97: The flames of revenge at Memorial Stadium

Bristol's Memorial Stadium was shrouded in the haze of August.

Heavy clouds hung low, as if ready to swallow the not-so-grand stadium at any moment.

A unique atmosphere permeated the air.

It wasn't the hellish frenzy of Elland Road, but something more somber, more dangerous.

Flames of revenge flickered in the eyes of every Bristol Rovers fan.

Banners on the stands swayed in the wind, with "Remember Wembley" written in blood-red letters.

That was the painful memory of the EFL Trophy final a few months ago.

It was the mark of their humiliation, defeated by Hartlepool United at Wembley Stadium.

Today, they would wash away that disgrace on their home turf.

Sky Sports' broadcast van was parked outside the stadium, and Martin Tyler was preparing for the match.

He flipped through the material in his hand, a professional commentator's characteristic excitement on his face.

"An interesting matchup!"

Martin Tyler said into the camera, with clear anticipation in his voice.

"Hartlepool United defeated Bristol Rovers at Wembley a few months ago to win the championship. Today, Bristol Rovers have a chance for revenge!"

His partner, Alan Smith, nodded, his pen quickly moving across the tactics board.

"Yes, let's look at the starting lineups for both sides."

"Bristol Rovers are fielding their full-strength squad today, in a 4-4-2 formation."

"The goalkeeper is Steve Phillips, and the defense is led by Byron Anthony."

"The midfield core is Stuart Campbell, and upfront is their ace combination of Walker and number 10, Rickie Lambert."

Smith's voice became serious.

"Hartlepool United, on the other hand, are continuing with the same starting lineup from their last League match, still with an aggressive 4-3-3."

"Goalkeeper number 1, Schmeichel; defense number 2, Walker, number 5, Shawcross, number 4, Nelson, and number 3, Robson."

"Midfield number 8, Henderson, number 6, Sigurdsson, and number 18, Tinkler."

"Forwards number 7, Maloney, number 9, Vardy, and number 11, Snodgrass. This lineup was incredibly potent in the last match."

In the player tunnel, the two teams stood side by side.

The atmosphere was as tense as a drawn bowstring.

The Bristol Rovers players' eyes gleamed with hatred.

Their captain, Byron Anthony, clenched his fists, veins bulging.

"Remember Wembley!"

He growled in a voice only his teammates could hear.

"Today, we're going to make them pay!"

The Hartlepool United players, however, appeared relatively calm.

Kasper Schmeichel adjusted his gloves, his gaze focused and composed.

Jamie Vardy had a faint smile playing on his lips.

It was the expression of a predator spotting its prey.

Jordan Henderson walked back and forth among the team, constantly patting his teammates' shoulders.

"Stay calm, lads."

His voice was low and steady.

"They want revenge, but what we'll give them is despair."

The referee's whistle blew, and the players streamed out.

Memorial Stadium instantly erupted.

The home fans' chants shook the heavens, but there was a special flavor to the singing.

It wasn't celebration, but a declaration of war.

From the moment the match began, Bristol Rovers displayed an unusual aggressiveness.

Their players, like a group of enraged beasts, pressed relentlessly in midfield, sparing no effort.

Stuart Campbell's eyes were bloodshot, every tackle carrying the ferocity of wanting to tear his opponent apart.

Richard Walker constantly clashed with Hartlepool United's defense upfront.

Every physical contact he made was filled with malice.

But the Hartlepool United players appeared exceptionally composed.

Jordan Henderson expertly handled every pass in midfield.

His movements were clean and crisp, without a hint of unnecessary panic.

Mark Tinkler, furthermore, showed the demeanor of a veteran.

Facing the opponent's fierce pressing, he could always defuse the crisis with precise short passes and clever positioning.

Their cooperation in midfield was like a pair of experienced bullfighters.

They used skill and wisdom to toy with the opponent's angry but disorganized charges.

In the box, Lin Feng's gaze was fixed on the situation on the field.

In his mind, the blue system interface that only he could see was operating at high speed.

The [Tactical Analysis] module transformed every detail on the field into a data stream.

Bristol Rovers' formation, due to their frantic high pressing, was revealing fatal flaws.

There was a clear disconnect between their defensive line and midfield line.

On that green turf, the system marked a dangerous area in glaring red.

It was a vacuum waiting to be exploited.

Lin Feng picked up his encrypted phone, his fingers rapidly tapping on the screen.

"Directive B: Strike at the snake's vital point. Have Sigurdsson drop back and exploit the vacuum between their midfield and defense."

Old John on the sidelines felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.

He glanced at the message, his expression unchanged.

But his eyes became sharper.

He walked to the edge of the technical area and made a gesture that only his own players could understand.

Gylfi Sigurdsson immediately understood.

The talented young man from Iceland began to adjust his position on the field.

He no longer pushed forward as aggressively as before, but consciously dropped back into a deeper area.

That was precisely the dangerous zone marked by the system.

In the 25th minute, the opportunity arose.

A Bristol Rovers attack was intercepted by Ryan Shawcross in the backfield.

After a few simple passes, the ball came to Sigurdsson's feet.

The 18-year-old Icelander stood in the position Lin Feng had designated for him.

Ahead of him was a vast open space.

Bristol Rovers' midfielders were all pressing frantically upfront, while their defensive line was pushed too high.

A huge gap appeared between the two lines.

Sigurdsson did not trap the ball.

He didn't even look up to observe.

Like a precisely programmed machine, he gently flicked the ball with the inside of his right foot.

The ball, with a perfect arc, precisely cut through the opponent's defense like a sharp scalpel.

Robert Snodgrass had already seen this opportunity.

He made a diagonal run from the wing, appearing at the most opportune moment as the ball landed.

Bristol Rovers' right-back was caught off guard.

He tried to chase back, but Snodgrass's speed made him despair.

The Scottish winger sprinted down the wing with the ball, every step treading on the opponent's heart.

He rushed to the byline, and facing the blocked angle, delivered an extremely high-quality cross.

The ball traced a beautiful arc, flying precisely towards the center of the penalty area.

Jamie Vardy was already waiting there.

Like a beast poised to strike, he leaped high the moment the ball arrived.

Bristol Rovers' center-back tried to interfere, but Vardy's jumping ability and timing were perfect.

His forehead struck the ball fiercely.

"Bang!"

A dull thud echoed in the penalty area.

The ball, with immense power, slammed towards the goal like a cannonball.

Goalkeeper Steve Phillips desperately reached out to save, but the speed and angle of that "cannonball" made him despair.

The net was violently pulled back, emitting a painful shudder.

One to zero!

The moment the goal was scored, Memorial Stadium's flames of revenge were doused with a bucket of ice water.

The home fans, who had been roaring madly just moments before, instantly fell silent.

Their faces were filled with incredulous shock.

Jamie Vardy did not run towards the away fans' stand.

He had his own unique way of celebrating.

He slowly ran to the corner flag, faced the home fans, and made a boxer's gesture.

His fists punched the air, each punch seemingly declaring war on an invisible enemy.

It was a pure, primal display of strength.

The home fans watched this provocative gesture, their anger burning even more fiercely.

But they also felt an unprecedented fear.

This number 9 from the north exuded a dangerous aura.

For the remainder of the first half, Hartlepool United completely controlled the pace of the match.

They no longer rushed to attack, but instead wore down their opponent's fighting spirit with patient passing and possession.

Bristol Rovers' players began to show signs of mental distress.

Their actions became increasingly aggressive and irrational.

Stuart Campbell received a yellow card for a malicious foul.

Richard Walker elbowed Ryan Shawcross in a challenge and was also cautioned by the referee.

The tension on the field grew thicker.

But Hartlepool United's players remained calm throughout.

They were like a group of experienced hunters, patiently waiting for their prey to reveal a bigger weakness.

As the first half was about to end, Bristol Rovers got an excellent opportunity.

Their ace striker, Rickie Lambert, had a relatively comfortable shooting chance outside the penalty area.

The experienced forward did not hesitate.

He struck the ball fiercely with his right foot, and the ball flew towards the goal with strong spin.

Kasper Schmeichel's pupils instantly contracted.

He could feel the threat of that ball.

The ball's trajectory was tricky and powerful, heading straight for the top-left corner of the goal.

Schmeichel lunged to his left with all his might, his body stretched to its limit in the air.

But the ball's speed was too fast.

"Clang!"

A crisp metallic clang echoed throughout the stadium.

The ball crashed heavily against the post, making a heart-stopping thud.

The entire Memorial Stadium trembled with that impact.

The ball rebounded high and was eventually safely gathered by the arriving Schmeichel.

The Danish goalkeeper lay on the grass, breathing heavily.

Cold sweat dripped from his forehead, mixing with the dew on the grass.

He knew how close he had been to disaster.

If that ball had been a few centimeters more to the side, the score would have been one to one.

And once Bristol Rovers equalized, their morale at home would be completely ignited.

At that point, Hartlepool United would face a real test.

The halftime whistle blew, and the players slowly walked towards the player tunnel.

Bristol Rovers' players had grim faces; their revenge plan had suffered a setback in the first half.

But the flames of unwillingness still burned in their eyes.

Rickie Lambert walked at the back of the line, his right hand tightly clenched into a fist.

That shot that hit the post left him both frustrated and excited.

Frustrated that he hadn't scored, but excited that he had found a weakness in the opposing goalkeeper.

In the second half, he would try again.

Hartlepool United's players, however, seemed relatively relaxed.

They had taken the lead away from home, and their tactical execution was almost perfect.

But Jamie Vardy's face showed no trace of satisfaction.

His eyes were still sharp, like a wolf that hadn't eaten its fill.

One goal was far from enough for him.

What he wanted was complete dominance, a slaughter that would leave the opponent utterly despairing.

In the box, Lin Feng slowly stood up and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window.

His gaze swept over the stadium, then towards the gloomy sky in the distance.

That shot that hit the post made him realize that this match was far from over.

Bristol Rovers was a team with a strong desire to win.

They would not give up easily, especially at home, and especially against an enemy.

The second half would be the real test.

He needed his team to maintain their lead while always being ready to deliver a fatal blow to the opponent.

The flames of revenge were still burning.

But Lin Feng wanted those flames to ultimately burn away Bristol Rovers' own hope.