CHAPTER 79: SECOND OR NOTHING

Chapter 79: Second or Nothing

Sunday, May 2, 2010

Crawley Town’s flame flickered but kept burning after a 2-2 draw with Northampton Town. Max Simons scored twice, but a gutting 92nd-minute equalizer left them with 88 points still in 2nd place in League Two. Notts County, already crowned champions with 93 points, awaited them in the final match at Meadow Lane on May 6. Bournemouth, sitting 3rd with 87 points, were still close behind. Crawley’s promotion was already sealed. Now it was about finishing strong, holding onto 2nd, and building momentum for the Chelsea FA Cup final. Could Max’s fire and Thiago’s flair rise again or would the league champions remind Crawley who ruled the league?

The morning of May 2 broke bright over Crawley, the sting of Northampton fading, but not forgotten. High Street was alive red scarves in shop windows, "Wembley Awaits" signs taped to doors, buses painted with Crawley crests roaring past. Overnight, a new mural had appeared on the side of the bakery: Max mid-header, Thiago mid-celebration, a Chelsea badge glowing behind them like a sun. Fans gathered to take photos, some just stood and stared. A little boy in a too-big kit touched Max’s image and whispered, "Bring it home, captain." In the pubs, talk of Messi and Drogba faded beneath chants of "Red Devils!" and predictions for Meadow Lane. Promotion secured, but the dream wasn’t done. The streets of Crawley beat with one belief: Wembley waits for winners.

At Broadfield by 9:00 a.m., the training ground thrummed, the scent of liniment sharp, grass glistening with dew. Niels kept drills light to preserve legs, his voice steady but laced with urgency, eyes scanning the squad like a general before battle. "Northampton caught us late, but we learn from it. Now it’s Notts County champions for a reason. They break fast, their midfield keeps it tight, and they’re sharp on set pieces. So we stay smart, stay focused, and finish this right." Max’s boots, scuffed from Sixfields’ mud, sat on a bench like a talisman, each player tapping them as they passed, a silent vow. Ollie, 13 year old kid, slipped into the training ground, invited by Niels for his unwavering support, his "Reds to Wembley!" banner tucked under his arm. His shout, "Thi-a-go, king!" ignited cheers, Thiago jogging over to clap his shoulder, "You’re our spark, kid!" Ollie’s eyes shone, his scarf a red blaze in the sunlight, his voice trembling with awe.

Niels stood alone on the edge of the pitch, reading the game in his mind. Notts County, he thought, the league champions. Their wingers slice inside like knives, their striker always hunting for space in the box. He traced a line on his clipboard and whispered, "Close the flanks. Stay tight. Press high. No room to breathe." The final challenge was clear.

Drills kicked off, Thiago’s flair lighting up the pitch, Instinct Lens [Silky technique] flaring as he weaved through cones, his stepovers a blur, drawing gasps from a cluster of young fans at the fence, one shouting, "Thi-a-go!" José Baxter looked around at the squad and smiled softly. "We’ve got this, lads. Let’s keep our heads and play our game." The small reassurance lifted the mood, and for a moment, the weight on their shoulders felt a little lighter. Max led a passing drill, Instinct Lens [Leadership] glowing, his voice a spark splitting the chill, "Lads, Notts are tough, but we’re tougher. For every fan, we fight!" Nate sprinted down the wing, Instinct Lens [Explosiveness] glowing, his cross pinpoint to Korey Henry, who nodded it just wide, fans chanting, "Na-ate!" Ollie’s banner waved from the sidelines, his cry, "Craw-ley, rise!" echoing like a heartbeat, sparking smiles across the squad. Liam McCulloch’s tackle in a scrimmage, Instinct Lens Steel glowing, halted Dev Patel with a thud, drawing, "Li-am!" Niels watched, his heart pounding, the Northampton equalizer a ghost in his mind, urging, "Stay tight, lads. No gaps!"

May 3 brought light recovery, the squad jogging laps under a pale sky, Broadfield’s grass crisp underfoot, the air sharp with purpose. Jamal Osei’s tackle in a practice match, Instinct Lens [Steel] glowing, stopped Thiago cold, sparking, "Ja-mal!" Niels focused on set-piece defense, haunted by Northampton’s late corner, his voice booming, "Mark tight, leave no gaps!" Harry Thompson’s header, Instinct Lens [Grit] glowing, cleared a practice cross with a thud, drawing, "Har-ry!"

Voices rose from the crowd near the fence, chanting "Reds to Chelsea!" as Ollie’s scarf whipped in the breeze like a flickering flame. The streets hummed with life as night fell pubs filled with fans mapping out the trip to Meadow Lane, their excitement spilling into every corner. Somewhere, a boy’s shout rang out, "Max to Wembley!" cutting sharp through the evening air. Niels phone buzzed with Elise texting: "The whole town’s fired up. Ollie’s banner’s gone viral!"

With the FA Cup final close, and promotion secured, Crawley’s spirit burned stronger than ever, each chant stoking the fire of hope.

May 4 saw tactical drills intensify, Niels mimicking Notts County’s 4-4-2, their wingers cutting inside with ruthless precision. Max led a team talk, Instinct Lens [Leadership] flaring, his voice steady as iron. "Notts are champions, but we’re Crawley. Their wingers cut, so we block inside. Their striker hunts scraps, so we stay tight. We fight with everything we got." Thiago nodded, his eyes alight, "We’ll dance, captain!" Baxter’s free-kick drill, Instinct Lens [Creative spark] glowing, curled inches wide of the post, drawing gasps from fans at the fence. Ollie watched, his banner raised, shouting, "Max, you need to score!" his voice raw with belief.

Niels sketched on his clipboard: "Flanks open, midfield tight, Max in the box." The warning echoed in Niels’ mind: "No gaps. Notts will punish any slip." The squad ran counterattack drills, Luka’s passes, Instinct Lens [Vision] flaring, slicing through defenders, Nate’s sprints sparking, "Na-ate!" Korey’s header from a practice cross clipped the bar, fans roaring, "Ko-rey!" High Street pulsed, the mural a beacon, fans chanting, "Reds to Glory!" as they planned watch parties, the buzz of Friday pub talks Messi’s flair, Drogba’s explosive power mingling with Crawley’s own dreams.

May 5 brought sharper drills, the squad’s breath steaming in the morning chill, Broadfield’s air electric with anticipation. Thiago’s flair sparked, Instinct Lens [Silky technique] glowing as he nutmegged Reece Darby, who laughed, "Save it for Notts, mate!" Instinct Lens Grit flaring. Liam’s block, Instinct Lens [Steel] glowing, stopped Korey’s shot with a crunch, drawing, "Li-am!" Niels tested rotations, Ellis Flynn at right-back, Dev on the wing, their hustle relentless, Ellis’ tackle sparking, "Nice one!" Ollie’s chant, "Craw-ley, rise!" rang out from the sidelines, his presence a spark lifting spirits.

A reporter approached Niels, pressing him, "Notts County’s the final challenge. Chelsea’s just around the corner. How do you balance both?" Niels nodded respectfully. "Chelsea is a great team, but right now, our focus is on Notts county and finishing this season strong. We’ll give everything for this club and see where it takes us."

After drills, Max rallied the team. His voice was fierce: "Notts are champions, but we have the fire to beat them. For every fan supporting us, we give everything on that pitch." The squad nodded, ready for battle. Outside, the Chelsea mural glowed as fans packed the streets, a girl’s voice cutting through the crowd: "Max, you need to score a hat-trick!"

May 6 broke with a chill, Crawley’s buses rolling out at 6:00 a.m., 1,500 fans boarding, their scarves a red wave crashing through the dawn. Ollie was among them, his "Reds to Wembley!" banner tucked tight, his cry, "Thi-a-go, king!" sparking cheers that shook the windows. Meadow Lane loomed, 8,000 fans expected, Notts County’s black-and-white stripes a fortress of champions. The squad gathered at Broadfield by 7:00 a.m., Max’s boots tapped by every player, his voice a firestorm, "This is it, lads. Notts are champions, but we’re 2nd. We fight for everyone who believed in us. Press hard, stretch them, no regrets!" Thiago’s nod was fierce, "For Crawley, captain!" Niels added, his voice a low burn, "Set-pieces are their strength. Mark them tight, hit their flanks with Thiago and Nate. No gaps, lads."

The buses reached Meadow Lane by 1:00 p.m., 1,500 Crawley fans flooding the away stand, their chant, "Reds to Glory!" shaking the air like thunder. Ollie unfurled his banner, "Reds to Wembley!" his shout, "Craw-ley, rise!" igniting scarves twirling like flames in the wind. Max led the squad onto the pitch for warm-ups, his armband gleaming under floodlights, Instinct Lens [Leadership] glowing. A reporter cornered him, "Notts are champions, and Chelsea’s next. Can you win?" Max’s voice was steel, "We fight for Crawley, no matter who." The dressing room hummed, Thiago’s stepovers sparking cheers from a crack in the door, Ollie’s chant seeping through the walls, shaking the concrete. Niels glanced up from his notes, feeling the weight of the moment. The crowd’s roar from Meadow Lane echoed in the distance, a reminder that this was more than just a game. It was the chance to make history for the town, the fans, and every player who had fought to get here. With everything on the line, all they could do now was give their all and trust each other to finish what they started.