The Coaching System-Chapter 182: Bradford City vs Fenerbahçe (UECL League Stage, Matchday 1) Part 2

Scarves fly. Smoke bombs hiss red and gold. The Kop bounces like a wave under floodlights.

Jake clenches his fist, but doesn't flinch—eyes locked on the field like a man studying proof of concept.

On the touchline, Mourinho folds his arms tighter.

16' –

Three minutes later, Fred is on the ball again—and Bardghji is right there, a shadow in his peripheral.

Darke:

"He's haunting him now—like a terrier with a scent!"

This time, Bardghji slides in—boot-first, clean again—forces Fred to rush a blind pass sideways. It's intercepted by Silva, already angling his body toward goal.

The Portuguese midfielder takes one touch out of his feet, sees a sliver of space—

And curls a right-footed strike from 20 yards.

Darke:

"Ohhh that's not far—just over! It had Livaković stretching!"

The keeper watches it all the way, fingertips raised, but it dips just a touch too late.

Jake's bench rises, clapping, sensing blood.

Bradford weren't just here to compete. They were here to play.

21' –

Commentator (Ian Darke):

"Bradford started like a thunderclap—but now Fenerbahçe are beginning to do what they do best. Control. Composure. Circulation."

Amrabat, previously swamped in the first fifteen, begins to orchestrate. He's constantly available—dropping deep to collect, then bouncing passes off Fred and Djiku with one-touch calm. Ibáñez stays close, always within five yards, but the Moroccan pivots into spaces with just enough fluidity to shift momentum.

Darke:

"You can feel the shift, can't you? Bradford defending deeper, a little more respect… or maybe just fatigue creeping in."

The tempo rises. The Turkish side keeps the ball humming across the pitch like an electric current, drawing Bradford side to side. Still, no clean chances—just the growing hum of pressure.

27' –

It starts with a simple throw-in—one of those dead ball moments that usually vanishes into nothing. But not this one.

Mert Müldür jogs over and feigns a quick toss, then hesitates—buying a second. Tadić reads it. He drifts short, hand raised subtly. Rojas follows, shadowing close, maybe a step too tight. Tadić doesn't even look at him—he spins in one graceful motion, slips into the channel behind.

Fred sees it, late but sharp, and threads a disguised pass around Ibáñez. The ball glides on the slick pitch, like it knows where it needs to go.

Tadić—now in stride—barely breaks pace. He glances up once. There's Džeko. Towering. Lingering at the back post. Fletcher is there too, but unsure—caught between marking the space or the man.

Tadić slows for half a beat, then shapes to cut inside. It's just a sliver of movement, a dip of the shoulder—and it's enough to open the lane. He bends the cross in with his left foot, not floated, not whipped—just... deadly.

Commentator (Ian Darke):

"Oh, that's wicked from Tadić—he's picked him out…"

The cross curls high and wide—drawing the eye—before dipping like a falling leaf at the far post.

Džeko rises. Not with urgency, not with violence. Just calm, cold inevitability. Like he's done it a thousand times—and he has. Fletcher leaps, but he's half a step behind. The ball kisses Džeko's forehead like a signature.

He doesn't blast it—he redirects it. Across goal. Perfect weight. Perfect angle.

Emeka reacts brilliantly—dives full stretch, fingers grazing air—but the ball curves past, clips the inside of the far post and nestles in the back of the net.

Darke:

"Trademark Džeko. You give him a yard, he gives you regret. It's all square."

The away end detonates. Flares ignite, thick red smoke billowing into the night sky. A Turkish flag waves above the heads of jumping supporters, chanting in rhythm—claiming the moment.

Fenerbahçe's bench is on its feet—Mourinho doesn't celebrate, just nods, arms crossed.

Down on the Bradford sideline, Jake lowers his arms, lips pressed in a thin line. He doesn't scream. Doesn't panic. But his eyes stay locked on the far touchline. Measuring.

Above him, the scoreboard blinks:

27:18 — BRADFORD 1, FENERBAHÇE 1

Valley Parade murmurs. Not in defeat—but in defiance. They've seen what's coming. And they're not backing down.

29' –

It begins with a lull—Fenerbahçe calmly stroking the ball across their back line. Then, with surgical intent, Amrabat steps into midfield space and pings a looping diagonal, forty yards in the air, slicing through Bradford's shape.

The ball drops like a cannonball into the path of Allan Saint-Maximin on the left flank.

Commentator (Ian Darke):

"Oh, hello. He's in again—Saint-Maximin, one-v-one!"

Rojas backpedals. He knows he's on an island now. Saint-Maximin sizes him up—pauses, leans right... then explodes left. Just like that, he's gone. A blur of pace and low center of gravity.

He doesn't wait to cut in—Saint-Maximin drives hard toward the box and lashes it low, near post.

Emeka reads it late but springs like a cat—left hand stretched out, body flying parallel to the turf. He gets fingertips on it—enough to deflect it wide.

Darke:

"That is a massive save! Emeka with strong wrists at full stretch! Saint-Maximin thought he'd scored!"

The crowd roars in relief. Jake exhales, lips tight. That one was too close.

Rojas kneels, tying his boot slowly. Not to adjust—just to gather himself.

35' –

No warning this time. No build-up.

One loose touch in midfield—Silva loses it under pressure—and Fenerbahçe go.

Fred pounces, touches it to Szymański, who pokes it first-time to Amrabat. A swivel, and the ball's already wide to Tadić, who dummies and lets it run into the path of a surging Saint-Maximin.

Commentator:

"They're flowing now—Saint-Maximin with space to run!"

Rojas turns to chase—but it's over before it starts. The Frenchman's already gone.

A lightning drop of the shoulder, a step inside—the kind of movement that looks slow on replays but blurs in real time. He cuts between Rojas and Fletcher, gliding into the half-space like he's on rails.

Saint-Maximin keeps it low and calm—inside the right foot, into the bottom corner past Emeka's outstretched leg.

Darke:

"And Fenerbahçe turn it around! Saint-Maximin left Rojas for dust—dropped the shoulder, darted inside, and slotted it bottom corner. Cool as you like. 2–1 to the visitors."

The away end erupts again—flashes from phones and flares lighting the sky like fireworks. Saint-Maximin wheels away toward the corner flag, arms wide, grinning.

Behind him, Rojas punches the turf—furious with himself.

Emeka sits up, gloves on knees, staring at the net.

Jake folds his arms on the touchline. He doesn't move, but his jaw works. Behind the eyes, you can see it—the mental note being filed.

Score: Bradford 1 – 2 Fenerbahçe.

40' –

Bradford start to push.

Ibáñez wins a crunching tackle in midfield, poking the ball into space for Silva. The crowd lifts—Renan Silva collects it near the left touchline, just over halfway. His head is already up. One defender in front. Maybe two.

He shapes to cut inside—Amrabat steps. Wrong move.

Silva dinks it outside with the outside of his right boot, then snaps it back through the gap between Fred and Djiku. A gasp from the stands—he's suddenly through the midfield line.

Commentator (Ian Darke):

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"Oh, Renan Silva! Filthy footwork! He's twisting them inside out!"

Silva glides to the edge of the box, shifts his weight left, and slips a disguised ball between Djiku's legs into the path of Costa.

Costa controls it in stride—one touch—and unleashes a low drive, aiming for the near post.

Darke:

"Costaaaa—off the woodwork!"

The ball smashes off the upright, rattling the post like it owed him money. It skids out to the top of the box, bouncing waist-high.

Vélez arrives on the scene like a bullet, sets his body—

Swings—

Misses the timing.

The volley sails just wide of the post, brushing the outside of the netting.

Darke:

"Just wide! Inches in it! That was the response they needed—and it nearly paid off!"

Jake doesn't flinch on the sideline, but his foot taps once. Silva jogs back, hands on hips, expression unreadable.

45' –

Fenerbahçe tap it around to kill the final seconds. Referee Jorge Ferreira peeks at his watch—raises the whistle to his lips.

Darke:

"Well, catch your breath, because this one's already a thriller. Halftime at Valley Parade—Fenerbahçe 2, Bradford City 1. The underdogs are swinging."