The Coaching System-Chapter 107: BRADFORD VS PORT VALE

Bradford's Starting XI vs. Port Vale (FA Cup First Round)

Formation: 4-3-3

Goalkeeper:

Jack Simmons (20) – Given a rare start, tasked with organizing a young backline.

Defenders:

Julián Rojas (21) – Returning from loan, eager to prove himself at right-back.

Marco Bianchi (18) – Aerially dominant, making his first FA Cup start.

Noah Fletcher (22) – Physically imposing, tasked with leading the young defense.

Lewis Hart (20) – Versatile defender, providing stability at left-back.

Midfielders:

Daniel Lowe (27) – The veteran anchor, guiding the youngsters.

Santiago Vélez (18) – Dynamic playmaker, responsible for creativity.

Lewis Chapman (24) – Workhorse midfielder, tasked with breaking up play.

Forwards:

Leo Rasmussen (19) – Electric winger, looking to impress on the left.

Tobias Richter (21) – Clinical forward, leading the line.

Ethan Walsh (19) – Academy graduate, playing wide on the right.

This was the next generation's moment.

And they were about to seize it.

First Half-

The FA Cup had its magic. And for Jake Wilson, this match against Port Vale wasn't just about progression—it was about trust.

Bradford's starting lineup featured academy graduates and squad players who had barely seen game time all season. No Novak. No Harper. No Barnes. Instead, it was a chance for the young talents to step up, to show that they weren't just prospects, but real players ready to contribute.

Jake had made it clear in training—this wasn't a throwaway game. It was a test. A chance to prove that when the moment came, these players wouldn't just fill in, but thrive.

Port Vale, a solid League Two side, sensed an opportunity. Facing a heavily rotated Bradford side, they pressed high, determined to test the inexperience in Jake's lineup.

The opening ten minutes were scrappy—misplaced passes, heavy touches, and nervous moments. Jack Simmons had to be sharp early, tipping a long-range shot over the bar. Bianchi and Fletcher, playing together for the first time, had to scramble more than once to clear loose balls. The midfield lacked composure, with Chapman and Vélez misplacing simple passes under pressure.

Jake stood on the touchline, arms crossed, watching. No shouting. No panic. Just observation.

He had expected this. Young players needed time to settle.

And then—just as he predicted—it clicked.

Suddenly, Rasmussen and Walsh started combining down the left. Vélez and Chapman found their rhythm in midfield. Lowe, the only senior presence, began dictating the tempo, calming the team down.

The nervous energy faded.

The kids took over.

Bradford started passing with confidence, moving with purpose, controlling the game rather than reacting to it. Port Vale's early pressure vanished, replaced by the sight of them chasing shadows.

And when the first goal came?

It was a thing of beauty.

12' –

It started in midfield.

Vélez, the youngest player on the pitch at just 18, received the ball under pressure. A Port Vale midfielder lunged in, hoping to rattle the teenager, but Vélez barely seemed to notice. With a quick shift of weight, he rolled the ball away from the challenge, spinning into space.

The second challenge came almost instantly—Port Vale weren't letting him breathe. But Vélez was already thinking ahead. A delicate touch took him past the incoming defender, and before the third could close him down, he slid a perfectly weighted pass wide to Rasmussen.

The Danish winger barely hesitated.

He wanted this.

Driving forward, he locked eyes with the full-back. Feint to the right. A quick dip of the shoulder. Then—explosion. A sharp burst inside onto his right foot. The defender stumbled slightly, caught by the change of direction.

Inside the box, Tobias Richter was lurking, ready for the cross. Chapman was making a late run from midfield. The Port Vale defenders tensed, expecting the ball to be whipped into the danger area.

But Rasmussen had other ideas.

Instead of delivering, he cut the ball back toward the edge of the area, rolling it perfectly into the path of Ethan Walsh.

The teenager had a second to think. Just one.

One touch to control. One to set himself.

Then—he struck.

The ball curled beautifully, whipping past the outstretched fingertips of the goalkeeper, bending away and nestling into the far corner.

The net rippled.

For a moment, Valley Parade stood still.

Then, the eruption.

1-0.

Walsh didn't sprint away in celebration. No wild gestures. No knee slides. Just a simple point toward Rasmussen, acknowledging the assist. Then, he jogged back to his position, eyes locked on Jake.

Jake? He didn't move. Didn't react. Just smirked.

The academy boys weren't here to survive.

They were here to dominate.

27' –

Port Vale weren't rolling over. Despite the early setback, they regrouped, pushing forward in search of an equalizer.

They managed to test Simmons twice—first with a speculative shot from outside the box that the young keeper handled comfortably, then with a dangerous low cross that Fletcher had to slide in and clear. Bradford's teenage defense was being asked questions.

They had all the answers.

Fletcher was a rock—winning every aerial battle, tracking every run. Beside him, Bianchi was calm, assured, stepping in at the perfect moments to snuff out attacks. The two had never played together before, but you wouldn't have known it.

Then came Bradford's turn to strike again.

A corner, won after Walsh's dangerous run forced a last-ditch block.

Chapman jogged over to take it. He glanced toward the box, saw his targets.

Bianchi, standing at the back post, was calling for it.

Chapman delivered—a perfect, whipped ball toward the far post.

Bianchi launched himself into the air, towering over his marker. At 6'3", with a natural instinct for timing his jumps, he looked unstoppable.

The connection was flawless.

A bullet header. Straight down, bouncing just in front of the keeper, making it impossible to react.

The net bulged.

2-0.

For a second, silence from the Port Vale defenders. They had no chance. No way to stop it.

Bianchi, unfazed, turned and jogged back into position, fist clenched. No wild celebrations, no screaming into the crowd. Just focus. Just business.

Jake watched from the touchline, nodding slightly.

That was the mentality he wanted.

This team was playing like professionals.

Second Half –

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Port Vale came out with desperation, pressing higher, pushing more bodies forward. They had no choice. At 2-0 down, they needed a response.

But in doing so, they walked straight into Bradford's trap.

The spaces that hadn't existed in the first half suddenly opened up. Gaps between the lines. Wide channels left exposed.

And that was where Bradford thrived.

Chapman and Vélez took control in midfield, moving the ball quickly, exploiting every gap. Rasmussen and Walsh stayed wide, stretching the pitch, forcing Port Vale's full-backs into uncomfortable positions.

And Tobias Richter?

He was waiting.

48' –

Port Vale had come out determined to claw their way back into the match, pushing higher up the pitch, committing more men forward. But in doing so, they left themselves exposed.

And Daniel Lowe was too experienced to let it slide.

A sloppy touch in midfield.

Lowe saw it a second before it happened. He stepped in, reading the play like a seasoned veteran, muscling his opponent off the ball with ease. No foul, no hesitation—just dominance.

He didn't waste time dwelling on his win. One quick glance up.

Richter was already moving.

Lowe threaded a pass through the middle—perfectly weighted, perfectly timed—bypassing two defenders in an instant.

Richter took it in stride, his first touch immaculate, setting himself up just inside the box.

The Port Vale keeper rushed out, trying to close the angle.

Richter didn't blink.

A quick feint with his right foot sent the keeper leaning the wrong way—just a split-second hesitation.

That was all he needed.

With his left foot, Richter calmly rolled the ball past him into the bottom corner.

3-0.

Port Vale's resistance shattered completely.

Game over.

But Bradford weren't finished yet.

66' –

Port Vale were finished. Their midfield had stopped tracking back, their defenders were scrambling, and their attacks were reduced to hopeful long balls that Bradford dealt with effortlessly.

But Leo Rasmussen?

He was just getting started.

A loose pass from Port Vale's right-back rolled toward the center circle. Vélez reacted first, flicking it forward with a quick touch—right into Rasmussen's path.

The Danish winger didn't hesitate.

One explosive touch forward. Then another.

The first challenge came almost immediately—a desperate lunge from a Port Vale midfielder trying to slow him down. Rasmussen skipped past it effortlessly, barely breaking stride.

Another defender rushed in, angling his body to force him wide.

Rasmussen dipped his shoulder, feinted left—then ghosted right, cutting inside and leaving his marker lunging at air.

The crowd at Valley Parade was on its feet now.

One defender left.

The last man stepped up, arms out, trying to block his path. But Rasmussen had already seen it. He pushed the ball past him with the outside of his boot, leaving the defender reaching for nothing but shadows.

Now, he was in the box.

Now, it was just him and the keeper.

A small pause. A quick shift to his right foot. Then—bang.

A low, ruthless strike. The ball zipped past the goalkeeper, smacking the inside of the post before nestling into the net.

4-0.

Rasmussen didn't celebrate wildly. Just a slow jog toward the corner flag, nodding to himself, as if confirming what he already knew.

He belonged here.

Jake stood on the touchline, arms crossed, watching. No wild reaction. Just a firm nod.

The next generation wasn't just knocking on the door.

They were kicking it down.

81' –

Port Vale had nothing left. No fight. No structure. No belief.

Bradford's relentless pressing had broken them apart, piece by piece.

And in the 81st minute, the final blow came—not from a dazzling run, not from a perfectly executed counterattack, but from pure, unforced panic.

A simple back-pass from Port Vale's right-back—lazy, under-hit, and blind.

Lowe saw it before anyone else.

Despite being the deepest-lying midfielder, the veteran reacted like a seasoned striker.

One sharp step forward. Then another.

The Port Vale keeper scrambled off his line, realizing the danger too late.

Lowe got there first.

One touch to control. One quick glance up. Then, without hesitation, he slotted it past the helpless goalkeeper.

5-0.

No celebration. No wild reactions.

Lowe just smirked slightly as he jogged back, shaking his head.

Because even he knew—this wasn't his moment.

This was about the kids.

Jake, standing on the touchline, allowed himself the smallest of smiles.

The future of Bradford City had just put on a show.

Full-Time –

Port Vale 0-5 Bradford.

The boys had done more than just win.

They had sent a message.

As the final whistle blew, the pundits had their talking points.

Bradford's depth?

Real.

Jake's trust in youth?

Paying off.

The first-team regulars watching from the stands?

They had competition now.

And Jake Wilson?

He just turned and walked down the tunnel.

Another win.

Another step forward.

Bradford City was only getting stronger.