Harbinger Of Glory

[Wigan Locker Room]

Ezra dropped into the seat beside Leo almost as soon as he got there.

His face was still flushed from the last sprint he had made before the whistle as Leo handed him a bottle of water without saying anything at first.

Ezra twisted the cap off and took a long drink, then set it on the floor and leaned back with a sharp exhale.

”I don’t feel too good. I almost dropped on the pitch twice out there,” he muttered, still catching his breath.

Leo nudged his knee lightly.

”Just keep it together. We’re still in this.”

Ezra nodded and closed his eyes for a moment, letting his breathing settle.

Across the room, Dawson stood in front of the tactics board with his arms folded.

He hadn’t said a word since they walked in.

Most of the players avoided looking directly at him.

After a bit, he brought his hands down and clapped once.

”Settle down.”

The conversations and breaths quieted as even the physio paused, massaging the players who had requested.

”You know,” he said, ”I’m starting to think the media might be right about one thing. They say we can’t play a decent match unless every key player is on the pitch.”

He shook his head slowly as he paced around.

”I’ve tried to brush that aside, but you lot are close to proving them right today.”

Some players lowered their eyes while others straightened up as if bracing for more.

Dawson looked at Charlie Hughes first while searching for the right words to say.

”Charlie, I need you to listen to Tilt. Properly listening. You two need to stay in sync. When you don’t, it’s chaos. I don’t want to see you drifting off on your own again.”

Hughes nodded right away.

”Got it, boss. He called it out. I should’ve tucked in quicker.”

”Good,” Dawson replied.

”I’m not digging you out for the sake of it. Fix it.”

He pointed toward the midfielders next.

”We’re playing a two-pivot with Naylor and Max Power. So when we’re not on the ball, Lang, Aasgaard, I want you tucking in. Narrower. Make them work for every passing lane. If they want to move wide, let them move wide. Just don’t let them walk through the middle.”

Both inside forwards nodded as Aasgaard rubbed the sweat off his face with the heel of his palm, still listening closely.

Dawson stepped back from the board and looked around the room, making eye contact with each player one by one.

”And don’t fool yourselves. Sunderland don’t even have two of their best boys out there today. They’re missing quality, and they’re still controlling parts of the match. That should tell you everything. It’s not going to get easier because they are eventually going to bring them on.”

”So get into it. Get serious. Or you’re coming off. I mean that.”

Players exchanged brief looks as Dawson gave a final nod.

”Right. Do what you will before the second half starts because, play unsatisfactorily once more, and you will be hooked.”

He nodded once and then turned towards the door as the physios and masseurs continued what they were doing before Dawson started his speech.

Dawson let his shoulders fall once the door swung shut behind him as he rubbed a hand across his forehead and exhaled slowly.

Nolan appeared from the corner like he had been waiting for him.

”You alright?” he asked, then gave a small laugh. ”You looked like you hated every second of that talk.”

Dawson shook his head.

”It’s not that I hated it. We’ve all played before. We know how it feels when a coach tells you straight that you’re not doing well enough.”

Nolan nodded, still amused.

”Doesn’t matter. You still have to say it. Better you than someone on the outside tearing into them.”

”Yeah,” Dawson muttered. ”I know.”

He started walking down the tunnel, steps steady now that the talk was done, while Nolan fell in beside him, hands tucked behind his back as they made their way toward the pitch entrance.

The distant chant of the home support was growing louder by the second, rolling through the concrete walls in waves.

Seven minutes later, the teams emerged.

The noise swelled immediately in fan applause, whistles, and the crowd bouncing on their feet, trying to push their sides back into the groove of the second half.

Some supporters reached over the railings, shouting names, waving scarves, and urging their players to dig in after a frustrating first half.

”Welcome back,” the commentator said as the broadcast cut in. ”Both teams are out again for the second half, and no visible changes to personnel. It seems even Coach Dawson is sticking to his eleven.”

His co-commentator added, ”Makes sense. He’ll want a reaction from this group before thinking about adjustments. And as a young coach, I am sure he won’t shy away from taking risks.”

On the pitch, players drifted back into their positions, stretching lightly, jogging a few steps to loosen up before the official nudged the ball towards Broadhead.

Broadhead tapped the ball backwards after the whistle, and the second half rolled into motion.

Wigan stepped forward almost at once, spreading themselves into small pockets inside Sunderland’s half, trying to claim territory early.

The ball worked its way back to Jamie Jones, who let it run a step across his body before sending it long.

His kick carried over the centre circle, dropping into a crowd of bodies where shirts from both sides jostled and swung at it.

It broke kindly for Lang, and he brought it down with a neat touch, then bounced a quick pass into Ezra.

The latter laid it back immediately while Lang returned it first time, and the two carved out a loose channel through the right side of Wigan’s attack and the left of Sunderland’s defence.

Ezra burst past two challenges, nudged the ball wide, and fired a low cross toward the box.

It skidded fast across the grass, but Dan Ballard slid in early, hooking it out before it could reach any lurking striker.

The ball spun behind for a corner.

”Good early intent from Wigan,” the commentator said as Lang jogged toward the flag where the Wigan fans began raining applause for the sequence they had just seen.

”They’ve come out sharp,” the commentator said as Lang placed the ball, but didn’t gesture towards any player in the box.

Instead, he looked straight at Ezra and tapped the side of the ball with his boot.

Ezra understood immediately and moved in close.

The short routine came fast as Sunderland reacted with O’Nein approaching just as Ezra rolled the ball behind him, and Lang swung through it with his left.

He didn’t seem to strike it clean, yet the cross curled violently toward the far side of the box.

At first, it looked wild, drifting out of reach.

Then it dipped.

The crowd stood up as it bent sharply and clipped the far post with a heavy smack before bouncing away harmlessly.

”Oh, that is inches away,” the co-commentator said. ”I don’t think he meant it, but Lang almost levelled it for Wigan.”

Behind the touchline, Dawson clapped hard, urging his players to keep the pressure up while the bench followed his lead.

Leo was among the applauding players, but then he suddenly shot up from his seat, moving out from behind and then grabbing a bib before he began walking towards the area for warmups like he was preparing to sub himself in.

A few players on the bench stared at him, confused, while Chris Sze glanced over and laughed under his breath.

”What is he doing?”

But Leo didn’t hear or just ignored them.

Dawson turned and caught sight of him, a small smile slipping through before he clapped again toward the pitch.

Upfront, Sunderland prepared for the goal kick from Lang’s near miss.

By the hour mark, the match was still locked between the two sides with neither doing enough to pull ahead.

Then movement around the fourth official caught the eye of the Sunderland end, and a rising cheer spread through their section as the board lit up.

Red 9. Green 14.

”Here comes Ross Stewart,” the commentator said.

”A big shift from Simms, he got the goal, but Stewart is the club’s main man this season. This will change the way Sunderland attack.”

Simms jogged off to warm applause from his fans, tapping his palms together as he passed Stewart, who gave him a quick nod before striding toward the pitch.

Almost at the same time, Abdoullah Ba’s number came up in red.

”And another change for Sunderland,” the co-commentator added. ”Dajaku coming on. They’re looking for more legs out wide.”

Ba exited with his head down but got a pat on the back from his manager while Dajaku burst on with fresh energy, waving to the crowd as the noise grew into a steady roar.

But before the noise fully died down, something shifted across the entire stadium.

A different wave of applause rose, spreading from pockets of Wigan supporters before rolling across the stands.

Back on the touchline, the fourth official’s board turned again.

Red 4. Green 22.

Tom Naylor slowed his jog, clearly exhausted after an hour of grinding midfield work.

And into the space beside the fourth official stepped Leo, bib tossed aside.

Ezra, on the pitch, glanced toward the touchline and saw him.

”About time,” he muttered to himself as a grin formed on his face.

”Well, a change for Wigan, and it is Leo Calderon who comes on for Tom Naylor. I am sure it’s been a while since the Wigan fans last saw this boy play.”

Leo bounced in place once, rolled his shoulders, and took a slow breath before jogging into position after Naylor decided to go out the other way.