Touchline Rebirth: From Game To Glory
Chapter 38: Ready for Giants

Chapter 38: Ready for Giants

Chapter 38: Ready for Giants

Saturday, January 23, 2010

Frost clung to the Broadfield Stadium training pitch, the January air sharp as Niels watched his Crawley Town squad drill for the FA Cup Fourth Round clash against Barnsley, now six days away. The 1-1 draw at Rochdale five days ago, Korey Henry’s strike matched by a late equalizer, kept them seventh in League Two with 47 points, their resolve unbroken. But for the FA Cup, Barnsley’s Championship pedigree a looming giant.

Morning started with a staff meeting in the club’s cramped boardroom, the radiator’s hum a faint comfort. Claire, the financial officer, stood by a whiteboard, her voice tight. "Rochdale’s gate receipts added 30,000 pounds, but Thiago’s 200,000-pound fee and Baxter’s loan wages are squeezing us dry. Barnsley’s TV deal could bring 100,000 pounds, Niels, but we need a win." Mr. Hargreaves, the chairman, leaned forward, his eyes hard. "The town’s alive, but we’re on a tightrope. Barnsley’s no Rochdale or Lincoln, you know that." Niels nodded, his stomach knotted. Thiago and José Baxter, set to start against Barnsley, were his gambles, their cameos at Rochdale promising but raw. His gamer instincts, honed on digital pitches, urged him to trust their flair, but the stakes, financial and emotional, pressed like a vice.

Claire set down her pen, her face weary. "Barnsley’s tickets are at 12,000, with BBC cameras coming. The pressure’s on, Niels." He met her gaze, recalling her late-night calls to São Paulo for Thiago, the swift deal with Everton for Baxter’s loan, wages split. "We’ll fight," he said, his voice steady despite the doubt clawing within. Hargreaves grunted, unconvinced, and waved them out. Niels lingered, his thoughts on Elise, his sister, their texts a lifeline: "We are rooting up for you" Elise had written. Their belief warmed him, but the fear of letting them down stung like the frost outside.

On the pitch, training began under a weak sun, the squad’s breath clouding. Niels had crafted the session for Barnsley’s Championship strength: compact defensive drills to blunt their midfield, quick counterattacks to exploit their high line, and set-piece battles to match their physicality. Thiago, now a starter, weaved through cones, his feet dancing, his English improving but still halting. During a passing drill, he misheard Luka Radev’s call, "Thiago, back!" and sent the ball wide, Dev Patel sighing. "We’ll get you there, mate," Dev said, jogging over with a grin. Thiago’s nod was earnest, but Niels noted the gap, communication could cost them against Barnsley’s pace.

Drama flared during a scrimmage when Korey Henry, buoyed by his Rochdale goal, pushed too hard, his overconfidence [Reckless flair] sparking a clash. He lunged for a ball, clipping Kieron Marsh’s ankle, Kieron hitting the turf with a grunt. "Korey, ease up!" Kieron snapped, his confidence still fragile from Rochdale. Max Simons stepped in, voice calm but firm. "Korey, play smart. Kieron, you’re tougher than that." Niels approached, his Instinct Lens humming: Thiago’s [Silky technique], Baxter’s [Creative spark], Max’s [Steady anchor]. "Korey, channel that fire. Kieron, keep growing," he said, defusing the tension. Kieron’s nod was hesitant, but his eyes held a spark, a sign of progress Niels clung to.

Mid-session, Niels gathered the squad by the touchline, frost crunching under their boots. "Barnsley’s a giant, lads, but we’ve got heart. Thiago, José, you’re starting, show ’em Crawley’s fight. We’re not just playing for us, but for the town, for the Cup." Korey pumped a fist. "Let’s topple ’em!" Thiago’s grin, "I ready, coach," drew chuckles, while Baxter’s Scouse quip, "They’ll be proper rattled," sparked laughter. Max’s nod, silent but fierce, bound them tighter. Niels’ thoughts drifted to his 2025 self, a gamer lost in FIFA’s glow, tweaking tactics for virtual Cup runs. That life was a shadow, but its instincts, trust the squad, seize the moment, pulsed in him now.

The drills resumed, shifting to set-pieces. Tom Whitehall dominated the box, his headers crashing into the net, while José Baxter’s free-kicks curled with venom, earning a nod from Adam Fletcher in goal. "Keep that, José," Fletcher called, his voice steady. Luka teased Thiago, mimicking his stepovers, and Thiago shoved him playfully, their laughter echoing. Korey’s shout, "Thiago’s nicking my shine!" drew grins, the squad’s bond growing. But Niels noticed Kieron’s passes stayed safe, his confidence still tender. During a break, Niels pulled him aside. "You’re stronger every day, Kieron. That tackle at Rochdale? Pure heart. Believe it." Kieron’s shy smile was a flicker of hope.

A media van parked beyond the fence, reporters setting up, their voices carrying: "Crawley’s Cup run, Barnsley next?" Fans gathered, scarves waving, chanting, "Red Devils!" A young girl shouted, "Niels, sign my scarf!" He jogged over, scrawling his name, her grin infectious. "You’re gonna beat Barnsley!" she said, her mum nodding. "We’re with you," Niels replied, their hope a fire in his chest. A reporter called, "Niels, can Crawley shock a Championship side?" He kept it short. "We’re ready to fight." The question lingered, Barnsley’s stakes towering.

Post-training, Thiago lingered, his English halting. "Coach, Barnsley, big team. I nervous." Niels gripped his shoulder. "You’re our spark, Thiago. Play free." Baxter joined, smirking. "We’ll run ’em ragged, mate." Thiago’s nod was firm, their bond a lifeline. Claire caught Niels later, her clipboard heavy. "Barnsley’s at 12,000 tickets, BBC’s hyping it. We’re stretched thin, but the town’s buzzing." Niels nodded, the pressure clear.

In the tactics room, Niels led a video session, dissecting Barnsley’s play: fast wingers, a sturdy midfield, a striker with five goals this season. "Reece, Jamal, mark him tight," he said, pointing at the screen. "Thiago, Luka, hit the channels." His 2025 memories stirred, vague FIFA sliders: high tempo, narrow shape. He pushed them aside, focusing on Crawley’s grit. Max stayed after, his voice low. "Thiago’s ready, boss. Korey’s cocky, but I’ll keep him grounded." Niels smiled. "You’re the heart, Max."

Evening brought a call from Elise, her voice warm. "We made a Barnsley score prediction, 2-1 to us! We’re wearing the scarf to bed." Niels chuckled. "Thanks, we’ll fight for it. Love you, sis." He stepped outside, the stadium dark, frost glinting under floodlights. A fan, an old man in a Crawley scarf, lingered by the gate. "Been supporting since ’68," he said, voice rough. "Never seen the town like this. You’re giving us hope, son." Niels shook his hand, his throat tight. "We’ll keep fighting."

Back in his office, Niels studied Barnsley’s lineup, Thiago’s flair, Baxter’s vision, Max’s steel fueling his hope. The squad’s fire, the town’s belief, it all burned against his fractured past. Barnsley was a giant, but Crawley’s dream was fiercer, ready to face the frost.

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