CHAPTER 81: KINGS WITHOUT A CROWN

Chapter 81: Kings Without a Crown

Thursday, May 6, 2010

Post-Match:

Crawley Town’s flame roared unyielding, their 4-3 victory over Notts County, Luka Radev’s stoppage-time screamer sealing a heart-stopping triumph securing 2nd place in League Two with 91 points, promotion secured, and a defiant statement sent to the Chelsea FA Cup final on the horizon. Meadow Lane’s floodlights still burned, 8,000 fans a churning sea of black-and-white and red, the air electric with triumph and heartbreak.

Notts County, league champions with 93 points, stood ready to lift the League Two trophy, while Crawley’s squad, sweat-soaked and defiant, prepared to receive their promotion medals. Bournemouth’s 87 points secured their rise as well, but for Crawley’s 1,500 fans, this moment meant everything pride, glory, and a dream beating loud for Wembley. Could Niels’ squad carry this fire to face Chelsea, or would the weight of this night define their season’s end?

The final whistle’s echo lingered, Meadow Lane trembling under the weight of Crawley’s 4-3 triumph. The away stand thundered, 1,500 fans leaping, scarves a red storm, Ollie’s "Reds to Wembley!" banner soaring high, his chant, "Craw-ley, kings!" shaking the concrete like thunder. Max Simons stood, sweat-soaked, his armband gleaming, roaring, "This is for you, Crawley!" as he faced the fans, fist pumping, Instinct Lens [Leadership] glowing. Thiago spun in a wild dance through the floodlights, fans chanting, "Thi-a-go!" his grin a spark in the dusk.

Niels embraced the squad one by one, his voice thick with pride and tenderness. "You’ve all earned this, every single one of you." Luka’s quiet nod carried the weight of his game-winning strike a moment that cut deep into Notts’ heart. The team stood united, sweat-soaked and victorious, each player forever part of this unforgettable moment.

The roar of the crowd filled the air as Crawley’s players gathered close, soaking in the moment. Max lifted his arms high, eyes scanning the sea of red scarves waving like flames in the night. No words were needed the passion of the fans spoke for itself. Around the pitch, chants of "Wembley awaits!" and "Crawley forever!" rippled through the stands, a promise that this was only the beginning.

The pitch buzzed, Crawley’s squad gathering in a huddle, sweat and grass staining their red kits, the air thick with liniment and triumph. José Baxter quipped, "Luka, that shot stole my limelight!" his laugh sparking grins, easing the tension. Nate’s sprint to the fans drew cheers, "Na-ate!" his fist raised to the stand. Harry Thompson, Instinct Lens Grit glowing, clapped Ollie’s shoulder, signing his banner with a flourish, "Keep that passion alive, kid." The floodlights cast long shadows, Meadow Lane’s stands a cauldron of noise, Notts’ fans hushed but proud, their champions preparing for their moment. Niels’ heart pounded, his notepad forgotten on the turf, the victory a fire in his chest. A girl in the stands, no older than 10, waved a red scarf, her cry, "Craw-ley, rise!" piercing the air, her eyes shining with belief. High Street awaited, the Chelsea mural glowing in Crawley’s mind, pubs ready for watch parties, the buzz of Friday’s Messi and Drogba chatter now a roar for their own heroes.

The stadium announcer’s voice boomed, calling Notts County to the center for the League Two trophy presentation. A platform draped in black-and-white stood under the floodlights, officials in suits waiting, the silver trophy gleaming like a beacon. Notts’ players, still stinging from defeat, walked forward, their captain’s head high, his black-and-white armband a mark of pride. The home stands erupted, 6,500 fans roaring, "Notts! Notts!" scarves waving like a monochrome sea. The trophy was raised, its surface catching the light, the crowd’s chant swelling, "Champions!" as confetti rained down, gold and silver flecks swirling in the dusk. Notts’ winger, who’d scored their first, lifted the trophy high, his shout, "For Nottingham!" shaking the stands, fans chanting, "We are the champions!" The moment was theirs, a season of dominance crowned, despite Crawley’s sting.

Crawley’s 1,500 fans stood defiant, their red scarves raised, Ollie’s banner unwavering, his chant, "Craw-ley, kings!" a counterpoint to Notts’ roar. Max watched, his jaw tight, Instinct Lens [Leadership] glowing, whispering to Thiago, "They’re champions, but we beat ’em. That’s ours." Thiago’s grin flashed, "We danced on their pitch, captain!" Niels clapped once, his voice firm, "Respect them, they’re champions and they earned this. But our time will come. Until then, we fight harder, push further, and never lose that fire inside."

The Notts captain passed the trophy to his teammates, each lifting it, the crowd’s roar a tidal wave, a boy in black-and-white shouting, "We’re number one!" The ceremony pulsed with pride, but Crawley’s red tide held firm, their eyes on their own moment, the Chelsea dream burning brighter with every second.

The announcer called Crawley Town forward, the platform now draped in League Two colors, officials holding a tray of silver promotion medals, each engraved with "League Two 2009-10, 2nd Place." The away stand exploded, 1,500 fans roaring, "Reds to Glory!" scarves twirling like a red hurricane, Ollie’s banner soaring, his shout, "Rise of Crawley Town!" shaking the air. Niels led the squad, his boots crunching on confetti-strewn grass, his heart swelling with pride. Max stepped first, his armband gleaming, the official draping a medal over his neck, its weight heavy with meaning. He raised it to the fans, roaring, "This is yours, Crawley!" the stand erupting, "Max!" Thiago followed, twirling his medal like a dance partner, fans laughing and chanting, "Thi-a-go!" Luka’s medal hung quietly, his nod steady, Instinct Lens Vision glowing, his stoppage-time strike etched in every heart. Baxter quipped, "This medal’s heavier than Notts’ trophy!" sparking laughs, fans chanting, "Bax-ter!"

Liam McCulloch’s medal caught the floodlights, his steel-like determination shining through as he raised his fist to the cheering fans, who roared, "Li-am!" Nate dashed onto the platform, grinning wide as the crowd erupted, "Na-ate!" Harry Thompson, grit burning in his eyes, clutched his medal tightly, signing Ollie’s banner once more with a whispered, "For you, kid." Jamal Osei’s fierce tackle still remembered, his name called out loud, "Ja-mal!" Ellis Flynn, fresh off the bench, lifted his medal high, the fans chanting, "El-lis!" Korey Henry and Dev Patel followed, their medals gleaming as supporters cheered, "Ko-rey!" and "De-ev!" Adam Fletcher, whose late saves proved vital, raised his medal toward the sky, igniting the crowd with a shout, "Fletch-er!"

Niels took his medal last, his voice thick, "Thank you for believing in us, this one’s for each and every one of you," his eyes meeting Milan’s, whose nod burned with pride. The away stand thundered, a girl’s cry, "Reds to Chelsea!" joining Ollie’s, "Craw-ley, kings!" scarves waving like flames in the wind. The medals shone under floodlights, each a badge of Crawley’s fight, their 2nd-place triumph a vow for Wembley. The crowd erupted, voices rising as one in a powerful chant:

"Thank you, coach! Thank you, coach!

You made us dream, you made us fight!

Thank you, coach! Thank you, coach!

We’re ready now, let’s win this right!"

The ceremony ended, Meadow Lane’s floodlights dimming, but Crawley’s fire burned brighter. The squad lingered on the pitch, medals glinting, Max leading a lap to the away stand, his roar, "You’re our heart, Crawley!" sparking cheers. Ollie ran to the barrier, his banner raised, shouting, "Max, captian!" as Thiago tossed him his sweat-soaked wristband, Ollie’s eyes shining like stars.

A reporter cornered Niels, "Promotion sealed, Chelsea next. How do you prepare?" Niels’ voice was iron, "We fought the champions and won. For Crawley, we’ll burn brighter at Wembley." The dressing room buzzed, sweat and triumph mingling, the air heavy with resolve. Niels faced the squad, his voice steady but full of feeling. "Chelsea will be the hardest battle we’ve faced. They’ve got power, pace, and experience each player best in their positions. But we’ve got heart. We’ve got time to prepare and when that day comes, we give it everything. For Crawley. For the fans. For each other." Thiago’s grin flickered with fire. "Then we give them a dance they’ll never forget." Luka’s nod was quiet but sure. "We’re ready. One step at a time."

The buses rolled out at 7:00 p.m., 1,500 fans chanting, "Reds to Glory!" as they headed back to Crawley, Ollie’s banner pressed against a window, his shout, "Craw-ley, kings!" echoing into the night. Back in Crawley, the streets pulsed with pride. Flags hung from windows, shopfronts lit in red, and every pub buzzed with talk of Wembley. Kids reenacted Luka’s winner in car parks, while old-timers leaned over bar counters, swapping tales of past glory and newfound hope. A mural was already going up near the station Max and Thiago painted mid-celebration, bold letters beneath: "Believe."

At the training ground, the night had settled in. The pitch was silent, the locker room still. Niels sat alone in the tactics room, hunched over the whiteboard, a marker limp in his fingers. Arrows, scribbled notes, half-formed plans filled the space but none of it felt solid. His eyes kept drifting to the same names.

Carlo Ancelotti calm, brilliant, and ruthless. One of the all-time greats.

Čech. A wall in goal.

Terry and Lampard, born leaders, champions through and through.

Drogba.,The deadliest striker in the game. Powerful, and unstoppable when he’s on.

Niels leaned back and shut his eyes for a moment. The pressure pressed in. The weight of it. Crawley versus Chelsea. League Two upstarts versus giants of Europe. His head throbbed. The headache had crept in somewhere between Drogba’s name and the whiteboard’s silence.

’They’ll come at us fast, no space to move, no time to think. One mistake, and we’re done.’ He knew that. But he also knew his team, what they’d endured, what they’d built. He looked toward the lockers through the open door. Medals still hung there, catching a faint glint from the hallway light. ’Not just promotion medals, they’re promises. Promises of belief, of fire, of one more fight.’

Wembley was looming. And Niels knew they wouldn’t arrive as favorites. They hadn’t been the favorites all season not then, and not now. But just like before, they’d fight with everything they had and maybe, that would be enough.