Touchline Rebirth: From Game To Glory
Chapter 86: FA Cup Final[1]

Chapter 86: FA Cup Final[1]

Chapter 86: FA Cup Final [1]

Saturday, May 15, 2010

The FA Cup Final Begins

Wembley’s tunnel was damp and echoey, filled with the smell of concrete and nerves. The roar of the crowd rumbled in like a wave. Crawley’s players stood in line, their red kits bright under the flickering lights, each wearing wristbands stitched with "Crawley."

Max stood at the front, his captain’s armband tight on his arm. His lucky painted stone was taped inside his locker, and his jaw was set with focus. Thiago bounced on his toes, a confident grin on his face, his lucky ribbon tied tight. Luka stared straight ahead, his boots laced perfectly, his focus sharp.

At the tunnel’s edge, Coach Niels growled, "This is it, lads. Chelsea’s the favorite, but we’re Crawley. We fight for every kid, every street. Go show them who we are."

Ollie, the team mascot, stood beside Max, holding his banner tightly. His voice was quiet but brave: "We’re not scared."

Next to Thiago, eight-year-old Tom, another mascot, held his hand, his Crawley scarf hanging down. His voice trembled as he whispered, "You’re my hero, Thiago."

Chelsea’s team stood on the other side of the tunnel, their blue kits forming a solid wall. Drogba towered above the rest, his eyes cold and focused like a predator. Terry stood firm like a fortress, his captain’s armband shining as he shouted directions to Lampard, who nodded sharply. Čech flexed his gloved hands, calm but menacing.

The chants of Chelsea fans "Chelsea! Drogba!" rumbled through the tunnel, shaking the walls and filling the air with pressure.

A young Chelsea mascot, a girl named Lily, held Terry’s hand tightly. Her blue cap bounced as she shouted, "We’re gonna win!"

Max met Terry’s eyes for a brief moment, determination clashing with experience. Thiago leaned down to Tom and whispered with a grin, "Stick with me, kid."

The referee’s whistle blew. The teams began to walk out, mascots beside them, into the roaring arena of Wembley.

The pitch glowed green under the bright floodlights. 90,000 fans roared Chelsea’s blue filled most of the stadium, but Crawley’s red corner burned with pride.

Chelsea fans waved flags and chanted, "London is Blue!" their voices shaking the air. Crawley supporters shouted back, hoarse but loud, "Craw-ley! Craw-ley!" Ollie held up his banner and yelled, "We’re here!"

The stadium buzzed with tension and excitement. The smell of grass hung sharp in the air. Max led Crawley onto the field, walking steadily with young Tom at his side. Tom’s eyes were wide, amazed by the huge crowd. Thiago gave Ollie a high-five and laughed, "This is our stage, kid!" Luka scanned the stands, already thinking ahead.

Chelsea followed Drogba’s steps were powerful, Terry’s eyes alert. Their fans exploded with cheers, shouting, "Drogba’s king!" Crawley fans answered just as loud. One girl held a sign high: "Max’s coming!"

The teams lined up. The crowd was a living force. The battle was about to begin.

The crowd fell silent as a young woman in a red dress walked to the center circle. Her voice rose, clear and haunting, as she sang "God Save the Queen." The anthem echoed through the stadium. For a moment, Chelsea’s blue and Crawley’s red stood united.

Max stood tall with his hand on Tom’s shoulder, softly whispering, "For home." Thiago’s usual grin faded to something gentler as he put his arm around Ollie, who sang off-key, his voice cracking with pride. Luka stared straight ahead, his chest rising with each breath—the anthem sharpening his focus.

On the sideline, Coach Niels watched his team closely, his red wristband tight, whispering, "We need this win."

Chelsea’s players stood still and serious Terry’s jaw clenched, Drogba lost in thought. Their fans stood with hands over hearts, steady and sure. Beside Terry, little Lily sang loudly, her voice a small but bright spark in the sea of blue.

As the anthem ended, the crowd roared back to life. Chelsea’s chants "Chels-ea!" boomed like cannon fire, shaking the stands. Crawley’s fans answered, smaller but fierce: "Craw-ley! Kings!" In the red section, a boy held up a sign: "Thiago, dance!" It drew a cheer from their corner.

The singer bowed, the pitch buzzing with energy. The air felt heavy with what was about to begin.

Max glanced at Niels. The coach met his eyes and gave a calm, steady nod. Max nodded back, voice low but certain. "We’re ready." Beside him, Thiago bent down to Ollie and whispered with a smile, "Make sure you sing that nice and loud tomorrow, yeah?"

The mascots were led off. Ollie waved his banner proudly. Tom held tight to Thiago’s scarf, both boys glowing with excitement. The anthem’s echo hung in the air a brief, powerful calm before the storm. Both teams stood ready, fire in their eyes.

Two officials carried out the FA Cup trophy, its silver surface gleaming under the floodlights a shining symbol of glory. The crowd erupted. Chelsea fans chanted, "It’s ours!" as a sea of blue flags rippled like a wave. Crawley’s red corner fired back, "Craw-ley! Win!" a spark of defiance in the vast stadium.

The trophy was paraded along the touchline, its shine drawing every eye. Max stared at it, his breath catching. He felt the weight of his painted stone, and whispered in his mind, "We can win this"

Thiago’s grin widened as he turned to Nate and whispered, "That will be ours soon, mate." Luka’s eyes locked onto the trophy like a target, his focus razor-sharp. From the bench, Niels leaned toward Milan and said quietly, "That’s what we’re here for."

Chelsea’s players were watching too Drogba’s eyes full of hunger, Terry giving a firm nod. Their fans roared louder, as if already claiming the prize.

The trophy paused near Crawley’s bench. From the stands, Ollie now back with the fans shouted, "That’s for us!" His voice cut clean through the noise. A Chelsea fan fired back, "Dream on, kid!" but Crawley’s red section roared louder, "Craw-ley! Craw-ley!"

The trophy was set down at the sideline, its silver glow daring someone to claim it. The crowd’s roar pulsed like a heartbeat. Max turned to his squad, voice low but firm. "We’re not here to watch. We’re here to win it." Thiago clapped once. "Let’s give our all!" Luka nodded, eyes locked in. "Let’s make it count."

The officials stepped back. The trophy waited. The air thickened every breath tight with meaning as the final moments of ceremony gave way to battle.

The referee, a stern figure in black, led the inspection, checking Crawley’s kits boots, shin guards, wristbands his eyes sharp. Chelsea’s players were checked across the pitch, Čech’s gloves flexing, Terry’s tape tight, their readiness a quiet threat. The referee’s assistants scanned the squads, the air tense, the crowd’s chants a constant hum Chelsea’s "Drogba! Lampard!" overpowering Crawley’s "Max! Thiago!" Niels stood close, clipboard dropped, his voice steady but fierce as he locked eyes with the squad:

"Keep sharp and stay ready. This is our battle."

A Chelsea fan sneered from the stands "Back to the minors!" but Max’s glare cut through the noise like a blade, his red pin flashing sharply. The tunnel fell into a heavy silence, thick with challenge.

Thiago’s fists clenched. Luka’s jaw tightened. The team’s energy snapped, electric and raw unshaken, unbreakable.

The captains met at the center circle. Max faced Terry, their handshake firm, eyes locked, grit against steel. The referee flipped a coin. Terry called heads and won the kickoff, his smirk slight.

"Good luck, mate," he said. Max’s jaw tightened. "We don’t need luck."

The teams lined up to shake hands. Crawley’s players moved through Chelsea’s, hands clasping, eyes meeting. Thiago grinned sharply as he shook Lampard’s hand. "See you out there." Luka’s grip tightened on Drogba’s hand, his stare cold and focused. "Game on." Baxter joked with Čech, "Hope you’re ready, big man." Čech responded with a faint nod.

The crowd erupted. Chelsea’s fans chanted, "Blues!" Crawley’s supporters answered back, "Craw-ley! Fight!" A girl held up a sign: "Luka, strike!" the red corner burning with defiance.

The squads took their positions Crawley in red, Chelsea in blue. The pitch was a battlefield under the floodlights. Niels gathered the team one last time, his voice steady and sharp:

"Chelsea are strong, but we have a plan. Max, own every aerial duels. Thiago and Nate, attack their wings and stretch them wide. Luka, disrupt their midfield and break their rhythm. Remember, we’ve fought hard to get here. Now there’s no room for fear, let’s go out and show them the heart and fight Crawley’s made of!

The referee’s whistle was seconds away, the ball waiting at the center. Wembley buzzed with electricity. Chelsea were the favorites Ancelotti’s sharp tactics, Drogba’s power, Terry’s steel, and a sea of blue behind them.

Crawley were the underdogs League Two fighters who’d just been promoted to League One, with nothing but heart.

The crowd’s roar was alive, the trophy gleaming, the pitch ready. Could Crawley pull off the shock of the century, or would Chelsea’s strength snuff out their flame?