CHAPTER 75: THE HIGH PRESS AT UNDERHILL

Chapter 75: The High Press at Underhill

Saturday, April 24, 2010

Matchday 42: Barnet FC vs. Crawley Town

Niels stood in the Broadfield Stadium carpark at dawn, the air sharp with April chill, Crawley Town’s red crest glowing on his jacket. The town was a furnace of hope, fueled by their 1-0 win over Shrewsbury, Max Simons’ venomous strike pushing them to 82 points, third in League Two, level with Bournemouth but trailing on goal difference. The Chelsea final was coming, but first Crawley had to survive Underhill, a tight, hostile ground where a physical, compact side was set to disrupt their promotion game. News of Bournemouth’s 1-0 loss to Rochdale crackled through the town like wildfire, opening the door to 2nd place. A win tonight would lift Crawley to 85 points, overtaking Bournemouth. Niels felt the weight of it, his pulse quickening.

By sunrise, Crawley was buzzing. Red banners waved on High Street, murals lit with Max and Thiago’s goals. A girl cheered, "Red Devils to the top!" as 500 fans boarded buses, chanting, "Reds to Glory!" Ollie, 13, waved his worn scarf, shouting "Thi-a-go, king!" A van blared horns.

At Broadfield, the squad gathered, the air thick with liniment and laughter. Niels rotated, bringing back Ellis Flynn and Dev Patel, resting Reece Darby and Nate Sutton to save their legs for Chelsea. Max’s boots, scuffed from Shrewsbury, sat on a bench, a talisman. Thiago tapped them, his grin flashing, "Max-y’s boots, our fire!" José Baxter, lacing up, quipped, "If Barnet nick my pass, I’m blaming Ollie’s scarf!" nodding to the young fan peering through the fence, his laugh easing the squad’s nerves. In the dressing room, Niels faced them, his voice steady but burning, "Lads, Bournemouth lost 1-0. Win tonight, and we’re up to 2nd. Barnet won’t make it easy. They’ll sit deep, pack the box, and go long. So we press high, early and aggressive. Force their backline into mistakes. Use width Thiago, Dev stretch their shape, pull defenders out. Midfield, hold tight. Screen their runners, shut down passing lanes. No space between the lines. Max be ready on set-pieces. You’re our weapon in the air. Stay switched on. This is for Crawley. For 2nd place. Let’s take it." Max’s eyes blazed, his captain’s armband a vow, "For the town, boss, we rise!"

The bus rolled into Underhill by 1:00 p.m., 500 Crawley fans packed into the away stand, their scarves a red blaze against Barnet’s black-and-amber tide. Ollie, scarf raised, bellowed, "Craw-ley, rise!" his voice cracking with passion, igniting a roar. A reporter stepped in: "Chelsea’s coming, but 2nd’s on the line today. Can you pull it off?" Thiago smirked. "We don’t just show up, we take what’s ours. For Crawley, we finish the job." In the dressing room, Max taped his boots to his locker, his ritual a silent oath. The crowd’s chants seeped through the walls, shaking the concrete, a Chelsea scarf in the away stand waving like a beacon.

The Battle of Underhill

Underhill Stadium thrummed by 3:00 p.m., 2,500 fans squeezed tight, Crawley’s 500 a roaring pocket of red, their anthem a defiant pulse. N Niels paced the sideline, his notepad filled with one clear plan: press hard, exploit the wings, claim 2nd place. The tunnel buzzed with tension as Crawley’s red clashed against Barnet’s black and amber. Their captain’s sharp eyes locked onto Max’s fierce stare both ready for the battle ahead.

The squad huddled, Max’s boots on a bench, each player’s touch a promise. Luka stepped up, Instinct Lens [Vision] glowing, his voice calm but piercing, "Bournemouth’s down, lads. This is our moment. Play with heart, for Crawley." Max’s voice roared, "For Ollie, for every fan, we take 2nd tonight!" Liam’s nod was iron, "We’re with you, captain" The referee’s whistle called them out, Underhill’s roar crashing, 500 Crawley voices thundering, "Red Devils!" Ollie’s cry, "Max-y, score!" pierced the din, his scarf a beacon under the floodlights.

Kickoff:

The whistle blew at 3:15 p.m., Barnet’s kickoff sharp, their long balls slicing toward Crawley’s backline like arrows. In the 4th minute, their winger darted inside, Ellis Flynn’s tackle, Instinct Lens [Resilience] flaring, a bone-crunching hit that sent the ball spinning out, fans chanting, "El-lis!" Barnet pressed with venom, a 7th-minute header soaring inches wide, Harry Thompson’s pressure, Instinct Lens [Resolve] glowing, sparking, "Har-ry!" Crawley found their rhythm, Jamal Osei’s 10th-minute block, Instinct Lens Steel flaring, bodying a striker off the ball, fans roaring, "Ja-mal!" Niels signaled high press, Thiago and Dev tearing down the flanks, Max prowling the box, his eyes locked on every ball, breath steaming in the chill.

Crawley struck in the 12th minute, Luka’s pass, Instinct Lens [Magic Vision] blazing, threading through Barnet’s midfield like a needle, finding Thiago, Instinct Lens [Silky technique] flaring. His stepovers danced past a defender, his curling shot tipped wide by the keeper’s glove, a desperate save, the away stand exploding, "Thi-a-go!" Ollie’s chant roared, "Craw-ley, rise!" scarves twirling like a red storm. Barnet hit back, a 15th-minute shot forcing Adam Fletcher’s dive, his save a red blur, sparking, "Fletch-er!" Niels clapped, "Nice save! Stay sharp, lads!" his pulse hammering, sweat beading under his cap, the dream of 2nd place a fire in his chest.

Barnet’s defense was like a fortress, their tackles bruising, their box a cage. A 20th-minute shot skimmed over, Liam McCulloch’s block, Instinct Lens [Steel] glowing, igniting, "Li-am!" Crawley pushed, Dev’s 25th-minute sprint down the left, his knee steady, his cross to Max blocked by a desperate slide, fans chanting, "De-ev!" A woman’s shout, "Keep fighting, Reds!" echoed, her Chelsea scarf waving like a flag of defiance. Baxter’s 30th-minute free-kick, Instinct Lens [Creative spark] flaring, curled to Max, his header sailing inches wide, the stands roaring, "Max-y!" Ollie’s cry, "It’s coming, Crawley!" pierced the air, his young face glowing with hope.

The first half ended 0-0, Underhill a cauldron, players gasping, their breath visible under the floodlights. Niels gathered the team, voice sharp: "They’re shaky, tired. Maintain high press, force them wide. Max, dominate the box on set-pieces. Fletcher, stay solid, command the defense. Stay focused, 2nd place is within reach!" Max’s eyes burned with determination. "Tonight, we rise. Together, we’re unstoppable." Thiago met his gaze and said, "For Crawley, this is our fight, our pride." The whistle blew for the second half, the stands trembling, Ollie’s scarf waving like a vow.

Crawley broke through in the 55th minute. Luka’s pass, Instinct Lens [Creative Vision] glowing, sliced Barnet’s midfield, finding Thiago in a pocket of space. He danced past two defenders, Instinct Lens [Silky technique] flaring, his low shot arrowing past the keeper’s dive, the net rippling, 1-0.

The away stand erupted, 500 fans leaping, "Goooaal!" scarves twirling, Ollie screaming, "Brazilian magic!" his voice cracking with joy. Thiago sprinted to the fans, fist pumping, "Nothing can stop us!" his shout shaking the stands. Niels’ heart soared, his notepad gripped tight, the dream of 2nd place burning brighter.

Barnet roared back, a 60th-minute shot grazing the post, Callum Haines’ tackle, Instinct Lens [Grit] glowing, sparking, "Cal-lum!" Crawley pressed harder, Baxter’s 65th-minute corner, Instinct Lens {Creative spark] flaring, cleared by a desperate header, fans chanting, "Bax-ter!" Niels subbed Miguel Cardoso for Ilyas Kadir in the 70th minute, fresh legs in midfield, Miguel’s hustle winning a free-kick, drawing, "Miguel!" The game was a battlefield, Underhill’s roar a relentless drum, Crawley’s lead a fragile flame against Barnet’s storm.

The decisive moment came in the 80th minute. Dev, Instinct Lens [Explosiveness] flaring, tore down the left, his cross curling into the box, Max leaping, his header deflected by a Barnet defender’s outstretched arm. The referee’s whistle shrieked, pointing to the spot, a handball penalty. The away stand exploded, "Pen-al-ty!" Barnet’s 2,000 groaned, but Crawley’s 500 roared louder, "You need to score this!" Max stepped up, his boots scuffed but steady, his eyes locked on the goal. He struck the penalty low and hard, the keeper diving left, the ball rocketing right, the net rippling, 2-0.

"Max!" roared the stand. Max shouted, "For 2nd place, for Crawley!"

Barnet’s final push in the 90th minute, a header from a corner, forced Fletcher’s sprawling save, his glove clawing the ball away, fans roaring, "Fletch-er!" Stoppage time’s three minutes ticked down, Harry’s 92nd-minute block, Instinct Lens [Grit] glowing, a wall against Barnet’s striker, sparking, "Har-ry!" The whistle blew, Underhill humming, Crawley victorious, 2-0, now 2nd in League Two with 85 points. Max faced the away stand, his voice raw, "For you, Crawley! For every dream, we’re climbing!"

After the Whistle

The 500 Crawley fans stayed, scarves raised, chanting "Reds to Glory!" Ollie’s voice echoed in the night. Thiago signed Ollie’s scarf again, "Keep dreaming, kid." Niels told a reporter, "For Crawley, we fight every match, every dream." Milan hugged Niels, "You’re making history, son." The dressing room buzzed with joy. Niels said, "Barnet’s done. Rest up. Next is Accrington." Thiago nodded, ready for the challenge.

April 25 dawned with Crawley buzzing. Thiago’s skill wowed fans in training, while Luka reminded the squad, "Accrington’s next. Find the gaps." Baxter joked about the pitch, making the team laugh. Niels outlined the plan: "Press early, attack the flanks, stay tight." With the FA Cup final ahead and promotion close, Crawley’s fight burned strong. Four league games left, Accrington was next.

[League: Matches: 43, Wins: 25, Draws: 9, Losses: 9, Points: 84, Position: 2nd]