73: A pilgrimage to Wembley

On the day of the final, the sky over London was as clear as freshly polished glass.

Hartlepool United's team bus slowly pulled up outside Wembley Stadium, its magnificent arch like a holy light leading to heaven, making everyone inside hold their breath.

The players stepped off the bus one by one.

They wore matching blue suits, but the expressions on their faces, a mix of nervousness, excitement, and awe, made them look like a group of country boys visiting the city for the first time.

Jamie Vardy looked up at the massive arch and whistled, but the sound lacked some of his usual swagger.

Danny Simpson and Chris Smalling, two youngsters from elite academy teams, had never seen such a spectacle either; they just stood silently, their eyes filled with shock.

The feeling intensified when they walked into the players' tunnel and stepped onto the meticulously manicured pitch.

The empty stadium, the colossal stands—everything was disproportionately large.

"My God..." Jordan Henderson mumbled softly.

On the North Stand of the stadium, large patches of blue were already beginning to gather.

These were Hartlepool fans who had traveled from the distant Northeast, enduring hours on buses, trains, or even hundreds of miles in private cars.

They wore blue and white jerseys, their faces painted with the team crest, waving homemade flags, and their songs were already faintly audible, echoing through the massive stadium with a rugged passion unique to the North Sea.

In the locker room, the atmosphere was so quiet you could hear your own heartbeat.

The players changed into their jerseys, wrapped bandages, and no one spoke.

The air was filled with the smell of sweat, pain relief cream, and an invisible yet heavy pressure.

The door opened, and Lin Feng walked in.

He was also wearing a smart suit today, but without a tie, appearing calm and composed.

His gaze swept over every corner, finally resting on the players' faces.

He didn't go to the tactics board; he simply stood in the center of the locker room, looking around at the young, nervous faces.

"Boys," his voice was not loud, but it reached everyone's ears clearly, carrying a persuasive power, "look out the window, look at this stadium, listen to the fans' songs outside."

Everyone's gaze involuntarily followed his words, looking out the window.

Through the window, they could see Wembley's enormous stands and the blue and white ocean on the stands, which was growing increasingly dense.

The fans' songs, now clearly audible, were the familiar team anthem, filled with a longing for victory.

"Today, you are the protagonists," Lin Feng's tone was very calm, but this calmness contained powerful confidence, "Forget all the pressure and burdens, go enjoy the game, go create your own legend! I believe in you, Hartlepool believes in you!"

He paused, his gaze sweeping over Vardy, over Schmeichel, over Sigurdsson, finally resting on each player's face.

There was not a hint of doubt in his eyes, only absolute trust.

These words, like a warm current, instantly melted the ice in the players' hearts.

They felt their boss's unreasonable, absolute trust.

Vardy clenched his fists tightly, his knuckles white from the effort.

Schmeichel closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as if to inhale Wembley's aura into his lungs.

Gylfi Sigurðsson, meanwhile, lowered his head, a slight smile playing on his lips; beneath his icy exterior was a fiery fighting spirit.

That "champion's heart," which had been tempered and refined after the previous loss, now burned brightly once more.

Old John, his eyes red, stepped forward and roared in his slightly hoarse voice: "Lads, the boss has prepared everything for us; now, it's our turn to go on the field and bring the trophy back! For Hartlepool!"

"For Hartlepool!" The echoing roar in the locker room shook the heavens and the earth, carrying a determination to fight to the death.

The players slapped each other's shoulders, their gazes firm.

At this moment, in the Sky Sports broadcast room, the atmosphere of the final was also growing thicker.

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the temple of football—Wembley Stadium!" Martin Tyler's iconic voice rang out, with a touch of his usual excitement and enthusiasm for big occasions, "The 2006-2007 EFL Trophy Final is about to unfold here! The teams facing off are Hartlepool United from League Two and Bristol Rovers! A pinnacle showdown to decide where glory belongs!"

In the press box, Sophie Green's fingers flew across the keyboard, her heart beating as fast as her fingertips.

She knew that, regardless of the outcome, this would be Hartlepool United's most memorable day in history, and a significant chapter in her journalistic career.

She had several headlines ready, waiting only for the match result to be released quickly.

Alan Smith looked at the starting lineup on the screen and analyzed: "The home team (nominally) Hartlepool United, they are fielding their most common 4-3-3 attacking formation this season."

"The goalkeeper is the wonderkid, number 13 Kasper Schmeichel;"

"The defense from right to left is number 15 Danny Simpson, captain number 5 Michael Nelson, the experienced number 23 Chris Smalling, and number 3 Matty Robson;"

"The midfield iron triangle consists of the excellent interceptor number 16 Jordan Henderson, the playmaking core number 8 Mark Tinkler, and number 18 Gylfi Sigurðsson, who possesses a deadly long-range shot;"

"The attacking trident is still the lightning-fast number 9 Jamie Vardy, left winger number 11 Adam Boyd, and right winger number 14 Robert Snodgrass."

"This lineup is their most frequently used starting lineup in cup competitions and the sprint phase of the League this season, full of youthful vitality and attacking prowess," Alan Smith added.

Martin Tyler took over: "The away team (nominally) Bristol Rovers, they are fielding a solid 4-4-2 formation today."

"The goalkeeper is number 1 Steve Phillips;"

"The defense is number 2 Ryan Green, number 5 Steve Elliott, number 6 Byron Anthony, number 3 Chris Carr;"

"The midfield from right to left is number 7 Sammy Igoe, number 4 Craig Disley, number 8 Stuart Campbell, number 11 Lewis Haldane;"

"Up front are the experienced target man Walker and the pacey striker number 10 Rickie Lambert."

"Lambert is their top scorer this season and is worth close attention; his individual ability is very strong, and he is Bristol Rovers' offensive weapon."

In the players' tunnel, the two teams stood side by side.

The majestic British national anthem, "God Save the Queen," rang out over Wembley.

The Hartlepool players stood tall and proud, behind them nearly thirty thousand fans who had traveled from the North, that blue and white ocean, now erupting in deafening song, the familiar Hartlepool United team anthem, carrying a resolve to defend their honor to the death.

The referee blew the whistle for the start of the match.

The battle horn officially sounded at Wembley! The entire stadium was instantly drowned in deafening cheers!

This EFL Trophy final, watched by all, had begun!