The Coaching System-Chapter 201: EFL Cup Round 3 – vs Newcastle United Part 2

First Half

St James' Park

There was no easing into it.

From the first whistle, Newcastle poured forward like a team with unfinished business in their veins. This wasn't just football—it was retribution by design.

They pressed in swarms. Livramento flew up the right flank like a winger possessed, Almirón chasing everything with his chin down and elbows high. Tonali didn't just close space—he erased it, snapping into every second ball like it owed him something. Bruno directed the orchestra from behind, arms carving angles before the passes even left his boots.

Bradford couldn't settle.

Vélez and Lowe barely had time to breathe, let alone turn. Silva tried dropping deep to link play—shut down. Costa received one ball at his feet—immediately swallowed by Botman and Schär. Mensah was dispossessed twice inside five minutes, forced backward by a midfield trio that hunted not by zone, but by scent.

3rd Minute –

Gordon burned Rojas down the left, whipped in a low cross that Isak flicked on. The ball rattled through the six-yard box—no one got a clean touch. Emeka scrambled to gather.

Peter Drury (Sky Sports):

"Newcastle start like a side that's had this date circled for nine months. Relentless, furious, electric."

4th Minute –

Bradford tried to play out from the back.

Taylor to Lowe. Lowe to Vélez. Pressed instantly—Tonali stole it, burst inside, squared it to Willock.

One touch, then crack.

Barnes threw his body in front of the shot. Took it full in the hip.

Jake didn't clap. He just turned slightly toward Paul Roberts.

Jake:

"It's wave after wave."

Paul:

"We need to ride it. Just ride it."

6' Minute –

It was too sharp, too rehearsed, too intentional.

Bradford were still adjusting their press, still finding the spacing between the midfield three, when Newcastle struck—no warning, no buildup. Just instinct. Speed. Precision.

It began on the right touchline.

Almirón dropped deep to receive, pulling Taylor out just a shade. That half-second was the spark. Tonali swept in to offer the option inside. Livramento overlapped wide. The triangle drew itself.

One pass.

Then another.

Then deception.

Tonali didn't even look.

He used the outside of his right foot to bend a disguised reverse ball between Kang Min-jae and Barnes—a surgical gap barely wider than a stride. Kang took one wrong half-step toward the ball... and it was already behind him.

Isak was gone.

He didn't sprint. He didn't explode. He glided into the space, the kind of forward who never looks like he's running—but always gets there first.

Bradford's line had no chance to recover. Rojas and Barnes turned late. Emeka saw it coming, charged out, arms spreading—but Isak was already slipping past him like smoke through fingers.

One soft touch around the keeper.

Then the second—calm, low, unbothered—into the net.

Peter Drury (Sky Sports):

"The rage is real. Newcastle strike early, and Bradford barely touched the ball."

Isak didn't celebrate wildly. He turned and jogged back toward midfield, fists clenched, eyes locked on the badge. There was no smile.

Because this wasn't about joy. It was about closure.

The stadium thundered—howls, fists on seats, the kind of roar that wanted more than 1–0.

Jake didn't blink.

He stood in the technical area, arms folded. His jaw moved once. A muscle twitch. Nothing more.

Beside him, Paul Roberts scribbled something on the match pad, then whispered:

Paul:

"They've started like they've already lost to us."

Jake (flat):

"Because they have."

9th Minute –

Bradford never truly reset after the goal.

From the restart, Taylor took a throw-in too quickly—tried to play Mensah into space down the line. But the movement wasn't there. The chemistry felt a beat off.

Mensah turned inside to receive—but he hadn't scanned.

Bruno had.

The Brazilian intercepted like he'd been waiting for it, shoulder dipped low, and immediately played a short one-two with Willock, who popped the ball back with the outside of his boot.

Bruno turned into open space and sliced a diagonal switch to the left flank without breaking stride.

Jake (shouting from the sideline):

"Track him! Track him!"

But it was too late.

Anthony Gordon took it wide on his laces, slowed for half a second—then cut in on his right, sharp and fast, dragging Rojas across and pulling Barnes out of shape.

At twenty yards, he let fly.

The ball curled tight, moving early, bending toward the far post.

Emeka exploded.

Full stretch, fingertips grazing the leather. Just enough to turn it just wide of the upright.

The post shook with the crowd's groan—half celebration, half disbelief.

Peter Drury (Sky Sports):

"The pressure keeps boiling. Bradford are clinging to the edge here. Gordon's strike had the angle. Emeka? Had the reach."

On the touchline, Jake didn't step forward. He just called once:

Jake:

"Drop the line! Compress. Keep it tight!"

But even as they pulled deeper, as Lowe screamed for support and Kang waved players in, they weren't defending in a shape.

They were defending in survival.

Newcastle weren't just attacking—they were testing for cracks.

12th Minute –

And finally, something gave.

Newcastle won a short corner on the left. Bruno played it quickly to Tonali, who swept it toward the edge of the box.

Willock ghosted in between Mensah and Lowe.

First touch clean. Second—driven toward the arc. ƒreewebɳovel.com

Lowe lunged.

It wasn't brutal. But it was late.

Boot caught ankle. Not dangerous—just clumsy.

The whistle blew hard.

St. James' howled. Jake turned away before the card came out. He already knew.

Referee reached into his pocket. Yellow.

Drury:

"The first booking of the evening—and no complaints from Daniel Lowe. It's a midfielder's foul. Necessary. But now, he walks the rest of the night."

Lowe didn't argue.

He simply nodded once, jogged back into shape, and muttered to Vélez as they passed:

Lowe:

"Should've let him go."

Vélez:

"You couldn't."

14th Minute –

Finally—relief.

Newcastle had been drowning them in phases, closing every passing lane with overlapping speed and crowd noise that seemed to bend gravity. But even under all that pressure, mistakes live.

And Bruno made one.

A slip. Half a second of overconfidence at the center circle. He tried to pirouette under pressure, and Vélez—always watching—snapped in with perfect timing. No foul. Just theft.

One touch to settle. One pass—low and fast—threaded cleanly through Newcastle's midfield line.

Suddenly the game turned.

Silva burst into open space.

It was the first time he'd had daylight.

He didn't wait.

Two touches into his stride, past Livramento—left him leaning—and Silva was flying down the inside channel like he'd been leashed for too long.

Roney yelled for the switch. Vélez charged to support. But Silva didn't need either.

He chopped back inside, beat Livramento a second time, and slid a cut-back across the box. Not behind. Not in front. Perfect.

Costa met it in stride. Top of the box. No pressure. Just grass.

He took one touch with his right. The crowd collectively inhaled.

Then another step.

He opened his body. He curled it—

And sent it miles wide.

Not close. Not a near miss. A horrible, dragging slice that never looked right.

It didn't just miss the post. It missed the goal. A swerving, nervy attempt that died six yards wide of where it should have gone.

Costa turned away before the ball even landed in the signage.

Silva stared for a moment, hands on hips. Roney clapped once, slow and sharp, out of pure disbelief.

Peter Drury (Sky Sports):

"They break once—and they almost steal it. But Costa... oh, that's a chance you have to bury. In games like this, you don't get many glimpses. That? That was a gift."

On the sideline, Jake's arms didn't move. He just breathed—once, slow, nostrils flaring—and murmured under his breath:

Jake (barely audible):

"Unforgivable."

Behind him, Paul scribbled something into his notebook but didn't say a word.

18' Minute – GOAL – Newcastle United 2–0

The free kick was cheap.

It came from a desperate foot stuck out at the wrong angle.

Bradford had finally cleared their lines after a spell of Newcastle pressure. Roney had even picked up the second ball—just long enough to start what looked like a transition.

Then Mensah rushed.

He lunged at Tonali just as the Italian turned. Caught him late. It wasn't malicious. It wasn't cynical.

It was insecure. The kind of foul a young player makes when they think the moment is slipping.

The whistle blew.

Jake closed his eyes for half a second and exhaled through his nose.

25 yards out. Slightly left of center. Perfect for a right-footer.

Bruno Guimarães stepped over the ball slowly, his eyes never leaving the far corner.

He didn't look at the wall.

He didn't need to.

Jake didn't look at the ball either.

He looked at Emeka.

The keeper was crouched low. Hands loose. Eyes unblinking.

He knew Bruno wasn't aiming for power. He knew it would dip late. He knew it had to be perfect.

And it was.

Bruno didn't take a long run-up. He took four steps.

One look up. Then strike.

Right instep. Lift. Curl. Dagger.

The ball lifted clean over the wall, kissed the air, and bent away from Emeka's right shoulder.

The keeper moved instantly—exploded to his right with a full-extension dive. Got fingertips to it. Almost enough.

But not quite.

The ball kissed his glove, spun tighter, and fell into the top corner.

Net. Side panel. Rippling perfection.

Peter Drury (Sky Sports):

"It's breathtaking. Bruno bends one into the heavens, and Newcastle have daylight. And Bradford... have a mountain."

Bruno didn't celebrate like it was special.

He jogged back with a clenched jaw, as if it should've been 3. This wasn't a highlight. It was justice.

Emeka stayed on the ground for a moment. Just staring at the crossbar.

Then he pushed himself up—no theatrics, no complaints—and jogged to reset.

Jake still hadn't moved from the technical box.

Paul glanced at him.

Paul (quietly):

"We still in it?"

Jake didn't answer.

His eyes were on Mensah.

The midfielder looked shaken. Staring at the turf, breathing fast.

Jake (sharp, flat):

"Raphael."

Mensah looked up.

Jake:

"No more rush. Let the shape speak."