Touchline Rebirth: From Game To Glory-Chapter 114: Chasing the Midfield

Chapter 114: Chasing the Midfield

Saturday, July 10, 2010

The morning sun clawed through Crawley’s thick gray clouds, spilling a faint golden glow over Broadfield Stadium’s muddy pitches.

Niels arrived early, his boots crunching on the gravel path, the sharp tang of wet grass and morning dew filling his lungs.

The transfer window was a relentless storm. Luka Radev was deal done to Parma, his absence a fresh scar. Max Simons had been wrestling with Levante’s seductive La Liga offer.

His old backpack carried a notebook with creased pages full of plans and names Paul Pogba, James Dunne, John Lundstram circled in red, alongside a worn book on football psychology.

He ran his fingers over the worn note in his pocket, its message long memorized. On the field, movement flowed around a central rhythm, Thiago’s unpredictable brilliance, Dev Patel’s darting runs, and Jamal Osei, the pivot, steady and unshaken, holding it all together.

Behind them, the town watched and waited, its hopes stitched into every pass.

Yesterday’s training, without Luka and Baxter, exposed how weak the midfield really was like a machine missing a key part. And with Danny Drinkwater’s loan falling through, Niels was running out of time to fix it.

Today, he steeled himself for new battles, determined to keep Crawley’s story alive on the muddy pitches where heart and grit wrote their legacy.

The training ground thrummed with life as players gathered, boots sinking into the soft, churned-up turf.

Thiago danced through warm-ups, his grin infectious, juggling the ball with Brazilian swagger that lit up the gray morning.

Dev Patel darted between cones, his footwork sharp as a blade, while Nate Sutton glided through tight spaces, snapping off crisp passes that cut through the air.

Tom Whitehall charged box-to-box, his relentless energy a force of nature, and Jamal Osei anchored the midfield with his cool, tactical mind, reading the game like an open book.

But Luka’s absence was a gaping void. The midfield, once alive with his pinpoint passes and vision, stumbled like a band without its conductor. Passes went astray, attacks fizzled, and the team’s rhythm felt off, like a heartbeat skipping.

Thomas, the fitness coach, stepped in, his Dutch accent sharp in the cold morning air. "Again! No slowing down!" he shouted, stopwatch swinging as he drove Reece Darby and Ilyas Kader through sprints that left them breathless.

His intense, no-nonsense style was forging a squad tough enough for League One’s brutal grind, but Niels felt the midfield’s emptiness like a weight pressing on his chest.

Young Kieron Marsh, the 18-year-old academy talent, had featured in rotation last season, showing flashes of promise with bold tackles and fearless runs.

But his inexperience still showed, diving in too recklessly, chasing every ball proof he wasn’t ready to shoulder a full campaign on his own.

The need for new midfielders was a fire under Niels’s feet, with the season’s first whistle looming closer.

At midday, Niels met Emma Hayes in her office, a cramped space buried in papers, coffee cups, and a laptop glowing with scouting reports.

The window framed the pitch, where Thomas ran cool-down drills, youth players panting but digging deep under his sharp gaze.

Emma leaned forward, her face etched with tension. "I called Pogba’s representatives again," she said, voice tight. "They’re interested, he likes the chance to play regularly but they’re cautious. They want to see if we’re serious, and the board still isn’t fully convinced."

She paused, her eyes narrowing. "Mr. Hargreaves is worried about the price, and Richard Langley’s anxious about fan backlash if we don’t sign a big name. On top of that, the physio team raised some mild concerns about Pogba’s injury history nothing serious, but enough to make Hargreaves uneasy."

Niels’s jaw tightened. Pogba’s talent could transform the midfield, fitting perfectly with Jamal’s calm and Tom’s energy.

But doubts from the board and medical concerns were building like dark clouds over an already difficult transfer window.

"He’s our statement signing," Niels said, voice steady but sure. "We give him minutes, responsibility, a platform to grow."

Niels tracked down Thomas on the training ground, the sun now higher, casting sharp shadows across the muddy turf. "If we get Pogba," he said, voice low, "can you keep his injury risks in check?"

Thomas nodded, clipboard under his arm, eyes focused. "No worries. We’ll customize his training recovery sessions, gentle strength work, and a slow build-up to our high-press style. He’ll stay fit and protected."

Niels felt a flicker of hope, imagining Pogba commanding the midfield with his vision and strength, supported by Thomas’s careful plan.

"He could change everything," Niels said, voice steady. "But first, we have to convince the board and his agent."

Thomas nodded sharply. "You sell the vision, Niels. I’ll take care of conditioning." The plan was strong, but Hargreaves’s caution and Langley’s hopeful front stood in the way, challenging Niels’s determination.

That afternoon, Niels walked the pitch, boots sinking into the mud, the air thick with the promise of rain. Max Simons approached, kit bag slung over his shoulder, his face pale but eyes steady with resolve.

"Coach, can we talk?" Max said, voice quiet but firm. They stepped into the shade of the stands, away from the clatter of training.

Max took a deep breath, his words heavy. "It’s gonna be a long season without Luka. But I’m willing to stay. I just need your trust again."

Niels’s heart surged, relief flooding through him like sunlight breaking through clouds. Max, with his lethal finishing and clever movement, was choosing Crawley over La Liga’s allure.

"You’ve always had my trust, Max," Niels said, clapping his shoulder, voice warm but solid. "We need you to lead. Let’s make this season one to remember."

Max nodded, a flicker of his old fire sparking in his eyes, and walked back to the training ground, his steps lighter, his shoulders straighter.

Niels watched him go, hope rising but tempered by the midfield’s fragility.

The season’s battles were closing in, and the squad needed rebuilding around Max’s grit, Thiago’s flair, Dev’s creativity, and Nate’s slippery runs.

Without Luka and Baxter, and now Drinkwater, the midfield felt like a house missing its foundation.

That night, Niels sat in his office, the stadium silent, the pitch dark save for the floodlights’ soft glow. Rain tapped the window, a steady rhythm echoing Broadfield’s gritty soul.

Emma’s email arrived with a sharp ping, her message clear: ’We need two midfielders. Pogba’s the dream, but not a sure thing. Three targets: Paul Pogba (free, risky but huge potential), Kyle Dempsey (Carlisle United, young and energetic), Luke Freeman (Gillingham, experienced left-footed playmaker).’

Niels leaned back, imagining Dempsey’s endless energy pairing with Tom Whitehall’s grit, or Freeman’s vision and set-piece skill stepping in for Luka.

Pogba was the ultimate prize, he could be a game-changer for Crawley but with his agent’s doubts and the board’s hesitation, it wouldn’t be easy.

He opened his laptop and refined his pitch to Pogba’s camp: ’At Crawley, you won’t just play, you’ll lead a team that fights for every ball and every moment. It’s the perfect place to develop your talent and become the star you’re meant to be. Come help us build something unforgettable.’

The words were bold, a vision of Pogba anchoring the midfield with Jamal, Tom, and maybe Kieron Marsh’s growing fire.

He thought of his squad: Adam Fletcher’s steady hands in goal, whose crucial saves against Chelsea kept them in the game without him, they would have surely lost and never won the FA Cup.

Liam McCulloch’s command at the back, Reece Darby charging down the right, Thiago and Dev lighting up the wings, Nate Sutton weaving through tight spaces, and Kieron Marsh daring to shine.

Setbacks had tested the team hard. Losing Luka left a gap, and Drinkwater’s deal falling apart was a blow.

But Max choosing to stay gave them a lifeline, a reason to keep fighting and a base to build on.

Niels stood, pacing to the window, his breath fogging the glass as he stared at the pitch, its muddy patches gleaming under the floodlights.

The rain fell harder, a drumbeat matching Broadfield’s heart.

He sighed, remembering how the board had promised him full control yet now they hesitated.

Still, he was ready to fight for Pogba, pursue Dunne, Lundstram, Dempsey, or Freeman, and win over the board, handle Hargreaves’s gruff demands, match Langley’s public optimism, and rally Emma’s fierce drive to support his vision.

Crawley wasn’t here just to survive, they were here to rewrite the rules. But with every step forward came new challenges, and as the transfer window slammed shut, one question hung in the air: Could they pull it off before everything slipped away?