Touchline Rebirth: From Game To Glory
Chapter 44: Grudge Match Settled

Chapter 44: Grudge Match Settled

Chapter 44: Grudge Match Settled

Niels’ voice cut through the heavy air, sharp as a blade. "Lads, they’ve hit us hard, took Nate out, but we’re still standing. Kieron, you’re holding the midfield, keep that steel. Max, lead ’em, no more fights, just play. Thiago, Luka, hit their gaps, make ’em pay. This half’s ours, for Nate, for Crawley." Max’s nod was iron, his knuckles still red from the brawl, Thiago’s glare fierce, icing his ankle but unyielding. Kieron, thrust into the fray, sat taller, his Barnsley tackle a badge of grit. Baxter’s Scouse grunt, "We’ll bury ’em," sparked a roar, "Red Devils!" The chant of 1,000 Crawley fans outside, "We’ll fight to the end!" thundered through the walls, a pulse in the dim light. Niels’ heart pounded, pride clashing with dread, Wycombe’s venom a storm to conquer, Burnley’s Premier League shadow waiting.

The tunnel crackled with tension, Wycombe’s players glaring, their scarred captain smirking at Max, who met his eyes, calm but deadly, a predator coiled. As they stepped onto the pitch, the cold bit Niels’ face, floodlights harsh, Wycombe’s 4,000 fans jeering, "You’re going down!" Crawley’s 1,000, a red tide in the away end, roared, "We’re Red Devils!" A boy’s sign, "Nate, our warrior!" swayed, his scarf twirling in the frost. The air was raw, a grudge match poised to erupt.

Second Half:

The whistle blew, and Adams Park ignited, the second half a clash of steel and spite. Wycombe surged, their right winger darting past Luka, his cross headed wide by their striker, the home crowd roaring, "Chairboys!" Niels shouted, "Stay calm and press forward, lads!" his plan to exploit Wycombe’s high line through Baxter’s vision holding, their tackles still late and vicious. In the 49th minute, Wycombe’s scrapper midfielder, booked for Nate’s injury, clipped Kieron’s shin with a sly foul, the ref waving play on, Crawley’s fans booing, "Dirty scum!" Kieron sprang up, his tackle on their winger clean but fierce, the away end chanting, "Kie-ron!" Niels nodded, Kieron’s fire a spark in the chaos.

The game was a battlefield, tackles flying, tempers flaring. In the 54th minute, Wycombe’s left-back lunged at Thiago, his studs grazing his calf, no foul called, Thiago leaping up, his glare venomous. The away end roared, "Ref, you blind?" a girl in a red scarf pounding the barrier. In the 57th minute, a skirmish erupted when Wycombe’s captain elbowed Jamal during a corner, Jamal shoving back, roaring, "Try that again!" Max pulled Jamal away, but Wycombe’s striker squared up, snarling, "Soft bunch!" The ref flashed yellows to Jamal and the captain, the home crowd jeering, "Send them off, off!" Crawley’s fans chanting, "We’ll fight on!" their scarves raised like banners. Niels’ voice boomed, "Focus, lads!" his blood simmering, Wycombe’s dirty play a poison testing their steel.

Crawley fought back, Thiago’s Instinct Lens [Silky technique] flaring, weaving through midfield, only to be hacked down by Wycombe’s midfielder, a late tackle earning a yellow, the away end erupting, "Send him off!" Thiago rose, limping but fierce, his free-kick curling wide, the stands gasping, "So close!" In the 63rd minute, Baxter, Instinct Lens [Creative spark] glowing, lofted a pass to Korey, who jinked past their left-back, his shot tipped over by the keeper in neon blue. The corner soared, Tom’s header cleared off the line, the away end roaring, "Push ’em!" a kid’s scarf flapping wildly.

Wycombe countered, their winger outpacing Dev, his low shot forcing Fletcher’s diving save, the ball skimming the post, the home crowd groaning, "Hit it!" Niels signaled Luka to drop deeper, his voice slicing through the din. In the 68th minute, another flare-up sparked when Korey’s dribble drew a cynical foul from Wycombe’s striker, who shoved Korey as he fell, barking, "Stay down, pretty boy!" Korey sprang up, chest-to-chest, shouting, "Say it again!" Reece and Wycombe’s midfielder piled in, a shoving match erupting, the ref blowing furiously, yellows to Korey and the striker. The away end chanted, "Korey, Korey!" their fury a war cry, Wycombe’s fans booing, the air electric with hate.

The tempo climbed, a pulse racing, Crawley’s legs heavy but their fire unbroken. In the 74th minute, Kieron’s tackle sparked a break, his pass to Baxter, who found Luka, only for Wycombe’s captain to block, his elbow clipping Luka’s jaw, no whistle. Luka rose, glaring, the away end howling, "Ref, wake up!" In the 78th minute, Thiago’s stepovers pulled two defenders, his pass to Dev, whose cross was headed wide by Tom, the stands groaning, "So close!" Wycombe hit back, their striker outmuscling Jamal, his snapshot clipped by Fletcher’s glove, rolling wide, the home end surging, "Chairboys!"

In the 82nd minute, Crawley struck. Baxter, snatching a loose ball, looked up, his vision laser-sharp. He floated a perfect pass over Wycombe’s center-backs, Luka Radev sprinting free, his first touch velvet. Luka steadied, drilling the ball past the keeper’s dive, the net bulging.

Goal! Luka Radev, Crawley 2-1!

The away end exploded, 1,000 fans leaping, red scarves a tidal wave, "Lu-ka, Lu-ka!" shaking the rafters. Luka slid on his knees, arms wide, drinking in the roar, Thiago mobbing him, Baxter’s grin wide. Niels pumped a fist, shouting, "Stay tight, lads!" his joy shadowed by dread, eight minutes to survive. Max rallied the backline, roaring, "Nothing gets through!" The home crowd, stunned, chanted, "Come on, Wycombe!" their desperation a low growl.

Wycombe roared back, their striker outjumping Reece, his header forcing Fletcher’s fingertip save, the ball clipping the bar, the home end surging, "Score!" In the 87th minute, their winger’s cross found their midfielder, whose volley screamed wide, Crawley’s fans gripping their scarves, breaths held. Niels subbed Korey, tiring, for Ilyas Kadir, the lad’s eyes hungry, his first touch a tackle, the away end cheering, "Ilyas!" Wycombe’s pressure swelled, their captain’s long-range shot whistling over, the clock crawling, stoppage time looming.

Stoppage time brought four minutes, an eternity under siege. Wycombe’s corner arced in, their striker leaping, but Max outmuscled him, his clearance sparking a break. Thiago sprinted, fouled by Wycombe’s midfielder, who earned a second yellow, sent off, the home crowd booing, Crawley’s fans roared, "Red Devils!" Ilyas’ free-kick sailed wide, the final seconds ticking. Wycombe’s last gasp, a long ball, was snuffed by Jamal, his tackle unyielding, the whistle blowing.

Full-Time: Wycombe Wanderers 1-2 Crawley Town

The away end detonated, 1,000 fans surging, red smoke curling, "We are Crawley!" thundering. Players collapsed, Max hoisting Luka, Thiago mobbed, Kieron’s grin wide, his midfield shift heroic. Niels stood rooted, relief flooding him, the grudge match won, Wycombe’s venom crushed. His 2010 FIFA memories, digital comebacks, faded against this raw triumph, Crawley’s fire blazing. The home fans slunk away, their jeers drowned by Crawley’s chant, "Niels’ Red Army!"

In the dressing room, Niels faced his squad, voices hoarse, faces glowing. "Lads, you fought a war out there. Luka, that finish. Kieron, you stepped up. Max, Jamal, rock solid. We’re tougher than their dirtiest tricks, but Burnley’s next, a bigger beast." Max clapped Luka’s back, Thiago’s eyes fierce, Ilyas’ shy nod shining. The squad roared, "Cup, Cup!" their hunger alive despite Nate’s absence. Niels’ phone buzzed, Elise’s text: "What a win, bro! Burnley’s gonna quake!" His parents’ follow-up, "Proud of you, son," warmed him, their faith a quiet anchor.

Outside, Crawley fans lingered, chanting, "We’ll go to Wembley!" A man in a faded scarf thrust a programme at Niels. "Sign it, coach! You’re a legend!" Niels scrawled his name, throat tight. "Your support helped us win," he said, the man’s grin a spark in the cold. A BBC reporter shoved a mic forward, "Niels, a great win after all those tackles flying, but Burnley’s Premier League might awaits. How will you prepare?" Niels paused, heart racing, the question piercing. "One fight at a time," he said, voice steady, eyes distant. The crowd cheered, but a shadow grew in his chest, Burnley’s top-flight power a giant looming, the Cup’s path a crucible. Could his squad, battered yet fierce, rise to meet it, or would the inferno consume their dream?

*[Matches played: 27, Wins: 15, Draws: 5, Losses: 8, Points: 50, League position: 6th]*

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