The Coaching System

43' Minute –

PAOK had been trying to work out of the back with patience, but patience invites risk—and Bradford were ready to punish it.

Roney saw it first. Their right-back hesitated, checking his shoulder before releasing a pass inside. It was all Roney needed. He darted forward—like a fire alarm going off in the front line.

Vélez responded instantly.

The trigger had been pulled.

The pass was slow, lazy, and Vélez stepped right in front of it, toe-poking it away before the PAOK midfielder could adjust his stance.

Liam Rosenior (commentary):

"That's textbook pressing—Roney bites, Vélez reads, and now it's on."

Vélez didn't rush. He took one touch to his right, drawing two defenders toward him.

Then Ibáñez appeared—bursting through the seam from deeper midfield, his timing immaculate.

Vélez laid it off—Ibáñez took it on stride, not with power but purpose, and when the keeper stepped to narrow the angle, Ibáñez did the unselfish thing.

He squared it across the face of goal.

Silva was there.

Waiting.

Tapping.

Simple as you like.

Conor McNamara:

"GOAL! Bradford carve them open with ice in their veins. Press, pass, pull apart—and Silva with the simplest of finishes."

Liam Rosenior:

"That's a mature team goal. The first was patience, the second was pressure. That's both sides of the game."

Silva didn't celebrate wildly. He turned to Ibáñez, pointed twice at him, then pulled him into a quick embrace.

Jake clapped—once. Then pointed forward.

No letting up.

Bradford 2 – 0 PAOK

43 minutes gone. The Greek crowd? Murmuring now.

45+4' Minute – Halftime Whistle

The final few minutes of the half saw PAOK trying to recover their composure, stringing passes together—but nothing beyond the halfway line. Bradford had closed the lid.

When the referee blew for the interval after four minutes of added time, it wasn't a cheer from the away end.

It was a nod. A release.

Jake turned before the whistle even finished echoing. Hands in pockets. Straight down the tunnel.

The players followed—single file. No high fives. No smiles. They weren't celebrating a lead.

They were protecting a standard.

Inside the Tunnel – Halftime Team Talk

The door closed. The rain outside ticking against the dressing room windows now the only background noise.

Jake stood at the front—not pacing. Just standing. Calm.

Jake (quiet, clear):

"You earned two goals. But don't mistake that for control. You don't have control."

He turned to Vélez.

Jake:

"First touch has to be cleaner second half. You're two seconds away from being boxed in."

Then to Ibáñez.

Jake:

"Keep going. You're dictating tempo—don't drop into safe mode."

He looked to the front three.

Jake:

"More movement between the lines. Silva—don't just hold the width. Cut the gaps. Roney—don't press if the rest don't back it."

A pause.

Then one final note, to the room at large:

Jake:

"We're not managing a lead. We're managing our level. And I want it higher."

He stepped aside. Left the room to reset.

Kickoff coming.

Second half ready.

46' Minute – Fast Restart

The moment the whistle blew, PAOK were on it—no buildup, no preamble. Just urgency, teeth bared.

They funneled the ball wide right straight from the kickoff, looking to stretch Taylor immediately, looking to pull Barnes out of position. Their crowd roared like they'd already pulled one back—fire, flares, fists in the stands.

Conor McNamara (commentator):

"PAOK aren't waiting to feel this half out—they're charging into it."

A diagonal was clipped over the top, aimed between Fletcher and Barnes. Fletcher tracked the run tight. No hesitation. Barnes stepped back instead of forward—reading the second ball.

The PAOK winger reached it just outside the corner of the box, tried to take it down, spin, fire—

—but Barnes got there with a sweeping step, cleaving it off his boot and out to the sideline. No nonsense. No applause.

Liam Rosenior (co-comms):

"That's exactly what you want from your centre-backs when you're two-nil up away in Europe—first contact, then reset."

Taylor took the throw calmly. Bradford didn't rush to build. They cooled the pace with two passes between Ibáñez and Vélez, then turned PAOK's press around on them.

Reset. Re-establish. And once again, the Greek side were running without the ball.

54' Minute –

It began like many Bradford goals do—not with chaos, but with geometry.

A slow pendulum swing across the midfield, Vélez touching it back to Ibáñez, who nudged it laterally to Roney on the right. Nothing dangerous yet. Not until Roney received the ball on the half-turn, looked inside, and saw the gap—barely there, a sliver of grass between the white shirts.

One step infield. That was all it took.

The left-back followed, just enough. The winger baited him. Then came the cut.

Roney's boot angled toward the touchline—but the ball spun away instead, reverse-fed through the space his movement had just emptied. A disguised diagonal. Slid low. A reverse pass disguised as retreat.

Taylor was already in motion. This wasn't reactive football. This was recall—like a musician hitting a note three bars after the cue.

Liam Rosenior (co-comms):

"You don't run like that unless it's been drilled, detailed, and burned into your rhythm."

Taylor didn't take a heavy touch. He didn't slow. The ball met his stride like a baton in a relay. He surged down the right edge of the box, defender trailing now, PAOK's shape bending in panic.

The crowd saw the danger. They stood. Flares hissed behind the goal again, desperate to pull the atmosphere back toward belief.

Taylor had other ideas.

Inside the penalty area, he didn't go for the obvious. No laces-through-it strike. No blind square pass.

He paused. Eyes up. Waited for the defender to lunge—and when he did, Taylor cut the ball back along the six-yard line, low and wicked.

Conor McNamara (commentator):

"Taylor holds, waits, delivers—"

And Richter arrived.

The German didn't need to smash it. He stepped in with composure—his run looping through a gap that shouldn't have existed. A striker's run. Reading not the pass, but the aftermath.

One touch. Inside foot. The ball kissed the inside of the near post and rippled into the bottom corner.

The net barely moved.

Conor McNamara:

"Oh, that's clinical! That's Bradford's third—and it's Roney to Taylor to Richter. Ruthless geometry on Greek soil!"

Liam Rosenior:

"They're not just playing the game—they're dictating the rhythm. Every run's in time, every touch has shape."

Richter didn't celebrate with theatrics. No knee slide. No badge-pointing. Just a quiet gesture—a point to Taylor, then a slow turn back to the centre circle.

Taylor jogged after him, arms down, breath even.

Jake didn't move on the touchline.

He didn't need to.

Bradford 3 – PAOK 0.

And for the first time, even the PAOK fans weren't singing.

They were watching.

Because what they were seeing... wasn't just a scoreline.

It was a system. Working.

65' Minute – Substitutions

The fourth official stepped to the sideline, digital board already lit.

Jake stood beside him, arms loose at his sides. No clipboard. No shouts.

Just three numbers.

6. 26.

Out: Richter. Ibáñez. Taylor.

In: Obi. Chapman. Ford.

It wasn't a tactical shake—it was reinforcement. A preservation of the same message, but spoken with different voices.

Conor McNamara (commentator):

"Jake Wilson makes three changes here—not to disrupt—but to reset the tempo."

Liam Rosenior:

"Yeah, and this is where Bradford have grown—you're 3–0 up, away in Europe, and you bring on players who know exactly what the machine needs. That's maturity."

Obi jogged on with his usual calm swagger—no nerves, just presence. He bumped fists with Richter as they crossed paths, the striker offering a brief nod.

Chapman moved like he was already mid-match. No glances to the bench. No hesitation. He stepped into Ibáñez's spot as though the game was waiting for him to take the pen.

Ibáñez patted him once on the back, then muttered something in Spanish. A passing of rhythm.

And then there was Dylan Ford.

The teenager jogged on, cheeks flushed from the brisk Greek air, boots clapping against the turf. Taylor gave him a quick word and a squeeze on the shoulder before heading to the bench.

Ford took a moment—just one. Eyes up at the floodlights. Then he turned and found his line.

Left-back now. Another piece of the blueprint.

Jake remained still on the sideline, gaze sweeping the pitch—not at the scoreline, but at the spacing.

The changes had been made.

Not to react.

But to endure.

Because 25 minutes still remained—and Bradford had no interest in gambling with control.