The Coaching System

Date: Saturday, 3 January 2026Location: Valley Parade

The cold at Valley Parade had teeth that morning—sharp and biting—but inside the stadium, it felt different. Warmer somehow. Buzzing.

First match of the year.First step into the unknown of 2026.

And standing just off the touchline, boots planted firm into the thawing turf, Jake Wilson felt it humming in his ribs—the start of something.

Across the pitch, Charlton's players moved through their warm-ups like ghosts. No energy. No snap. Winless in six. Heads down. Shoulders rounded against the noise rising from the home crowd.

Bradford, in contrast, moved like a machine just starting to purr.

Costa—back after months of surgeries, rehab, lonely hours in silent gyms—stood tall in the center circle during final drills. Watching him move again, powerful, loose, dangerous… it sent a ripple through Jake he didn't bother hiding.

Today wasn't about Charlton.

Today was about the standard.

The dressing room had been quiet before kickoff. No long speeches. No dramatics. Just Jake's voice, clear and cutting through the nervous energy.

"Play free. Play ruthless. Show no mercy today."

And the players had listened.

The whistle blew under a pale sky.

Bradford started with a purpose that almost felt cruel.

Inside twelve minutes, they were carving lines through Charlton's defense like blades through wet paper.

Silva sparked it.

Spinning away from his marker near halfway, he accelerated down the left channel, boots flashing red against the battered pitch. Two defenders converged, desperate to slow him.

Neither got close.

Low cross, whipped hard across the six-yard box.

Costa, moving like he'd never missed a minute, timed his arrival perfectly.

One touch. Net bulging.

Goal.

Score: Bradford City 1–0 Charlton Athletic.

Daniel Mann's voice snapped across the broadcast.

"And just like that, the comeback king is on the scoresheet!"

Jake didn't celebrate. Not outwardly. Just folded his arms tighter across his chest and watched Costa jog back toward the halfway line, head down, smile just barely visible.

The boy was back.

The momentum never dipped.

Bradford pressed higher, won second balls, strangled Charlton in their own half. Every pass sharpened the knife a little more.

Twenty-six minutes.

Corner won after relentless pressure.

Walsh trotted over, one hand raised, eyes scanning the chaos near the penalty spot.

Whipped ball—vicious, flat.

Costa rose above everyone, muscles coiled, head thundering through the ball like a wrecking ball through glass.

Top corner.

Goal.

Score: Bradford City 2–0 Charlton Athletic.

Michael Johnson, practically laughing into the microphone: "Costa's timing—unbelievable. You'd think he never left."

Jake allowed himself a breath through the nose, slow and full.

Ruthless. Just like he asked.

By the thirty-eighth minute, Silva was back on the ball—back on the hunt.

A lazy clearance dropped at his feet wide on the left. Two Charlton defenders rushed, bodies low, desperate to close the gap.

Silva made them irrelevant in four touches.

One to wrong-foot the first. A drag past the second. Another to set his hips. A fourth to shape the shot.

Low. Hard. Inside the near post.

The keeper barely flinched.

Goal.

Score: Bradford City 3–0 Charlton Athletic.

Daniel Mann roared over the replays: "He makes defenders look like statues!"

From the dugout, Jake caught Silva's glance. A small nod exchanged. Nothing loud. Just acknowledgment.

You're doing it right.

Just before halftime, Roney Bardghji nearly added his own masterpiece.

Cutting inside onto his left foot, he ghosted past two defenders with that strange elasticity only he seemed to possess. Curled shot—sweet, clean—missed by inches over the crossbar.

The crowd groaned and applauded all at once.

Michael Johnson chuckled into the mic. "That boy's feet… tied to the ball by strings."

Jake didn't need the fourth goal before halftime.

He needed this.

The hunger. The freedom. The ruthless, relentless belief pouring through every pass, every run.

Second half.

No changes. No mercy.

Charlton looked like a side already beaten before they left the tunnel.

Bradford smelled it.

Fifty-second minute.

Charlton committed bodies forward on a rare corner.

One bad clearance later, Bradford were flying the other way.

Walsh sprinted onto a loose ball and, without breaking stride, stabbed a perfect through pass between center-backs.

Costa took off.

Past the last man. One-on-one.

No hesitation.

Slotted it low, clean under the keeper's dive.

Hat-trick.

Goal.

Score: Bradford City 4–0 Charlton Athletic.

Daniel Mann practically singing: "Hat-trick hero! Costa writes the perfect script!"

Costa didn't knee-slide. Didn't rip off his shirt.

Just pumped his fist once, sharp and proud, toward the roaring Bradford fans.

Jake exhaled, tension bleeding out with it.

Sometimes football wrote the right story.

Sixty-fifth minute.

Bradford pressed again, Holloway winning a crunching tackle just past halfway.

Nobody closed him.

Nobody even challenged.

He looked up once—and went.

Thirty yards out. Nobody brave enough to step.

Holloway didn't hesitate.

Smashed it.

The ball screamed into the top corner like a guided missile.

Goal.

Score: Bradford City 5–0 Charlton Athletic.

Michael Johnson could barely contain himself. "Fullback? What fullback? That's a winger's finish!"

The stadium rocked.

Jake covered his mouth briefly, hiding the half-smirk he couldn't suppress.

Every single player wanted blood today.

Substitutions rolled in.

Mensah on. Vélez on. Rasmussen on.

Fresh legs. Same mission.

Seventy-fourth minute.

Roney Bardghji wriggled through traffic again, let fly a shot that deflected wickedly.

Keeper parried, sprawling wrong-footed.

Mensah pounced before anyone else could react, smashing the rebound high into the net.

Goal.

Score: Bradford City 6–0 Charlton Athletic.

Daniel Mann's commentary buzzed with energy: "When one doesn't get you… the next wave will!"

Jake nodded slightly at Paul Roberts beside him.

Wave after wave. No relenting.

The match drifted into its final stages, but Bradford never switched off.

Eighty-eighth minute.

Silva, still terrorizing the left flank, lashed a low shot toward goal.

Keeper spilled it, palms heavy from punishment.

Walsh ghosted in from the edge of the box, clean and clinical, steering the rebound inside the far post.

Goal.

Score: Bradford City 7–0 Charlton Athletic.

Michael Johnson summed it up perfectly, voice low and certain: "Clinical. Cold. Bradford are setting standards today."

Full-time.

No wild celebrations.

No cartwheels.

Just handshakes. Quiet pride.

Costa lifted his match ball above his head as he walked off to a standing ovation, the home fans chanting his name over and over until it felt like the whole stadium breathed it.

Jake watched his players file down the tunnel, each one carrying a piece of the night with them.

First match of the year.

First message sent.

Not just winning.

Not just playing.

Setting the standard.

And daring the rest of the year to try and keep up.