Chapter 70: Red Devils Clash at Wembley (Semi-final: Part-I)
Chapter 70: Red Devils Clash at Wembley (Semi-final - I)
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Tomorrow, April 18, Crawley’s 5,000 fans would face a huge challenge at Wembley, where they would play Aston Villa in the FA Cup semifinal among 40,000 spectators. With seven league matches left until May 8, Niels faced a tough challenge: defeat a Premier League giant, stop Villa’s fast wingers, and lead Crawley to the final against Chelsea or Tottenham.
The Journey to Wembley
Before dawn on Saturday, April 17, Crawley woke up, the town alive with red scarves and quiet hopes, as streetlights lit up banners that read "Red Devils to Wembley!" At 4:30 a.m., buses left with about 5,000 fans on board, their chants of "Red Devils rise!" cutting through the morning mist. The convoy wound north, car horns blaring, a delivery van painted with "Reds to Glory!" igniting roars. Elise texted Niels, "Town’s empty, bro! Everyone’s going to Wembley! Mum’s got Thiago cake waiting! You got this, win for us and everyone supporting the town." Milan’s call cut through, sharp and urgent, "I’m coming, Niels, front row. Young’s pace is deadly, Downing’s crosses pinpoint. Shut ’em down, no gaps."
The squad gathered at Broadfield Stadium at 6:00 a.m., their bags packed, the air thick with anticipation. Max laced his boots, scuffed from Torquay’s muddy pitch, the squad’s superstition alive as each player touched them, Nate’s grin flashing, "Max-y’s boots, our lucky charm!" Liam McCulloch clapped Thiago’s shoulder, "Ready to dance through Villa, mate?" Thiago’s nod was electric, "For Crawley, Liam, we need this win."
The team bus rolled toward London at 7:00 a.m., fans lining the M23, their red scarves a defiant blaze. A girl, her red cap bright, waved a flag, "Max-y, you need to score!" her shout piercing the dawn. Milan, waiting at a service station near Gatwick, boarded the bus, his weathered face softening as he gripped Niels’ shoulder. "You’ve made Crawley dream, son," he said, his voice thick, eyes glistening. "I’ve watched you grow, and now you’re leading us to Wembley. I’m proud, but don’t let Young run free." Niels swallowed hard, feeling the warmth of Milan’s faith in his chest. "We’ll fight, Milan, for you and for everyone." The squad watched quietly, Luka nodded, Thiago smiled and the moment brought them closer together.
By noon, the bus reached their London hotel, fans swarming the entrance, a red tide chanting, "Craw-ley!" A boy thrust a drawing of Thiago’s West Ham goal at him, "You’re my hero!" Thiago knelt, signing it, "Thanks, kid." Niels watched, his notepad scrawled: "Young inside, Downing low, Agbonlahor runs." The team rested, the city’s hum a distant pulse, Wembley’s shadow looming like a titan.
On Sunday, April 18, the squad woke at 7:30 a.m., the day crackling with destiny. Sky Sports cameras pounced as they boarded the bus at 9:30 a.m., A reporter approached Niels and asked, "League Two underdog against Premier League giant, Niels. Can Crawley surprise everyone again?" Niels’ voice was steady and strong: "We’ve brought down giants before. This time, we fight not just for a win, but for our town’s pride." The dressing room buzzed, its air thick with liniment and nerves, Baxter cracking a joke, "If Young’s too fast, I’ll trip him, ref won’t see!" sparking laughter. Max taped his boots to his locker, his ritual a vow, his captain’s armband a badge of fire.
By 1:30 p.m., Wembley Stadium thrummed like a living beast, 40,000 fans a roaring sea, Crawley’s 5,000 in the east stand a blazing red fortress dwarfed by 35,000 Aston Villa supporters, their claret-and-blue tide overwhelming. Villa’s fans bellowed, "Villa! Villa!" their chants a suffocating wave, Crawley’s voices straining to break through, "Red Devils!" A giant flag unfurled in the east stand, "Wembley Red Devils, Giant-Killers!" its fabric rippling, fans singing a new anthem, "Reds to Glory, Wembley’s Story!" A man’s shout, "For Max-y!" rang out, but Villa’s roar drowned it, the opening moments a test of Crawley’s nerve.
Niels stood pitchside, spotting Milan in the front row, his eyes fierce but proud, a nod passing between them. The tunnel loomed, Crawley in red, Villa in claret and blue, Stewart Downing’s glance at Max cool. The squad huddled, Max’s boots on a bench, each player touching them, Max’s voice steady, "This is our time to show them. For every kid in Crawley, every scarf, every dream. We fight as one." Liam’s nod was iron, "Together, captain." Luka, Instinct Lens [Vision] glowing, added, "We’ll find the gaps, and we strike them." The referee’s call led them out, Wembley’s roar crashing like a tsunami, Villa’s 35,000 voices thundering, Crawley’s 5,000 fighting back, "Red Devils!" A woman’s sign, "Thiago, you need to shine!" glowed, a boy’s shout, "Smash ’em, Red Devils!" piercing the din.
First Half begins: