The Coaching System-Chapter 210: Ask Jake | Meet Your Team

Valley Parade Concourse, 10:12 AM

It wasn't a matchday, but the energy said otherwise.

Valley Parade didn't hum with chants or the stomp of pre-kickoff drums—it buzzed, low and constant, like electricity under concrete. The kind of noise made by people leaning forward instead of shouting out.

Fans lined the pavement outside the gates, dozens deep by ten o'clock, arms folded against the Yorkshire chill. Scarves peeked out from under autumn coats. School-aged kids clutched autograph books like holy relics. Older supporters shared thermoses and stories, some wearing kit from promotion seasons past.

There was no rush.

No one pushing forward.

They were already where they needed to be.

Inside the concourse, the club had transformed the East Stand. Half the catering stalls had been cleared, replaced with modular tables, roped walkways, and digital check-in stations. Volunteers moved quietly with lanyards and clipboards. Stewards laughed with season ticket holders like they'd known them for years—because they had.

At the center, the media team had built a stage—small, simple, raised just enough to see. Behind it, a branded canvas stretched clean across the back wall, spotlighted under portable rigs.

"MEET YOUR TEAM.

BE PART OF THE STORY."

Bold. Unapologetic. Bradford.

Across from it, tucked beneath a camera boom and angled for perfect framing, sat a sleek twin-chair setup. High table between them. One mic clipped to the armrest. The kind of setup usually reserved for press conferences—except this one was pointed at the fans.

A hanging light blinked to life above it.

🎥 YouTube LIVE: Ask Jake Anything – 4PM

Beneath the LED, a digital counter ticked upward—live viewers already logging in hours before go-time, watching nothing but a still frame. Just chairs and a promise.

The club shop had a line wrapped twice around its corner wall. A makeshift merch booth outside sold new limited-run scarves with a single word stitched at the base:

#JakeBall

Inside, a quiet chant started from the far side of the hall.

Not loud. Not rhythmic.

Just honest.

"We are Bradford… say it loud."

"We are Bradford… say it proud."

And that's when the players started arriving.

The Fan Meet Begins

By 11:00 AM, the entire first team had arrived—dressed in matching club tracksuits but no rehearsed smiles. This wasn't polished PR. This was Bradford.

Ibáñez stood near the tactics board, letting fans draw their dream formation.

Silva signed anything—shirts, boots, even a laminated bus ticket.

Obi kept grabbing fan phones and taking selfies unprompted.

Roney challenged a 9-year-old to a game of keep-ups and lost. Deliberately.

Mensah and Rasmussen argued—genuinely—over whose signature looked cooler.

In the far corner, Chapman sat with one hand on his girlfriend's shoulder and the other signing a shirt for a kid who wore his number.

He looked lighter.

Paul Roberts roamed the space like a quiet bodyguard, but every fan who greeted him got a nod and a thanks.

Jake wasn't at a table.

He stood. Near the front. No table. No security. Just posture and patience.

And they came.

Old fans. New fans. A man who brought a copy of the League Two promotion newspaper and asked Jake to sign it beside a coffee stain.

A kid who told Jake he played centre mid too and his school team also wore claret.

Jake knelt down for that one.

Jake (low, sincere):

"Then you're already part of it."

The Fan Meet Begins

By 11:00 AM, the entire first team had arrived—dressed in matching club tracksuits but no rehearsed smiles. This wasn't polished PR. This was Bradford.

Ibáñez stood near the tactics board, letting fans draw their dream formation.

Silva signed anything—shirts, boots, even a laminated bus ticket.

Obi kept grabbing fan phones and taking selfies unprompted.

Roney challenged a 9-year-old to a game of keep-ups and lost. Deliberately.

Mensah and Rasmussen argued—genuinely—over whose signature looked cooler.

In the far corner, Chapman sat with one hand on his girlfriend's shoulder and the other signing a shirt for a kid who wore his number.

He looked lighter.

Paul Roberts roamed the space like a quiet bodyguard, but every fan who greeted him got a nod and a thanks.

Jake wasn't at a table.

He stood. Near the front. No table. No security. Just posture and patience.

And they came.

Old fans. New fans. A man who brought a copy of the League Two promotion newspaper and asked Jake to sign it beside a coffee stain.

A kid who told Jake he played centre mid too and his school team also wore claret.

Jake knelt down for that one.

Jake (low, sincere):

"Then you're already part of it."

YouTube LIVE: Ask Jake Anything (4PM)

The red LIVE indicator blinked on the screen just as the digital clock hit 4:10.

Ten minutes late.

Jake had spent the delay signing the back of a fan's denim jacket and listening—really listening—to a woman recount her late husband's love of Bradford. He didn't rush her. And he didn't apologize for the wait.

When he finally sat down across from the club media host, the chat window was already a flood of caps-locked questions and emojis.

Viewers: 17,238.

Live Comments Per Minute: 96.

@TacticsFromTheTerrace:

"Jake! Hardest player to coach—go!"

@MatchdayMischief:

"Did Silva nutmeg you in training? Blink twice if yes."

@Ellis4England:

"Is JakeBall real or are you just winging it?"

Host (smiling):

"Alright—we're live, and so are the questions. Let's start soft.

Jake—has this squad surprised you?"

Jake (flat):

"No. They've met expectations. That's harder than exceeding them."

Host:

"And now you're third in Europe. Feeling the pressure?"

Jake:

"Pressure's an excuse. We're too organized for excuses."

There was laughter from just off camera—players watching behind the scenes, fans gathered along the railings nearby. The tone was playful. But Jake's delivery? Unmoved.

@Bantersaurus_Rex:

"Be honest—who complains the most about training intensity?"

Jake (without hesitation):

"Roney."

@RoneyLive (in chat):

"LIES. I pace myself. Like a pro."

Jake (deadpan):

"Exactly."

@MidfieldMuse:

"Who's the future captain of this team?"

Jake didn't answer that one immediately.

Jake:

"They're not all born yet.

But some are in the building."

Host:

"OK—this one came up a lot. Fan question from @KopKid18:

'Would you ever let your son play in the system?'"

Jake blinked once. Not dramatic. Just a beat longer than usual.

Jake (measured):

"If he earns it."

The camera didn't cut away. But Jake's eyes didn't stay on the host either. He looked past the lights. Past the lens.

Just for a second.

@AwayDaysOnly:

"Would you leave Bradford if a bigger club came knocking?"

That question hung longer than the rest. The host looked up from the screen, unsure if it would land.

But Jake didn't bristle. He just shifted once in his chair. Not uncomfortable.

Just present.

Jake (even):

"Let's leave that for the future."

The room didn't clap. But it didn't need to.

Because every fan watching knew what he meant.

He was here.

And for now, so was everything that mattered.

Later that night, @ClaretVoice clipped the exchange and posted it with a caption:

"Jake Wilson isn't a coach. He's a doctrine in a tracksuit."

It was retweeted 17,000 times.

End of the Day

As the sun dipped over Valley Parade and the players filtered out, one last photo was taken on the empty pitch.

The squad lined up in casual rows. Jake didn't stand in the middle. He stood at the edge. Arms folded. Looking not at the camera—but toward the Kop.

Because the fans were the story now.

And the system?

The system had always been there for him..