74: The Wembley attack and defense

As soon as the whistle blew at Wembley, the pace of the match became like a wild horse unbridled, instantly out of control.

The Hartlepool United players, with red eyes, charged towards Bristol Rovers' half like a pack of hungry wolves released from their cage.

Just two minutes into the game, Jordan Henderson made a fierce sliding tackle in midfield, taking down the opponent's playmaker along with the ball. The referee's whistle immediately blew, but he was only given a verbal warning by the head referee, with no card shown.

This ignited the fiery atmosphere of the match.

The ball darted back and forth on the wings. Robert Snodgrass and Adam Boyd, like two tireless engines, repeatedly sprinted along the touchline, attempting to break through time and again, leaving Bristol's fullbacks in disarray and breathless.

But Bristol Rovers didn't come to Wembley for a tour. Their midfield passing was stable, always finding striker Rickie Lambert. This man was built like a bear, yet his technique wasn't crude. His several turns to shield the ball at the edge of the box sent a shiver down Hartlepool's defense, causing cold sweat to break out.

In the twelfth minute, Jordan Henderson made another fierce sliding tackle in midfield, cleanly winning the ball.

He looked up, without a moment's hesitation, and launched a long pass, precisely threading the ball into a large open space in the attacking third.

Jamie Vardy, as if wound up, burst forward. His speed was terrifying, and he literally squeezed past Bristol Rovers' center-back Steve Elliott, leaving him behind.

Elliott desperately gave chase, but each push off the ground was futile, and he could only watch Vardy's figure get further and further away.

Vardy dribbled towards the box, with only the wind and his accelerating heartbeat in his ears.

He could even hear Elliott's heavy breathing behind him, a sound that grew fainter and fainter until it disappeared.

One-on-one!

The fans in the North Stand all sprang to their feet, ready to cheer. Their shouts instantly rose, converging into a deafening roar.

Vardy burst into the box, facing the onrushing goalkeeper Steve Phillips, and calmly struck the ball.

The ball, carrying all his hopes, flew towards the far corner of the goal. But perhaps the angle was too acute, and the ball grazed the far post, rolling out of bounds with a hint of regret.

Vardy kicked the post in frustration, making the goal reverberate.

He slammed the turf hard, muttering a curse, but quickly regulated his breathing, his eyes once again becoming fierce.

In the VIP box, Lin Feng's fingers lightly tapped the rim of his teacup, his face expressionless.

He knew that Vardy's positioning and instincts were already at their peak; what he lacked was just that touch of luck and the refinement of experience.

In the twentieth minute, it was Bristol Rovers' turn. Their players made several consecutive passes in the middle, with fluid rhythm, and the ball reached striker Rickie Lambert's feet.

Lambert was very calm in the box. Receiving a cross from his teammate, he shot directly without adjusting.

The ball was fast and tricky, carrying a fierce power, heading straight for the corner of the goal. Kasper Schmeichel's eyes were fixed on the ball, his body like a spring compressed to its limit, suddenly diving sideways, his arm stretched to its maximum, and with his fingertips, he managed to push the ball away!

The ball grazed the crossbar and flew out of bounds, giving the spectators a fright.

An incredible save! The entire stadium erupted! Hartlepool's defenders breathed a sigh of relief.

Captain Michael Nelson ran over and slapped Schmeichel's head hard, shouting loudly.

"Great job, Denmark boy! You are the god today!" Schmeichel was breathing heavily, as if the save he just made was just part of his daily training.

In the thirty-first minute, Hartlepool United's opportunity came again.

Vardy's relentless pressing in the attacking third forced the opposing defender to make a mistake in a hurry, clumsily tripping him.

Hartlepool United won a free kick on the right wing, about twenty-five meters from the goal, a very good position.

Gylfi Sigurðsson and Mark Tinkler walked towards the ball simultaneously. Tinkler patted Sigurðsson's shoulder and said, "You take it, Gylfi, this is your time to shine."

Sigurðsson said nothing, just took the ball, his eyes cold, with the calmness of an Icelandic glacier.

Wembley Stadium, at this moment, seemed to have pressed the mute button. Tens of thousands of fans held their breath, waiting.

He took a run-up, and struck the ball. It curved in a beautiful and bizarre arc, bypassing the wall, and with strong spin, flew directly towards the far corner of the goal! Although goalkeeper Phillips jumped, his body twisting desperately in the air, his arms stretched to their limit, he couldn't touch the ball at all, and could only watch in despair as the ball nestled into the net.

One-nil!

Hartlepool United took the lead at Wembley!

The moment the goal was scored, the North Stand of Wembley Stadium completely erupted!

Tens of thousands of Hartlepool United fans jumped up like crazy, embracing each other, some even crying tears of joy, waving their blue and white flags and scarves, their singing making the entire stadium hum!

The players rushed to the corner flag, Gylfi was surrounded by his teammates, and Vardy even jumped on his back, patting his head and cheering loudly.

"Gooooal!" Alan Smith, in the commentary box, stood up excitedly, his voice trembling slightly, "Gylfi Sigurðsson! Another world-class free-kick!

He is simply born for big occasions! Hartlepool United are leading at Wembley!

The future of this Icelandic genius is limitless! His left foot is simply a precise scalpel!"

After conceding, Bristol Rovers didn't panic. They played even more tenaciously, and the coach shouted loudly from the sidelines, urging his players to push forward.

Before halftime, they intensified their attack, trying to equalize the score.

Bristol's midfielders started to push forward more frequently, and their crosses from the wings became more threatening, with the ball repeatedly being lobbed into Hartlepool United's box.

Hartlepool United's defense began to feel immense pressure. Chris Smalling's several headed clearances seemed a bit strained, and once he misjudged a header, almost causing a dangerous situation, fortunately, Michael Nelson covered for him in time to defuse it.

In the forty-fourth minute, Bristol Rovers got a corner kick.

The ball, delivered by midfielder Lewis Holdan, was of high quality, fast and spinning, heading straight for the six-yard box. Tall striker Richard Walker jumped at the near post. His body was strong, and he overpowered Hartlepool United's defender, flicking the ball with his head towards the far post.

Rickie Lambert appeared suddenly like a ghost. He cleverly bypassed the young Chris Smalling, got in front, and headed the ball from close range! The ball found the back of the net!

One-all!

Bristol Rovers equalized before halftime!

The goal triggered a huge cheer from the Bristol fans in the South Stand, and Wembley Stadium was instantly submerged in red flags.

Meanwhile, the blue and white ocean in the North Stand instantly quieted down, leaving only some unwilling sighs and scattered curses.

The halftime whistle blew, with both teams tied at one-all.

The match was full of twists and turns, exciting and captivating, leaving fans both at the stadium and watching on TV thoroughly entertained.

The players, dragging their tired bodies, walked back to the locker room, knowing that the second half would be the real test.

In the locker room, no one spoke, only the occasional drip of a faucet.

The door opened, and Lin Feng walked in. His face was expressionless, but that calmness was suffocating.

He walked to the center of the locker room, his gaze sweeping over every player.

"Set-piece defense! Where was your concentration?" Lin Feng said.

"In the second half, mark that Lambert tightly for me. Wherever he goes, you follow him! Chris," Lin Feng's gaze fell on Smalling.

"If you let him jump over your head again, you'll go to the reserve team!"

Chris Smalling suddenly looked up, his face instantly flushed.

He clenched his teeth, his eyes filled with unwillingness and determination, and nodded heavily.

He knew there was indeed a problem with his marking just now, and that conceded goal was like a thorn in his heart.

"John," Lin Feng then turned to Old John, his tone softening slightly, "Have Kevin Kyle warm up. In the second half, find an opportunity to substitute Adam Boyd."

"Bristol's defense, aerial balls are their weakness. We need a tall presence in the box to increase our chances of winning headers and our aerial advantage."

Old John listened carefully, nodding heavily. He knew what to do.

"Did you all hear that? The boss's instructions are the key to victory! In the second half, turn Wembley into our territory!"

The players looked at each other, their fatigue dissipating, replaced by rekindled fighting spirit.

They responded in unison: "Understood!"

Lin Feng looked at their fighting spirit, a smile appearing on his face.

He knew that these young men were ready to face the storm of the second half. The championship was within reach.