The Coaching System-Chapter 173: Bradford City Vs Rapid Wien UECL Play-off Round 2nd Leg Part 2

The ball spilled loose.

Chaos. Scrambling.

A third attempt—this time, a curling effort from Rapid's attacking midfielder, bending toward the bottom corner.

Emeka reacted.

A lightning-fast dive, fingertips grazing the ball, pushing it off the post.

But the deflection fell kindly—too kindly.

There, waiting three yards out, completely unmarked, was Rapid's No. 10.

A simple tap-in.

Emeka, still on the ground from his save, could only turn and watch as the ball rolled over the line.

The net rippled.

The away end erupted.

Rapid's players sprinted toward their fans, fists clenched, celebrating wildly. A sea of green and white shook behind the goal, flares sparking in the night sky.

0-1 on the night. 3-1 on aggregate.

A gut punch. A dagger to the chest.

For a moment, Valley Parade fell into stunned silence.

But Jake Wilson didn't.

"HEADS UP! WE'RE STILL IN THIS!" His voice cut through the noise, sharp and urgent. He clapped his hands, stepping forward. "No panic! No rush! Stick to the plan!"

On the pitch, Costa grabbed the ball from the net, sprinting back to the center circle. Richter called for calm, gesturing for focus.

Bradford had been hit, but they weren't broken.

Not yet.

25th Minute –

The atmosphere inside Valley Parade was reaching its breaking point.

Bradford needed something. A moment. A flash of brilliance. A reason to believe.

Down 3-1 on aggregate, they had been battered, but not beaten. And they knew—one goal could change everything.

The ball rolled to Ibáñez in midfield. He lifted his head, searching, scanning.

Then—he spotted Roney.

Bradford's number 7 was already on the move, hugging the left touchline, waiting for his chance. Ibáñez clipped a diagonal ball toward him, and with a single touch, Roney was gone.

A blur of movement. A sharp cut inside. One defender beaten. A burst of acceleration. Another one left in his wake.

The space opened.

Roney glanced up. And there he was—Richter, ghosting between the center-backs, perfectly timed, perfectly positioned.

The pass had to be perfect.

It was.

A delicate, inch-perfect delivery threaded through a sea of green shirts, slicing Rapid's defense wide open.

Richter didn't hesitate.

A single, controlled touch. The goalkeeper rushed out, arms spread wide, trying to close the angle.

Too late.

Richter lifted it.

A soft, elegant chip. The ball rose over the keeper's outstretched gloves and dropped into the net with a whisper.

GOAL.

Valley Parade ERUPTED.

The noise was deafening, a roar of belief shaking the stadium to its core.

Richter stood still for a moment, his chest heaving. Then, slowly, he turned—his eyes locking onto Roney's.

No wild celebration. No theatrics. Just a look.

A silent promise.

This wasn't over.

Not even close.

30th Minute –

Momentum was shifting.

For the first twenty minutes, Silva had struggled—misplaced passes, hurried decisions, suffocating pressure. Rapid had forced him into discomfort, into hesitance.

But now, he was adapting.

He started demanding the ball, dictating the tempo, and carving through Rapid's lines.

31st Minute –

A sharp exchange with Vélez opened up space in midfield.

Silva took a touch, head up, scanning.

Roney.

Bradford's right winger had already started moving, positioning himself against Rapid's left-back.

Silva found him with a crisp pass, and Roney—full of confidence now—took control.

A drop of the shoulder. A hesitation. Then—boom.

A sudden, blistering acceleration. His marker couldn't react as Roney burst past, eating up ground before whipping a cross into the box.

Low. Fast. Dangerous.

Richter met it first.

A smart flick, redirecting the ball toward the near post—a striker's instinct.

The shot was on target. Powerful. Precise.

But the keeper got down fast.

A palm outstretched. A desperate reaction.

Saved.

Bradford fans groaned, then clapped. It wasn't a goal, but it was a statement.

They were here. They were alive.

35th Minute –

Another wave of pressure. Another opening.

This time, it was Costa.

He had spent the opening minutes wrestling with Rapid's center-backs, battling for space, chasing shadows. But now, his moment came.

Silva, in full control, drifted centrally and spotted Costa peeling away from his marker.

A gap opened.

Silva's pass was sublime—threaded through a narrow corridor, slicing the Austrian defense apart.

Costa pounced.

One touch—clean.

Another—inside, cutting past his defender.

And then—impact.

A brutal, clattering challenge. A last-ditch, full-blooded tackle inside the box.

Costa went down.

The ball rolled harmlessly away.

The stadium held its breath.

Then—chaos.

The Bradford bench erupted, bodies off their seats, arms raised, screaming.

Jake Wilson stormed toward the edge of his technical area, fury in his eyes, voice cutting through the noise.

"HOW?! THAT'S A PEN!"

Costa was still on the ground, palms up, disbelieving.

The referee waved play on.

Valley Parade exploded in fury.

Boos. Shouts. Chants of protest.

Jake dragged a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath. He turned to his assistants, shaking his head.

Robbery.

But there was no time to dwell.

The game marched on.

40th Minute –

Bradford had them pinned.

For the last ten minutes, it had been wave after wave—Silva dictating, Roney and Costa stretching the field, Vélez and Ibáñez winning second balls.

Rapid were feeling it.

And yet—all it took was one moment.

A Bradford corner was half-cleared, and before they could reset, Rapid pounced.

One pass. Two.

Suddenly, the ball was out wide, and Bradford were scrambling.

Rapid's right winger tore into space, his first touch setting him free down the flank. Rojas was chasing. Barnes and Fletcher—retreating.

Too much ground to cover.

A quick look up.

A curling cross—vicious, spinning, dipping.

It flashed across the face of goal.

Two Rapid shirts lunged, desperate for a touch.

Millimeters.

A breath away.

But nothing.

The ball skidded past and rolled harmlessly out of play.

A let-off.

A reminder.

One mistake, one lapse, and the tie would be over.

Bradford reset.

45th Minute –

Just before halftime, Rapid struck again.

This time, from distance.

Bradford were pinned, numbers back, seeing out the half. But Rapid's number eight found a pocket of space, set himself, and struck from 25 yards.

A clean hit. Rising.

Then—a deflection.

Barnes stuck out a leg—just a slight touch, but it changed everything.

The ball looped, spinning, twisting toward the top corner.

Emeka reacted.

His weight was already shifting the other way, his body leaning left—but the ball was curling right.

For a fraction of a second, the stadium froze.

Then—he moved.

A desperate twist of his hips. A sudden push-off.

He stretched.

Fingertips.

The ball clipped the post and spun wide.

A moment of pure silence.

Then—a roar of relief.

Rapid players threw their heads back in frustration. Their coach held his hands to his face.

Bradford had survived.

Barely.

Halftime – The Locker Room

Inside, the air was thick.

Not just from the heavy breaths, the sweat, the exhaustion—but from something else.

Frustration.

Because they were so damn close.

Some players sat hunched over, shirts clinging to their backs, sweat dripping onto the floor. Others just stared, deep in thought.

The scoreboard read 1-1 (2-3 on aggregate).

Close.

But not enough.

Jake Wilson clapped his hands. Once. Sharp. Loud.

"Look at me."

Heads lifted.

"That was their punch," he said, voice steady. "That was their best shot."

A pause.

"And we're still standing."

Silence.

Then—movement.

Costa shifted forward in his seat, arms resting on his knees. Vélez nodded.

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Jake took a step, eyes moving across the room.

"We grew into that half. They're tiring. I can see it, and so can you. Second half, we step it up."

He turned to Silva. "Push higher. Make them uncomfortable."

To Roney. "Take him on. Again and again. He won't last."

He straightened.

"We get one, and they crumble. We get one, and this place erupts. So let's get it."

Jake turned for the door.

"45 minutes to change everything."

No one needed telling twice.

As they stepped back onto the pitch, Valley Parade believed.

The fight wasn't over.

Not even close.