Harbinger Of Glory

”Dawson’s not happy,” the commentator added as the whistle went again.

”And you can see why, but his team’s got a fight on their hands now. One-nil to Boro, thirty-eight minutes gone, and it’s getting tense.”

On the sides, Leo stood, a mix of tension and readiness in his body as he took the shirt from the kitman.

His fingers trembled slightly, something that had always happened since he began gaining more and more minutes on the pitch.

On the pitch, the Wigan players were walking back to their positions after a quick huddle near the halfway line.

The away fans were still singing, red scarves flashing in the stands like streaks of victory.

Dawson turned toward Leo, his expression firm but not harsh.

”Take it easy,” he said, voice low but audible above the hum.

”Grow into it and don’t rush yourself. Just play what’s in front of you.”

Leo nodded, eyes flicking once toward the pitch, before stepping right onto the line.

The substitution board went up, the number 22 glowing in bright green as Leo exhaled quietly.

The referee was waiting by the centre circle, holding the ball.

”Substitution for Wigan Athletic...” the announcer’s voice boomed through the stadium speakers.”Coming off, number 6, Cousins. Coming on, number 22, Leo Calderon.”

Leo looked to his right, where Cousins was exiting the pitch, showing him a nod of sympathy, as the latter turned back before Leo stepped past the white line.

”Well, that wasn’t planned, was it? But here he is, the youngest player on Wigan’s first team at the moment. A name that the fans had come to know in recent times”

”It’s a hard game to come into, especially against a side like Middlesbrough. They’re fifth in the table for a reason, and right now they’ve got that edge in rhythm and confidence as well as the lead. But I am sure Dawson sees something to forego the other players on the pitch for this youngster.”

Leo jogged into position, the noise of the crowd folding into a dull thrum in his ears.

Middlesbrough players were already setting up for the restart, a few glancing toward him with passing curiosity, another new face, another young hopeful.

He took a breath, steadying himself.

Away from the pitch and high up in the main stand, two men sat side by side, each wearing long coats and matching expressions of mild disinterest.

They spoke quietly, in Italian.

”Is that him?” the one on the left asked, squinting toward the pitch as Leo adjusted his socks.

”This is the boy Piatelli was so excited about? I heard the kid doesn’t even have Italian citizenship. What is wrong with him.”

His colleague nodded.

”Apparently. The federation sent a U21 call-up for him for the upcoming friendlies.”

”Madonna mia,” the first man muttered.

”Seventeen, with not even five professional starts? Is Piatelli losing it?”

The second man chuckled softly, leaning back.

”Maybe he sees something we don’t. You know how he is, he likes a statement move. A prodigy to show off in the press.”

The first man snorted.

”A prodigy? He looks like he should be carrying the cones, not playing midfield.”

His colleague tilted his head, watching as Leo received a quick first touch from a throw-in.

”Well... at least he’s handsome. We could use him as a mascot if nothing else.”

That earned a laugh.

”Perfect. The face of the next Italian generation.”

They both smiled faintly, but their eyes didn’t leave the field.

No matter how rigid Piatelli was, he was competent enough to be in his position.

Still, the opponent weren’t going to take it easy just because a minor was playing.

If you were good enough, then you were old enough to tussle with them in the mud.

Middlesbrough were relentless.

The moment play resumed, they pushed forward again, quick passes, overlapping runs, their shape stretching Wigan thin across the already thin back line.

Every clearance seemed to find a red shirt waiting at the edge of the box, ready to fire it straight back.

The away fans were roaring with every half-chance, their confidence growing with each minute.

”Wigan are under real pressure here,” the commentator called, voice rising over the hum of the crowd. ”They just can’t get out of their own half. Middlesbrough have their foot firmly on the gas!”

Leo had drifted so deep he was practically standing between the centre-backs now, eyes darting across the pitch.

He had only been on for a few minutes at most, but his lungs burned.

The game had turned into wave after wave of red shirts crashing toward them.

Every time the ball came into the box, chaos followed.

A long-range effort flew just wide of the post, a warning shot, but then another clipped the bar, drawing a groan from the home supporters.

Then a sharp exchange down the flank opened space for Watmore, who whipped a dangerous cross into the middle.

Hackney rose to meet it, but Whatmough got there first, the ball smashing off both heads and dropping loose in the six-yard area.

”Still alive in there!”

Ben Amos darted forward from his line, booting through the crowd of legs.

The ball rocketed outward, spinning awkwardly through the air.

It was heading straight for Leo.

He steadied himself, muscles coiled.

But before he could touch it down, Giles came sprinting in, fast, hungry, ready to press.

Leo shaped his body like he was about to roll it back to Amos in a fit of pressure, eyes flicking toward the keeper as if preparing to recycle play.

Giles bit, and the wing back lunged, stretching his leg in anticipation of the back pass.

But Leo didn’t pass it.

He waited a heartbeat, then rolled the ball the other way, nudging it through Giles’ legs.

The home crowd gasped.

A few fans even groaned in that disgusted sound football crowds make when someone does something audacious in a dangerous spot.

”Oh, that’s audacious by Calderon!” the commentator came as Leo burst forward, touching the ball once, twice, escaping the press as Akpom closed in from behind.

His stride lengthened, smooth, gliding, and suddenly, Wigan had a way out.

The commentators could feel it too.

”And here’s Leo Calderon! The youngster, showing nerves of steel there, that was brilliant footwork! He’s carried it out from his own area!”

The little run by Leo had gotten the fans riled up.

For the first time in nearly ten minutes, the noise felt alive, hopeful.

Leo pushed the ball past one, then another, cutting diagonally across the half.

But just as he hit the halfway line, a blur of red slid across his path, in the form of Jonny Howson, the Boro captain, with a perfectly timed lunge.

Leo jumped instinctively, his boots skimming just above the slide as the ball ricocheted out of play, bouncing near the touchline.

Howson got to his feet, brushing the grass from his shorts before wagging a finger toward Leo — no, no, no — the universal sign of a veteran telling a kid he won’t be getting away with that again.

”That’s a real statement from the captain there, but that was dangerous too,” one of the commentators said with a laugh. ”Howson is really giving the youngster the proper Championship welcome that the other teams had failed to give.”

”Yeah, but fair play to Calderon,” his partner replied. ”That little run has just lifted Wigan out of a horrible spell. He’s got courage, this lad. He’s not hiding.”

The throw-in came quickly from Darkiwa, who tossed it short, but before anyone could do more, the referee’s whistle cut through the noise.

Everyone froze.

Then came the collective sighs, the shuffle of boots, the slow drop of shoulders. It was half-time.

”And that’ll do it for the first half,” came the voice of the commentator, fading slightly beneath the crowd’s murmur.

”Wigan go into the break trailing one-nil, but they’ve just about hung in there.”

Dawson stood near the touchline, one hand on his hip, the other raised slightly as if trying to bottle his frustration.

The noise around the DW Stadium softened as the players began making their way towards the tunnel.

Leo stood a few yards away, near the edge of the pitch, catching his breath.

His chest rose and fell rapidly, his shirt clinging to him.

The ache in his thigh from one of the earlier shots pulsed in time with his heartbeat, a dull warmth that reminded him just how much ground he’d covered since coming on.

But he didn’t feel out of place anymore.

It was small, but it was something.

A spark as little as it was, was still a spark.

”Well, if there’s one positive for Wigan in that half,” the commentator said, his tone thoughtful now, ”it’s the impact of young Calderon. The 17-year-old didn’t hide after coming on. Showed some real composure under pressure. You can see why the coaches like him.”

His co-commentator chuckled softly.

”Yeah, you’ve got to admire that. A lot of players that age would’ve panicked inside their own box. He’s brave, maybe a bit too brave, but that’s what this team needs.”

”One-nil to Middlesbrough at the break,” the commentator continued. ”We hope the second will be as exciting as what the first half has given us in these final moments.”