The Coaching System-Chapter 211: Match Preparation and Team Talk

Friday, 3 October – Travel Day

The morning at the training ground felt muted—not tired, just tuned in.

Clouds hung low but didn't rain. The pitch was slick but didn't puddle.

Inside the team room, the projector lit up before anyone spoke.

Jake stood at the front—not pacing, not scribbling. Just there. Marker in hand. Whiteboard full of empty shapes.

Jake:

"We don't overcomplicate tomorrow.

Tempo. Simplicity. No passengers.

We control them by controlling us."

Behind him, Paul clicked through video stills—West Brom's defensive line shape, their wingback tendencies to overextend, and their No. 8's tendency to dive into press traps.

No one took notes.

They didn't need to.

Out on the pitch, they went short and sharp.

Just 40 minutes. Rondo squares. One-touch passing circuits. A ten-minute defensive reaction drill led by Kang barking instructions in three languages.

No finishing drills. No tackles. Just rhythm.

Jake (midway):

"Don't get clever. Get precise."

By noon, they were off the grass, boots hung, post-session smoothies in hand. No music. No shouting. Just quiet voices and zipped duffel bags.

1:17 PM – The Coach Loads Up

Lowe was the first on, earphones unplugged.

Roney and Rasmussen argued over who'd packed fewer shoes.

Ibáñez passed out sudoku printouts. Not for himself—for others.

Silva came last, no bag—just a tablet and an energy bar.

Jake sat up front. Always did. He didn't talk much.

Paul sat across the aisle and said exactly one thing:

Paul:

"They're in the zone."

Jake didn't answer. But his foot tapped once.

The bus pulled out.

Destination: Birmingham.

6:04 PM – Hotel Check-In

The hotel wasn't glamorous, but it was quiet.

Each player had their own room—no roommate distractions, no excuses for late nights.

Downstairs, the dining room had been booked out.

Dinner at 7:00 PM sharp. No phones at the table.

It wasn't a punishment.

It was the rule.

They ate grilled salmon, roasted veg, brown rice.

Roney asked the waiter for ketchup.

Paul just looked at him. Roney put it back down.

Conversations were light. Football, yes—but not tactics.

Obi asked Holloway about the most embarrassing goal he'd ever conceded.

Chapman offered his answer instead.

Jake didn't sit with them. He ate alone in a side room with a laptop open beside his plate—silent match footage looping on screen.

Afterward, he went upstairs.

No announcements. No curfews.

Just a quiet hallway and the subtle pressure of expectation.

10:00 PM – Lights Out

The hallway darkened one room at a time.

Phones dimmed. Speakers stayed off.

Curtains drawn. Doors locked.

And by the time the elevator dinged shut on the last floor, the entire squad was in place.

Waiting.

Saturday, 4 October – Matchday

Scene: Arrival at The Hawthorns

The team bus turned slowly onto Halfords Lane, its headlights cutting through soft drizzle. Outside the windows, a small group of West Brom fans stood gathered behind the barriers—silent. Not jeering. Just watching.

As the coach idled to a stop beneath the covered players' entrance, no one moved right away. The kind of stillness that settles before controlled aggression.

Jake stood first.

Jacket zipped. Bag in hand. Eyes on nothing in particular.

Paul Roberts followed. Then the players—one by one, hoods up, coats zipped, AirPods already turned off.

West Brom's backroom staff waited at the entrance.

Polite nods.

Firm handshakes.

No warmth.

Inside the corridor, the lights were harsh and fluorescent.

The signage was slick, modern. But sterile.

Bradford walked in as a unit, but said nothing.

The away dressing room wasn't large—but it didn't need to be.

By the time the last man entered, the squad had already claimed their corners:

Ibáñez took his usual spot near the tactical board, unwrapping his tape with slow precision.

Silva stood in front of his peg, motionless—eyes closed, arms behind his back, whispering something under his breath in Portuguese.

Richter sat with his boots already laced, head leaned back against the wall, eyes tracing the ceiling.

Roney sat cross-legged on the bench, bouncing a ball between his palms without looking at it.

Taylor adjusted his socks four times. Exactly four.

Jake didn't speak for the first ten minutes.

He let the room fill itself.

He waited until the music faded from someone's phone speaker.

Waited until even Roney stopped moving.

Then he stepped forward. Calm. Unhurried.

Jake (measured, low):

"They're not chasing us. They're waiting for us to trip."

A pause. Just long enough.

Jake (cont'd):

"So don't."

He didn't yell.

Didn't finish with a clap or a rallying cry.

He just turned and picked up the lineup sheet.

The rest followed suit—boots, tape, shirts. Quiet. Locked in.

And somewhere far above the away tunnel, in a sealed glass booth near the director's lounge, Ethan Wilson sat with his mother and little sister, his hoodie still up, watching through the glass.

Not as a fan.

Not yet as a player.

But as something between.

VIP Viewers – The Hawthorns, 2:46 PM

High above the dugouts, tucked into the glass-fronted VIP section just beneath the executive box, three seats were filled with quiet presence.

No cameras panned that way.

No club announcements were made.

But Jake noticed.

Emma Wilson sat with perfect stillness, hair pinned back, her posture composed but relaxed—like someone who had grown used to sharing her husband with a stadium full of strangers.

Beside her, little Ariel, legs too short for the seat, fidgeted inside a Bradford City scarf that swallowed her shoulders. Every time she moved, the claret and amber bunched and spilled around her like a flag too proud to settle.

And two seats to the right, wearing a hoodie pulled halfway over his brow, sat Ethan.

He didn't look at his mother.

He didn't speak.

He just watched the pitch.

Unblinking.

When the players began their final warmups, when Silva picked up the tempo and Roney sprinted the width of the pitch, Jake glanced up—just once.

Their eyes didn't meet.

But the moment held.

And that was enough.

Then Jake turned and walked down the tunnel.

Broadcast Opening – The Hawthorns, 2:59 PM

Commentator (Jonathan Pearce, Sky Sports):

"Good afternoon from The Hawthorns, and welcome to Matchday Ten of the EFL Championship—where league leaders Bradford City arrive under grey skies but with bold intent.

Jake Wilson's men sit top of the table tonight. Quietly. Purposefully. The kind of leadership that doesn't come with fireworks—but with grind, consistency, and something even rarer in this division—identity. freёnovelkiss.com

And here's how they line up today, with just two changes from last weekend's win at home."

[Graphic appears on screen – Bradford City Starting XI]

Formation: 4–2–3–1

Goalkeeper: Cox – given a massive vote of confidence with Emeka rested.

Back Four: Richards and Holloway take the flanks—both capable of pressing high. Barnes partners Kang Min-jae in the heart of defence.

Midfield Base: Ibáñez and Vélez—the control room. When they hum, Bradford hum.

Attacking Midfield: Lewis Chapman returns to the No.10 role—his touchline-to-touchline work rate has turned heads this season.

Wingers: Silva on the right, Roney on the left—both inverted, both deadly.

Striker: Tobias Richter leads the line again. Subtle movement, ruthless edge.

Commentator (Pearce):

"Notably, Jake Wilson keeps Obi and Walsh on the bench. Rotation, yes—but this feels like more. This is about rhythm. About structure. About reminding the league that Bradford didn't climb by accident. And they don't intend to fall."

Kickoff just moments away.

The leaders are here. Let's see if they hold.