Wimbledon Versus Sheffield (2)

"How could they have not capitalized on their momentum! They should've at least… uhhh... t-taken the lead!" A long burp could be heard after the older Atkinson's spiel.

"Well, they still are a bit disjointed at the front and at the final third…" Blaise can't help but think back to what Sheffield lacked in that first half.

"For one… they have trouble stringing several passes together without losing the ball. That's always a… b-bad thing for any side..." Another long burp stopped the older man's analysis.

"Plus they became like Wimbledon on the earlier parts of the half, always making awful attempts on goal after so much build up, what a waste."

"Well, son, there's still a lot of football to play for." He stood up with a wobble. Blaise saw the slight effects of seven cans of beer. "Be back after frying some more chicken."

"Can you even open the stove right now?" Blaise couldn't stop himself from wanting to play. He knew that even though he might be in this younger, less physically developed body, his skills of old are ready to light the league up. He knows that he could give Sheffield what they lacked…

***

The second half resumed without the control and calmness of the first one. Both teams went at it out of the gate, with neither of them refusing to yield the ball to each other, resulting in an energetic albeit erratic affair.

The shouting, singing, and the synchronised jumping on the home stands fired up the atmosphere even more. The away tifo that read 'Revenge for last year, bastards,' went up on the travelling supporters' stands, incurring even more whistling from the stirred up home fans.

A noticeable change on the away side's midfield could be seen. Long time captain and legend Damian Potts has come in off the bench to stabilize what was a volatile center midfield, prompting the Sheffield faithful to cheer even crazier for their club icon.

The long time talisman was in the middle of everything going on. He was throwing his body around, making passes, holding possession, stopping the budding attacks, and affecting every aspect of the game that he could.

Blaise, watching on at home, knew that he always wanted to be a midfielder just like Potts, with the ability to do everything he can to affect the game. As they were both ex-Premier League players, he knew for certain that he'd learn some valuable lessons from the man.

I gotta show him I'm worthy to be under his wing!'

The pace of the play was at its fastest, with both sides trading blow for blow at both ends of the pitch.

Whoever blinks first, loses.

One of the teams finally blinked in the 65th minute.

The ball was being played at the back by the Dons' defense, and as if seeing a run from one of their players, the center back decided to lump it forward to the final third. Instead of his own striker connecting with it, it was the Sheffield center back, who then headed it away for his midfielders to grab.

The midfield duo of Potts and Prosser took the opportunity to move forward and play the ball to create a chance through some simple one-two passing. The fans of either side tensed up again, as the pressure rose in an instant.

"Capitalize! Please capitalize! There are holes on their defense!" Blaise was already jumping like a die hard ultra.

The debuting loanee saw his midfield partner lurk and move behind the opposing midfielder, so he tried to sneak a through ball over the top.

At the end of it though, was a sliding defender. Potts almost had his foot in when the slide challenge came, easily taking the ball out first, and him next.

There were calls for a foul, but the defender's tackle was clean. So, the play continued without any stoppages.

The Wimbledon left back attempted a long pass of his own, and this time connected with the left side striker's head. The ball was headed downwards, finding the feet of the other striker, which is at a nice spot to take a chance.

Just outside the penalty area, the other center back, surnamed Marshall, tried to block and dispossess the striker at the same time.

He charged in, but completely whiffed on his tackle, allowing the striker more room to cut inside and hit it hard.

Goal!

"That was a lovely finish! The keeper had no chance to react!"

"A great sliding challenge on the other side, and a terrible sliding challenge on the other!

"But that finish to the bottom left corner! It was exquisite!"

"Wimbledon retakes the lead!"

Inside the Atkinson residence.

"Dammit! What are these donkeys doing?" Blaise was fuming like a petty kid after that goal. "That tackle was horrible!"

"Would it be better if he… f-fouled?" Father Atkinson was fighting himself to keep his one droopy eye open.

"Well, no… but he could've just not dived on that tackle there!" Blaise was like your ordinary armchair manager stuck at home, gesturing and all that. He really can't stress how instead of taking a 'low risk harass and block the line of sight' route of dealing with the striker, he went instead for a flashy, high risk, same reward sliding tackle.

Which he of course, screwed up badly, giving away a free chance to the Dons striker.

"We'll score again… I think… zzz…" The drunk old man's voice trailed off as he entered the world of sleep, leaving his reincarnator son to watch alone with a snore.

As a result of their goal, two substitute players were put into the midfield by Wimbledon's old manager, most likely to shore up their tired legs with an injection of energy.

The move prompted Sheffield manager Steve Bronson to make moves of his own. He used up his two remaining substitutes to stabilize his team at the back.

Manager Bronson rallied his troops for what seemed to be a desperate attempt to at least equalize again, and maybe win.

Wimbledon started falling further back in defense, content at letting the away side hammer away at them on offense. Hunkering down on their own half was a decision that slightly annoyed the home fans though, as many of them think that their team should strike while the iron is hot to deal the final blow.

But as the match progressed to its final stages, the home side's switch to a defensive strategy allowed them to keep on stopping whatever Sheffield's trying to do on attack despite the whistling and jeering of their own fans.

It was supposed to be a routine clearance from the Wimbledon defense, when the center back mis-hit the ball, sending it straight to Potts instead of upfield.