Harbinger Of Glory

Media Room – Christopher Park Training Ground

October 20, 2022 – 9:02 a.m.

The microphones were already hot.

Eyes sharp.

No one here wanted soundbites — they wanted news and flashy ones.

Dawson stepped up to the podium, posture straight and eyes sharp but one could tell from a glance that from behind that look was a man who knew he was one more poor result from being the headline — not just a quote in one.

The first voice came from The Wigan Chronicle’s Mark Attley — always professional, but rarely polite.

”Coach, let’s not sugarcoat it. Four games, four losses. Hull picked you apart with tempo, Cardiff bullied your midfield, Sunderland outworked you, and Middlesbrough humiliated you. At what point does this stop being a rough patch and start being a collapse?”

Dawson let the silence stretch before replying.

”We’ve had a brutal stretch, no question. But every season has one. You don’t tear down the house after a storm — you reinforce the beams.”

Another journalist — Danni Collins from Football North — leaned in.

”But this isn’t just a form issue, is it? There’s no identity on the pitch. Your press is inconsistent, the wide coverage has been poor since Max Power’s injury, and the midfield looks lost without balance. What are you actually coaching right now?”

Dawson sighed a bit before turning towards the source of the question.

”We’re coaching cohesion. And it’s hard to build that when key pieces keep dropping out. But I believe in the system. I believe in the players. It’s about getting the right players in the right spaces — consistently.”

Someone from the national circuit cut in next.

”Fans are furious. #DawsonOut was trending after Middlesbrough. Some of them are saying you’ve lost the dressing room. Can you honestly stand here and say the squad is still with you?”

”I don’t manage hashtags. I manage footballers,” Dawson said evenly.

”And those lads are still working their socks off. They’re hurting — but they haven’t quit.”

Another reporter raised a hand but didn’t wait to be called before firing away.

”You’ve been reluctant to use some of the academy talent despite having some of the most highly rated youth crops in the league in your U23s. At what point do you admit experience isn’t solving anything?”

Dawson tilted his head.

”We’ve brought in younger players where we can. But I’m not going to throw them into chaos to tick a development box. When they’re ready, they’ll play. Not before.”

Then a final, biting question from the back.

”Be honest, Coach — do you think this squad, as it stands, can actually get promoted? Or is the ’Championship return’ just a slogan now?”

Dawson stepped forward.

”That’s still the goal. Even now and especially now. We just have to play proper and defend properly.”

He glanced across the room, took in the flashes of cameras, the click-clack of keys already tweeting, summarizing, misquoting.

”You don’t win promotions by panicking. You win them by solving problems. One at a time. That’s what we’re doing.”

With that, he stepped down from the podium and out through the side door where Nolan looked up from his phone after seeing Dawson’s exit.

Dawson exhaled.

”Status?”

”Morale’s thin. The kid from the U23’s also sprained his ankle so it’s really tough. We had to field a few players out of position in today’s training.”

Dawson shook his head.

”Yeah, I just heard all of that from ten different voices with press passes.”

He turned to walk, then paused.

”Leo?”

Nolan straightened slightly.

”Gareth signed off this morning and Thompson moved him up. Trained with the U23s today in a full contact session and he didn’t have any setbacks.”

Dawson raised an eyebrow.

”Did he look up for it?”

”He looked okay. A bit duller than usual but he just got back. Might have to get some slight therapy since the injury mindset might still loom over him.”

Dawson gave a slow nod.

”Then tell the kitman and Malachi — Leo’s joining the senior squad bus for QPR. Full kit. Name and number of his choice.”

”You want him in the squad?” Nolan asked, already half-texting.

”I want him on the grass,” Dawson said.

”Even if he only plays five minutes, he needs to know he’s in.”

Nolan nodded, tapping faster.

Dawson stared ahead at nothing in particular before walking away with Nolan following behind still on his phone.

.......

Training Ground – Post-Session, October 20, 2022

”Leo!” a voice called as the person in question turned towards the voice.

Thompson was marching toward him, clipboard in hand, rain sticking to his sleeves.

”We are a bit late with this as Dawson hadn’t made up his mind yet but you’re on the bus tomorrow,” Thompson said, blunt as ever.

”QPR. Now head to Player Liaison, then Malachi’s office. Sort name and number. We’re running late, so don’t mess about.”

Leo blinked.

”Wait—what?”

”Don’t wait. Move.”

He didn’t need to be told twice as he walked absentmindedly towards the staff complex.

When Leo got to Malachi’s office, the door was half-open.

He knocked and Malachi looked up from his screen.

”Calderon,” he said with a quick nod.

”Been a while.”

Leo stepped in, breath still a little uneven.

”I’m told I need to get a number.”

Malachi l

eaned back in his chair and gave Leo a once-over.

Not disrespectful — just measured.

Like a man checking if someone had really grown into the moment.

”It’s time for that huh,” Malachi said, before continuing, ”Thought I’d be seeing you soon but not this soon.”

Leo didn’t respond to the praise.

Didn’t know how to.

Malachi tapped his tablet.

”Seventeen’s taken. You wore it with the U21s, yeah?”

Leo nodded.

”Closest available are 18, 21, 22.”

Leo hesitated before, ”Twenty-two,” he said.

Malachi nodded.

”Alright. You’ll have a full kit waiting in the team room tomorrow morning. Travel jacket too.”

He reached for the phone, spoke into it quickly.

As he hung up, he looked back at Leo, a subtle smile etched on his face.

”You might not get minutes. Or maybe you will. Either way — don’t play it like it’s borrowed.”

Leo met his gaze, before nodding.

Malachi gave the faintest grin.

”Good. Now go and have some rest.”

Leo walked out of the office slower than he’d arrived.

It was happening.

Really happening.

A few months ago, he was the academy ghost who walked out of Carrington without his presence even being felt.

Now, he was finally on the starting line.

”Wait, let me tell Sofia and Mia,” he said before pulling out his phone as he walked to his room,

Leo barely slept that night.

He’d tried.

Tossed from one side to the other.

Flipped the pillow.

Played some white noise.

Turned it off.

Got up to stretch and even tried meditating but gave up after ninety seconds.

The excitement buzzed under his skin.

His first time traveling with the senior squad.

First time with his name on a kit that counted.

Eventually, sleep came — just not long enough.

He overslept by an hour, heart thudding when he saw the time, but calmed down when he remembered: the coach wasn’t leaving yet.

He dressed quickly, grabbed his boots, and made his way to the senior complex, nerves humming beneath his hoodie.

By the time he got there, the bus was idling.

Kit bags were being loaded in and staff were passing equipment back and forth.

Dawson, just about to enter the bus saw Leo approaching.

”How’s the stomach?” he asked, putting one foot on the stair to the bus.

Leo cracked a grin.

”Haven’t thrown up yet.”

”Good. Let’s keep it that way,” he said as he made way for Leo who climbed aboard but just then,

”Christ,” came a voice from just inside, half-loud, half-daggers, ”we’re just handing these seats out now, aren’t we?”

Leo paused, mid-step.

James McClean, veteran winger/midfielder, arms crossed, leg stretched into the aisle stared at Leo like he had wronged him.

”You got the bloodline, kid? Or just someone whispering your name upstairs?”

The bus went quiet — not out of shock, but discomfort.

Like this wasn’t the first time McClean had thrown shade, just the newest target.

Leo kept his head down and walked past but, ”Bet he’ll be shipped off to the National League by December,” McClean muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Leo, with a wry expression, continued before a voice leaned over.

Chris Sze, 19, attacking midfielder, not long out of the U23s himself extended an arm towards the seat beside him, gesturing for Leo to sit down.

”Don’t mind him,” Chris said under his breath.

”James is alright once he trusts you. This run’s making him... different.”

Leo nodded stiffly, trying to breathe through the sudden knot in his chest.

Chris nudged him gently.

”He said the same thing about me last month but I tackled him so hard he stopped bothering me.”

Leo managed a small smile.

A few minutes later, Dawson stepped onto the bus, did a quick head count, then nodded at the driver.

”Let’s go.”

The engine growled.

The wheels began to turn and soon, Leo was on his first matchday in the senior team.