Chapter 3: Making a Mark
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Matchday 12: Crawley Town vs Macclesfield Town
It was a cold, gray Saturday morning with mist in Crawley.
The stadium car park was empty, and dew covered the ground.
Niels walked toward the training ground, his boots crunching on the gravel.
He was the first to arrive, before Milan, before the players, before the sun could burn through the fog.
He needed that quiet time.
Just him, a tactics board, a cold cup of bitter instant coffee, and the thoughts running through his head.
This wasn't his first time doing this.
Last weekend, his first win as Crawley Town's interim coach, had moved the team up from 21st to 20th in League Two.
They were seven points clear of the relegation zone.
Not safe, not by a long shot but not sinking either.
Today was different.
Today was his first away game in charge.
No roar of the Broadfield faithful, no familiar turf.
Just a rough bus ride to Macclesfield Town, a scruffy pitch with more dirt than grass, and a chance to show last win wasn't luck.
Macclesfield's Moss Rose ground wasn't anything like Old Trafford.
The stands looked small and old, and the pitch was patchy with sand and weeds.
For Crawley, every game was a fight to move forward and build something real.
Niels stood in the small away team office, looking at his tactics board and moving the magnets like a general planning a battle.
A 4-2-3-1 felt too cautious, like hiding.
A 4-3-3 was too risky.
He chose a 4-4-2 diamond, a tight setup through the middle that gave Luka Radev space to work his magic.
It wasn't flashy, but it was solid.
Footsteps broke the silence.
"You slept here or what?" Milan's rough voice came from the doorway, holding a steaming mug of tea.
"Got here early," Niels said, eyes still on the board.
Milan looked at the setup, raising an eyebrow. "Nervous?"
Niels gave a small, honest laugh. "Yeah, a bit."
"Good," Milan said, taking a sip. "It means you care about the team."
They sat down and went over the plan like old friends talking through a Sunday league game.
Milan suggested a few changes when to press high, how to drop Jamal Osei to cover gaps but he didn't take over.
He just nodded, letting Niels lead.
That quiet trust meant a lot to Niels.
He was starting to belong here.
The bus ride to Macclesfield was tough, three hours of rattling seats and light rain on the motorway.
By the time they arrived at Moss Rose, Niels' nerves had turned into focus the same feeling he had as a player, standing in the tunnel before a game.
The away dressing room was small and smelled damp.
Players taped their ankles, tied their laces, or listened to music to focus.
No speeches just a quiet feeling that this game was important.
Niels picked up the whiteboard and spoke calmly. "We're not here to play like Barcelona. We're here to work harder. Macclesfield starts fast and presses high, so we stay tight, move the ball quickly, and let them tire themselves out. Keep passes simple and decisions smart."
Luka Radev, just seventeen but already the team's spark, nodded quietly.
Niels had been working with him in training teaching smarter runs and better spacing and the kid was improving.
Marko Simic stood at the back, focused.
He'd earned his spot after a hard scrimmage. Still a bit rough, but ready to prove himself.
The whistle blew, and the game began.
The first ten minutes were messy.
The pitch was rough, balls slipped and bounced strangely, passes got stuck in the mud.
Macclesfield played tough, using elbows and long balls.
Crawley couldn't make three passes in a row, but Niels' diamond stayed strong.
Jamal Osei stayed calm, picking up loose balls in midfield.
Liam McCulloch shouted orders at the back, keeping the defense tight.
Reece Darby held the right side, while Haines stayed safe on the left no risks, no mistakes.
The game was scrappy, but Crawley stayed focused.
Every tackle counted, every pass mattered.
Niels watched from the sidelines, heart pounding but steady.
This wasn't just a game, it was a chance to prove they belonged here.
And slowly, bit by bit, Crawley started to take control.
The long, hard fight was just beginning.
Then, in the 27th minute, it all came together.
Luka picked up the ball near the halfway line, slipped past one midfielder, then dodged another like they were cones.
A Macclesfield defender made a desperate dive and caught him just outside the box, slightly to the right, a perfect spot for a free kick.
Players gathered around the ball. Dev Patel, McCulloch, even Reece looked toward the bench, waiting for instructions.
Niels didn't hesitate. "Luka!" he shouted.
The teenager looked up, eyes wide.
He'd never taken a senior free kick before.
"You've got this," Niels said, calm but confident.
A few older players exchanged doubtful glances, but Niels had seen Luka in training his low, curling shots that goalkeepers struggled to stop.
Milan leaned over and whispered, "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 a small, quiet signal, but enough.
The whistle blew.
Luka stepped forward, took a deep breath, and struck the ball low and hard, skimming the rough ground.
It bounced just in front of the wall, hit a defender's shin, and caught the keeper off guard.
The ball zipped into the net.
"GOAL! Crawley lead 1-0!"
The away fans about two hundred in red scarves cheered loudly, their voices cutting through the drizzle.
The bench stood up, not shouting, but clearly relieved, like a heavy weight had been lifted.
It wasn't a flashy goal, but it was theirs.
The second half was a battle.
Macclesfield threw everything at them—long balls, messy crosses, and corners coming like punches.
In the 64th minute, a header slammed off the post, making the crowd gasp.
Adam Fletcher, the experienced keeper, made a strong save on a curling shot moments later, his gloves like a brick wall.
In the 79th minute, Marko Simic threw himself in front of a shot that looked sure to score.
Every player fought hard, battling for every inch on that rough pitch.
The clock kept moving, and Crawley stayed strong.
The tension grew with every minute.
When the final whistle blew, the team felt relief.
They had held on and won.
Their first away win with Niels in charge.
A small but important step forward.
Two wins in a row.
Back-to-back clean sheets.
Crawley had moved up to 19th. For the first time all season, they felt like more than just survivors.
In the dressing room, the air was thick with sweat and pride.
Players sat on benches some laughing, some catching their breath.
Milan clapped Niels on the back. "Cool head, lad. Two wins now."
Niels smiled quietly, but inside it wasn't just pride.
It was hunger.
He wanted more wins, more moments like Luka's goal, more nights where Crawley felt unstoppable.
The bus ride home was quiet.
Rain streaked the windows, and the countryside blurred past in dark green and gray.
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 once was and more like someone who belonged on the touchline.
He had a plan.
The team believed in 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.