The Coaching System-Chapter 242: Championship Matchday 22: Norwich City vs Bradford City

Date: Saturday, 27 December 2025Location: Carrow Road

Carrow Road simmered under a slate-grey sky, the kind that promised rain but never quite delivered. The winter air gnawed at exposed skin. Around the ground, the crowd murmured with a different kind of hunger—the easy kind, the kind that comes when you smell blood before kickoff.

Jake Wilson stood near the dugout, coat zipped high, hands buried deep in the pockets, feeling the restless pulse of the day press against him.

After Christmas. After the party. After the laughter and the soft, golden glow of family moments.

Now? The real world returned, cold and exacting.

Before they’d boarded the bus out of Valley Parade, Jake had said it plainly to the players: "Joy doesn’t win matches. Discipline does."

He’d meant every word.

But today, the cracks showed.

Heavy rotation. Heavy legs. Heavy silence during warm-ups. Norwich City—rested, razor-sharp, eyes gleaming like wolves. Bradford—patched together with youthful energy and hope, because tired bodies couldn’t be pushed endlessly without snapping.

Daniel Mann’s voice cut through the early moments from the commentary box.

"A festive gamble from Jake—blooding the youth."

Michael Johnson answered, grimly, "And Norwich? No gifts today."

The match started with an uneasy tightness. Bradford sitting in deep banks of four, bodies compact, leaving Mensah isolated up top like a lone figure on a sinking ship.

The game plan was survival first. Attack second. Maybe third.

Nine minutes.

The first crack.

Richards received a hospital pass under pressure, pivoted awkwardly toward his own goal.

The loose touch was pounced on by Norwich’s front line—pressing in a coordinated swarm, not chaotic, not hopeful, but clinical.

One slip. One tackle. One clean square pass across the box.

Finish slammed low into the corner.

1–0 Norwich City.

Jake didn’t flinch. Didn’t shout.

He leaned forward slightly, watching Northbridge—a 17-year-old making his senior debut—shake his head once, hard, clearing the nerves.

Moments like this built players. Or broke them.

There was no third option.

Bradford tried to steady themselves, Lowe barking orders in midfield, Ibáñez—overworked and quietly limping—adjusting the lines from the back.

Soro, young but sharp, pressed aggressively. Maybe too aggressively. The adrenaline in his veins wrote checks his positioning couldn’t always cash.

It showed in the thirty-second minute.

Soro chased a ball he never had a right to win, lunged out of position, and suddenly Norwich poured through the midfield gap like floodwater through a broken dam.

Simple. Ruthless.

Pass. Pass. Goal.

2–0 Norwich City.

Jake turned once, said nothing, just motioned briefly for Fletcher and Silva to start warming up. Not because they’d come in immediately. But because the lads on the pitch needed to see it—needed to know the cavalry existed if they could just hold the line a little longer.

Northbridge gritted through the half, body language tight but never collapsing. Ford, slotted in at left-back for his first full match, fought hard but looked every bit the teenager he still was—brave, willing, but a second late to almost everything.

Halftime.

The dressing room dripped with exhaustion. Players sitting back, heads tilted toward the ceiling, legs stretched out as if the floor might collapse under them if they didn’t.

Jake didn’t scream. Didn’t tear into them.

He moved slowly to the center of the room, voice low.

"This is where you find out what kind of team you are."

Some heads lifted.

"Not when it’s five-nil up and the fans are singing. Right now. When your lungs hurt. When the scoreboard’s laughing. When it’s easier to pretend you’re unlucky."

Silence folded over them.

"Run. Fight. Even if it’s hopeless. Especially when it’s hopeless."

He turned toward the door.

"Earn the next whistle."

Second half.

The cold sank deeper into bones. Legs dragged heavier. Norwich smelled it.

But Bradford, to their credit, didn’t collapse. They didn’t fold.

They fought.

Every tackle from Lowe sent a shockwave. Every clearance from Kang Min-jae bought a few more precious seconds. Every desperate, driving run from Rasmussen tried to pry open some small mercy.

But football doesn’t forgive tired minds.

Sixty-seventh minute.

Norwich worked a cross in from the left—nothing special, just a driven ball across the box.

It should’ve been cleared. Richards misjudged the bounce. Northbridge, too slow to recover, stepped the wrong way.

The ball skipped awkwardly across the turf and was smashed home before Cox could reset.

3–0 Norwich City.

Jake closed his eyes for a heartbeat. Let the sting pass through him. Then opened them again.

Still standing.

Still watching.

He called Richter and Obi over.

Fresh legs. Fresh lungs. If they could even scrape something now, it wouldn’t be on the scoreboard.

It would be in the fight.

Richter buzzed around the final third, trying to harass Norwich’s center-backs. Obi flared wide, trying to stretch play and give Mensah a moment to breathe.

But the legs were too tired, the minds too cloudy.

The final twenty minutes played out like a slow bleed.

Norwich didn’t need to press anymore. They passed in triangles, holding possession, draining minutes from the clock.

Bradford chased shadows, but they chased.

Jake stood the whole time, coat zipped high, heart pounding, throat raw from words he didn’t speak.

Ninety minutes.

Board lifted—two minutes added.

No miracles left.

The final whistle cut clean through the cold.

Norwich City 3–0 Bradford City.

The scoreboard didn’t blink.

Bradford’s players sagged where they stood, but they didn’t crumple. Northbridge turned slowly toward the away fans, clapping them with both hands even though most of the stands had already begun to empty.

Ford bent down, hands on his knees, then straightened and jogged toward the sideline without needing to be told.

Soro walked off with Lowe’s arm slung heavily around his shoulders, muttering something only the two of them could hear.

Jake waited at the tunnel entrance.

One by one, he shook their hands. Every player.

Not because they’d won.

Because they’d stood up when it would’ve been easier to fall down.

Daniel Mann’s voice floated over the stadium speakers as they packed up.

"A lesson in cruelty today. Young Bradford bruised but standing."

Michael Johnson finished the thought quietly.

"Standing’s sometimes the first victory."

Jake zipped his coat higher, eyes scanning the lights of Carrow Road one last time before turning toward the team bus.

Today wasn’t about winning.

It was about something slower.

Something harder.

Building bones that didn’t snap when tested.

They’d taken the blows.

They were still here.

And that was enough for tonight.

EFL Championship Table – After Matchday 22:

Ipswich Town – 51 pts | P: 22 | W: 16 | D: 3 | L: 3

Bradford City – 48 pts | P: 22 | W: 15 | D: 3 | L: 4

Southampton – 46 pts | P: 22 | W: 13 | D: 7 | L: 2

Leicester City – 43 pts | P: 22 | W: 12 | D: 7 | L: 3

Hull City – 39 pts | P: 22 | W: 11 | D: 6 | L: 5

Watford – 37 pts | P: 22 | W: 10 | D: 7 | L: 5

West Bromwich Albion – 36 pts | P: 22 | W: 11 | D: 3 | L: 8

Preston North End – 34 pts | P: 22 | W: 9 | D: 7 | L: 6

Sheffield Wednesday – 32 pts | P: 22 | W: 9 | D: 5 | L: 8

Middlesbrough – 32 pts | P: 22 | W: 8 | D: 8 | L: 6

Norwich City – 31 pts | P: 22 | W: 9 | D: 4 | L: 9

Coventry City – 30 pts | P: 22 | W: 8 | D: 6 | L: 8

Swansea City – 29 pts | P: 22 | W: 8 | D: 5 | L: 9

Sunderland – 28 pts | P: 22 | W: 8 | D: 4 | L: 10

Derby County – 28 pts | P: 22 | W: 7 | D: 7 | L: 8

Cardiff City – 26 pts | P: 22 | W: 7 | D: 5 | L: 10

Huddersfield Town – 25 pts | P: 22 | W: 6 | D: 7 | L: 9

Millwall – 25 pts | P: 22 | W: 6 | D: 7 | L: 9

Stoke City – 23 pts | P: 22 | W: 6 | D: 5 | L: 11

Plymouth Argyle – 22 pts | P: 22 | W: 6 | D: 4 | L: 12

Wrexham – 21 pts | P: 22 | W: 5 | D: 6 | L: 11

QPR – 18 pts | P: 22 | W: 5 | D: 3 | L: 14

Blackburn Rovers – 15 pts | P: 22 | W: 4 | D: 3 | L: 15

Bristol City – 11 pts | P: 22 | W: 2 | D: 5 | L: 15