Harbinger Of Glory

The restart was swift, Power rolling the ball back into play, but Wigan looked rattled.

The home fans tried to lift them with noise, yet on the pitch, the rhythm was broken.

And Leo, shoulders tight, still carried the image of Madelin’s strike in his head.

He knew the replay had shown it close.

He knew it wasn’t his fault.

But the teenager couldn’t shake the thought that he had to put it right.

”Don’t force it,” Tilt muttered near him, but Leo was already stepping higher than usual, eager to intercept, to prove something.

Blackpool saw it and within a minute, they worked it down Leo’s side, Carey clipping a neat ball between lines as Yates spun off the gap, sprinting into space.

”Yates is in again!” the commentator warned, voice spiking.

Leo turned late, chasing, but this time Darikwa bailed him out with a lung-busting recovery run.

The right-back/midfielder slid across, timing it perfectly to hook the ball clear, and the roar from the home crowd was relief more than celebration.

”That’s dangerous,” the co-commentator said, tone tightening.

”Leo, who was stepping out there, left the channel wide open. He’s got to cool his head. He’s talented enough to get minutes, but Championship strikers will punish you if you switch off.”

Leo exhaled sharply, already frustrated with himself, but his nerves twitched again.

And moments later, it nearly got worse.

A quick Blackpool throw found Patino, who shifted the ball effortlessly and slipped Madelin through.

The striker hammered a shot low across goal, and for a moment, it looked certain, but Jamie Jones exploded, flinging himself full stretch.

His fingertips just diverted the ball wide of the post as the lead commentator gasped.

”Oh my word! That is an outrageous save! Jamie Jones with one of the stops of the season, keeping Wigan alive!”

The DW roared in appreciation, a chorus of applause for their veteran keeper.

Leo, though, froze where he stood, chest heaving.

His gamble again had left space behind, and Jones had just rescued him.

Whatmough, though, wasn’t having it.

He turned sharply, bellowing over the noise.

”Leo! Keep your bloody cool!” he shouted, face red with fury.

”You’re not a kid out here anymore if you’re playing with us on the same level. So act like it!”

Leo flinched, jaw tightening, then nodded quickly, eyes flicking down at the turf.

He understood, even if his chest still burned with the urge to prove himself.

The cameras caught his face, and the commentary team picked it up.

”He’s beating himself up,” the co-commentator observed.

”You can see it in the body language. He wants to make amends, but sometimes the best thing a young midfielder turned defender can do is just... do the basics. Stay calm.”

Blackpool’s corner was swung in, bodies clashing inside the box.

Yates tried to climb highest, but Power stepped in with a crunching tackle as the ball spilt loose, muscling him off it.

The ball squirted wide, and as Yates tried to keep it alive, his heavy touch sent it dribbling over the line.

”Wigan ball,” the referee signalled, arm pointing.

Leo jogged across to collect it, the ball bouncing once in his hands.

Just behind him, Dawson was visible on the sideline, animated but composed, his arms spread in front of him, palms pressing down.

”Calm, Leo. Play it calm,” the young coach urged, voice carrying.

He gestured deliberately, two hands steady, urging patience.

Leo swallowed hard, throat dry.

He nodded once towards his manager, then wiped his palms on his shorts before winding up.

The throw went short, into Darikwa’s chest as the captain cushioned it back towards him, and without thinking, Leo caught it sweetly on the volley.

The pass whipped across the grass like a dart, slicing forty yards diagonally, fizzing perfectly into the path of McClean on the far side.

”Oh, that’s exquisite!” the commentator burst out. ”Out of nowhere, Leo sends a laser pass to switch play.”

The crowd gasped, then applauded, the moment like a jolt of electricity in the stadium.

McClean took it in stride, bursting down the left flank, and for the first time in minutes, Wigan pushed Blackpool back.

Leo jogged up, a little of the tightness in his chest easing.

Tom Naylor sidled across as play carried on, voice low but firm.

”Shift up, Leo. Go midfield. I’ll cover in defence. Make it right up there.”

Leo blinked, then looked instinctively to the sideline where Dawson was already nodding, waving him forward, urging him into the block of five midfielders.

The teenager obeyed, pushing higher, slotting in as the deepest man of the cluster, eyes now scanning ahead instead of behind.

He still looked uneasy, but the shape gave him more room to breathe.

Meanwhile, McClean whipped a cross in, only for Blackpool’s back line to smother it, clearing their lines.

”Better from Wigan,” the co-commentator said.

”That’s more like it. And fair play to Leo. He’s been under real pressure the last few minutes, but that pass to switch it, that’s what he can do. Now the question is: can he keep his head because the position he’s in right now doesn’t allow for mistakes?”

As Blackpool regained the ball and looked to counter again, the answer hung in the evening air, the tension in the DW Stadium thickening with every touch.

”Here come Blackpool again,” the commentator called as Dougall rolled the ball into the path of Sonny Carey.

The midfielder didn’t hesitate, pushing forward with quick strides, head up.

Max Power stepped in to block him, but Carey skipped past with a neat touch, brushing Power aside.

”Carey’s away... carrying the ball through midfield—”

But just as he looked to drive into open space, Leo came sliding in with perfect timing, studs low as he clipped the ball clean off Carey’s feet.

The Blackpool man went sprawling, arms out, appealing instantly, while the ball spilt loose.

Power was quickest to react.

He turned sharply, collecting the gift before scanning for an option.

Carey was still on the ground, shouting at the referee, who waved play on and after not finding any close option, Max Power turned.

And there was Leo again, already five, six yards away, springing back onto his feet.

Power fed it into him with a crisp pass.

The teenager shaped his body as if to drive forward, his first touch sending Patino lunging across to intercept.

But in a moment of cheek, Leo clipped the ball the other way with the outside of his boot, sending Patino stumbling past him to the other side, causing the latter to clip Leo’s trailing leg as he recovered, but the referee stretched both arms, shouting, ”Advantage!”

And Leo didn’t break stride.

From that half-falling position, he lashed his right foot through the ball, sending it streaking forty yards to the far side.

”Ohhh, what a pass!” the lead commentator roared, voice rising with the crowd.

”He’s seen Darikwa on the overlap! How on earth has he got that power, from that angle, while still going down?”

The ball zipped across the grass, almost like it was pulled on a string, straight into Darikwa’s stride.

The right wing-back took it without breaking step, pushing into space as the Blackpool defence scrambled back.

Darikwa glanced once, then whipped in a cross, sending a wicked delivery curling behind the centre-backs and dipping into the danger zone where Fletcher came surging out of nowhere, ghosting in behind the line.

He rose brilliantly and thumped a header toward goal—but

THUD!

The ball cannoned off the inside of the post and flew back out across the six-yard box.

Gasps exploded around the DW, half the stadium already halfway out of their seats.

”Ohhh! Off the woodwork!” the commentator cried. ”Fletcher was so close! Inches away from levelling it!”

Hands flew to heads all around the ground as Wigan fans groaned in unison, some collapsing back into their seats from their standing position.

Meanwhile, the Blackpool end exhaled as one, a guttural sigh of relief, their players hacking the rebound away with frantic boots.

”Can you believe it?” the co-commentator said breathlessly. ”That’s the difference in this game, so cancelling out, but instead it stays two-one.”

On the pitch, Darikwa was already beckoning furiously, waving his arm at Leo.

”Leo! Come on, you take it!” he shouted, pointing towards the spot for the free-kick that followed moments later.

The teenager, still catching his breath after that wild sequence, jogged across, the ball waiting for him again, the crowd buzzing at his name.

When he got close to the Darikwa, Leo was forced wide, the captain nudging him all the way until he found himself standing by the corner flag.

He steadied the ball beneath his boots, the Calderón chants swelling behind him, a wall of red and white urging him on.

He glanced up once, and inside the box was chaos, shirts tugging, arms raised—but his eyes flicked near post.

The Blackpool keeper was caught high, too far out, too uncertain.

If Leo could whip it right, danger was certain.

He stepped back, measured, then curled his left foot around the ball.

At first, it looked like a cross drifting outwards, harmless.

But as it cut through the night air, the bend grew sharper, dragging it inward towards goal.

”Oh, Calderon’s gone for it”

The keeper panicked, feet dancing between rushing out and dropping back. Finally, he lunged, hands stretching, too late, too awkward and then,

CLANG!

The ball smacked against the crossbar, ricocheted down into the sea of bodies as the gasps exploded into roars, the Wigan fans calling for a soul to nudge the ball past the line.

”Still alive here—Fletcher!” the commentator’s voice cracked with urgency.

The forward had been denied once tonight, but not again.

Rising above the melee, he powered a header from barely eight yards out.

The keeper, still reeling from his failed lunge, could only twist helplessly as the ball thundered past him, bouncing over the line.

”GOOOOOAL! They’ve done it again! Fletcher levels it—2-2!”

The DW exploded, the fans raining down cheers as the players surged toward the corner, where Leo had already turned to the crowd, fists pumping, mouth wide in a scream of triumph.

”Unbelievable scenes here! It was looking grim a couple of moments ago, but now, it’s turned. The momentum is with Wigan!” the commentator shouted over the din.

Fletcher was mobbed, buried under teammates, while the stands behind the flag became a storm of noise and celebration.

The equaliser had landed.