The Coaching System-Chapter 149: BRADFORD VS SANTOS 1

Pre-Match – The Neymar Effect

Jake stood at the edge of the pitch, arms crossed, watching as the stands filled. Valley Parade was sold out again.

Two big pre-season games. Two sell-outs.

But this wasn't just about Bradford anymore. This was about Neymar.

The return of a footballing icon to his boyhood club had sent shockwaves through the sport. Santos was back in Europe for pre-season, and Neymar was leading the charge.

Jake had seen the headlines.

"Neymar Returns – The Final Chapter?"

"Santos Takes on Europe with Their Prodigal Son."

"Wilson's Bradford vs. Neymar's Santos – Another Pre-Season Test."

Jake didn't care about the media spectacle. He cared about the test.

His squad had already gone toe-to-toe with Messi and Suárez. Now, they had to handle another world-class attacker.

Jake turned as Paul Roberts approached.

"They're treating this like a final," Paul muttered, glancing toward the Santos warm-up.

Jake followed his gaze.

Neymar was loose, relaxed, laughing with teammates. But the moment he got the ball? Sharp. Deadly. Focused.

It was clear—he was here to put on a show.

Renan Silva stood frozen near the touchline, watching.

Jake smirked. He recognized that look.

A kid watching his hero.

He walked over to Silva and nudged him. "You good?"

Silva blinked, snapping out of his trance. "Yeah… it's just—"

Jake raised an eyebrow.

Silva exhaled. "It's Neymar."

Jake nodded. "So? Tonight, he's just another opponent. Play your game."

Silva gave a small, nervous chuckle but nodded. He knew this was a moment he'd never forget.

The stadium announcer's voice boomed.

"WELCOME TO VALLEY PARADE… IT'S BRADFORD CITY VS. SANTOS!"

The crowd erupted.

Jake turned back toward the pitch.

Time to see what they were made of.

Kickoff – The Battle Begins

1' –

The whistle blew, and Santos wasted no time asserting themselves.

From the very first pass, it was clear—they weren't here to ease into the match.

Neymar, effortlessly gliding into space, demanded the ball within seconds. He drifted inside from the left, drawing Richards with him, and with a simple flick of his right foot, he switched the play to the opposite wing.

Felipe Jonatan sprinted forward, controlling it in stride before cutting back inside, linking up with Dodi. The midfielder took one touch and immediately fired a pass into Marcos Leonardo, who had already peeled away from Barnes.

One touch. Then a shot.

The ball rocketed toward the bottom corner.

But Okafor was ready.

The Nigerian keeper launched himself to his right, stretching every inch of his frame to get a strong hand to it. The ball deflected wide, rolling out for an early corner.

Santos weren't here to play conservatively.

Jake clapped his hands once, sharp and deliberate. "Wake up! Stay compact!"

His players looked at each other, nodding. They had survived the first wave.

But it was just the beginning.

7' –

The Valley Parade crowd buzzed with anticipation.

Neymar had been quiet for the first few minutes, but now, he had the ball at his feet.

Just inside the Bradford half, he flicked it into the air, juggling it effortlessly as Silva approached. One touch off his thigh. Another off his knee. Then he let it drop, rolling it under his foot, daring Silva to make a move.

Silva hesitated for a fraction of a second.

That was all Neymar needed.

A sudden shift of weight. A drop of the shoulder. A sharp feint to the right.

Silva started to move—then stopped himself.

He didn't bite.

Instead, he stuck out his foot at the last second, just as Neymar tried to flick the ball past him. A clean touch. The ball rolled away from Neymar's control.

The crowd erupted.

Neymar looked up, locking eyes with Silva. Then he smiled. A small nod of respect before jogging back into position.

Silva exhaled, his heart pounding. He had just stolen the ball from his idol.

But deep down, he knew Neymar wasn't done yet.

15' –

Bradford had settled now.

They weren't just absorbing pressure anymore—they were looking for openings.

Ibáñez, ever the orchestrator, found a pocket of space in midfield. He took a touch, lifted his head, and threaded a perfect pass between the lines.

Silva spun away from his marker, controlling it on the half-turn.

He was in space.

A quick sprint toward the final third, then a glance up—Bardghji was wide open on the right.

A perfectly timed pass sent the Swedish winger driving forward.

Bardghji cut inside, taking on his defender with ease.

One touch. Then a curling shot toward the far post.

For a second, it looked perfect.

The ball spun toward the top corner—

But João Paulo reacted instantly.

The Santos keeper leapt to his left, stretching out a hand, tipping the ball just wide of the post.

A corner.

Jake clapped his hands together. That was better.

They weren't here to admire Neymar.

They were here to win.

25' –

Santos dictated the rhythm, passing the ball around patiently, probing for weaknesses.

Jake watched closely. They were trying to lull Bradford into a false sense of security.

Then, in an instant—Neymar flipped the switch.

A sharp one-two with Felipe Jonatan on the left flank.

A sudden burst of acceleration.

He blew past Richards, gliding into the penalty area like a shadow.

Fletcher rushed over—but Neymar nutmegged him effortlessly, rolling the ball between his legs.

Jake clenched his fists.

The Brazilian was in.

One-on-one with Okafor.

The stadium held its breath.

Neymar took a touch, prepared to strike—

Then, out of nowhere—Barnes slid in.

A perfectly timed challenge, knocking the ball cleanly away just before Neymar could pull the trigger.

Valley Parade exploded with applause.

Neymar got up, shaking his head with a small smile. Even he had to respect that.

Jake smirked, turning to Paul Roberts. "That's our captain."

30' –

Santos wasn't discouraged.

Three minutes later, they worked the ball through the center, where Dodi found space.

The midfielder lifted his head and threaded a perfect through ball into the box.

Marcos Leonardo peeled off his marker, taking a touch before rifling a shot toward the near post.

Okafor reacted in a flash—diving low to his right, getting a strong hand to it.

The ball spilled loose—Arroyo pounced on the rebound, striking it first time—

Okafor pushed it wide again!

Jake pumped his fist.

His keeper was keeping them in the game.

33' –

Bradford wasn't just absorbing pressure anymore.

They hit back with a rapid counterattack.

Ibáñez intercepted a misplaced pass and immediately released Bardghji down the right.

The Swedish winger took off, sprinting past his defender with raw speed.

Silva made a diagonal run into the box—Bardghji saw it and fired a low cross.

Silva met it first-time, redirecting the ball toward goal.

João Paulo was beaten.

The ball flashed inches wide of the post.

Silva buried his head in his hands.

Jake exhaled sharply. They were knocking on the door.

37' –

Bradford grew in confidence.

Silva, now fully settled, drove into the final third, linking up beautifully with Bardghji.

Bardghji flicked a clever backheel into space—Costa reacted first.

A quick turn. A snapshot toward the bottom corner.

The keeper was beaten.

But the ball smashed against the post and ricocheted out of play.

Jake clenched his fists.

So close.

The stadium groaned in frustration.

Paul Roberts turned to Jake. "It's coming."

Jake nodded. They just needed one moment.

45' – Halftime

The whistle blew.

Bradford 0-0 Santos.

Jake exhaled, his gaze sweeping across the pitch as his players jogged toward the tunnel.

They had stood their ground.

They had kept Neymar quiet—so far.

And they had created chances.

But one mistake, one moment of brilliance, and all their work could crumble in an instant.

Jake stepped into the dressing room, his expression unreadable.

The players took their seats, breathing heavily, sweat dripping from their foreheads. Some grabbed water bottles, others ran towels over their faces.

The room was silent—waiting for him to speak.

Jake clapped his hands together, sharp and deliberate.

"We are not here to admire them." His voice cut through the tension. "We are here to beat them."

He walked to the whiteboard, circling Neymar's name.

"We know what he can do. We've seen it. But we've held firm. We've matched them. And if we stay focused, if we take our chances, we win this game."

He pointed toward Vélez and Ibáñez.

"Midfield—more pressure. Busquets struggled when we pressed him last match. We can do the same here. Don't give Dodi or Jonatan time to breathe."

Vélez nodded, cracking his knuckles. "They won't get a second."

Jake turned to Silva and Bardghji.

"You two—take risks. Get at them. Silva, you've already caused problems for their full-backs. Keep making those runs."

Silva wiped sweat from his brow and nodded.

Jake's gaze then moved to Bardghji.

"And you—keep doing what you're doing. That backheel to Costa? Perfect. Next time, it goes in."

Bardghji smirked. "Won't miss twice."

Jake took a deep breath and looked at every single one of them.

"Forty-five minutes left. We've played too well to let this slip now."

A pause. Then, he smirked.

"Go make Neymar wish he stayed in Saudi."

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The room erupted in laughter.

The tension broke.

Bradford wasn't just here to survive.

They were going to win.