58: The choice between roaring and "burning the boats"

Doncaster, Kipmot Stadium.

The sky was gloomy, and the rain wove into an endless, cold net, enveloping the entire city.

The stadium's floodlights pierced the twilight, casting columns of light onto the slick turf, spreading a pale, stark glow.

This was the Dragon's Lair; the roars of the home fans penetrated the thick walls of the locker room, becoming a dull, continuous vibration, as if the entire building was trembling.

In the away team's locker room,

Old John Mcdonald stood in front of a white tactics board, his voice hoarse, his cheeks flushed with an abnormal red from excitement.

“Hold steady, then counterattack!” He used all his strength, making every word hit the players' eardrums, “One strike, and it must be fatal!”

He tried to imitate Lin Feng's tone, which contained absolute control within its calmness, but the muscles in his face twitched uncontrollably from agitation.

“The boss's exact words were, we're playing a ‘Spring Formation’ today!” Old John tried hard to recall the strange term Lin Feng had used on the phone.

He drew a huge, elastic pocket shape in the defensive half of the tactics board with a marker, “You are this compressed spring! In the first half, everyone fall back, shrink to the extreme, turn our half into an absorbent sponge!”

He tapped the tactics board heavily with the tip of his pen, “Let them have the ball, let them advance, let them think there's space! But remember, that's just an illusion! We must be like granite, firmly rooted in our half! Wear them down, make them anxious, make them lose patience!”

He looked up at Kasper Schmeichel, “Kasper, you are the last gate! Shout loudly, let everyone hear your voice, don't let them fall asleep!”

Schmeichel thumped his chest with his fist, making a dull sound, his eyes as sharp as an eagle's.

Old John's pen tip then pointed to the midfield, “Jordan, Mark, you two are the midfield's meat grinder! Don't let them comfortably get the ball, cut off their passing lanes to the forwards!”

Henderson's face still held a hint of youthfulness; he pursed his lips tightly and nodded vigorously, his fists unconsciously clenching.

“When they pass the ball to the edge of our penalty area, when they think the opportunity has come, that's when we spring out!”

Old John's tone suddenly rose, his voice full of power, “Like a spring compressed to its limit, instantly releasing all its energy! Win the ball, and then, give the ball to Jamie, give it to Robert!”

Vardy's toes lightly tapped the ground, as if ready to sprint at any moment; he licked his dry lips, a smile curving his mouth.

Snodgrass, meanwhile, stared intently at the arrow on the tactics board, as if he could already see the ball flying towards the opponent's goal.

“The boss also said, 'Immovable as a mountain, move like thunder'!” Old John let out a long breath; he knew Lin Feng's words were a calming balm,

They were the team's protective charm, “As long as we execute strictly, victory will surely be ours!”

The players did not speak, but the locker room was filled with a silent, yet incredibly firm belief. Wembley, that sacred name, burned like a fire in their chests.

Outside the locker room door, the chants of nearly two thousand Hartlepool United fans pierced through the roars of the home fans,

Like a sharp knife, tearing open a blue-and-white gap in the clamor. Their singing was their strongest backing, and also the players' greatest motivation at that moment.

In the press box, Sophie Green placed her somewhat stiff fingers on the keyboard; she was ready,

She was going to record this potentially historic night with an emotionally charged piece of writing.

She could feel the concrete floor beneath her feet trembling slightly; it was the resonance created by countless stomping feet and roaring throats.

On Sky Sports' regional channel, the commentator's voice spread through radios and televisions to every corner of Doncaster and Hartlepool.

“Welcome to the new Kipmot Stadium! John Stone's Paint Trophy Northern Area Final second leg,

Doncaster Rovers host Hartlepool United! Doncaster lost one-two away in the first leg; can they turn it around at home tonight and reach Wembley?”

“The home team, Doncaster Rovers, manager Sean O'Driscoll has fielded a very attacking 4-3-3 formation today,

They are clearly going all out for the win; they need at least a one-goal advantage to force extra time, or a two-goal advantage to qualify directly!”

“The away team, Hartlepool United, they have maintained their recent starting lineup, also in a 4-3-3 formation... It's worth noting,

Seventeen-year-old center-back Chris Smalling starts today, partnering with captain Nelson in central defense!

This is a bold decision, considering Smalling has only just joined from amateur League; this is a huge test for him, and also a huge opportunity! Let's see if Lin Feng's choice of personnel will once again yield miraculous results!”

Chris Smalling stood in the player's tunnel; he could clearly hear his heart beating violently in his chest, each beat accompanied by the booming applause and chanting in his ears.

This was the most important match of his professional career so far, far surpassing any he had played for Maidstone United.

He looked up at the broad back of captain Nelson in front of him; Nelson seemed to sense his nervousness, turned his head, said nothing, but just patted his shoulder heavily with his hand.

The strength from that palm calmed Smalling's turbulent emotions considerably.

He nodded vigorously, taking a deep breath of the cold air, which carried the scent of rain and grass.

He knew the boss believed in him, and he couldn't let him down.

He had to repay that trust with his performance.