Saturday, November 4th, 3:15 PM. Fratton Park.
15 Minutes Played. Portsmouth 0 - 0 Crestwood.
The gap between the National League and League One wasn't physical. Crestwood had big players; Mason was 6 ft 2 in and built like a silo.
The difference was in decision-making.
In the National League, you had a moment to trap the ball, look up, and pick a pass. At Fratton Park, the space vanished before the ball even arrived.
Mason felt like he was in a wind tunnel. The Portsmouth strikers moved with a frightening coordination. One dropped deep, pulling Mason out of position, while the other darted into the gap behind him.
"Hold the line!" Mason shouted, his voice barely heard over the ringing of the Pompey Chimes. "Don't chase shadows!"
He wasn't playing football; he was putting out fires.
In the stands, Ethan scribbled furiously in his notebook.
Vance Report - Minute 12: Opposition #8 (The General). He hasn't sprinted once. He stands in the center circle and points. He moves the Crestwood midfield around like chess pieces just by looking at them.
Ethan watched the Portsmouth captain receive the ball. He didn't look down. He played a quick pass to the winger's feet.
"That's the level," Gary muttered next to Ethan. "Touch, bang. No messing."
25th Minute.
Callum was isolated on the right wing. He felt like a castaway on an island.
Crestwood finally cleared the ball. It bounced toward Callum. The Portsmouth left-back, a seasoned pro named Stevens, was ten yards away.
I can take him, Callum thought. I'm faster.
Callum knocked the ball past Stevens and kicked into high gear.
But Stevens didn't turn and run. He stepped in front of Callum. He used his hips, nudging Callum just enough to throw him off balance without fouling him.
Callum stumbled. The ball rolled harmlessly out of play.
"Too strong, son!" the Portsmouth fans jeered from the stands.
Callum got up, face burning. In the National League, that would've been a foul. Here, it was just good defending.
38th Minute.
The resistance finally cracked.
It wasn't a mistake by Crestwood; it was just quality.
The Portsmouth winger received the ball, faked a cross, and cut inside. He made a precise pass through the smallest of openings.
The striker didn't take a touch. He shot immediately, low and hard across the keeper.
The net rippled. Fratton Park erupted.
1-0 Portsmouth.
Mason stood on the penalty spot, hands on his hips. He looked at his goalkeeper, who just shrugged. "Nothing you could do," Mason said, clapping his hands. "Reset! We don't crumble! 1-0 is nothing!"
In the dugout, Sully slammed his hand against the plastic wall. The Gaffer stood still, arms crossed. They had held out for nearly 40 minutes. It was respectable. But respectability didn't win Cup ties.
Halftime.
Portsmouth 1 - 0 Crestwood.
The dressing room was quiet. The players gasped for air, faces red, kits soaked in sweat. They looked shell-shocked by the pace.
Mason stood up and threw a towel into the center of the room.
"We are respecting them too much," Mason said.
The room looked at him.
"We're standing off," Mason continued, pointing at the tactical board. "We're waiting for them to beat us. The #8 is controlling the game, and nobody has touched him."
"He's good, Mase," the Crestwood midfielder wheezed. "He's ex-Championship."
"I don't care if he's ex-Madrid," Mason snapped. "Next time he gets the ball, take him down a notch. Make him feel it. We're a non-league team. Let's play like one. Make it ugly."
The Gaffer nodded. "He's right. You're trying to play football against a football team. Stop it. Be tough."
Mason turned to Callum. "Cal. You can't run around that fullback. He's too smart."
"I know," Callum said. "He reads me every time."
"So don't run around him," Mason said. "Run at him. Force him to tackle you. Win a free kick. We need set pieces. That's our only chance."
46th Minute. Second Half.
The atmosphere changed.
From the kickoff, Crestwood pressed.
The Portsmouth #8 received the ball. He expected the usual space. Instead, the Crestwood midfielder, a 32-year-old bricklayer named Dave, charged through him like a freight train.
Crunch.
It was a foul. A yellow card. But the Portsmouth #8 stayed down for a moment, checking his shinpads.
The Crestwood fans cheered.
Ethan watched from the stands. He saw the shift.
Vance Report—Minute 47: Disruption. The technical gap is too wide to close with skill, so they are closing it with strength. Portsmouth doesn't like the contact.
75th Minute.
The score was still 1-0. Portsmouth were frustrated. They had hit the bar twice, but Crestwood were hanging on by their fingernails.
Callum received the ball on the wing.
The fullback, Stevens, smirked. He stepped across again, ready to use his strength.
Callum remembered Mason's advice. Run at him.
Callum didn't knock it long. He stopped suddenly. Stevens, expecting the sprint, was caught flat-footed.
Callum dropped his shoulder and drove inside, straight into Stevens' chest.
He felt the contact. He waited for it. As soon as Stevens' arm came up, Callum went down.
Whistle.
Free kick. Right on the edge of the box.
"Smart," Gary Matthews nodded in the stands. "Very smart."
76th Minute.
The stadium went quiet. This was it. The chance.
Mason moved up from the back. He stood on the edge of the six-yard box, towering over his marker.
Deano, the postman, stood over the ball. He had a powerful left foot.
"Into the mix!" Sully shouted from the dugout, waving his crutch.
Deano whipped it in.
It was a flat, dangerous delivery.
Mason battled for space. He grabbed a shirt. He took an elbow to the jaw. He didn't care.
He rose.
He connected.
The header was strong, heading for the top corner.
The Portsmouth keeper, a giant of a man, flew across his line. He got a fingertip to it.
The ball hit the crossbar.
CLANG.
The sound echoed around the stadium. The ball bounced down on the line—and stayed out. A defender cleared it.
"NO!" Mason screamed, clutching his head.
The Crestwood fans covered their heads with their hands. It was inches away from the equalizer. Inches away from a replay.
Ethan slammed his notebook shut. He felt sick. The analysis was gone; he was just a fan again.
Full Time.
Portsmouth 1 - 0 Crestwood.
The whistle blew three times.
The dream was over. There would be no giant killing. No Wrexham in the next round. No TV money.
The Crestwood players collapsed on the turf. They had given everything. They had taken a League One team to the limit in their own backyard.
The Portsmouth players didn't celebrate wildly. They looked relieved.
Stevens, the fullback, walked over to Callum. He offered a hand. "You're quick, lad," Stevens said. "Keep working on your strength. You'll be fine."
Callum took the hand. "Thanks."
Mason was the last one to get up. He walked around to every Crestwood player, helping them to their feet. Then he moved to the away end.
The 500 Crestwood fans rose as one. They applauded. They sang Mason Turner's Magic Hat.
Mason clapped back, his face serious, holding back his emotions.
Up in the stands, Ethan watched his best friends. They had lost, but they hadn't really been beaten.
He opened his notebook one last time.
Vance Report—Conclusion: Technique wins games. But character lasts. Crestwood lost 1-0 to a team 60 places above them. Mason Turner is ready for a higher level. Today.
He tore the page out. He would give it to Vance on Monday.
"Come on," Gary said softly. "Let's go find them."
Ethan followed his dad out of the row. The FA Cup run was finished, but the season—and the real work—was just beginning.