The whistle blew, and the match began.
Firdaus stood on the edge of the technical area, arms folded, eyes fixed. The roar from the stands hadn't softened. Chants echoed from the Canton Stand to the Ninian. Some were directed at the club, but a few—sharper, more pointed—were unmistakably aimed at him. Joe Ralls' absence was a sore point, and the fans hadn't forgiven it. Not yet. Not until results made them forget.
On the pitch, the energy was off.
Sheffield Wednesday surged with confidence. Their midfield trio pressed high, suffocating Cardiff's rhythm and forcing early errors. Rinomhota, starting in place of Ralls, looked eager but rushed. His passes came too early or too late, and he struggled to find angles under pressure. Aaron Ramsey dropped deeper to help, barking instructions, but it wasn't clicking. There was a disjointedness that everyone in the stadium could sense.
Firdaus said nothing. He didn't pace. He didn't shout instructions. He simply watched with a focus that was unnerving. His gaze was like a surgeon's—measuring, reading, calculating.
In the 7th minute, Sheffield intercepted a loose pass from Tanner and transitioned quickly. Barry Bannan slipped a ball through the back line. A first-time strike from Michael Smith forced Alnwick into a sprawling save at the far post.
Groans erupted from the crowd.
"Where's the control?" a fan bellowed near the dugout.
Firdaus remained still. His face showed nothing. But inside, the gears were turning.
Behind him, the coaching staff exchanged nervous glances. Omer Riza looked like he wanted to speak but held back. Firdaus's silence wasn't apathy—it was focus. He was watching, waiting.
"System," Firdaus whispered under his breath, the word like a trigger.
[LIVE MATCH MODULE – ACTIVE]
The overlay painted the field in hues of blue and red. Player energy levels, mental focus, passing accuracy, and field influence were displayed like a chess board. Firdaus saw everything the naked eye missed.
Ramsey: 88% energy, Focus: High, Influence: Rising
Rinomhota: 74% energy, Focus: Fluctuating, Influence: Low
Meite: Isolated
Tanner: Confidence: Dropping
Trust Flow: Fragmented. Lines between Rinomhota and Meite flickered, unstable. The attack wasn't just struggling—they didn't believe in the link.
Firdaus tapped into player zones. A virtual suggestion blinked on his view.
"Switch Colwill into the left half-space. Drop Ramsey to deep-lying playmaker. Pull Tanner wide to stretch defense."
He nodded once, not needing confirmation.
"Ramsey!" he called.
The veteran midfielder turned immediately.
Firdaus gestured quickly—three movements with his hands. Ramsey, no stranger to tactical instructions in the middle of matches, adjusted instantly. He began orchestrating shape with just a few words.
Within two minutes, Cardiff regained possession. Not much—just composure. Five clean passes in a row. The crowd clapped tentatively.
In the 25th minute, Cardiff began stringing passes. A sharp triangle on the right side allowed Perry Ng to overlap. The full-back burst down the wing and whipped in a low cross. The fans rose to their feet.
But the final ball was cleared. Sheffield launched a counter—quick, direct. Marvin Johnson cut inside and released a curling effort that forced another Alnwick save.
Still goalless. Still no rhythm.
The coaching bench was tense.
Omer leaned in. "Do we change early?"
Firdaus shook his head. "Not yet."
He wasn't stalling. He was diagnosing. He saw things others didn't—how Collins was drifting too narrow, how Meite needed vertical passes into space, not feet. Rinomhota's issue wasn't tactical. It was mental. He was overcompensating. Trying too hard to impress.
Firdaus scribbled a note on his pad: "Decision fatigue > skill gap. Address at HT."
As the first half wore on, Cardiff's frustration grew. The crowd was murmuring with every sideways pass. The chants that had begun with hope turned critical.
"Where's the fight?" another fan yelled.
Rinomhota slipped trying to recover possession, leading to another chance for Sheffield—a volley from Windass that grazed the bar. Cardiff escaped, but only barely.
Firdaus's expression didn't change. He looked up at the clock. 38 minutes.
He leaned to Omer Riza.
"They're too reactive. We need to take back control in the second half."
"You're really going to bring Ralls on?"
"Yes," Firdaus said. "And I'm giving him more than control. I'm giving him the system."
Omer raised an eyebrow. "You're trusting him already?"
"I'm testing him. Trust comes later."
Halftime.
The dressing room was quiet.
Boots thudded against the floor. Some players sat with heads down, towels draped over their shoulders. The air was heavy with frustration. No music. No chatter. Just silence and the sound of deep breathing.
Firdaus stepped in, tablet in hand, but didn't look at it. He stood in front of them, the same calm he showed on the touchline now filling the room.
"No shouting. No speeches," he said. "You already know the problem."
He walked to the whiteboard and drew the midfield triangle.
"Too tight here." He pointed to the center. "Not your fault," he said, locking eyes with Rinomhota. "You're doing what you think you should. But you're playing rushed. Don't play the system. Play the game."
He turned to Ramsey. "Drop deeper. Call for the ball. Control the tempo. Let the game come to us. And keep talking. You've been the loudest out there. Keep it going."
Then he turned back to the room.
"I'll make a change. Not because we failed. But because we need balance."
All heads turned to the bench. Ralls looked up.
Firdaus nodded at him. "You're coming in. Second half."
A murmur spread through the room. The atmosphere shifted. Hope. Urgency.
Firdaus added, "But not as a savior. As a stabilizer. And you'll be taking the armband."
Ralls stood, stunned for half a second, then nodded. "Understood."
Firdaus stepped closer and handed him a folded paper.
"These are your instructions. It's more than just playmaking. I'm shifting the shape. You'll see it as soon as you're on the pitch."
Ralls unfolded the paper. His eyes scanned the instructions—a hybrid formation with staggered pivot zones.
"Risky," he muttered.
"I know," Firdaus replied. "That's why it'll work."
As the players walked back toward the tunnel, the stadium announcer returned to the mic.
"Substitution for Cardiff City... Number 8, Joe Ralls."
The crowd erupted. Some cheered. Some jeered. But all eyes were back on the pitch.
Ralls jogged onto the field, armband strapped tightly, giving Ramsey a pat on the back as they exchanged positions. The camera panned to Firdaus.
He stood near the sideline, arms behind his back, expression unreadable.
The new shape shimmered in Firdaus' mind—five midfield lanes, counter-press triggers, and decoy overloads. It was chess, not checkers.
He knew it wasn't safe. But he didn't come here to play safe.
Firdaus stood by the edge of the technical area.
Calm. Focused.
Ready.
To be continued...
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