Sunday. 1:00 PM. The Crestwood Clubhouse.
The clubhouse was packed beyond legal capacity. Every player, from the U9s to the First Team, was crammed in. The smell was a potent mix of bacon baps, anxiety, and cheap lager.
On the wall, the big screen was tuned to BBC Two.
The FA Cup First Round Draw.
This was the holy land. This was where the "big boys" entered. League One and League Two clubs. Former Premier League giants who had fallen on hard times but still brought thousands of fans.
Ethan stood at the back near the pool table, wearing a hoodie to avoid being recognized as the "West Brom kid." He stood next to Mason and Callum.
"I feel sick," Callum whispered, clutching a Diet Coke. "Actually sick." "Ball 64," Mason recited, staring at the screen. "We are Ball 64. Crestwood OR Torquay."
The draw began. The host made the usual small talk. The velvet bag was shaken.
"Ball number 12... Wrexham." A groan went up in the room. Everyone wanted Wrexham and the Hollywood circus. They were drawn against a League Two side. Gone.
"Ball number 4... Bolton Wanderers." Another giant gone.
The draw dragged on. The tension in the room ratcheted up.
"Ball number 31. Portsmouth." the presenter announced.
The second guest reached into the bag. He swirled the balls around. He pulled one out.
"...Ball number 64, Crestwood or Torquay United,"
For a split second, there was silence as brains processed the information. Portsmouth. Pompey. Fratton Park. Two-time FA Cup winners. One of the loudest stadiums in England. A sleeping giant in League One.
Then, the clubhouse exploded.
"YES!" Sully roared, jumping onto a table. "POMPEY! WE GOT POMPEY!"
Beer flew into the air. Strangers hugged. The chairman looked like he was about to weep; the gate receipts from a trip to Fratton Park (or hosting them) would clear the club's debts instantly.
Callum grabbed Ethan by the shoulders and shook him violently. "Fratton Park! The bell! The drummer! It's massive!"
Mason was smiling, but his eyes were already distant. "We haven't won yet," he said, his voice cutting through the noise. "We have to beat Torquay on Tuesday first."
"Don't be a buzzkill!" Callum screamed. "We're playing Portsmouth!"
"We're playing Torquay," Mason corrected firmly. "And now, they want to beat us even more."
Monday Morning. 09:00 AM. WBA Senior Building.
The atmosphere in the First Team canteen was usually strictly business. Players ate their oatmeal, drank their coffee, and checked their phones.
Ethan was sitting at the end of the table, eating his prescribed carb load, when Danny Swift sat down opposite him.
"Saw the draw," Swift said, spreading avocado on toast.
Ethan looked up. "Did you watch the FA Cup draw?"
"I love the Cup," Swift grinned. "My first goal was in the First Round against Rochdale. Your mates got Pompey?"
"If they win the replay," Ethan said.
"Massive incentive," Swift nodded. "Portsmouth away is a career highlight for non-league lads. They'll be buzzing."
Julian Vance walked past the table. He stopped. He didn't look at Swift; he looked at Ethan.
"Your friends have a big game tomorrow," Vance said.
"Yes, boss."
"Good," Vance said. "Go watch it. Remind yourself what desperation looks like. Then bring that energy to my session on Wednesday."
Vance walked off.
Swift whistled low. "He's watching you, kid. He knows everything. Don't slip up."
Tuesday Night. 19:45 PM. The Crestwood Stadium.
FA Cup 4th Qualifying Round Replay. Crestwood vs. Torquay United.
The rain was torrential. The pitch, already heavy, was quickly turning into a swamp.
The crowd was the biggest in Crestwood's history. 2,500 people squeezed into the small ground. The promise of the Portsmouth tie had brought out the entire town.
Ethan stood near the front of the Shed End, hood up. Standing next to him was Mia.
She was wearing a waterproof coat and the red-and-white Crestwood scarf Callum had given her. She looked nervous, clutching a hot cup of Bovril with both gloved hands.
"He looks tired already," Mia shouted over the chanting crowd, pointing at Callum during the warm-up.
"He's focused," Ethan reassured her. "He knows what's on the line."
The Match.
It was ugly. It was violent. It was beautiful.
Torquay knew what was at stake. They came out fighting. They bypassed midfield, launching long balls onto Mason's head.
Mason was immense. He headed, he blocked, and he cleared. He was a one-man barrier.
But Torquay were full-time pros. Their fitness began to tell.
In the 60th minute, disaster.
Sully went into a tackle—a trademark, crunching 50/50. He won the ball, but his ankle twisted in the mud. He went down screaming.
The stretcher came on.
The crowd went silent. Their captain, their leader, was carried off, hands over his face.
Mia grabbed Ethan's arm. "Oh god. Is he okay?"
"Ankle," Ethan grimaced. "Doesn't look good."
Mason stood in the center circle. The armband was passed to him. He was 17 years old, captaining a team of men in the biggest game of their lives.
He put the armband on. It was too big; it slipped down his bicep.
"Focus!" Mason screamed at his team, his voice cracking with intensity. "Do it for Sully! Nobody walks! Nobody hides!"
80th Minute. 0-0.
The tension was unbearable. Penalties loomed.
Callum was exhausted. He had run himself into the ground chasing lost causes. He was covered in mud from head to toe. Every time the ball went out of play, he bent over, hands on his knees.
"Come on, Cal," Mia whispered, squeezing the scarf. "One more push."
Torquay won a corner.
"Mark up!" Mason yelled.
The ball came in. A Torquay defender rose high and powered a header toward the bottom corner. The keeper was beaten.
Mason was on the post.
He didn't use his foot. He threw his body at the ball. It hit his chest with a thud and bounced out.
"Handball!" the Torquay players screamed.
"Play on!" the referee waved. "Chest!"
Mason scrambled the ball clear. He looked at the ref. It had hit his ribs, inches from his arm. A game of inches.
89th Minute.
The clock ticked toward 90.
Callum picked up the ball deep in his own half. He looked up. There was no one to pass to. The team was dead on its feet.
He looked toward the Shed End. He saw the blur of faces.
"One last run," Callum told himself.
He pushed the ball past the Torquay midfielder. His legs screamed in protest, but he forced them to move.
He accelerated.
"Go!" Mia screamed, her voice piercing through the rumble of the crowd. "GO!"
He went past one. He went past two. The crowd noise rose, a swelling roar of disbelief.
He reached the edge of the Torquay box. He had nothing left. No power for a shot.
He saw movement to his left. Deano, the striker (and local postman), had made a lung-busting run.
Callum didn't shoot. He didn't try to be the hero. He rolled the ball gently into Deano's path.
Deano didn't miss. He smashed it first time, low and hard.
The net bulged.
GOAL.
1-0 Crestwood.
The stadium didn't just cheer; it broke. Fans spilled onto the pitch perimeter. A red flare ignited. Deano was mobbed.
Callum didn't run to Deano. He collapsed near the corner flag, right in front of where Ethan and Mia were standing. He rolled onto his back, staring at the rain.
Full Time.
Crestwood 1 - 0 Torquay United.
The whistle went.
They had done it. The plumbers and the schoolboys had beaten the pros. They were going to Portsmouth.
Ethan jumped the barrier. Mia was right behind him, scrambling over the advertising board.
Ethan found Mason first. Mason was on his knees, staring at the mud, crying silent tears. "You did it, Mase! You're going to Fratton Park!" Ethan yelled, grabbing him.
Callum was still sitting on the grass near the corner flag, unable to stand up. He looked like a mud monster.
Mia ran over to him. She didn't care about the mud. She didn't care about her coat. She threw her arms around his neck, hugging him tight.
"You were incredible!" Mia shouted into his ear. "That run! You didn't stop!"
Callum looked at her, his face streaked with dirt, his eyes wide with adrenaline. "We're going to Portsmouth," he wheezed. "We're actually going."
"You are," she beamed, pulling back to look at him. She wiped a smudge of mud off his nose. "And you owe me a hot chocolate. A really big one."
Callum laughed, a breathless, happy sound. "Deal."
Ethan walked over, hauling Mason with him.
For a moment, in the middle of the pitch, the group stood together.
Ethan, the "Next Gen" icon. Mason, the battered captain. Callum, the match-winner. And Mia, the glue holding the winger together.
"Portsmouth away," Mason whispered, looking at the celebrating fans. "We need new suits."
"I know a guy," Ethan winked. "I'll call Rick."
Wednesday Morning. 08:30 AM. WBA Senior Building.
Ethan walked into the gym. He was tired from the late night, but he was buzzing.
Julian Vance was on the treadmill, watching the highlights of the FA Cup replays on the TV screen.
He saw the clip of Crestwood's goal. He saw the fans invading the pitch.
Vance paused the treadmill. He looked at Ethan.
"Your friends?" Vance asked.
"Yes, boss."
"They fought well," Vance said. "That number 4... the captain. He blocks everything."
"That's Mason," Ethan said proudly. "He's a wall."
Vance nodded. "Tell him congratulations. Portsmouth will be a massacre, but they earned the right to be massacred."
Vance stepped off the machine.
"Right. Inspiration over. Get your boots on. Today we work on high pressing. If you're late to the trigger, you're doing laps."
"Yes, boss."
Ethan walked to the locker room. He had his own battle to fight. But as he laced up his boots, he couldn't help but check the calendar.
Saturday, November 4th. FA Cup First Round. Portsmouth vs. Crestwood.
He wouldn't be playing. But he wouldn't miss it for the world.