Touchline Rebirth: From Game To Glory-Chapter 126: Out of Sync

Chapter 126: Out of Sync

Saturday, August 14, 2010

Location: Bramall Lane, Sheffield

The morning after a tough week of training was cold and gray. Bramall Lane loomed like an old fortress as Crawley’s team bus rolled into Sheffield, the air filled with the smell of wet metal and the quiet buzz of fans arriving.

Niels stepped off the bus, his boots splashing in puddles, a mix of determination and nerves tightening in his chest.

Their second League One match was about to begin, and Sheffield United, known for their toughness felt like a test that could either bring Crawley together or break them apart.

The media hadn’t eased off. That morning, a pundit’s voice crackled through the bus radio, sharp and dismissive: "Niels’ magic can’t keep covering up Crawley’s messy midfield. They look lost."

The words hit hard, adding to a week full of doubt, and Niels could feel the weight pressing on the whole squad.

He held a worn clipboard, packed with notes on Sheffield’s set-piece threats and the key roles of Pogba and Freeman in midfield.

It was a quiet spark, a reminder of what drove them, Max Simons’s relentless drive, Thiago’s lightning pace, Dev Patel’s sharp footwork.

Bramall Lane was filling fast, red and white banners snapping in the wind, the home fans’ chants rising in a low, steady roar.

Niels led the squad into the tight away dressing room, its chipped walls smelling of damp concrete and liniment.

The players Max, Pogba, Freeman, Thiago, Dev, Nate Sutton, and the rest dropped their bags in silence, their faces showing a blend of nerves and defiance, the tension of the week still hanging in the air.

Thiago tried to lift the mood, juggling a ball and flashing a grin. "We’ll outrun these tanks, yeah?" he said, but the joke didn’t quite land his spark felt dim, like a flickering light in a storm.

Pogba sat heavily on the bench, lost in thought, the missed meeting and media criticism still weighing on him. As he taped his wrists, he muttered, "Just play," his voice low and tight.

Max pulled on his captain’s armband and looked around the room, feeling the tension and disconnect. "Come on, lads, heads up. We’re here to fight," he said, his voice steady but rough.

Freeman, as silent as always, adjusted his boots without a word, his eyes locked on some distant point, already running through passes in his mind.

Kieron Marsh, once again a substitute, leaned against a locker, frustration tight in his chest. He caught Emma’s eye and spoke quietly, "I’m ready to change this, Emma." She nodded calmly, "I know, Kieron. Your chance will come soon." He took a deep breath, determination burning inside him as he imagined turning the game around.

The whistle blew, and Bramall Lane roared as Crawley took the pitch in their red kits, the 4-2-3-1 set: Adam Fletcher in goal, Liam McCulloch and Reece Darby at the back, Pogba and Nate holding midfield, Freeman as the #10, Thiago and Dev on the wings, Max up top.

Kickoff:

The match began slowly for Crawley, as Sheffield’s pressing pressed hard, smothering their midfield. Pogba found himself isolated, his passes blocked by quick tackles.

Nate struggled, chasing shadows while Sheffield’s midfielders pushed through. Freeman tried to ignite something, slipping into spaces, but every touch felt hurried, his moves shut down by defenders.

In the 20th minute, disaster hit. A Sheffield corner curled in, but Liam and Reece got confused by each other’s calls. "Mine!" Liam shouted, but Reece stepped forward, leaving a gap.

The ball dropped, and Sheffield’s striker pounced, firing it past Fletcher’s dive. 1–0.

The crowd exploded, the roar crashing like a hammer blow. Niels paced the touchline, shouting, "Talk! Sort it out!"

Max shouted over the noise, trying to rally the team. "Come on, guys, wake up!"

But Sheffield kept up their relentless pace, their physical play taking a toll.

Thiago made a run down the wing but was knocked down by a heavy tackle. Max barely got a touch, his runs unnoticed as Crawley’s midfield struggled to find rhythm.

Halftime: Sheffield 1-0 Crawley

The first half ended with Crawley behind, the score weighing heavily on them.

In the locker room, Niels spoke quietly but firmly. "We’re not connecting at the midfield, you’re too static, move, talk, fight for it! Max needs the ball. Liam, Reece, no more mistakes."

Pogba nodded, jaw tight, but his eyes looked far away. Freeman stared at the floor, replaying every hurried pass.

The second half brought brief sparks of hope. Freeman slipped a pass to Dev, who cut inside but shot wide. Pogba won a tackle and sparked a counterattack, but it fell apart when Nate’s pass went wrong.

Sheffield stayed in control, their pressure relentless.

Then, in the 82nd minute, a quick counter struck hard. Dev was caught too far upfield, leaving the left side open.

Sheffield’s winger raced through and crossed for an easy tap-in. 2–0.

The crowd erupted, drowning out the away fans’ cheers.

Kieron sat on the bench, fists clenched, boots tapping nervously. After the second goal, he turned to Thomas, voice tense. "What am I even doing here if I’m not playing?"

Thomas met his eyes, calm but firm. "It’s tactical, Kieron. Not personal." Kieron muttered, "Sure," frustration simmering, but he stayed put, his hunger burning quietly inside.

The whistle blew, a 2-0 loss.

The team walked off, muddy and defeated, the loss bitter to swallow. Max clapped the small group of away fans, his face grim but determined. Thiago kicked a water bottle, his usual spark missing. Freeman walked quietly, head down, carrying the weight of his hurried mistakes.

In the locker room, Niels sat in silence for a moment, the disappointment heavy in the air.

Then he stood, his voice steady but honest. "That was one thing: disconnected and disjointed. We didn’t play as a team. We’re better than this, but you have to prove it... every pass, every tackle." He paused, looking around the room. "We need to fix this, together."

Pogba, frustration boiling over, yanked off his boots and stormed out, the door slamming shut behind him. Max stayed seated, eyes on the floor, hands tightly clasped. "We’re not clicking," he whispered to himself, a quiet admission.

Freeman sat close by, silent, replaying every moment, his usual calm replaced by a restless edge.

Kieron leaned against a locker, his voice low but sharp. "Another game, another bench. What’s the point?" Emma, packing up her kit bag, overheard and stepped closer. "You’re part of this, Kieron. Your chance will come." He nodded, jaw tight, but the fire in his eyes stayed strong.

Outside, the media was harsh. Headlines flashed online: "Crawley Outclassed, Where’s the Fire?" One tabloid sneered, "Is Niels Out of His Depth?" The criticism stung, but Niels shook it off, keeping his focus on the next challenge.

Back inside the bus, the rain drummed steadily on the roof as Niels leaned forward, eyes fixed on the screen. Every misplaced pass and missed chance played over in his mind, sharp and clear.

He tapped his fingers on the worn seat beside him, muscles tense with frustration but resolve hardening beneath it.

The loss stung like a wound, but it sparked something deeper.

Niels saw the pieces clearly: Fletcher’s steady hands, McCulloch’s iron will, Darby’s endless runs, Thiago and Dev’s flair down the wings, Nate’s sharp passes, Kieron’s fierce hunger, Max’s relentless drive, and the raw potential of Pogba and Freeman, if only they could find their rhythm together.

He quickly jotted on his clipboard: ’Loss hurts. Fire grows. Fix the team. Keep fighting’. The words felt like a promise, his hand steady even through the sting.

Niels leaned against the bus, rain drumming on his hood, its steady beat matching Crawley’s heartbeat.

Behind him, Bramall Lane’s lights faded, but the team’s resolve burned stronger, ready to come back and fight again.