Touchline Rebirth: From Game To Glory
Chapter 47: Rise at Broadfield

Chapter 47: Rise at Broadfield

Chapter 47: Rise at Broadfield

The halftime air in Broadfield Stadium’s dressing room crackled with a restless edge, the 1-1 scoreline against Shrewsbury Town a tightrope stretched taut over their ambition. Thiago’s 25th-minute rocket had set 2,500 Crawley fans alight, but Shrewsbury’s 40th-minute equalizer, a deft winger’s strike, had doused that fire, leaving the squad hungry yet shaken. Niels faced his players, their faces glistening under the harsh lights. Nate’s three-week absence, a torn ligament from Wycombe’s savage tackle, was a wound still bleeding in their hearts, but this fight was for him, for their home. "Guys, it’s a tie, but we’re at Broadfield, this is our home ground" Niels said, voice cutting through the rustle of tape and boots. "Kieron, that yellow card’s right behind you. Thiago, spark it again. Max, leave no gaps. Shrewsbury’s tough, but we’re Crawley, we’re not the underdogs anymore. For Nate, for our fans, let’s win this." Max’s nod was steel, his roar, "For Nate!" echoed by the squad, Thiago’s glare fierce, Baxter’s Scouse mutter, "We’ll bury ’em," igniting a chant, "Red Devils!"

The tunnel was a furnace, Shrewsbury’s players looming, their captain’s nod to Max steady, no trace of Wycombe’s venomous smirks. As they stepped onto the pitch, the February cold stung Niels’ cheeks, floodlights casting a fierce glow over 2,500 Crawley fans, their red scarves a pulsing sea, chanting, "We’ll fight to the end!" A boy’s sign, "Nate’s our warrior!" danced, his scarf twirling, the air thick with defiance. Shrewsbury’s 300 away fans growled, "Shrews!" but Crawley’s roar swallowed them, a fortress alive.

Second Half:

The whistle blew, and Broadfield exploded, the second half a cauldron of heart and hustle. Shrewsbury surged, their striker, a broad-shouldered titan, outmuscling Jamal, his header tipped wide by Fletcher’s glove, the crowd erupting, "Fletch-er!" Niels barked, "Stay sharp, lads!" his plan to carve Shrewsbury’s flanks with Luka and Thiago holding firm, their long-ball game a beast to chain. In the 46th minute, Dev’s crunching tackle sparked a break, his pass to Baxter, who found Korey, only for Shrewsbury’s captain to block, his clearance stout, the fans chanting, "Red Devils!" Korey rose, nodding, Shrewsbury’s physicality clean but relentless, a big change from Wycombe’s dirty style.

The game pulsed, a rhythm of steel and spark. In the 50th minute, Shrewsbury’s winger outran Dev, his cross headed over by their midfielder, the crowd exhaling, "Keep ’em out!" Kieron, his yellow card a shadow, tackled sharply, his ball to Thiago crisp, earning Max’s quiet nod, "Good lad." In the 54th minute, Thiago, Instinct Lens [Silky technique] flaring, danced through their midfield, his low shot stinging the keeper’s palms, tipped wide, the stands surging, "Thi-a-go!" A girl in a red cap pounded the railing, her voice hoarse, "Push on!"

Crawley pressed, Baxter’s Instinct Lens [Creative spark] glowing, lofting a pass to Luka, who jinked past their right-back, his shot clipped over by the keeper in blue. The corner soared, Tom’s header cleared off the line, the crowd groaning, "So close!" Shrewsbury countered, their striker shrugging off Reece, his snapshot forcing Fletcher’s diving save, the ball skimming the post, the fans gasping, "Fletch-er!" Niels signaled Luka to drop deeper, his voice slicing through the roar, "Stay calm, lads!"

In the 60th minute, tension flared when Shrewsbury’s midfielder clipped Korey’s shin, a hard but fair tackle, Korey leaping up, chest-to-chest, growling, "Watch yourself!" Max pulled him back, the ref waving play on, the crowd chanting, "Korey, Korey!" Shrewsbury’s fans jeered, but the air stayed clean, no poison like Wycombe’s brawl. Niels’ pulse quickened, his squad’s fire teetering but fierce, Kieron’s stamina holding despite the yellow, Nate’s absence a quiet ache in their rhythm.

The tempo climbed, Crawley’s legs heavy but their spirit unyielding. In the 67th minute, Kieron’s tackle freed Baxter, his pass to Thiago, who drew a foul just outside the box, the free-kick curling inches wide, the stands urging, "Come on!" In the 72nd minute, Luka’s run pulled a tackle, his cross finding Tom, whose header was tipped over, the crowd roaring, "Red Devils!" Shrewsbury hit back, their winger’s curling shot whistling past the post, the fans gripping scarves, "Stay strong!" A kid in the front row, face painted red, waved a flag, his grin fierce, "We’ve got this!"

In the 78th minute, Niels subbed Korey, tiring, for Ilyas Kadir, the lad’s eyes hungry, his first touch a sprint, the crowd cheering, "Ily-as!" Shrewsbury pressed, their striker outjumping Jamal, his header looping wide, the fans exhaling, "Hold firm!" Max rallied the backline, his shout, "Nothing through!" a war cry. In the 82nd minute, Thiago’s stepovers drew two defenders, his pass to Dev, whose cross was headed over by Tom, the stands groaning, "So close!" Shrewsbury’s counter saw their midfielder’s long-range shot tipped over by Fletcher, the crowd roaring, "Fletch-er!"

In the 85th minute, Crawley struck. Baxter, seizing a loose ball, scanned the pitch, his vision laser-sharp. He lofted a perfect pass over Shrewsbury’s center-backs, Max Simons breaking free, his first touch velvet. Max steadied himself, drilling the ball past the keeper’s dive, the net rippling.

2-1.

Broadfield detonated, 2,500 fans surging, red smoke flaring, "Max, Max!" shaking the rafters. Max slid on his knees, arms wide, Thiago piling on, Baxter’s grin fierce, fists pumping. Niels leaped, shouting, "Nice goal, now hold on, lads!" his joy laced with dread, five minutes to survive. Max roared, "Shut ’em out!" the crowd chanting, "We are Crawley!" a tidal wave drowning Shrewsbury’s 300 fans, their scarves limp, stunned silent. A girl’s sign, "Nate’s with us!" glowed, her scream piercing the din.

Shrewsbury roared back, their striker outmuscling Reece, his header forcing Fletcher’s fingertip save, the ball clipping the bar, the crowd surging, "Fletch-er!" In the 88th minute, their winger’s cross found their midfielder, whose volley screamed wide, the fans exhaling, "Stay tight!" Niels’ heart thundered, his squad under siege, Kieron’s legs faltering but his tackles fierce, Ilyas sprinting to cover gaps. In the 90th minute, Shrewsbury’s captain launched a long ball, Jamal heading clear, his shout, "No way!" rallying the line.

Stoppage time brought four agonizing minutes, Shrewsbury’s corner arcing in, their striker leaping, but Max outjumped him, his clearance sparking a break. Thiago sprinted, fouled by their midfielder, the ref flashing a yellow, the crowd roaring, "Let’s goo!" Ilyas’ free-kick sailed wide, the clock crawling. Shrewsbury’s final gasp, a long-range shot, sailed over, the whistle blowing.

Full-Time: Crawley Town 2-1 Shrewsbury Town

Broadfield erupted, 2,500 fans leaping, red scarves a fiery sea, "We are Crawley!" thundering. Players collapsed, Max hoisting Luka, Thiago mobbed, Kieron’s grin wide, his yellow forgotten in triumph. Niels stood rooted, relief flooding him, the fight won, Shrewsbury’s strength broken. His 2010 FIFA memories, digital victories, paled against this raw glory, Crawley’s fire blazing. Shrewsbury’s fans slunk away, their jeers lost in Crawley’s chant, "Niels’ Red Army!" A boy in a faded scarf thrust a programme at Max, "Sign it, hero!" Max scrawled his name, grinning, "For you, kid."

In the dressing room, Niels faced his squad, voices hoarse but proud, faces glowing. "Lads, that was a good battle," he said, voice thick. "Max, that finish was amazing. Kieron, you held it together. Fletcher, those saves. We’re tougher than Shrewsbury’s best, now one more league match and Burnley’s next, a Premier League beast." Max clapped Luka’s back, Thiago’s eyes fierce, Ilyas’ shy nod shining. The squad roared, "We need the Cup!" their hunger alive despite Nate’s absence. Niels’ phone buzzed, Elise’s text: "Max’s a star, bro! Maybe Burnley’s trembling, haha!" warmed him, their faith a quiet anchor.

Outside, fans lingered, chanting, "We’ll go to Wembley!" A woman in a red scarf grabbed Niels’ arm. "That was for Nate, yeah?" Niels nodded, throat tight. "Yes, not just for Nate, but for everyone supporting us," he said, her grin fierce. A BBC reporter thrust a mic forward, "Niels, a 2-1 win, sixth in the league, but Burnley’s Premier League might awaits. How do you prepare?" Niels paused, heart racing, the question a blade. "One fight at a time," he said, voice steady, eyes distant. The crowd cheered, but a shadow grew, Burnley’s top-flight power a colossus looming, the Cup’s path a crucible. Could his squad, battered yet blazing, rise to meet it, or would the inferno swallow their dream?

[Matches played: 28, Wins: 16, Draws: 5, Losses: 8, Points: 53, League position: 6th]

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