Harbinger Of Glory

”Welcome to the DW, where Wigan Athletic prepare for their first home game since those back-to-back away wins reignited belief,” the commentator began, voice smooth, practised.

”Two changes for the Latics today. It won’t be most, but I’m sure a few fans will be expecting to get a glimpse of the wizard who bamboozled at Vicarage Road.”

A close-up of Leo in the warm-up bib pinging a pass across the pitch settled on the screen as the cheers of the fans rose.

”Seventeen years old. No senior starts yet. But maybe... just maybe— he might be the revelation Wigan need to escape their mediocrity”

.......

”Thank you,” Noah Sarin mumbled as he stumbled off the bus with the kind of exhaustion that came from 48 hours of screen glare and lukewarm coffee.

His backpack thudded against his side as he jogged toward the DW Stadium gates, eyes already scanning the concrete giant ahead.

He held up his phone, the e-ticket glowing against the fading afternoon light.

The steward barely glanced at it before waving him on.

”Go on,” the man muttered, sighing as he stepped aside.

Noah nodded in thanks and pushed through, blinking as he entered the heart of it — the bowl of noise, colour, and anticipation.

Fans were already rising to their feet.

Red seats. Blue flags.

A sea of bobbing heads and a palpable charge in the air that no screen could replicate.

From his low angle, the big screen caught his eye as it flickered to life.

A boy’s face filled it.

Leo.

A slight grin on the boy’s face as he continued to zip passes around with his teammates.

Below the image:

LEO CALDERÓN – MAN OF THE MATCH – WATFORD 1–2 WIGAN

The stadium announcer’s voice cracked through the mic.

”Seventeen years old. Wigan academy graduate. Man of the Match in just his second senior appearance... One of our own, Number 22 — Leo Calderón!”

The crowd clapped with a few whistles in between.

He wasn’t a cult hero yet, but he had bossed their midfield to a win in the previous match, so this much appreciation and encouragement was well deserved.

Noah, on the other hand, didn’t move.

He just stared on as the applause of the crowd began to subside.

He’d flown across countries for talent before.

Spent thousands to get ahead of a signing.

And now, he was here, running on fumes and cheap bus tickets.

Because of a feeling.

Because of this kid.

He weaved through the rows, past fans unwrapping meat pies and trading bets.

At one point, he stepped over a child’s legs without looking.

The pitch pulled him forward, and the sound folded in around him — boots knocking balls on turf, the steady thump of the stadium playlist, the rise and fall of casual fan chatter.

He finally dropped into a seat near the front — second row off the sideline.

He didn’t notice the two women beside him: one young, full of energy, already bouncing in her seat, the other older, calm, wearing a soft new Wigan scarf, telling by the glossy surface of the scarf.

Noah’s eyes stayed on the pitch.

Leo was there.

In motion.

The ball zipped toward him, and in one move, he caressed it, passed, received it again, turned.

A one-two, then a switching ball to the opposite flank.

Like a conductor in motion, tuning the orchestra before the symphony began.

Noah leaned forward, taking it all in as his mouth opened slightly, not to speak but to breathe.

Someone behind him was calling.

”Excuse me, mate—? Hey! You’re blocking—” But Noah didn’t hear them.

He didn’t even flinch until a small hand tapped his elbow.

He blinked and turned.

The teenager beside him smiled up at him, amused.

”Oh, sorry,” Noah murmured, half-shuffling aside as the person standing walked away.

Back on the pitch, Leo was glancing up.

His head swivelled along the stands, slow, methodical as he made eye contact with a section.

A spark lit behind his eyes before he lifted his hand and waved towards that section where the girl beside Noah nearly exploded.

”He’s waving! He saw us!”

Her arms flew into the air, as the woman beside her chuckled, calm pride glinting in her eyes.

Noah followed the gesture, glancing over — then back toward Leo.

Then to the woman.

”Is he your son?” he called, but the woman looked at him weirdly before chuckling.

”Do I look that old to have a 17-year-old son?” Sofia said, causing Noah to chuckle while shaking his head.

”He’s my niece.”

Noah’s brow twitched. ”You mean—”

”My niece,” she repeated, holding his gaze. ”Leo is family. Sort.”

Noah nodded once but didn’t speak again and turned towards the pitch.

Sofia continued to stare at him for a while as the strange man in front of him could be said to be a bit of a looker, but she turned away when she realised she had been staring too long.

On the pitch, the warm-up was called to a close as the players clapped, slapped hands, and trotted toward the tunnel.

Leo jogged with them, tugging off his training bib.

Inside the tunnel, Dawson was already pacing.

He stood at the centre of the circle, players hunched around him — some crouched, others shoulder-to-shoulder.

The tunnel lights flickered overhead.

”Alright,” Dawson said.

”Same eleven as Watford. Bench, stay sharp. We might need all of you.”

He paused as his eyes settled on Leo, who stood by the wall, slipping into his black Wigan puffy jacket, arms through sleeves.

”But listen,” Dawson added, firmer now. ”This is our ground. Our fans. We’ve been away for some weeks, and now we’re back — and we do not lose this one. Not today.”

The silence before the response was tight and hot.

Then a roar broke out.

Shoulders clashed as hands slapped backs.

The players surged toward the tunnel mouth with boots hitting concrete.

Sunlight — pale, sharp and dying — waited at the edge of the pitch.

Commentary picked up on the stadium feed:

”Back at the DW for the first time in nearly a month. Wigan is riding on the momentum of back-to-back away wins. Leo Calderón — the name everyone’s been whispering is on the bench, but we can expect him to come off the bench. Wigan now returns to home soil. Can they make it three in a row?”

Leo blinked under the lights, the puffy jacket still tight on his shoulders as the DW breathed him in for the very first time.

He followed the rest of the bench members towards the dugout and behind them, Wigan stepped out of the tunnel with the roar of the crowd swelling behind them.

.....

Handshakes were done soon, and the coin toss flicked, landed, and the referee gave a nod.

Stoke kicked off.

And just like that, the game snapped into motion.

No slow buildup or warming your way into a game like this.

This was the Championship.

And Stoke played like it — physical from the off, the first pass barely completed before a thundering shoulder met Tom Naylor in midfield.

”Welcome back to the DW!” the commentator cracked, chuckling into the mic.

”This one’s already got spice.”

The first real tussle came in the third minute when a loose touch skidded the ball free near midfield — and suddenly it was a 50-50 ball.

Cousins lunged in with pace and met boot with boot.

The ball popped up like a cork as he and the other player crashed.

The home crowd roared approval for the fight they were seeing early on in the game.

This wasn’t the old Wigan style, but they were liking it.

Tom Naylor was there first on the second ball.

He swept it wide with one motion, and Joe Bennett, now with the ball, didn’t hesitate and tore forward.

With a quick glance, he whipped a cross toward the near post, but there was too much on it.

The Stoke keeper didn’t gamble.

He jumped and punched awkwardly, two fists, both boots off the ground.

”Early nerves from Bursik there,” the commentator remarked, ”and Wigan are buzzing.”

The ball didn’t clear well.

A Stoke defender tried to clean up, hoofing it skyward, flat and high — only for Whatmough to time his leap perfectly, hanging like scaffolding in the air and nodding it back down to Naylor again.

On the sideline, Dawson was already out of his seat. Arms waving and urging his players on.

From the bench, Leo Calderón sat with his hands clasped, elbows resting on his thighs.

His eyes were locked to the pitch, tracking everything.

”Fast start,” muttered McClean, who had been relegated to the bench after his injury scare in the previous game.

He sat beside him, stretching one leg with the physio.

”They’ll need to breathe soon.”

Leo turned his gaze towards the pitch where Stoke were now on the attack.

A/N: Another for you guys. Sorry for not releasing yesterday. Ok, now let me go and write the Chapter for the other book. Bye for now.