The Coaching System-Chapter 181: Bradford City vs Fenerbahçe (UECL League Stage, Matchday 1) Part 1

Emeka bounces on his toes, muttering something under his breath—prayer or routine, hard to tell. Roney Bardghji stretches out his arms like wings, jaw clenched. Silva shifts his gum to the other side of his mouth, smirking.

The fourth official gives a quick signal.

They move.

Bradford emerges into the floodlights to a wall of noise. The ground shakes.

Emeka jogs to the goal and taps the crossbar twice—left, then right—then turns to face the roaring Kop. Costa adjusts the strapping on his shin pads. Fletcher looks up at the night sky, exhales deeply.

The anthem blares. The camera sweeps down the line of players as hands go to hearts, brows furrow. Mourinho stands just outside the Fenerbahçe technical area, arms folded, unmoved. Jake doesn't look at him.

He's already watching the ball.

Starting XI

Commentator:

"Let's take a look at how Bradford City line up tonight in this historic European clash…"

Formation: 4-4-2 (Flexible)

Goalkeeper:

Emeka

Defenders:

Rojas (RB)

Nathan Barnes (CB)

Noah Fletcher (CB)

Aiden Taylor (LB)

Midfield:

Roney Bardghji (RM)

Vélez (CM)

Ibáñez (CM)

Silva (LM)

Forwards:

Costa

Richter

Bench: Cox, Bianchi, Kang Min-Jae, Richards, Holloway, Lowe, Chapman, Obi, Rin, Walsh, Rasmussen.

Commentator:

"It's a bold front two for Jake Wilsonl tonight. He's trusting the pace of Costa and the sharp finishing of Richter to cause damage. But they'll have to outthink one of the game's great tacticians—José Mourinho."

Kickoff

Commentator (Ian Darke):

"And here we go—under the lights, under the pressure. Bradford City's first ever European Competition... and it starts now."

The whistle cuts through the wall of sound.

Costa takes the first touch, nudging it back to Ibáñez, who immediately plays wide to Taylor under pressure. Fenerbahçe don't wait—they press high. Tadić and Džeko step up quickly, cutting off angles, herding Bradford toward the flanks.

Amrabat and Fred patrol the midfield like twin shepherds—one pressuring the ball, the other always in the passing lane.

Commentator (Darke):

"Fenerbahçe are laying the foundation here—Amrabat and Fred knocking it back and forth, nice and slow, brick by brick."

Bradford hold their shape. Two tight banks of four. Silva and Roney pull in narrow. Vélez steps across the lanes. Fletcher barks out quick adjustments, hands flashing in the air.

Costa and Richter stay patient—hovering at the halfway line, shadowing passing lanes, ready to spring.

The Valley watches, humming with tension. Chants quiet for a moment, the crowd leaning in collectively.

7' –

It happens in a blink.

Fred drops a shoulder, pulling Ibáñez one way, then floats a pass wide to Tadić on the left. Tadić takes a touch and immediately spots Saint-Maximin peeling away from Taylor. A lazy lift of the boot—he arcs a diagonal ball over the top, soft as silk.

Commentator (Darke):

"Oh, and that's clever... they've spotted the mismatch here—Saint-Maximin's got space!"

Saint-Maximin cushions it on his chest like it's magnetic. Taylor recovers, but he's a step late. The winger dips a shoulder, glides inside, and whips a vicious low cross into the danger zone.

Džeko is there. Always there.

He launches upward—big frame, neck coiled like a spring. Emeka dives...

Just wide.

The ball skims past the far post like it's brushing air.

Commentator (Darke):

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"That's a warning shot. They found space early, and Džeko's not one to miss many of those. Beautiful build-up—measured, patient, then bang—explosive wide play."

The away end erupts in claps and whistles. Mourinho doesn't move—just adjusts his scarf slightly.

On the touchline, Jake folds his arms. He doesn't panic. But he clocks it—Taylor's spacing, the gap between Barnes and Fletcher, and the late midfield rotation. He leans toward Paul Roberts.

Jake:

"Too much time for Fred. Tell Vélez—tighten the gap."

Back on the pitch, Vélez is already waving Ibáñez over. The next pass into Fred is met with pressure—cleats closing down fast.

Bradford absorb. Weather. Adapt.

Fenerbahçe settle back into rhythm.

But the air feels different now.

They've seen the teeth.

9' –

Fred receives the ball with his back to goal, looking for a quick outlet. But it's slightly casual—a flat, telegraphed pass toward Amrabat.

Vélez pounces.

Commentator (Darke):

"Oh, that's loose from Fred—and Vélez is onto it like a flash!"

The Argentine snatches it mid-stride, a single touch to kill the ball, and a second to thread a wicked through ball between Djiku and Škriniar. Richter is already moving.

The pass is perfect—angled, rolling, fast.

Commentator:

"Richter's in! He's got the step—!"

But Dominik Livaković reads it early. The Croatian keeper charges, dives low just outside the six-yard box, and smothers it cleanly before Richter can toe it past.

The stadium groans.

Richter skids past, slapping the turf once in frustration as Livaković calmly rolls the ball back out and resets.

Darke:

"Bradford showing teeth here! Fenerbahçe look slick in possession, but they're not untouchable—give these boys a sniff, and they'll bite."

Jake claps once, sharp. Not angry—encouraged.

This game was alive.