The Coaching System-Chapter 199: Sat 13 Sep: Championship Matchday 7 (H) vs Swansea City

Matchday Morning – Training Facility, Pre-Kickoff

The meeting room was half-lit, sunlight filtering through the blinds in slatted bars. No speaker system on. No playlist humming under the prep. Just the quiet rhythm of boot laces tightening, shinguards sliding into socks, and the occasional hiss of a coffee machine.

Jake stood at the whiteboard with the squad list already inked in. Six changes circled in red. Not a punishment. A plan.

Paul Roberts leaned slightly toward him, one arm folded across his chest, the other tapping a capped marker against his chin.

Jake didn't look at Paul. He just spoke to the room.

Jake:

"Today's not about flash."

He glanced toward the back row, where Obi was still lacing his left boot.

Jake:

"It's about control. Keep them running. Win without drama."

He uncapped the marker and circled three names in silence.

Jake (to the room):

"Obi. Lowe. Holloway."

Heads lifted.

Jake :

"Your moment now."

Obi gave one small nod, head bowed. Lowe adjusted the tape on his wrist. Holloway pulled his hood off and stood.

Jake stepped back. No speeches. No tension.

Just a coach trusting the work.

Kickoff – Valley Parade, 3:01 PM

The rain had stopped just after lunch, but the air still felt heavy. Mist clung to the underside of the stands. The pitch looked slick. Clean. Perfect for passing.

The Kop was full but not bouncing. This wasn't Europe. It wasn't chaos. But it was still home.

The fans knew what this game was. Not a headline. Not a highlight. A job.

Swansea came to play. Nothing reckless, but purposeful. High pressure in pockets. Early traps. A few feints of intensity—just enough to ask the question:

Can this rotated Bradford side still bite?

The answer came almost immediately.

Bradford moved the ball like a side that had trained with a metronome.

Touch. Reset. Switch. Probe.

No one overplayed. No one tried to impress. Just angles and movement.

Jake stood on the touchline with arms folded. Not barking. Not animated. Just… watching.

His team was playing the way he'd drawn it.

4th Minute –

The moment came in transition.

Walsh snapped into a tackle at midfield—clean, no hesitation. The ball popped loose. He didn't wait. Picked it up and drove forward, straight through the middle third.

Obi was already in motion, shoulder brushing off his marker's blindside.

Walsh split the gap.

Obi took one touch, pulled the ball across his body, and shifted it to his left.

Then he hit it.

Low. Across the keeper. No hesitation. No flair. Just pure striker's instinct.

The ball tucked itself into the far corner with a whisper of net.

Commentator (Sky Sports):

"Obi slots it! Clinical. No nerves. That's a man who knows the job he's been asked to do."

The crowd rose—not explosive, but quick, proud, affirming.

Jake didn't move.

He turned slightly toward the bench and muttered, voice low and flat:

Jake:

"That's one. Now don't stop squeezing."

Paul heard it. Nodded once.

28th Minute –

Swansea weren't broken. Just irritated.

They started to find the wide channels—especially the left. Looking to isolate Holloway. Test the fullback. See if the "rotation" meant weakness.

One long diagonal caught Bradford a step late. The winger took it down in stride and went.

Holloway was caught square. No panic. Just turned. Ran.

Fast.

The two of them went stride for stride down the flank—white shirt vs claret, boots kicking up slick turf.

The Swansea winger slowed to cut inside.

Holloway didn't bite.

He angled. Pressured. Timed it.

And poked the ball out clean—just enough for it to dribble out across the goal line.

Paul (calling out):

"That's bravery. Not just pace."

Holloway turned as if to head back upfield—then caught Paul's eye, nodded once, and jogged into position.

No fist pumps. No chest thumps.

Just another little proof.

42nd Minute –

It came from nothing. Or rather—it came from awareness.

Swansea had pushed a bit higher. A fullback tried to recycle a clearance under pressure and sliced it toward midfield. It wasn't wild, just lazy. Just enough.

Vélez stepped in.

He didn't lunge. He read it.

Thigh control. Soft, poised. A single touch to kill the spin, then a glance upfield.

No hesitation.

He lobbed it—not a hoof, a pass, delicately weighted, curling over the last line, dropping like a feather just outside the arc.

Ethan Walsh had already drifted into the gap between their midfield and defense, unseen. He didn't call for it. He didn't raise a hand.

He just waited.

One bounce. Then another.

He struck it first time.

Right foot. Instep. Pure.

The ball rose sharp—then dipped just before it reached the keeper.

Top right corner.

The net snapped like it had been punched.

Commentator (Sky Sports):

"That's Walsh with a rocket! Two goals to the good, and Bradford haven't hit second gear yet!"

Jake didn't turn to the bench this time.

He just dropped his chin slightly and exhaled.

Halftime –

No rousing speech. No slogans.

The camera caught Jake mid-walk, just as the team filtered down the tunnel.

Chapman passed him. Roney followed. Obi gave a nod.

Jake spoke as they passed. Not loud. But it carried.

Jake:

"Keep the lid on. No passengers. We finish this clean."

Paul, just behind him, gave the briefest of nods.

They all understood what that meant.

This wasn't a game to chase moments. It was one to shut down.

Second Half –

Swansea started the second half with the look of a team that knew it was already playing for pride.

They tried—credit to them—but it was huff and puff. Lateral passes. Overlaps without end product. Holloway didn't bite once. Taylor kept shape. Rojas showed no nerves.

Lowe was everywhere.

He didn't bark orders. He just moved—fluid, constant, two-touch rhythm. One pass to Roney, another out to Vélez, then drop back, reset.

Jake (to Paul, watching):

"Feels like Lowe's heartbeat is running this."

Paul:

"Always does."

Chapman tried one switch too many in the 59th and immediately looked to the bench.

Jake had seen enough.

61st Minute – Double Substitution

🔄 Roney off → Rasmussen

🔄 Chapman off → Mensah

Roney jogged off without a wave, already pulling off his gloves. He slapped palms with Rasmussen, who gave him a quick shoulder bump and sprinted straight to position.

Mensah came on with purpose, nodding once to Vélez as they crossed paths. He went straight into the ten spot.

Jake stood still, hands behind his back, watching without a word.

The message was clear: lock it down, don't invite chaos.

72nd Minute –

🔄 Obi off → Rin

As Obi came off, the crowd rose. Not in celebration—in respect.

Two goals in two starts now. But it wasn't the goals. It was the work. The hold-up play. The pressing. The focus.

Obi clapped the fans as he exited, chest heaving, sweat soaked through the back of his shirt.

Jake held out a fist as he passed. Obi bumped it lightly.

Jake:

"Good shift."

Rin stepped on—light, nimble, bouncing like his energy didn't register tiredness.

Final 20 Minutes –

Rasmussen dropped deep, absorbing passes like a metronome. Mensah surged but didn't overreach. Rin floated between defenders like vapor.

No drama.

No heroics.

Just clean, mature, professional football.

Swansea never sniffed a moment.

Jake barely left the technical box.

He didn't need to.

The game ended as it began—with order, not noise.

Full-Time: Bradford City 2 – 0 Swansea City

The whistle blew. A few claps from the home bench. One or two back slaps on the pitch. Fans filed out satisfied.

No fireworks.

Just the feeling that this team was growing into something hard to beat—and even harder to shake.