasn't going to admit it.

Jake was already on the pitch, furious. "That could've broken his leg!" he shouted, pointing toward Vélez, who was still down.

The stretcher came out, but Vélez pushed it away. He wasn't coming off. He waved the physios back, wincing as he got to his feet. A warrior.

Norwich? Down to ten.

Bradford? Smelling blood.

72nd Minute – GOAL! Bradford 2-0 Norwich

Bradford could feel it now. The second goal was coming. Norwich, down to ten, looked stretched, desperate. They were trying to hold on, but gaps were opening everywhere.

Rasmussen saw it first.

The Danish winger received the ball wide on the right, his first touch killing the pass dead. He glanced up. Obi was already on the move, peeling away from his marker, pointing exactly where he wanted it.

Rasmussen didn't hesitate.

One perfect, curling ball—threaded between two defenders, bypassing the entire Norwich backline.

Obi read it perfectly, adjusted his stride, and took it in full stride. One touch to control, his second to steady himself. Gunn rushed out, arms wide, trying to close the angle.

Too late.

Obi opened up his body and slotted it low past Gunn, the ball rolling cleanly into the bottom corner.

Valley Parade exploded.

Obi wheeled away in celebration, arms outstretched, roaring toward the fans. His teammates mobbed him—Rasmussen first, grinning as he pounded him on the back.

Bradford had their second. Norwich looked beaten.

78th Minute –

Bradford smelled blood. They weren't sitting back. Norwich, down a man, looked stretched every time Bradford attacked.

Ibáñez, who had been controlling the tempo all game, spotted another opening. A quick turn, a clever chipped pass over the top—Rasmussen latched onto it, took it down on his chest, and let it fly on the half-volley.

Gunn barely moved.

The ball whistled past him—just over the bar. Gasps from the crowd. That was inches away from sealing it.

Bradford kept coming.

84th Minute –

Norwich had completely lost their shape. Every Bradford attack looked dangerous now. Vélez picked up possession in midfield, played a sharp ball into Richter's feet.

The German striker didn't even need to turn—he knew Obi was making the run.

A perfect flick around the corner, splitting two defenders. Obi raced onto it, one-on-one with Gunn again.

This time, the keeper got a fingertip to it.

The ball spun wide of the post. Obi slapped the ground in frustration. He knew he should've finished that.

But he wasn't done yet.