46: Double A19 Derby

Victoria Park Stadium bid farewell to the visiting Torquay United with a resounding three-nil victory.

In the stands, fans waved scarves, their songs deafening.

The players embraced in the cold rain, sweat mixing with raindrops, blurring the fatigue on their faces.

This victory was like a fire burning in a hearth, warm and familiar.

It not only brought three points but also reignited the invincible belief within the team.

Everyone felt that the momentum carried over from the FA Cup was back.

However, this warmth was completely frozen on the morning of December 26th, Boxing Day, by the light snow falling over Darlington.

The A19, the main artery connecting Hartlepool and Darlington, was now fragmented by the red and blue lights of police sirens.

Police sirens blared one after another, breaking the tranquility of Boxing Day morning.

Small-scale fan clashes had erupted at dawn, alcohol and old grudges fermenting, the atmosphere among fans full of gunpowder.

Several police cars were surrounded on the roadside, and police in riot gear were struggling to maintain order.

Lin Feng's call went through to the club's head of security.

"Increase security in our fan areas and ensure everyone's safety."

His voice was devoid of emotion, as calm as a deep winter lake.

"Also, inform our Supporters' Association and urge them to remain calm."

He knew that such an atmosphere was both pressure and motivation for the players.

Darlington's home ground today was like a besieged fortress.

The home fans' taunts began the moment the Hartlepool United bus pulled into the parking lot and never stopped.

Stones rattled against the bus windows, making dull thuds.

The players peered through the windows, seeing those angry faces.

The match devolved into a brutal melee from the first minute.

Darlington's players seemed intent on unleashing an entire season's worth of frustration in these ninety minutes.

Every tackle they made carried the force to send their opponent sprawling.

The turf was constantly torn up, mud splattering everywhere.

Hartlepool United's players were suppressed by this fierce onslaught, finding it difficult to mount effective attacks.

Jamie Vardy's several breakthroughs were stopped by fouls from the opposing defenders, and the referee's whistle blew frequently.

When the halftime whistle blew, the cold nil-nil on the scoreboard faithfully reflected the ugliness and stalemate on the field.

Hartlepool United's players, covered in mud and exhaustion, walked heavily towards the away team's changing room.

Inside the changing room, the atmosphere was oppressive.

Old John's face was etched with anxiety; his brows were tightly furrowed, and fine beads of sweat dotted his forehead.

He stared at the tactics board but couldn't draw any effective solution, as if all tactics had lost their magic.

The players gasped for breath, slumping onto the benches, their soaked jerseys clinging to them, the chill biting to the bone.

Jamie Vardy had a noticeable abrasion on his knee, but he didn't even pay attention to it.

Schmeichel's gloves were covered in mud, and his eyes held a rare trace of bewilderment.

They felt completely stifled by the opponent's ferocity, like being trapped in a quagmire, every step a struggle.

Just then, Old John's phone vibrated, breaking the dead silence in the changing room.

He picked up his phone and saw Lin Feng's name on the screen.

He quickly opened the message, and a concise line of text appeared before his eyes.

"Their full-backs are slow to track back after pushing up; use the width of the pitch to let Jamie Vardy's speed break them down."

Old John's eyes instantly lit up, as if a ray of light had pierced through the gloom.

He took a deep breath and put his phone back in his pocket.

He walked to the center of the players and, in an unquestionable tone, repeated this 'oracle' from behind the scenes.

"Lads, we played too conservatively in the first half!"

His voice, though hoarse, was full of power.

"They thought they could overpower us with physicality, but they were wrong!"

"In the second half, we're going to pass the ball around!"

"Use the width of the pitch to completely stretch their defense!"

He pointed in Jamie Vardy's direction.

"Jamie, your speed is our sharpest weapon!"

"Break them down!"

Jamie Vardy suddenly lifted his head, his eyes blazing with fighting spirit.

He felt a jolt of electricity shoot up his spine to his head, and all his fatigue instantly vanished.

The wind of the second half quietly shifted.

Hartlepool United's players began to frequently distribute the ball to both wings, pulling at Darlington's already strained defense.

The ball was passed quickly in tight spaces, every touch with a clear purpose.

Darlington's defenders began to appear clumsy; their physical advantage became useless against Hartlepool United's flexible movement.

In the sixty-seventh minute, an opportunity arose.

Gylfi Sigurðsson was roughly brought down by an opposing defender at the edge of the box, and the referee's whistle sharply cut through the air.

This was an excellent free-kick position.

The Icelandic youngster stood personally at the penalty spot, his gaze as calm as the glaciers of his homeland, without a ripple.

He took a deep breath, took a run-up, and then kicked the ball precisely with the inside of his right foot.

The ball arced perfectly, with intense spin, curving over the wall and into the top corner of the goal.

The goalkeeper didn't even have time to react before the ball was in the net.

One-nil.

The home fans' jeers paused for a moment, as if choked by this sudden goal.

The Hartlepool United fans in the away stand erupted in deafening cheers.

This goal completely disrupted Darlington's rhythm.

They were eager to equalize, pushing their defense forward and leaving large open spaces behind them.

They started to become impatient, and their passing errors increased accordingly.

In the eighty-first minute, Lin Feng's prophecy became reality.

After a successful interception in the backfield, the ball reached Jamie Vardy's feet after two passes.

He sprinted like a wild horse breaking free of its reins, instantly leaving the defenders far behind.

Jamie Vardy was through on goal, and the entire stadium seemed to freeze at that moment.

Facing the onrushing goalkeeper, he calmly slotted the ball into the far corner.

The ball skimmed the turf and nestled into the net.

Two-one.

The match was completely decided.

The referee's whistle blew, signaling the end of the match.

Hartlepool United had completed a season double over their arch-rivals.

The players rushed towards the away stand, celebrating this hard-won victory with the fans who had traveled so far.

Jamie Vardy raised his arms, basking in a hero's welcome.

That night, the Boxing Day festivities reached another climax.

The highly anticipated League Cup semi-final draw ceremony took place in the Sky Sports studio.

Old John Mcdonald, an old man who had spent his entire life in English football, wore the expensive custom-made suit from the club for the first time, looking a bit uncomfortable.

He took a seat in the guest area he had only ever seen on television, while Chandler, the club mascot beside him, seemed particularly lively.

Old John's palms were sweating, and he was so nervous he could barely breathe, as if he was about to play in the match himself.

He occasionally wiped his forehead with his suit cuff, trying to hide his excitement.

The draw guest was the legendary English footballer, Gary Lineker.

He smiled as he drew one small ball after another, each bearing the name of a giant club, from the glass bowl.

"Chelsea, against, Tottenham Hotspur."

A gasp went through the studio, signaling the arrival of a London Derby.

Only two teams remained.

Hartlepool United.

And another giant from North London.

Lineker's hand, with a hint of mystery, reached for the last small ball.

He slowly opened it, deliberately slowing his movements.

The camera zoomed in on the slip of paper, the black lettering clearly visible.

"Arsenal."

The entire studio fell silent instantly, all eyes focused on that small slip of paper.

Immediately, exclamations and discussions erupted, more intense than any before.

Old John's face, on the television screen, instantly turned pale; he even forgot to wipe his sweat.

Chandler, the mascot beside him, also seemed startled into immobility, standing frozen on the spot.

"Oh my goodness! Hartlepool United will face Arsenal!"

The studio host shouted excitedly.

"The Dragon Slayer meets the Gunners again!"

"League Two Underdog challenges the Gunners!"

Almost at the same moment the draw results were announced, headline news from major sports websites was pushed to every fan's phone.

On social media, related topics quickly shot to the top of the trending list.

Hartlepool United fans, after a brief shock, plunged into even more fervent anticipation.

They knew their opponent was despairingly strong, a team with superstars like Thierry Henry, Cesc Fàbregas, and Robin van Persie.

But they were also immensely proud and excited that their team would compete against Arsène Wenger and these legends.

In the club office, Lin Feng calmly watched Old John's flustered face on the television screen.

The corner of his mouth, however, curved into an arc full of challenge.

He ignored the incessantly ringing phone, the congratulations and inquiries from media and partners.

He simply issued a command to the system in his mind.

[System Notification: Arsenal Football Club's complete tactical data and player analysis report for the 2006-2007 season has been retrieved for you.]

"Arsenal, huh?"

He murmured softly to himself, with a hint of undetectable excitement in his voice.

"Very good."

His gaze pierced through the Hartlepool town under the night sky outside the window, as if seeing Emirates Stadium far away in London.

"Let the storm from the North blow towards Emirates Stadium."

His tone was calm, yet full of undeniable ambition.