Chapter 3: Making a Mark
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Matchday 12 – Crawley Town vs Macclesfield Town
A cold, gray Saturday morning draped Crawley in its familiar shroud of mist and muted tension. Dew clung to every surface in the empty car park, while the only sounds came from distant humming machinery and the soft crunch of gravel beneath solitary footsteps.
Niels arrived before everyone else. Before Milan, before the players. He needed the quiet time. Just him, the tactics board, a cup of burnt instant coffee, and his thoughts.
This wasn't his debut anymore. He'd already led the team once—last weekend's narrow 1–0 win had pulled Crawley out of 21st and up to 20th. Seven points now separated them from the relegation zone. Not safe. But not drowning either.
Today was different. Today was his first away game in charge. No comfort of Broadfield Stadium. No home crowd. Just a poor pitch, a long bus ride, and a chance to prove that win wasn't a fluke.
The trip to Macclesfield Town wasn't glamorous—more like a chore on paper. Their pitch was notoriously poor, more sand than soil. The stands looked like they belonged in a school ground. But for Crawley, every match was a chance to claw forward. A chance to believe.
Niels stood over the tactics board, adjusting magnets like they were chess pieces. 4-2-3-1? Too passive. 4-3-3? Too open. Eventually, he settled on a 4-4-2 diamond. Narrow, but uncompromising. Not pretty, but it gave them control through the center—and space for Luka to drift between the lines where he thrived.
There was a footsteps behind him.
"You've been here all night?" Milan asked, stepping in with a steaming mug.
"I just got here early," Niels replied, not looking away from the board.
Milan studied the setup and raised an eyebrow. "Nervous?"
"A little," Niels admitted.
"Good," Milan said. "Means it matters to you."
They sat and walked through the plan together. Milan offered a couple of small suggestions—minor tweaks about when to trigger the press, or who drops between the lines—but he didn't take over. He let Niels lead.
And that meant something.
By the time the team bus pulled into Macclesfield's Moss Rose, the nerves had settled into something else: focus. That quiet, intense kind he used to feel in tunnels before kickoffs. Back when he was still playing. Back when the game still felt simple.
Inside the away dressing room, the mood was sharp but quiet. Players taped ankles, laced boots, kept headphones in. No speeches. Just a kind of quiet understanding: this mattered.
Niels stepped forward with the whiteboard.
"We're not here to play beautiful football," he said. "We're here to outwork them. They press high, they press early—so we stay narrow. Quick passes. Simple decisions. Let them tire themselves out."
Luka Radev gave a quiet nod. Still just seventeen, but already becoming Crawley's most dangerous weapon. Niels had been pushing him hard in training, and the kid had responded—smarter runs, better spacing. He'd start again today.
Marko Simic stood near the back, locked in. Niels had given him the start after a strong showing in the scrimmage. Still raw, still made few mistakes—but improving. Willing to learn.
The match started as whistle blew.
And the chaos began.
The opening ten minutes were a mess. The pitch played like concrete with weeds. Balls skidded or popped awkwardly. Crawley couldn't string three passes together. Macclesfield were physical and direct—everything ugly about League Two, packed into one team.
But Niels' shape held.
Jamal Osei anchored the midfield with his usual calm, helping clean up second balls. Liam McCulloch marshaled the back line, barking orders, never losing his temper. Reece Darby kept the right side secure, and Haines played it safe on the left.
Then came the 27th minute.
Luka picked up the ball near halfway, ghosted past one midfielder, then another. His run drew a desperate foul—just outside the box, slightly right of center.
The free kick was just outside the box—slightly right of center. A dangerous spot.
A small group formed near the ball. Dev, McCulloch, even Robbie Sharpe glanced toward the bench, expecting the usual instruction.
But Niels didn't hesitate.
"Luka," he called.
The teenager looked up, surprised—he'd never taken a senior free kick before.
"You've got this," Niels added. "Take it."
A few of the older players looked uncertain. But Luka had shown his technique in training—low drives, clever dips, awkward bounces. Niels had watched him quietly. Trusted his eye.
Milan leaned in. "Top corner?"
Niels shook his head. "Low. Near post. Let it bounce in front of the wall."
From the sideline, Niels caught his eye. No words—just a look. Calm. Assured.
Luka held the gaze for a second, then gave the slightest nod.
Niels pointed once to the ground in front of the wall, then toward the near post.
That was enough.
Luka ran up. Drove it low and hard.
The ball skimmed across the uneven turf, bounced up, hit a defender's leg, and completely confused the keeper.
He was caught off guard.
The net rippled.
Goooaal! 1–0. Crawley Town leads.
It wasn't pretty. It wasn't clean. But it was effective.
The bench erupted. Not in wild celebration—but in release. It had worked. It had all gone to plan, right in the moment that mattered.
The second half was a siege.
Macclesfield threw everything at them—long balls, scrappy crosses, corners flung in from all angles. One header smacked the post. Another was clawed away by Adam Fletcher, the veteran keeper who hadn't been troubled much until now.
Marko made a key block in the 79th minute—throwing himself in front of a shot that looked like a goal the moment it left the striker's boot.
They all fought, giving everything for every inch of the pitch.
And then, at last, the final whistle.
Full-time. 0-1 away win.
Two wins in a row. Back-to-back clean sheets. Crawley Town had climbed to 19th, and for the first time all season, the mood had shifted. They weren't just surviving—they were competing.
In the dressing room, players collapsed into seats. Exhausted and Grinning. Not cocky—but proud.
"Good job," Milan said, clapping Niels on the back. "You stayed cool under pressure—twice in a row now."
Niels gave a quiet smile. But inside, it wasn't pride he felt.
It was hunger. He wanted to win more games and lead the team.
The ride back to Crawley was quiet. Some players dozed, others scrolled through their phones. Rain tapped against the windows. The countryside rolled by.
Niels sat by himself, staring out into the dark.
His reflection in the glass looked different now. Older but sharper. Less like the player he used to be, and more like someone who belonged on this side of the white line.
He had drawn up a plan. The team had believed in it. And it had worked.
Two matches played. Two wins.
He wasn't the manager yet. Not officially.
But he'd made a mark.
And now, they all knew it.