Chapter 23: Solid Ground
Wednesday, 10 December 2009
It was colder now not the crisp kind, but the damp kind that sat like a wet rag on your neck. The frost had melted into grey mush. Still, the mood hadn't dipped. The Morecambe win was still lingering in the air, like the afterglow of a storm that somehow missed you. But football never stays paused for long. By midweek, the squad's attention had shifted to the next job: Burton Albion away. Level on points. Level on form. Both clubs parked firmly in the middle of the table. At least for now.
"It's not a cup tie," Niels told the group on Wednesday morning, "but it's just as important as that."
They were gathered in the cold meeting room. The space heater rattled in the corner, steam curled from takeaway coffees. No highlight reels today, no motivational monologues. Just clips of Burton's last few matches and a series of calmly drawn arrows on the whiteboard.
"They press hard at first, then pull back. They'll let you have the ball, but punish any mistake you make."
The room was quiet and focused. Reece sat forward, elbows on knees. Nate spun a coin between his fingers. Max leaned back with his arms folded, eyes fixed on the screen.
"This is where we find out if we're climbing," Niels said, clicking off the projector, "or just staying mid-table."
Thursday's training was sharp.
It was not loud, not that intense but efficient.
Reece led the warm-up drills, barking instructions in short, clipped bursts. Luka and Dev passed in quick, one-touch triangles, silent except for the sound of boot against ball. Nate looked stiff early on, rubbing at his left hamstring, but once the tempo lifted, he was gliding again.
Even the backup players Korey, Qazi, Ellis trained like starters.
The belief was no longer a novelty. It was a standard.
In one of the final small-sided drills, Max took a long diagonal switch out of the air with a chest touch, let it drop once, then curled it inside the far post without looking up. The goal was clean, calm, the sort of strike that doesn't need a celebration.
He jogged back without a word.
Reece shook his head and muttered, "Same boots, but new week."
Saturday
Matchday 18 against Burton Away.
The bus ride was subdued. Nobody slept, just headphones, notes, and quiet rituals.
Nate sat with a single earbud in, tapping out rhythms on his leg. Luka scrolled through messages but didn't reply to any. Dev kept watching one particular clip of Burton's fullback losing a foot race, rewinding and replaying.
Even Max had his eyes closed, but he wasn't sleeping. He was just conserving.
Burton's ground wasn't glamorous. There were low stands, patchy grass. Like a cold wind cutting across from behind the car park.
As they filed out into the tunnel, Jamal nudged Reece. "These are the ones we used to slip up on."
Reece didn't flinch. "But not anymore, we will give our best."
First half.
Crawley looked flat early on.
Maybe it was the travel. Maybe the sudden expectation. But the sharpness they'd carried into training had gone a bit dull under the Burton lights.
Burton pressed hard from the start. They forced mistakes, blocked passes, and chased every loose ball like dogs off the leash. Crawley stayed calm but couldn't find their rhythm.
Then, in the 22nd minute, they got hit.
Dev tried to clear but slipped, sending the ball straight to their number ten. He raced past one defender and passed to their striker in the box, who calmly scored low. 1–0.
Burton 1-0 Crawley
The home crowd offered only scattered applause, businesslike and restrained.
Reece faced the defense and clapped once, sharply. "Now we go."
Crawley didn't find their rhythm immediately. They settled down, held the ball more, and moved it faster but the hurt still lingered.
At the break, the dressing room wasn't tense just tight.
There was no panic, but no relief either.
"We've been here before," Max said, calmly unlacing one boot. "We are one down, but we know how to handle this."
Niels stayed silent for a moment, letting them catch their breath. Then he clicked the marker on the board and said, "They've shown their game: wide pressure, early crosses, midfield dropping back. That's their plan."
He scanned the room with his eyes.
"Now it's our turn to expose their weakness."
Second half.
Crawley came out leaner, cleaner, sharper, more disciplined, and with greater control.
They slowed the tempo just enough to control it. Luka dropped deeper to collect. Reece pushed further up the left flank. Nate, quiet for most of the first half, started ghosting between lines.
In the 61st minute, it all clicked.
Luka caught the ball near the center circle, spun without looking, and sent a quick, low cross out wide to Reece, who was already running.
Nate arrived just in time, side-footed the ball past the keeper without slowing down.
1-1.
There was no wild celebration just Nate pointing at Luka, and Luka pointing back, like they'd been practicing it for weeks.
Crawley didn't back off after that.
Burton made changes, dropped into a back five, tried to close the space. But Crawley kept pressing calm, patient, locked in.
Max almost won it in the 87th.
A loose ball spilled from the crowded box, and he hit it clean on the half-volley. Sweet and pure.
But it slammed off the post.
Gasps came from the away end. Even the Burton keeper just stood there, watching it rattle the post.
"Next one," Max muttered as he jogged back.
Burton, now shaken, started wasting time—slow throw-ins, the keeper down with a phantom cramp. But Crawley didn't bite. They stayed focused and kept playing.
Full-time. 1–1.
It wasn't exciting, but it wasn't bad either. It was steady.
Sunday morning.
The local paper's headline read:
"Even Game, Calm Minds: Crawley Fight Hard in Burton Draw."
A still from the goal showed Nate wheeling away, Reece mid–fist pump in the background, and Luka with just the hint of a smile.
No one called it a miracle. No one called it luck.
It was just another result on paper, but in truth, it was one more step forward—steady, earned, and a vital point that mattered in the quiet climb upward. Players filtered into the training ground for light recovery, their voices quiet and muscles stiff. But nobody was walking like they'd lost, though there was a hint of frustration since they wanted to win.
Niels sat alone in his office after everyone had gone. He pulled up the same document he'd been writing in since August.
He scrolled past the old lines.
"What comes after survival?"
"The climb becomes a run. And the run becomes belief."
Then he typed:
"The teams that rise don't always win. But they don't lose the wrong ones."
That night, Max walked the pitch again.
Same hoodie, same coat. Just him and the quiet. The empty grass, pale under the winter sky.
He stood near the edge of the box, boots crunching over the frost. Looked at the far post. The goal he almost stole.
He said nothing, he just stood still, thinking and waiting.
Then he turned and walked back toward the tunnel.
Another moment was coming somewhere, maybe not dramatic, but important.
And this time, he'd be ready.
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