Chapter 8 – Shifting Ground
Monday, October 26, 2009
Two days after Crawley Town vs Aldershot Town (1–1 Draw)
The morning after the Aldershot game had been quiet, almost unnervingly so. Sunday recovery sessions were usually light, but this time, they felt muted. No music from the dressing room. No laughter from the younger players. Just the shuffle of boots on damp grass and the occasional thud of a ball hitting a board.
Niels had spent much of that Sunday night replaying the match in his head. The way they responded to going behind, the energy Luka brought in midfield, and Simons' growing confidence in the final third. It wasn't perfect, but it had been another glimpse of what they could become. Still, one thing kept troubling him more than the result: Milan's silence after the final whistle.
Not a word during the team huddle. Not even a comment on the substitutions. Just a slow walk toward the tunnel, eyes unfocused, hand lingering at his side like it was bothering him again. Niels had asked if he was alright. Milan had nodded, said something vague about fatigue, and disappeared into his car.
Now it was Monday, and the silence lingered like fog over the pitch.
"Same drills, just sharpen the intensity," Niels called out. He was running the session again. Milan hadn't shown up yet.
At first, the players didn't ask questions. It wasn't the first time Niels had taken the lead. But by the time warmups ended and passing patterns began, a few looks were being exchanged. Nothing dramatic, just quiet questions behind glances.
Ten minutes later, Milan appeared.
His arrival was subtle, unnoticed at first. He walked slowly down the side of the pitch, hands in the pockets of his heavy coat, a wool scarf pulled tight around his neck. He didn't interrupt. He just watched.
Niels joined him between drills.
"Everything alright?" he asked under his breath.
Milan gave a faint smile. "Just needed a slow start. Don't let me get in your way."
"You sure?"
"I'm still the manager," Milan replied, but there was no bite in his voice. Just a quiet reminder. "You're doing fine. Keep them sharp."
Niels nodded and jogged back toward the midfielders. But the exchange stuck with him. Milan wasn't stepping back. Not officially. But he was letting go in small ways, inch by inch.
Later that afternoon, after the players had left and the kit staff were packing up, Niels found Milan in the video room, watching the Aldershot match on his own.
The screen showed the buildup to their equaliser. Luka had dropped deep, drawn two midfielders, then split the lines with a perfect ball to Dev. The square pass and the finish. 1–1.
"That goal was yours," Milan said, not looking away from the screen. "The adjustment to pull Luka back. I wouldn't have tried that."
"You would've if you saw the same gaps."
Milan chuckled weakly. "Maybe. But I didn't. That's the difference."
Niels sat down beside him. "You're not losing it. You're just tired."
"I just hope so," Milan muttered. He paused the video. "You're growing into this. Faster than I expected."
There was a weight in his voice. Not envy. Not regret. Just tired pride. Niels didn't know how to respond, so he didn't.
On Tuesday, Milan was present from the start, but he kept his distance again. He gave instructions in short bursts and let Niels handle most of the tactical walk-through. The players were responding. They weren't confused by the shift, if anything, they seemed to expect it.
Luka pulled Niels aside after the rondo session. "Is the boss alright?"
"He's managing. He'll be fine."
"You stepping in more, yeah?"
"I'm just doing my part."
Luka nodded, then looked toward Milan, who was seated on a bench, adjusting the notes on his clipboard with slow fingers. "Well, it's working. Keep going."
Thursday brought a brief meeting with Director of Football, Paul Winters. Not a formal meeting, just coffee in the upstairs office.
"He's not out," Winters said carefully. "But we're monitoring things. We know who's been steering most of the training."
"I'm not trying to take over," Niels replied quickly.
"I know. And Milan knows too. That's not the issue." Winters took a sip. "Just... be ready. Quiet transitions are sometimes the loudest."
Niels didn't say anything. He didn't need to. Everyone seemed to understand that a change was in motion, even if no one said it out loud.
By Friday, Milan was more animated again, throwing sharp instructions during the final training drills. He even called over Simons to review movement in the box. But it was clear he was pushing through something.
After the players had gone, Niels caught him alone again.
"You should rest tomorrow. Let me handle the bench."
Milan turned to him slowly. "I'm not giving up my seat just yet."
"I didn't say give it up. Just... take it easy. Take a moment of break."
Milan nodded after a pause. "We'll see."
Saturday morning arrived with fog hanging low over the training ground. The final walkthrough was sharp, focused. Chesterfield were coming to town, and they were no joke. Fast, physical, disciplined. But Niels had been up most of the night reviewing tape, and he believed Crawley could unsettle them, especially on transitions.
Milan led the pre-match talk. His voice was steady, if a little rough. He didn't speak long. Just the basics.
After the players filed out, he looked at Niels.
"You ready to run this again?"
Niels gave a small shrug. "Yes sir."
Milan smiled. "Good."
They walked out together, side by side, as the crowd began to gather behind the gates.
Back in the dugout, the match hadn't even kicked off yet, and already the shift in energy was noticeable. Niels stood more, gestured more, called out instructions faster. Milan sat back slightly more often, hands clasped tightly, scanning the pitch with narrowed eyes.
During a break in play, Milan leaned over and said "If your tactic works, the credit's all yours. If it doesn't, we share the blame."
Niels nodded. "Deal."
And that was it.
No announcement. No press release. No grand farewell.
But something had shifted. A quiet transition. A new rhythm. The torch hadn't been passed yet, not officially. But it had moved closer to Niels' hands.
And he was ready to carry it when the time came.
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