71: Road to the Championship

The final sprint on the road to the championship began with a resounding victory.

At home against Wrexham, Jamie Vardy's legs seemed to have springs attached.

In the first half, he opened the scoring with a header, and in the second half, he completed a hat-trick with a one-on-one and a rebound.

As he kicked the ball into the net for the third time and slid on his knees on the Victoria Park pitch, the entire stadium chanted his name.

Three to one, Hartlepool United won easily, and on the League standings, they were one step closer to the championship.

But the joy of victory was soon diluted by another emotion.

Wembley.

The word floated in the air at Phoenix Training Center, carrying a unsettling magic.

On the training ground, the young players' feet started to feel light, and their eyes sparkled with excessive excitement.

Jordan Henderson's simple cross went directly to the assistant coach on the sideline, and he scratched his head sheepishly, drawing laughter from his teammates.

A substitute winger tried to imitate Cristiano Ronaldo's step-overs in training, but tripped over his own feet, almost falling face-first, and the laughter grew louder.

Even Vardy attempted a forty-meter lob in a training match, the ball flying high into the stands, earning a sharp glare from Old John.

Old John watched from the sidelines, shaking his head, his eyebrows furrowed. He quickly walked over to Lin Feng, lowering his voice, full of anxiety.

"Boss, they're too excited, each one looks like he's going to his own wedding. They want to perform too much at Wembley; if this continues, something big will happen in the final."

Lin Feng didn't speak, just looked at the group of young men on the field, his gaze calm.

He had noticed it long ago.

This was "Wembley Syndrome," a condition that every young player stepping onto the hallowed ground for the first time might contract.

He didn't get angry, he just walked to the sideline, blew a loud whistle, and had everyone stop and gather around him.

"Guys." Lin Feng looked at the young, tense faces, and he smiled, "Wembley, I know you're all thinking about it. Good place, right?"

The players looked at each other and grinned, the atmosphere easing considerably.

"But don't forget." Lin Feng's tone became relaxed, "Wembley is just a bigger stadium, the grass is still as green, the goals are still the same size. Our opponent, Bristol Rovers, is still the League Two team we're familiar with. We've beaten them this season."

He looked around, his gaze sweeping over the faces of Vardy, Schmeichel, and Sigurdsson one by one.

"All you need to do is play to your strengths and enjoy the game, just like you do in regular training. Treat it as our home ground, and those cheers as the shouts of our fans."

Finally, he patted Henderson, who was closest to him, on the shoulder. "Remember, making it to the final is proof enough of your ability. For the rest, just have fun and leave no regrets."

That afternoon, Lin Feng prepared another "surprise" for the players.

Before training began, several high-power speakers around the main training pitch at Phoenix Training Center suddenly roared. It was a deafening clamor of fan songs and cheers, chaotic, noisy, and overwhelming.

The players were stunned, bewildered by the sudden noise, covering their ears and looking at each other. Even Old John was startled, almost thinking there was a riot outside the stadium.

Lin Feng stood on the sideline with his arms crossed, shouting to the field: "This is Wembley! Now, train as usual! I need to hear you calling out to each other on the field!"

The players finally understood, their faces showing expressions of both laughter and tears.

They were initially unaccustomed, relying on gestures and eye contact for passes.

Henderson even passed the ball directly out of bounds because he couldn't hear his teammate's instructions, drawing exaggerated laughter from Vardy.

But slowly, they began to raise their voices, shouting their teammates' names with all their might.

Their passes and positioning, against the backdrop of the enormous noise, became more decisive and focused. After every successful combination, their own excited roars could be heard.

Tactical drills were also conducted simultaneously. Lin Feng and Old John repeatedly analyzed Bristol Rovers' most effective set-piece tactics on the tactics board.

Every defender's position, every attacking player's running route, was meticulously scrutinized. Old John even took out a ruler to personally measure the players' positioning distances, ensuring absolute precision.

Core players like Vardy and Schmeichel, who had experienced big occasions, quickly calmed down under Lin Feng's guidance.

They channeled their anticipation for Wembley into repeated sprints and saves on the training ground.

Vardy would imagine the Wembley goal in front of him when practicing shooting after hours.

Schmeichel, when making saves, would imagine himself facing a powerful shot from Bristol Rovers' top scorer, Lambert.

They knew that only by maintaining a calm mindset could they perform at their best in the final.

At the club, John Stone was working tirelessly.

He and his administrative team meticulously arranged the team's travel to London, accommodation in a five-star hotel, brand new final equipment, and even tickets and cheering scarves for players' families, down to ensuring the booked hotel had a professional ice bath to ensure the quickest recovery for the players.

Mr. Stone had dark circles under his eyes every day, but his face was filled with unprecedented excitement.

He felt as if he wasn't working for a small club, but preparing a grand ceremony for a king about to be crowned.

Sophie Green's "Wembley Diary" series became the most popular section of the Hartlepool Mail.

She interviewed players, Old John, and even the club canteen's cooks, documenting the town's anticipation for the final from various angles.

Her reports immersed all of Hartlepool in a fervent atmosphere.

In the media, Bristol Rovers also made bold statements; their head coach publicly expressed confidence in defeating Hartlepool United at Wembley and lifting the championship trophy.

Some Premier League legends analyzed on television programs that while Hartlepool United was a dark horse, Bristol Rovers' performance in the League was also consistent, making the outcome of the final uncertain.

Lin Feng observed all of this.

Outwardly, he appeared nonchalant about the final, as if preparing for an ordinary League match. But privately, the light in his office often stayed on until late at night.

That afternoon, just after training ended, Lin Feng's phone rang. He answered it, his voice immediately becoming calm and professional.

"Mr. Chamberlain, good afternoon. Regarding the sleeve sponsorship for next season's jersey, I don't think we need to discuss the price anymore.

My offer is five hundred thousand pounds per year, not a penny less."

The person on the other end of the phone seemed to hesitate, and Lin Feng continued.

"Yes, I believe that Hartlepool United, who are about to play at Wembley and have a very high chance of becoming 'Double Champions,' are worth this price. In fact, I think this price is already very favorable for you." He paused, then added, with a hint of undeniable confidence in his voice, "The exposure at Wembley, combined with the storm our team is currently creating in English football, this investment will only make your company's brand value far exceed expectations."

Outside the window, players' young figures were fooling around amidst the noise.

On the phone, a business negotiation was taking place.

Lin Feng's gaze had already moved beyond Wembley, looking further ahead.

He knew that this trophy was not just glory, but another solid cornerstone for building his "Northern Football Empire."