Touchline Rebirth: From Game To Glory
Chapter 39: The Fourth Round Clash (Vs. Barnsley Part-I)

Chapter 39: The Fourth Round Clash (Vs. Barnsley Part-I)

Chapter 39: Cup Fire Ignites (Vs. Barnsley Part-I)

Friday, January 27, 2010

FA Cup Fourth Round: Crawley Town vs. Barnsley

Broadfield Stadium thrummed with the roar of 12,000 fans, their red scarves a blazing tide under the January floodlights, as Crawley Town faced Barnsley in the FA Cup Fourth Round. Niels stood in the home dressing room, heart hammering, the weight of the moment pressing hard against his chest. The 1-1 draw at Rochdale days earlier, Korey Henry’s goal a lifeline but momentum shaken, kept Crawley seventh in League Two, their FA Cup dream now a blazing beacon.

The dressing room was a furnace of nerves and grit, the air thick with liniment and raw anticipation. Niels faced his squad, Max Simons, Luka Radev, Korey Henry, Dev Patel, Nate Sutton, Jamal Osei, Tom Whitehall, Reece Darby, Adam Fletcher in goal, Thiago, and José Baxter starting, with Toby, Ilyas Kader, and Kieron Marsh on the bench. "Barnsley’s tough, lads," he said, voice steady but alive with fire. "Championship side, two leagues above us, they’re fast on wings, deadly in the box, thinking we’re small fry. But we’re Crawley, we’re hungry, and we’ll fight for every inch of this pitch. Thiago, José, light it up; Max, Luka, hold the fort. This is our night, our town, our dream." Max’s nod burned with focus, Thiago’s eyes gleamed with hunger, Korey’s fist pumped, his Rochdale spark still glowing. The room erupted, "Red Devils!" as the fans’ chant roared outside, "We’ll fight to the end!" Niels’ chest tightened, belief in his squad wrestling with the fear of buckling under Barnsley’s might.

Outside, BBC cameras panned the stands, media vans jamming the car park, reporters’ voices hyping the David-and-Goliath clash. "League Two’s Crawley Town against Championship team, can the underdogs pull off a shock?" one crackled. The fans answered, their passion shaking the ground, a banner unfurling, "Crawley to Wembley!" Niels walked the tunnel, Barnsley’s players looming, their smirks sharp, their 6-foot-2 striker, a five-goal menace this season, eyeing Crawley’s lineup like easy prey. The cold stung Niels’ face as they stepped onto the pristine pitch, 12,000 voices exploding, "Red Devils!" A girl in the front row waved a sign, "Niels, our hero!" her grin a spark in the night.

Kickoff:

The whistle blew, and Broadfield ignited, the game flaring like a struck match. Barnsley surged, their right winger darting past Luka, his cross curling toward their towering striker. Jamal slid in, deflecting it to Fletcher, who clutched it tight, the away end groaning, Crawley’s fans roaring, "Fletch-er!" Niels clapped, urging shape, his plan clear, absorb Barnsley’s pressure, strike on the counter, exploit their sluggish center-backs.

Thiago, in his first start, danced on the ball, his stepovers drawing a foul, the crowd buzzing like a live wire. Dev’s free-kick soared into the box, Tom Whitehall leaping, his header tipped over by Barnsley’s lanky keeper in neon green. The stands surged, "Push on!" a kid banging the barrier, scarf flapping.

Crawley grew bolder, José Baxter’s vision carving open the midfield. In the 14th minute, Baxter threaded a pinpoint pass to Korey, who jinked left, his shot skimming wide, the fans groaning, scarves waving wildly. Niels’ heart raced, faint 2025 memories flickering, FIFA sliders for Cup ties, high tempo, tight lines. He shook them off, eyes glued to the pitch, alive in the moment. Barnsley countered, their midfielder’s long ball finding their winger, who cut inside Reece. Reece lunged, clipping the winger’s heel, earning a yellow, the Barnsley bench barking. Niels signaled calm, but the free-kick was lethal, curling into the box. Max outjumped their striker, his header clearing, the fans chanting, "Max, Max!" their voices a heartbeat.

In the 19th minute, Nate Sutton sparked a move, his tackle on Barnsley’s midfielder clean, the ball rolling to Luka. Luka’s run down the left drew a defender, his cut-back finding Dev, whose curling shot forced the keeper’s diving save, the crowd gasping, "So close!" Barnsley hit back, their striker bullying Jamal, his snapshot forcing Fletcher’s sprawling save, the ball tipped wide, the away end, 2,000 strong, chanting, "Tykes, Tykes!" Niels adjusted, shouting for Luka to track their winger tighter, his voice cutting through the din.

In the 22nd minute, Crawley struck gold. Thiago, snatching a loose ball, weaved past a midfielder, hips swaying, the crowd rising like a wave. He slipped a pass to Luka, who crossed low and sharp. Thiago, ghosting into the box, met it with a crisp volley, the ball rocketing past the keeper.

Goal! Thiago, Crawley 1-0!

The stadium erupted, 12,000 fans leaping, red smoke flaring in the stands, the chant deafening, "Thi-a-go!" Thiago sprinted to the corner, arms cupped to his ears, soaking in the roar. Niels pumped a fist, voice sharp, "Focus, lads!" his joy laced with tension, Barnsley’s claws still sharp. Korey’s flair flared again, his run down the right drawing a foul, Dev’s free-kick cleared by Barnsley’s giant center-back, the crowd booing, scarves twirling.

The game tightened, like a chess match of grit and guile, Crawley’s fans relentless, "Red Devils!" echoing like a war cry. In the 33rd minute, Nate took a brutal hit, grimacing but waving off the physio, his defiance earning Max’s clap, the fans chanting, "Nate!" Niels’ heart twisted, his squad’s spirit his lifeline. Barnsley’s pressure grew, their winger, a blur of pace, skinning Luka, his cross met by their midfielder, whose header sailed inches over, Crawley’s fans holding their breath, scarves clutched tight.

In the 38th minute, Thiago sparked again, his dribble through two defenders halted by a crunching tackle, the crowd roaring in protest, Niels waving play on, his faith in Thiago unshaken. Baxter’s pass to Dev ignited a counter, Dev’s shot blocked, the rebound scrambled clear, the fans urging, "Keep it up!" a boy in a Crawley scarf banging the barrier, eyes wide with hope.

In the 44th minute, disaster struck. Barnsley won a corner, their fans surging, a red-and-white wall. The ball curled in, their striker outmuscling Jamal, his header looping over Fletcher, who clawed desperately but couldn’t reach.

Goal, Barnsley, 1-1!

The away end exploded, Barnsley’s players mobbing their striker, Crawley’s fans falling silent, scarves sagging, the air heavy with dread. Niels froze, his stomach plummeting, the dream teetering. He clapped, shouting, "Heads up, lads!" urging his squad to hold firm. The referee’s watch ticked, stoppage time looming, the score locked at 1-1. In the final seconds, Korey broke down the right, his cross deflected, the whistle blowing before Max could pounce, the stadium holding its breath, a collective gasp as half-time arrived.

Half-Time: Crawley Town 1-1 Barnsley

In the dressing room, sweat dripped, the air thick with resolve. Niels faced his squad, voice steady, "That’s our fight, lads. Thiago, magic strike. Max, Jamal, keep their striker quiet. We’re level with giants, now let’s take ’em. Stay tight, hit fast, believe." Max rallied, his voice fierce, "We’re not folding!" Thiago, eyes blazing, nodded, Luka massaging his calf, grim but ready. Niels stepped out, the fans’ chant echoing, "We’re going to Wembley!" his heart pounding, Barnsley’s second-half threat looming, but Crawley’s fire burning brighter than ever.

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