Wednesday Night. 8:00 PM. The Crestwood Boardroom.
The "Boardroom" was really a small office behind the bar, featuring a framed shirt of a player who once tried out for Walsall.
The chairman, a local businessman who owned several skip trucks, was looking at a spreadsheet with the Gaffer.
"Torquay away," the chairman sighed, rubbing his temples. "Coach hire. Hotel for Friday night, since we can't have them travel five hours on matchday. Food. It's going to cost us three grand just to show up."
"If we win," the Gaffer said, leaning forward, "we'll get £9,375 in prize money. Plus, a spot in the First Round. That means a League One team. That brings in TV money. That's survival for two years."
"And if we lose?" the chairman asked.
"Then we had a nice weekend at the seaside," the Gaffer grimaced. "We have to win, Chairman. Or at least bring them back here for a replay. We need the ticket sales."
Friday Morning. 10:00 AM. WBA Senior Building.
Ethan was learning that being the "24th Man" meant you were essentially a glorified cone.
The starting XI for the Leeds game were working on tactics. The substitutes were practicing set pieces.
Ethan and three other reserve players were standing on the sideline, keeping warm, waiting to be called in if someone needed to tie their shoelaces.
"Boring, isn't it?"
Ethan turned to see Danny Swift, the veteran playmaker he had "nutted" in the rondo on Monday. Swift was suspended for the Leeds game due to yellow card accumulation, so he was training with the reserves.
"It's alright," Ethan replied diplomatically. "Just watching and learning."
"Good answer," Swift smirked, kicking at a divot. "Vance likes you. He likes that you don't talk much. Most kids come here and try to be the DJ in the dressing room within a week."
"I'm just trying to keep the locker," Ethan said.
Swift gestured toward the tactical drill. "Watch the pivot. See how he keeps checking his watch?"
Ethan looked. The starting defensive midfielder kept glancing at his wrist. "He's timing the press?" Ethan guessed.
"No," Swift laughed. "He's nervous. He knows you're breathing down his neck. That's why Vance brought you up. Not just to cover, but to scare the starters. Keep scaring them, kid."
Vance blew his whistle. "Swift! Matthews! You're the opposition midfield. Get in there."
Swift winked at Ethan. "Let's go to work."
Friday Afternoon. 2:00 PM. The M5 Motorway.
The Crestwood team coach was stuck in traffic near Bristol.
Callum had been staring at the back of the seat in front of him for three hours. "I have pins and needles in my bum," Callum announced.
"Stand up then," Mason said, not looking up from his book (The Art of War—Sully had recommended it).
"I can't stand up; the seatbelt sign is on," Callum moaned. "This is brutal. Torquay is in a different country. Do they even speak English down there?"
"It's Devon, Callum," Mason sighed. "They speak English. They just put jam on their scones differently."
Sully stood up at the front of the bus. "Right! Listen up! We're stopping at the services in ten minutes. Leg stretch. Toilet. You can buy a coffee. No burgers. No sweets. If I see a packet of Haribo, you're walking the rest of the way."
Callum slumped back. "He takes the joy out of life."
"He's trying to get us to the First Round," Mason said, closing his book. "Focus, Cal. Torquay are full-time pros. They train every day. We train twice a week in the mud. We're already 1-0 down before we kick off."
Saturday. 14:55 PM. Plainmoor Stadium, Torquay.
The ground was impressive. A proper, four-sided stadium with a capacity of 6,500. The "Yellow Army" was out in force, creating a wall of noise behind the goal. The sea breeze whipped across the pitch, carrying the smell of salt and vinegar chips.
In the tunnel, the difference in physique was clear. The Torquay players looked like athletes—broad chests, defined legs. The Crestwood players looked like... a mix of plumbers, electricians, and two schoolboys.
Mason adjusted his captain's armband (he was vice-captain, but Sully insisted Mason lead the team out for the "experience").
"Head up," Mason whispered to Callum. "Don't look at the crowd."
Callum looked at the crowd anyway. He couldn't help it. There were thousands of them.
3:00 PM. Kickoff.
Torquay didn't waste time. They played direct, physical football. Within ten minutes, Crestwood were pinned back in their own box.
Mason was a magnet for the ball. Cross. Header. Corner. Header. Shot. Block.
In the 22nd minute, a Torquay winger isolated Callum. He didn't use skill; he used brute force, dropping a shoulder and shoving Callum into the advertising hoardings.
The crowd cheered. "Weight room, son!" someone yelled.
Callum picked himself up, checking his teeth. Welcome to the seaside.
4:10 PM. Second Half.
The score was 0-0. It was a miracle.
"We have them rattled!" the Gaffer shouted in the dressing room. "They expected to be 3-0 up! Now the crowd is getting anxious! Frustrate them!"
But fatigue was settling in. The five-hour bus ride weighed heavily on their legs.
In the 65th minute, it all fell apart.
A Torquay midfielder took a speculative shot from 25 yards. It took a wicked deflection off Sully's knee, wrong-footed the keeper, and trickled into the net.
1-0 Torquay.
The stadium erupted. The relief was tangible.
Callum looked at Mason. Mason stared at the floor. It was a cruel goal to concede after defending so well.
"Heads up!" Sully roared, clapping his hands. "It's a deflection! It's luck! We go again!"
But they were tired. Crestwood couldn't get out of their half. The dream of the First Round—and the money—was slipping away.
4:50 PM. 88th Minute.
Crestwood won a free kick on the halfway line.
"Everyone up!" the Gaffer screamed. "Even the keeper! No point losing 1-0!"
The Crestwood goalkeeper jogged up the pitch, looking terrified. Mason went into the box. Sully went into the box.
Callum stayed back, the last man, just in case.
The ball was launched into the mixer. It was a horrible delivery—too deep. The Torquay keeper came out to catch it easily.
But the wind caught it. The sea breeze held the ball up in the air for a brief moment.
The keeper fumbled it.
The ball dropped loose in the six-yard box. It was chaos. Legs, elbows, mud.
Mason saw the ball. He couldn't shoot; he was being held by two defenders.
He saw Sully.
Mason didn't try to be the hero. He toe-poked the ball sideways, through the forest of legs.
Sully was there. The 34-year-old veteran. The man with a mortgage and bad knees.
Sully didn't smash it. He passed it into the net.
GOAL.
1-1.
The away end (made up of the chairman, three wives, and a drummer) went wild.
Sully ran to the corner flag, doing an airplane celebration that looked more like a crashing glider. Mason jumped on his back.
Full Time. Torquay United 1 - 1 Crestwood.
The whistle blew. It felt like a victory.
A replay.
They were bringing Torquay back to the Midlands. Back to the small, muddy pitch at Crestwood. Back to a Tuesday night under the dim floodlights.
"We did it," Callum gasped, collapsing onto the grass. "We're still in the hat."
Mason pulled him up. "Replay on Tuesday. Winner gets the first round."
6:00 PM. The Bus Home.
The mood was electric. Beers had been bought (Callum was allowed one).
Ethan was FaceTiming them from his bedroom in Eastfield.
"1-1!" Ethan said, grinning at the screen. "I was following on Twitter. Sully scored?"
"Sully scored," Mason confirmed, holding the phone so Ethan could see Sully asleep with his mouth open in the aisle seat. "Assist by yours truly."
"How was it?" Ethan asked.
"Hard," Callum said, holding a bag of frozen peas to his shoulder. "They were big. But we get them at our place now. The Gaffer says the ticket sales from the replay will pay for the hotel bill."
"And the draw for the first round is tomorrow," Ethan reminded them. "If you win the replay..."
"Don't jinx it," Mason said. "But yeah. We're in the mix."
Ethan looked at his friends—battered, exhausted, stuck on a bus for another four hours, but buzzing with joy about the Cup.
He looked at his own pristine room. His neatly folded kit. His USB stick of tactics.
"I'm jealous," Ethan admitted quietly.
"Don't be," Callum laughed. "Sully just snored so loud he woke himself up. Go study your triangles, pro. We'll see you on the other side."
The call ended.
Ethan put the phone down. Crestwood was fighting for survival. He was fighting for a spot. Different battles, different worlds, but the goal remained the same.
Stay in the game.