Touchline Rebirth: From Game To Glory-Chapter 124: League One Kickoff
Chapter 124: League One Kickoff
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Location: The Valley, London
The morning after the squad’s tense hotel briefing, a heavy overcast sky loomed.
As Crawley’s team bus rolled into southeast London, The Valley loomed like a fortress, the air filled with the scent of rain-soaked asphalt and the crackling tension of pre-match nerves.
Niels stepped off the bus, the crunch of wet gravel underfoot grounding him. His chest tightened not with fear, but with fire.
A storm of anticipation churned in his chest. The League One opener against Charlton was still hours away, but the weight of it the hostile crowd, the relentless press hit like a punch.
His pulse thrummed with a mix of fire and focus. He was ready to prove Crawley belonged.
The media had been relentless. That morning, a Sky Sports pundit’s voice echoed through the hotel lobby, laced with skepticism: "Crawley were warriors in their FA Cup run, a proper fairytale. But League One’s a different thing. There’s no luck run here. They’ll be exposed."
The words stung. They didn’t just question Crawley’s grit, they dismissed it. Niels could feel the jab ripple through the squad.
He gripped a tattered clipboard, its pages stuffed with scouting notes Charlton’s wingers, vulnerabilities on set pieces, Pogba and Freeman’s names starred as the midfield’s engine.
The Valley’s stands were swelling, red and white scarves waving like battle flags, Charlton’s chants rolling in like thunder.
Niels led the squad into the cramped away dressing room walls chipped, the air thick with sweat, antiseptic, and history.
The players Max, Pogba, Freeman, Thiago, Dev, Nate Sutton, and the rest dropped their bags in silence, their faces a mix of steel, nerves, and restless hunger.
Thiago was electric, bouncing on his heels, a grin sharp as a blade as he juggled a ball. "Let’s tear these lot apart, yeah?" he said, his voice slicing through the tension like a spark.
Across the room, Pogba sat on the bench, his usual swagger dulled. The pundit’s "no luck run" gnawed at him.
He wrapped tape around his wrists, muttering, "Focus. Just play," his deep voice a quiet anchor against the nerves.
Max, slipping on his captain’s armband, clapped Pogba’s shoulder. "Forget the telly, mate. We’re here to shut ’em up." His eyes blazed, his need to silence the doubters a fire that could light the pitch.
Freeman sat quietly, lacing his boots, his mind replaying every pass. His focus was a blade, honed and silent.
Kieron Marsh, named as a substitute, paced by the lockers, his frustration a low hum. He caught Thomas’s eye, his voice tight. "I’m ready, Coach. Just say the word." Thomas nodded, his Dutch accent firm. "Keep that hunger, Kieron. You’re one call away." Kieron clenched his fists, channeling his impatience into a burning resolve.
Outside, the pitch gleamed under the floodlights. The rain held off, but the air hung heavy. The whistle blew, and The Valley erupted as Crawley stepped onto the field in their red kits.
The 4-2-3-1 formation was set: Adam Fletcher in goal; Liam McCulloch and Reece Darby anchoring the back line; Pogba and Nate Sutton holding midfield; Freeman pulling the strings at the 10; Thiago and Dev stretching the flanks; and Max up top, leading the line.
The whistle pierced the night, and the match kicked off at a furious pace.
Kickoff:
Crawley struggled to find their rhythm, legs heavy under Charlton’s relentless press. Passes went astray, touches clunky.
Then, in the 10th minute, it unraveled, a sharp move down Charlton’s left, their winger ghosting past Darby and drilling a low cross into the box.
Their striker didn’t hesitate, sliding in to beat Fletcher at the near post.
The Valley erupted.
1–0.
On the Crawley bench, silence. The roar hit like a wave.
Niels leapt from the touchline, his voice slicing through the roar. "Heads up! Stick to it!" Max took the lead, his shouts sharp and commanding, rallying the squad to wake up and fight back.
Pogba shook off the nerves, his long strides growing sharper, breaking up play and feeding Freeman, who weaved through tight spaces like a shadow.
In the 22nd minute, Crawley found their spark. Thiago tore down the right flank, his cross deflected, but Pogba surged into the box, muscling past a defender who clipped his heel.
The referee pointed to the spot, a penalty. The away fans, a small but fierce knot in the stands, erupted, their chants shaking the air.
Max gripped the ball, jaw set, the pundit’s words fading into silence. He faced the keeper, struck it hard and low, wrong-footing the dive.
The net rippled. 1–1.
The Crawley bench exploded Kieron leapt up, roaring, fists clenched.
The first half ended 0-0, but the second half was a real battle, with both teams going end to end and hearts pounding.
The whistle blew to start the second half, and both teams came out firing. Charlton’s wingers pushed hard, sending dangerous crosses into the box, but Fletcher stood firm, making save after save.
At the 57th minute, he stretched to tip a curling shot onto the post, the crack echoing around The Valley.
Then, in the 70th, he soared to palm a point-blank header over the bar, his gloves stinging from the impact. The crowd groaned with every close call, but Crawley’s fans roared back, chanting Fletcher’s name like a heartbeat of defiance.
Crawley hit back quickly. Freeman threaded a perfect ball to Max, who spun and fired, forcing the keeper to scramble and push it wide.
Thiago and Dev kept tormenting Charlton’s full-backs, but a few sloppy passes, Freeman’s rushed flick, Pogba’s heavy touch showed the team wasn’t quite clicking yet.
On the sidelines, Niels jotted down instructions quickly, reminding the team to connect their passes better and tighten up the space between the lines.
Kieron sat on the bench, his boots tapping nervously, every part of him itching to get on the pitch. He leaned toward Nate and muttered, "I’d snap up that loose ball every time."
Nate smiled and nudged him. "You’ll get your chance, mate. Just stay focused." Kieron’s eyes flashed with determination, imagining himself stealing the winning goal,his hunger like a spring ready to snap.
The final minutes were a whirlwind. Charlton pressed hard, their striker blasting a shot that Fletcher stretched to claw away, crashing onto the turf with the effort.
Crawley countered quickly, Thiago sprinted past a defender and whipped in a cross that just missed Max’s head.
Freeman came close to breaking through with a curling pass, but Charlton’s keeper was there, smothering it at the last second.
The whistle blew, 1-1 draw. The away fans erupted, celebrating a hard-earned point on the road. The squad trudged off the pitch, sweat-soaked and mud-streaked, but heads held high.
Max clapped toward the fans, fierce and proud after his penalty. Thiago gave a tired smile, tossing his wristband to a kid in the stands. Pogba exhaled slowly, his confidence slowly returning as the weight of the pundit’s words faded.
In the post-match presser, Niels faced a wall of microphones in the cramped media room.
His face was calm, but his voice was direct. "A point away at Charlton is a result I’ll take. But we’re nowhere near our best. We’ll sharpen up and keep building."
Reporters scribbled notes, some raising eyebrows, others nodding, skepticism still hanging in the air.
Back in the dressing room, the squad was quiet, the draw settling in. Max stood up, his voice rough but steady. "Lads, that’s a start. We showed we can hang in there. Now we go harder against Sheffield." Pogba nodded, his deep voice calm. "We’re just getting warmed up." Freeman sat quietly, replaying every touch, already focused on the next game.
All over the fan forums and message boards, the mood was rough. One thread was titled, "Crawley Not Convincing, Has the Bubble Popped?"
Another was full of snarky comments like, "Is Niels losing his touch?" The digs stung, but Niels just shook his head and kept his focus on what mattered the next game.
He stepped outside to the bus, rain pouring down, soaking his jacket and clipboard. Under the awning, he cracked open his laptop and replayed Charlton’s goal over and over, searching for what went wrong and how to fix it.
The squad’s rhythm was starting to come together, but the road ahead was tough—Sheffield United, Preston, and beyond.
Niels saw it all: Fletcher’s saves, McCulloch’s command, Darby’s energy, Thiago and Dev’s wing magic, Nate’s sharp passes, Kieron’s hunger, Max’s fire, and Pogba and Freeman’s growing midfield control.
Niels quickly wrote on his clipboard: ’We’ve got a point. The fire’s lit. Now let’s fight even harder and make this season ours.’ The words felt like a promise, a calm steady hand amid all the pressure.
He leaned against the bus as rain pounded his hood, its steady beat matching Crawley’s heartbeat.
The lights of The Valley faded behind him, but the team’s determination burned even brighter, ready to push them forward.
