Chapter 3: Making a Mark
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Matchday 12: Crawley Town vs Macclesfield Town
A cold, gray Saturday morning wrapped Crawley in mist, the kind that clings to your coat and dulls the world. The Broadfield Stadium car park sat empty, dew beading on the gravel, the only sounds a distant hum of machinery and the crunch of Niels' boots as he walked toward the training ground. He was always the first to arrive, before Milan, before the players, before the sun could burn through the fog. He needed the quiet time. Just him, a tactics board, a cup of bitter instant coffee gone cold, and the tangle of thoughts in his head.
This wasn't his first rodeo anymore. Last weekend's 1–0 win, his first as Crawley Town's interim coach, had dragged the team from 21st to 20th in League Two. Seven points clear of the relegation zone. Not safe, not by a long shot, but not sinking either. Today was different, though. Today was his first away game in charge. No roar of the Broadfield faithful, no familiar turf. Just a bumpy bus ride to Macclesfield Town, a scrappy pitch more dirt than grass, and a chance to prove that last win wasn't just luck.
Macclesfield's Moss Rose ground wasn't exactly Old Trafford. The stands looked like they belonged at a village fete, the pitch a patchwork of sand and weeds. But for Crawley, every game was a fight to claw forward, to build something real.
Niels stood in the tiny away team office, staring at his tactics board, moving magnets like a general plotting a battle. A 4-2-3-1 felt too cautious, like hiding. A 4-3-3? Too exposed, too reckless. He settled on a 4-4-2 diamond, tight through the middle, giving Luka Radev room to weave his magic between the lines. It wasn't flashy, but it was solid.
Footsteps broke the silence. "You slept here or what?" Milan's gravelly voice came from the doorway, his mug steaming with tea.
"Got here early," Niels said, eyes still on the board.
Milan squinted at the setup, one eyebrow creeping up. "Nervous?"
Niels let out a small laugh, honest. "Yeah, a bit."
"Good," Milan said, sipping his tea. "Means you care."
They sat, going over the plan like old mates hashing out a Sunday league game. Milan tossed in a few tweaks, when to press high, how to drop Jamal Osei to plug gaps, but he didn't take over. He just nodded, letting Niels steer the ship. That trust hit Niels hard, a quiet nod to the fact that he was starting to belong here.
The bus ride to Macclesfield was a slog, three hours of rattling seats and motorway drizzle. By the time they pulled into Moss Rose, Niels' nerves had hardened into focus, the kind he used to feel as a player, standing in the tunnel before a match. The away dressing room was cramped, smelling of damp and liniment. Players taped ankles, tied laces, or zoned out with headphones. No big speeches, just a shared vibe: this one mattered.
Niels grabbed the whiteboard, his voice steady. "We're not here to play like Barcelona. We're here to outwork them. Macclesfield come out fast, press high, so we stay tight, move the ball quick, let them burn out chasing us. Make simple passes, and smart choices."
Luka Radev, all of seventeen and already the squad's spark, gave a quiet nod. Niels had been drilling him in training, smarter runs, better spacing, and the kid was stepping up. Marko Simic stood at the back, eyes locked in. He'd earned his start after a gritty scrimmage, still raw but hungry to prove himself.
The whistle blew, and the match kicked off.
The first ten minutes were a mess. The pitch was like kicking a ball on a beach, balls skidded or bobbed weirdly, passes dying in the muck. Macclesfield were all elbows and long balls, the ugly side of League Two in full force. Crawley struggled to link three passes, but Niels' diamond held firm. Jamal Osei mopped up loose balls in midfield, calm as ever. Liam McCulloch barked orders at the back, keeping the defense tight. Reece Darby locked down the right, while Haines played it safe on the left, no risks, no mistakes.
Then, in the 27th minute, it clicked. Luka picked up the ball near the halfway line, glided past one midfielder, then jinked around another like they were cones. A desperate lunge from a Macclesfield defender caught him just outside the box, slightly right of center, a perfect spot for a free kick.
A huddle formed by the ball. Dev Patel, McCulloch, even Robbie Sharpe glanced at the bench, waiting for the call. Niels didn't blink. "Luka!" he shouted.
The teenager's head snapped up, eyes wide. He'd never taken a senior free kick.
"You've got this," Niels said, voice calm but sure.
A few older players swapped looks, doubtful, maybe, but Niels had seen Luka in training, whipping low drives and dipping shots that keepers hated. Milan leaned in, muttering, "Top corner?"
Niels shook his head. "Low, near post. Bounce it in front of the wall."
He caught Luka's eye from the sideline, pointing once at the ground, then at the near post. Luka nodded, barely a flicker, but enough.
The whistle blew. Luka stepped up, took a breath, and struck it, low, hard, skimming the uneven turf. The ball bounced just before the wall, clipping a defender's shin and wrong-footing the keeper, who flailed as it zipped into the net.
"GOAL! Crawley lead, 1-0!"
The away fans, two hundred diehards in red scarves, roared, their voices cutting through the drizzle. The bench jumped up, not wild, but relieved, like a weight had lifted. It wasn't a screamer, but it was theirs.
The second half was a war. Macclesfield threw everything, long balls, scrappy crosses, corners piling in like punches. A header crashed off the post in the 64th minute, the crowd gasping. Adam Fletcher, the veteran keeper, clawed a curling shot away moments later, his gloves a brick wall. Marko Simic threw himself into a block in the 79th minute, stopping a striker's shot that had goal written all over it. Every player fought, scrapping for every inch of that awful pitch.
When the final whistle blew, 1-0, Crawley's way, the away fans erupted, chanting, "Red Devils!" Players slumped, knackered but grinning, shaking hands, clapping the fans. Two wins in a row. Back-to-back clean sheets. Crawley had climbed to 19th, and for the first time all season, it felt like they were more than just survivors.
In the dressing room, the air was thick with sweat and pride. Players sprawled on benches, some laughing, some just breathing hard. Milan clapped Niels on the back. "Cool head, lad. Two for two now."
Niels gave a small smile, but inside, it wasn't just pride. It was hunger. He wanted more, more wins, more moments like Luka's goal, more nights where Crawley felt unstoppable.
The bus ride home was quiet, rain streaking the windows, the countryside a blur of dark greens and grays. Some players dozed, others fiddled with their phones. Niels sat alone, staring at his reflection in the glass. He looked different now, sharper, older, less like the player he'd been and more like someone who belonged on the touchline.
He'd drawn up a plan. The lads had bought into it. And it worked.
Two games, two wins. He wasn't the manager yet, not officially. But he'd made his mark. And in the quiet of the bus, with the hum of the engine and the patter of rain, he knew they all felt it.