Harbinger Of Glory

[73’]

The fourth official held up his board, the bright digits flashing against the night sky above the DW Stadium.

Three Wigan players were waiting on the touchline with their training tops now stripped and ready to come on.

”Looks like a triple change coming up here for Wigan in the sixty-ninth minute,” one of the commentators said, his voice steady but intrigued.

”Fletcher, Max Power... and the teenager, Leo, waiting as well. That’s three big alterations from Dawson’s side.”

”Yeah, you can understand the thinking, at least for some part”, his co-commentator replied.

”Fletcher’s a like-for-like swap for Keane up front, Power will tuck into midfield for Shinnie... but once again it’s Leo who catches the eye. He’s about to come on for Edmond-­Green, and it looks like they’re going to ask him to fill in at centre-half. Second game in a row he’s been asked to do that job.”

There was a brief pause as the camera cut to the young man standing patiently by the fourth official.

Leo’s face was taut and serious, his eyes locked on the pitch as though already visualising his first duel.

”It’s interesting,” the first commentator continued, ”because he’s naturally a midfielder. Still, the staff clearly feel he’s disciplined enough, calm enough in possession, to slot in alongside Tilt and Whatmough. It’s not an easy ask, though, especially against this Blackpool frontline. But if he can do good, his long balls will be something Blackpool will have to watch out for.”

Down on the sideline, Edmond-Green jogged off, a layer of sweat glistening on his forehead.

He slapped Leo’s hand firmly, a look of encouragement passing between them.

The teenager bent down briefly, brushing his fingertips across the grass in a small ritual, before jogging onto the pitch.

He slotted into the back line, shoulder to shoulder with Tilt, giving himself a quick scan of the field before settling.

”Another big moment for the youngster,” the co-commentator murmured. ”Straight into the thick of it.”

The referee whistled the restart, and Blackpool wasted no time.

From the touchline came a long throw, hurled deep into Wigan’s half.

The ball spiralled through the air, landing awkwardly near the centre where Carey, positioned smartly, flicked it on with his boot.

”Carey just helping it on... and now here’s Yates!”

Jerry Yates seized upon the loose ball, controlling it sharply and bursting forward with intent.

His eyes lit up as he saw space opening.

But right in front of him was Leo, lowering his stance, body angled.

”Here we go,” the first voice said. ”Straight into the heat of it. Leo’s going to be tested immediately.”

Yates dropped a shoulder, trying to shift inside onto his stronger right foot.

But Leo shuffled neatly, mirroring him, then pivoted side-on.

The teenager didn’t lunge, didn’t panic.

He kept his ground, forcing the forward to change course.

”That’s good defending,” the second commentator praised. ”Look at that, he’s not diving in, he’s making Yates do the work.”

Frustrated, Yates tried once more to cut in, but Leo’s positioning was stubborn.

With no option but to head wide, Yates obliged, drifting towards the channel.

He wound up to sling in a cross, but just as the ball left his foot, a blur of navy blue came crashing across.

”Darikwa! Brilliant recovery tackle!”

The Wigan full-back had read it perfectly, slicing across Yates to hook the ball away.

He stumbled slightly through the challenge but managed to clip it back upfield.

Still, the clearance wasn’t clean as Carey was charging in again.

Before the midfielder could pounce, Leo stepped forward sharply.

With a delicate touch, he lifted the ball over Carey’s leg, sending it spinning into the open green space down the flank.

”Oh, that’s lovely from Leo!” the commentator cried.

”One-on-one with Yates, keeps his nerve, then a little clip over Carey to release Darikwa into space. That’s classy.”

The crowd responded with a ripple of applause, a low hum of appreciation for the teenager’s composure.

Leo jogged up the pitch at a measured pace, glancing over his shoulder, checking the line while Darikwa surged onto the ball, driving forward, but before anything more dangerous could develop, he was chopped down crudely from behind.

”Ah, that’s poor from Dougall,” the co-commentator groaned as the referee’s whistle shrilled.

”He’s been nibbling all game, and finally the referee’s had enough.”

The referee was already reaching into his pocket.

Dougall threw up his hands in mock innocence, but there was no escape as the yellow card flashed under the floodlights.

”Yeah, no complaints,” the first voice said firmly. ”He’s been on the edge with a few challenges, and once again, it’s Darikwa on the receiving end. Still, that entire passage started with the kid, Leo, showing real maturity at the back. That’s what you want to see, composure, decision-making, the ability to pick a pass.”

The free-kick was placed just inside Blackpool’s half, a chance for Wigan to load the box.

Power stood over it, glancing at the cluster of blue shirts waiting near the penalty area, and then he whipped the ball in.

The delivery was decent, swinging high toward the edge of the six-yard box.

”Good ball in,” one of the commentators called as the players jostled under the lights.

But a Blackpool head rose highest, husky defender Marvin Ekpiteta, who powered it clear.

The clearance, however, didn’t go far.

It dropped to the feet of Charlie Patino just inside his own half, the Arsenal loanee cushioning the ball instantly and driving forward.

”Uh-oh, here’s trouble,” the co-commentator muttered.

”Patino on the break... he’s got space to run into.”

Patino surged, smooth on the ball, his stride effortless.

He skipped past one Wigan midfielder, then ghosted around another, barely breaking rhythm as the home crowd groaned, sensing danger.

”Lovely feet,” the lead commentator praised.

”That’s why they rate him so highly at Arsenal, slips past challenges as if they’re not even there.”

As he reached the halfway line, Patino spotted Yates peeling off the shoulder of Tilt.

With a quick glance, he pinged a perfectly weighted pass through the channel.

”Oh, that’s clever!”

Yates latched onto it, racing in behind, but Leo had stepped up a fraction, gambling for the offside trap, yet the flag stayed down.

”He’s on! He’s onside!”

Leo spun immediately, a flash of realisation hitting him as he turned into a sprint.

He chased, closing the ground as Yates carried the ball forward.

And just before the teenager could reach him, Yates slipped a square pass into the path of Madelin.

The striker, fresh-legged and lurking, met it first time, with a CRACK, as the ball thundered into the roof of the net, past Jamie Jones before he could even flinch.

The away section behind the goal erupted, a wall of orange bouncing and roaring in unison.

”Goal for Blackpool! And it’s Madelin with the finish!” the commentator cried, voice cutting through the noise.

”The substitute introduced in the second half and he makes an impact. Blackpool lead here at the DW Stadium, seventy-two minutes gone!”

The Blackpool players wheeled away towards their supporters, fists pumping, their bench rising to its feet in celebration.

But the Wigan back line, led by Leo, weren’t happy.

He turned immediately to the referee and the near-side assistant, arm raised, face twisted with disbelief.

”Offside! Offside! He’s off!” he protested, voice cutting through the din as Tilt and Whatmough backed him, pointing furiously at the linesman.

Even Jamie Jones jogged out of his goal to add his two cents, but the referee, calm but firm, shook his head and gestured them back.

”Play on. No offside,” he said, ushering them away.

The broadcast replay flashed up, and the commentary team drew in a breath.

”Let’s have a look here,” the co-commentator said, eyes narrowing.

The slow-motion angle showed Yates making his run just as Patino released the ball.

It was tight, very tight.

From one angle, it looked like his shoulder might’ve been leaning beyond Leo.

”Ohh... now that’s close,” the lead commentator admitted.

”I’ll tell you what, that could easily have been flagged. You’ve seen them given. Without VAR in the Championship, though, it’s the assistant’s call. And he kept the flag down.”

”Harsh on Leo,” his partner agreed. ”He stepped up at the right time, just trying to hold that line, but he’s been punished for it. Margins like that, they decide games.”

The camera cut briefly to Leo, jogging back towards the centre circle as he let out a wry chuckle, shaking his head as if to say, Of course.

A couple of his teammates were still muttering, but Darikwa tapped Leo on the shoulder, calming him down.

”Come on, let’s get on with it,” his body language suggested.

The referee marched the protesting Wigan shirts back, pointing firmly to the halfway line where the ball was already being carried there by Power for the restart, the crowd still buzzing with the aftershock of the goal.

”Blackpool’s travelling support are in full voice now,” the commentator added, his tone rising with the atmosphere.

”Seventy-five minutes on the clock, and the Tangerines have stolen the advantage. Wigan will have to dig deep to find a response.”