64: The tired lion and the thorns on the "road to championship"

The joy of eliminating Charlton was like drinking a cheap soda; the bubbles quickly dissipated, leaving only a lingering sense of fatigue.

The Hartlepool United players found their legs growing heavy, every sprint feeling like they were stuck in mud.

Victory is addictive, but also like a poison, creating the illusion of invincibility.

The team bus was quiet on the way to Wycombe.

Vardy wore headphones, his eyes on the rapidly receding scenery outside the window, but his mind was blank.

He felt an unprecedented emptiness, and the desire to run seemed to have been exhausted by the continuous matches.

Schmeichel leaned back in his seat, eyes closed, but his brows were slightly furrowed.

His body was weary, every breath accompanied by a slight ache.

Continuous high-intensity matches hammered at everyone's nerves and muscles.

"It's just a League Two team," a substitute player muttered softly. "After this match, we can finally get some good rest."

These words drifted into Jordan Henderson's ears.

He turned his head to glance, said nothing, but deep down, he also felt that dealing with Wycombe Wanderers shouldn't be a big problem.

He felt the soreness in his body, but his youth made him believe he could endure it all.

Once the match started, the problems became significant.

The pitch at Wycombe's Adams Park was a bit poor, uneven and bumpy.

Hartlepool United's players were very unaccustomed to it. Their passes were no longer fluid, the ball bounced erratically on the grass, like a disobedient child.

Every touch, every pass, had an extra hint of hesitation and a little less decisiveness than usual.

In the fifteenth minute, Henderson's cross was too weak and was directly intercepted by the opposing midfielder.

Wycombe immediately launched a counter-attack. Their forward wasn't fast, but he was strong, and he muscled his way past Ben Clark's defense into the penalty area.

Clark tried to use his body to block, but the opponent's strength made him struggle.

Schmeichel came out; he judged the angle, but the opponent's shot was tricky, the ball grazed his fingertips and rolled under him.

One-nil.

The singing in the away fan section paused, then a collective sigh arose.

The players on the field looked at each other, their eyes a little lost.

Vardy's brows were tightly furrowed; he felt a sense of powerlessness.

Old John anxiously waved his hands on the sidelines, shouting something, but the players seemed not to hear.

Their movements were half a beat slow, and their defensive coordination was always a step late.

Vardy started several times, only to find that the midfield pass hadn't come.

He spread his hands and turned to look at the midfield, but only saw the tired faces of his teammates.

The first half ended, the score still 0-1.

Back in the changing room, the players gasped for breath, slumping in their chairs.

In the second half, the situation did not improve.

In the sixtieth minute, Wycombe took a corner kick.

Smalling challenged the opposing forward for a header in the penalty area; he jumped, but in the physical confrontation, he was still pushed out of position, watching helplessly as the ball was headed into the goal.

Smalling pounded the turf in frustration; he knew his judgment and strength had been slightly lacking.

Two-nil.

The match ended just like that.

Hartlepool United created almost no decent chances throughout the game; the players were like a group of sleepy lions, full of strength but unable to exert it.

Their running statistics significantly decreased, and their passing accuracy also dropped to a season low.

This was their second League defeat of the season, and their lead at the top of the table was suddenly reduced.

Back in the meeting room at the Phoenix Training Center, the players sat with their heads down, nobody speaking.

The door was pushed open, and Lin Feng walked in.

He didn't, as usual, first communicate with Old John, but instead walked directly to the tactics board.

He didn't pick up a pen; he simply turned, and with his calm yet sharp eyes, he scanned each player's face one by one.

His gaze carried an undeniable penetrative power, making everyone he looked at feel they had nowhere to hide.

"You tell me, what were you playing in the second half?!" Lin Feng's voice wasn't loud, but every word was like a nail, driven into the players' hearts.

"Do you think you can just stroll on the pitch now that you've been promoted? Are you worthy of the fans who traveled so far to watch you play? Are you worthy of the crest on your chest?!"

His gaze lingered on several young players, including Vardy, Smalling, and Henderson. "Jamie, where was your running in the second half? Chris, why did he get that header so easily? Where is your defensive responsibility?!"

"Have you forgotten who you are and where you came from?" Lin Feng's voice rose slightly. "The path to championship is never smooth!" His tone grew even sterner.

"True strong players are those who can maintain focus and fighting spirit at all times! If you can't even withstand this little setback, if you think you can rest easy on past victories, then you don't deserve to be champions!"

Throughout the meeting room, only Lin Feng's voice echoed.

The players' heads were buried even lower; shame and remorse were written on everyone's faces.

Vardy clenched his fists, his fingernails digging deep into his flesh.

Smalling felt his cheeks burning; he knew his mistake was the cause of the second goal conceded.

Henderson felt a deep sense of self-reproach; he felt he had not fulfilled his midfield responsibilities.

After the reprimand, Lin Feng's tone softened a little. He walked among the players and patted Captain Nelson's shoulder.

"Losing is not terrible. What's terrible is not knowing why you lost." He looked at everyone. "Rest up and adjust your mindset. Our goal is the League championship and the upcoming FA Cup. Go to the rehabilitation room and let the physiotherapists give you a thorough check-up."

The players silently stood up and left the meeting room.

Everyone felt a heavy pressure, but at the same time, a clarity that had been awakened.

Old John walked up to Lin Feng and whispered, "Boss, it's my fault... I didn't remind them in time, didn't keep them focused..."

"It's not entirely your fault, John," Lin Feng interrupted him. "They are too tired, and their minds are too stressed. For the upcoming matches, we must rotate."

"Let Chris and Jordan start more often; we need energetic players. You also need to remember, sometimes, one defeat is more effective than a hundred lectures."

"I understand," Old John nodded vigorously; he sensed the deeper meaning in Lin Feng's words and gained a clearer understanding of his own shortcomings.

The next day, Sophie Green's column in the Hartlepool Mail was titled, "Tired Lions: Northern Storm Faces Season's Biggest Test."

In her article, she objectively analyzed the physical and mental problems the team might be facing.

She pointed out that this defeat was a "growing pain" the team needed to experience but also expressed anticipation for Lin Feng's ability to adjust, believing he could lead the team out of its predicament.

In the rehabilitation room at the Phoenix Training Center, physiotherapists were busy.

Ice packs, massage tables, hydrotherapy pools... these advanced facilities played a crucial role at this time, helping the players recover quickly.

Vardy and Schmeichel soaked in the hydrotherapy pool, exchanging their feelings.

Chris Smalling and Jordan Henderson, meanwhile, were doing extra training in the weight room.

They knew that the boss's words were both criticism and an opportunity. They yearned to prove themselves and to contribute more to the team.

Everyone in the team understood that the League setback was just a minor interlude.

The real test was the next match—the FA Cup quarter-finals.

Who the opponent would be would soon be revealed. They had to adjust their condition as quickly as possible to meet the new challenge.