The Coaching System-Chapter 175: Bradford City Vs Rapid Wien UECL Play-off Round 2nd Leg Part 4

A massive let-off for Bradford.

Emeka wasted no time, sprinting to retrieve the ball and restart play. There was no room for relief—Bradford needed to make their dominance count.

80th Minute –

Then—disaster.

Bradford had been in control, pushing forward, dictating play. But football is ruthless. One moment, one mistake, and everything changes.

It started with a hopeful cross from Rapid's left flank—more out of desperation than precision. The ball hung in the air, dipping awkwardly, forcing Kang Min Jae to adjust his position inside a crowded box.

A deflection.

The ball ricocheted off Silva's shin, taking an unpredictable bounce. Kang, caught mid-step, swung his boot to clear—but mistimed it.

Instead of making clean contact with the ball, his foot clipped the Rapid striker's shin.

The attacker went down.

The whistle shrieked.

For a split second, there was silence.

Then, chaos.

The referee pointed to the spot.

A wave of disbelief crashed through Valley Parade. Jake Wilson exploded off the bench, arms wide, fury in his voice.

"NO! NO WAY!" He stormed toward the fourth official, veins visible in his neck. "That's soft! He barely touched him!"

The Bradford players surrounded the referee, protesting, pleading. Roney shook his head in frustration. Emeka sprinted forward, demanding an explanation.

Kang Min Jae stood frozen, his hands on his head. He knew. He knew it looked bad.

The Rapid players, meanwhile, smelled blood. Their No. 10 grabbed the ball, holding it under his arm, already positioning it on the spot. The away fans bounced in the stands, chanting, sensing the kill.

Jake turned back to his bench, rubbing his face.

"This can't be how it ends."

Everything Bradford had fought for, every drop of sweat, every tackle, every run—now hanging by a thread.

All eyes turned to Emeka.

Bradford's last hope.

82nd Minute – Emeka's Moment of Glory

The Rapid captain stepped forward, placing the ball on the penalty spot with practiced calm. He exhaled, rolling his shoulders, steadying himself.

Emeka stood on the goal line, bouncing lightly on his toes, his frame imposing, unshaken. His eyes never left the taker's. He studied the stance, the angle of the run-up, the slight tension in the striker's posture.

Mind games.

He stretched his arms wide, making himself as big as possible. Then, just as the taker stepped back, Emeka pointed to his left and muttered something under his breath. A bluff? Or a challenge?

A hush fell over Valley Parade.

The whistle blew.

The Rapid captain took off—a short, confident run-up.

The strike.

Emeka exploded to his left. Lightning reflexes. Pure instinct.

A perfect guess.

His hands met the ball with unshakable force, stopping it dead before it could skip away.

No rebound. No second chance.

He collapsed over the ball, clutching it tight to his chest, his body a fortress.

For half a second, the stadium froze.

Then—an eruption.

A wall of noise. A roar of disbelief and triumph.

Jake Wilson punched the air, his voice lost in the chaos. The Bradford bench spilled onto the touchline, fists clenched, screaming.

Rapid players stood stunned, hands on heads, faces pale. Their chance—wasted.

And before they could even process the failure—Bradford broke.

Emeka was already on his feet.

A quick glance. A decision. Go.

He launched the ball forward, an arrowed throw to Ibáñez, who took off at full speed.

Bradford were on the counter.

Valley Parade held its breath.

83rd Minute –

Emeka, heart still pounding from his penalty heroics, wasted no time. The moment his feet hit the ground, his mind was already racing ahead. No hesitation. No delay.

He scanned the pitch. Ibáñez. Already on the move.

With a single fluid motion, Emeka launched a bullet throw, the ball slicing through the night air, arrowing toward midfield. Perfect weight. Perfect accuracy.

Ibáñez barely needed to adjust. His first touch was velvet, absorbing the momentum as he spun into space.

Rapid were reeling. Still retreating. Still dazed.

Ibáñez surged forward, the pitch opening up before him. Bradford's white shirts flooded ahead, sensing blood.

Then—he saw it.

Richter. Peeling away from his marker, timing his movement to perfection. He ghosted between the center-backs, unseen, untracked.

Ibáñez didn't hesitate. A crisp, threaded ball, dissecting the defense with surgical precision.

Richter met it in stride. One touch—smooth, instinctive.

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A second—to steady, to feel the moment.

Then—the strike. Low. Ice-cold. Clinical.

The keeper rushed out, arms flaring, eyes desperate. Too late.

The ball slipped past him, kissed the inside of the post, and rippled the net.

For a second—a beat of silence.

Then—detonation.

Valley Parade erupted, the stands quaking under the sheer force of celebration. A wall of sound, pure and deafening.

Richter turned, arms stretched wide, face contorted in sheer elation. A roar—primal, unrestrained.

His teammates swarmed him, bodies crashing into bodies, an avalanche of white and claret. Ibáñez was first, leaping onto his back, Roney and Lowe piling in, the moment swallowing them whole.

On the sideline, Jake Wilson lost himself, fists hammering the air, veins bulging in his neck. The bench emptied, substitutes sprinting down the touchline, staff embracing like madmen.

They had done it.

From staring into the abyss to dragging themselves back from the dead.

From desperation to belief.

From elimination to resurrection

90+3:

The final seconds ticked away, tension clamping around Valley Parade like a vice. One mistake. One lapse. That was all it would take to shatter everything Bradford had fought for.

Rapid Wien knew it. They threw bodies forward, desperation pushing them past exhaustion. Their midfielders bombarded the box with crosses, their defenders abandoned their posts to join the attack.

Bradford stood firm. Holding. Absorbing. Waiting.

Then, in the chaos, Lowe saw it.

A loose touch. A half-second hesitation. All he needed.

Lowe pounced, stepping in just as the pass was played, his boot cutting through the tension as he intercepted it cleanly near the top of Bradford's penalty area.

A pause. A flicker of realization.

Then—acceleration.

Lowe didn't hesitate. His first touch set him forward, his second sent a crisp, sharp pass to Richter.

Richter, pressed from behind, felt the weight of a Rapid midfielder crashing into him. He didn't panic. He planted his foot, using his body to shield the ball, waiting for the right moment.

A delicate flick. Just enough.

The ball rolled to Silva, who took off like a shot.

The roar of the crowd surged with him, a crescendo of pure adrenaline.

He drove forward, legs pumping, lungs burning, but his mind was clear. Rapid's defenders scrambled—too late. Silva had already picked his pass.

Costa. Breaking right. Space ahead.

Silva's through ball was perfection. Weighted. Timed. Inevitable.

Costa sprinted onto it, the entire stadium rising with him.

One-on-one.

The Rapid keeper rushed out, arms wide, trying to close the angle.

Costa breathed in.

The moment. The weight of it.

He swung his boot.

Mistimed.

The connection was weak. Scuffed.

The ball rolled, tame and helpless, into the grateful gloves of the goalkeeper.

For a second, there was only silence.

Costa stood frozen, hands on his head. His teammates, mid-sprint, skidded to a stop, the energy in their charge dissipating like smoke.

Jake Wilson's expression twisted into something between fury and disbelief on the touchline.

Then—the whistle.

A piercing sound that cut through the night, final and absolute.

Full-time.

3-3 on aggregate.

Bradford had fought back from the dead—but they hadn't won yet.

Thirty more minutes awaited.

Extra time.