Chapter 33: Cup Fever Rising
Friday, January 8, 2010
The coach's engine growled through London's twilight, headlights slicing the January chill as Crawley Town wound toward Brisbane Road. Niels sat near the front, forehead pressed against the cold window, his notebook of tactics trembling in his lap. The FA Cup Third Round against Leyton Orient, a League One side towering over League Two's Crawley felt like a cliff's edge. His chest tightened, not just from the match but from the ghosts of a past life, a future gamer lost in FIFA's glow, now a faint, fractured memory. "Get it together," he whispered, but the doubt lingered: could he, a stranger in this 2010 world, lead these men to defy the odds?
In the back, Korey Henry's voice cut through. "Luka, you gonna waltz past Orient or trip over your laces again?" Luka Radev, barely seventeen, grinned. "Watch me, mate I'll leave you eating dust." Max Simons, the striker, leaned back, smirking. "Save the showboating, lads. Score first, dance later." The banter warmed the air, easing Niels' nerves, but the weight of the Cup pressed heavy. A flicker stirred hazy images of FA Cup shocks, minnows toppling giants. Was it his old life, or just desperate hope? He couldn't tell, the future's fragments slipping like sand.
Reece Darby, quiet in the next seat, caught his eye. "You alright, boss?" Niels forced a nod. "Just… feeling it. You?" Reece shrugged, his right-back's grit showing. "Born for this." The words steadied Niels, grounding him in the team's heart. These guys Max, Luka, Korey, Dev Patel, Nate Sutton, Jamal Osei, Tom Whitehall, Reece, Adam Fletcher were his fight now, not some pixelated squad.
Brisbane Road loomed, its floodlights piercing the dusk. Crawley's away fans, a defiant pocket of red, chanted through the cold, their voices a beacon in Orient's claret sea. In the cramped dressing room, Niels faced the squad, their eyes locked on him. His voice cracked with emotion. "They're League One, yeah, but we're Crawley. We've got heart they can't match. Fight for every ball, play our game and make history." The players roared, Max's fist pounding the wall, Luka's grin fierce. Reserves Toby, Ilyas Kader, Kieron Marsh nodded, ready for their moment.
The tunnel's chill hit as they lined up, Orient's players looming, their fans' roar shaking the walls. Niels' heart raced, his coaching instincts all he had, and no shortcuts tonight. The pitch gleamed, the announcer's voice crackling: "Welcome to Brisbane Road for this FA Cup Third Round clash Leyton Orient versus Crawley Town!"
"And we're off!" the imagined radio commentator boomed in Niels' head, channeling the local broadcast's pulse.
Kickoff:
Orient surged, their winger tearing past Nate, but Reece's sliding tackle sparked cheers from the away end. "Darby's a wall!" Jamal broke up a midfield move, feeding Luka, who danced left but lost possession. "Radev's got flair, but Orient's tight!"
In the 19th minute: Crawley struck. Dev's free-kick curled to the back post, Korey rising above his marker. "Henry's up and it's in! Crawley lead one-nil!"
Crawley scores, the score is 1-0.
The away fans erupted, scarves aloft, their chants shaking the stands. Niels pumped a fist, shouting ,"Get back in position, everyone! Stay organized!" Orient hit back, their striker's header forcing Fletcher's diving save. "Fletcher's claws are out!" Max held up play, linking with Tom, whose cross grazed Nate's head, inches wide.
Half-time came, it was still 1–0
The dressing room electric but tense. Niels' voice was firm, eyes burning. "They'll throw everything. Stay tight, hit on the break. You're not done." The squad nodded, Korey's grin fierce, Jamal's calm anchoring them.
The second half was a siege. Orient's pressure pinned Crawley, their midfield slicing through. In the 62nd minute, a corner found their center-back unmarked. "Goal! Orient level, one-one!"
Orient equalized and the score is 1-1.
The home crowd roared, a wall of noise crashing over the pitch. Niels paced, heart hammering, urging calm. "Heads up! Find the gaps!" Luka's pass to Max drew a save, the ball skimming the bar. "Simons nearly steals it!"
Niels subbed on Toby and Ilyas, their fresh legs sparking life. The clock ticked, the away fans chanting, "Red De-vils!" In the 88th minute, the moment broke. Luka, twisting past a defender, slipped a pass to Korey, who darted into the box. "Henry's through oh and he's done it! Crawley lead two-one!"
2-1
The away end exploded, fans spilling over barriers, Niels roaring, "Hold it, guys!"
The final minutes were agony. Orient's shot kissed the post, Fletcher's fingertip save drawing gasps. "Fletcher's a hero!" Reece's last-ditch block sealed a clearance, the away fans' chants drowning the home crowd. The whistle blew. "It's over! Crawley Town have stunned Leyton Orient, two-one!" Players mobbed Korey, Luka piling on, Niels' grin breaking wide as fans sang, "We're the Red Devils!"
Fulltime: Leyton Orient 1-2 Crawley Town, Crawley advances to the next round.
In the dressing room, Niels' voice cracked with pride. "That's who you are. This Cup's ours to chase, but Grimsby's next, stay focused, we need this hunger." The bus ride back was alive, chants echoing, but Niels' heart raced. A Cup run semifinals, a final? felt real, though his fractured memories offered no map. He thought of Milan, the mentor who'd pushed him here, and the gamer he'd been, lost in a future he couldn't hold.
On January 8,
Broadfield's training pitch buzzed with Cup fever, the squad prepping for Grimsby. Niels' **Instinct Lens** flickered, scouting their spark. Luka's passes were silk [One-touch intelligence], Korey's runs electric [Inverted winger potential]. Toby, chasing a rebound, showed [Late bloomer], while Kieron Marsh faltered [Unstable confidence]. "Trust your feet, Kieron," Niels called, his clap warm.
Mid-session, his phone buzzed, Scout Claire. "Thiago's talks are progressing, São Paulo's open to a sale, maybe £200k. If not, a loan with a buy option's on the table. Baxter's loan is close, Everton's ready. Smalling's a no Fulham won't budge. Campbell's interested, but his wages are high." Niels' hazy FIFA memories stirred Thiago's flair, Baxter's vision, names from a life slipping away. "Push to buy Thiago," he said, voice firm. "Loan-to-buy if we must. Lock in Baxter." Claire hummed agreement, and he hung up, the Cup's glow fueling his drive.
The session closed, Luka's header skimming wide, Toby scrambling after it. Niels watched, arms crossed, the cold biting. Orient was conquered and the FA Cup dream still alive. Grimsby loomed, but the Cup's call, the chance for history, burned brighter. Elise's text lit his phone: "Pie's losing it, Cup hero! Home soon?" He grinned, typing, "Soon, sis. Dream's just begun."
The empty stands loomed, but Niels lingered, Brisbane Road's roar in his chest. Crawley was his fight, his home in this strange 2010 world. As shadows fell, a fierce hope flared, ready for the Cup's next battle.
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