Harbinger Of Glory

Away from the exiting players, Nolan, who had caught the tail end of the laughter as he passed the locker room, kept walking, turned the corner, and pushed open Dawson’s office door without knocking.

”The boys seem to have taken today well, I think,” he said, closing it behind him.

Dawson did not look up right away.

He was already seated, jacket off, sleeves rolled, with one hand resting on the desk.

When he finally glanced up, he nodded once.

”Of course they did.”

Nolan rolled his eyes, leaning against the doorframe.

”Can’t you just be honest with yourself for once?” he muttered, causing Dawson to snap his head back up, questioningly.

”What?” he asked, but Nolan just shook his head.

”Nothing,” he muttered as he moved closer, knowing the thoughts that were most likely running through Dawson’s head.

Thoughts about what he would do if he were lose the dressing room because he knew on the side that tactics were useless if the players didn’t want to implement them.

”Still,” Nolan said, more carefully now, ”today went a bit further than usual.”

”I had to let them know what they were truly putting themselves into,” Dawson replied.

”They asked for it. Or at least, Leo asked for it, but with their all-for-one philosophy, it might as well be the whole team asking for it.”

Nolan studied him for a moment, then nodded.

”As long as we keep things up.”

”We will,” Dawson said.

This time, there was no hesitation.

The focus shifted quickly after that in the following days.

There was no time to linger.

The league was next, and it was a very familiar opponent.

Luton Town again.

Three times in fourteen days.

Same opponent, different stadiums and entirely different stakes.

By the time Saturday rolled around, the numbers had done their rounds.

Blackburn had slipped the night before, and suddenly, seventh place was reachable.

A win would pull Wigan level on points, and the goal difference told its own story.

Plus six versus plus four, and the former was definitely greater, so Wigan would take the place.

The DW filled early, not that it ever didn’t, as fans trickled in with that quiet urgency and optimism that came with expectation.

All around the stadiums and in the stadiums, conversations repeated in different corners of the stands.

”If we do it today...”

”Same team again?”

”They won’t roll over this time.”

The Players appeared for warm-ups, with both sides going hard on the warm-ups in the few minutes they got before the noise followed them back into the tunnel when the officials in the stadium made it clear that it was time to start the game.

”Feels like déjà vu,” one voice said on the broadcast as the camera panned towards the tunnel, which was slowly but surely filling with players of both sides.

”Wigan and Luton meeting again, and this time, I don’t think both sides are going to be shy about anything.”

”I agree with you on that one, Smith,” the co-commentator added.

”Both sides have butt heads again and again, and so I am expecting them to approach this game with much more openness and vigour, especially Luton Town, who have gotten the overall short end of the stick as they got knocked out of the FA cup in that game.”

Back inside the tunnel, all the players lined up, while at the front, Darikwa seemed to hug the captain of the other team before the officials approached, signalling that it was time for the start of the match.

A moment later, a bellowing roar resounded across the stadium as the fans set their sights on their players coming in tow with the child mascots.

After they had settled into their respective positions, Leo tugged at the sleeves of his compression top, pulling them snug around his wrists as he walked around a bit to shake off the cold of the night before it could get to him.

Just ahead of him, Will Keane nudged the ball back with a short, casual shove of his boot, and Thelo Aasgaard stepped onto it without breaking stride, and then the game was live.

And from the way it began, it seemed there was no easing into the game.

Wigan pushed straight up the pitch.

Aasgaard, once again, took the ball in stride, making sure to leave an out for himself if things collapsed before he turned to face the Luton man in front of him.

He tried to drive into space, keeping his arm long to bar any opposition, but the Luton leg stabbed in, knocking the ball loose and turning it into a scramble.

With the ball suddenly ownerless, it sparked a chase as all shirts in that area raced to get a hold of it, but like always, Leo read it first and got there ahead of his man.

But even though he had taken hold of the ball, he had no room to bring it under control.

And so instead of forcing it, he hooked the ball with the outside of his foot before spinning it away from pressure and nudging it into Max Power’s path.

The fans watching all had their brows raise in admiration as Leo kept moving.

As Power steadied himself, Leo peeled into the channel, hand briefly out, asking for it back.

With nowhere else open, Max Power left the ball to Leo, who poked it again past another man, just before another roar from the crowd crashed down.

”Calderón’s on it again,” the commentator said from the gantry, voice lifting with the noise inside the DW.

Leo, after dealing with the sudden opposition, stepped on the gas, ball glued close as he threaded his way between striped two-tone navy blue shirts.

A while later, Leo emerged from his run still with the ball before sliding the ball wide, perfectly weighted, into the path of Joe Bennett on the overlap.

Bennett took it in stride, continuing the run until he slowed as he got to the byline.

Once there, he glanced up to spot his numbers in the box, but Luton’s Gabriel Osho stepped across him, hard and late, shoulder into chest.

The contact sent Bennett tumbling, but not before he wrapped his foot around the ball and swung it into the box.

”He’s managed it,” the commentary spat as Joe Bennet’s cross found Will Keane at the far post, neck straining.

The Veteran cushioned the ball back across goal rather than forcing the header, and the moment it dropped, the commentary leapt again.

”Fletcher’s there!!!”

The former Manchester United man threw himself forward, but amidst opposition, the latter still got onto the end of the ball to head it into the back of the net with seventeen minutes already gone.

Immediately, the ball rippled the net, the DW surged as one, bellowing as Fans leaned over the railings, bodies pressing forward, voices tearing loose while Fletcher slid on his knees toward the corner flag.

”He’s scored,” came the commentary as the camera found Dawson clapping hard on the touchline.

”Wigan strike first,” the commentator closed, over the broadcast as the Wigan players swarmed Fletcher.

”He hasn’t gotten many chances in the squad as he used to, but he’s been proving recently that he is not done yet,” the commentary called once more as Fletcher finally got out of the pile of players.

On the other side of things, Jordan Clark stood near the centre circle, clapping firmly as the Wigan players drifted back toward their half.

He called a couple of his teammates in with a quick wave of the arm, leaning in as he spoke, voice low but sharp.

”Head up. Same again,” he said. ”We’re fine.”

A few nods came back before he motioned them forward, just before the referee’s whistle came through to restart the game.

As if the goal had drained the edge from the game, all sequences lost the attacking sharpness as both teams proceeded to trade possession in safe areas.

That translated to the centre backs seeing way more of the ball as the DW softened in its chants and noise.

The game had slipped into that familiar Championship rhythm, busy without being dangerous.

On a few occasions, Luton tried to probe down the right, but the move fizzled out with a heavy touch and a clearance into the stands.

Wigan responded with patience rather than pace, happy to recycle the ball and let the minutes roll since they were in the lead, though the same couldn’t be said for everyone.

Just like this, the clock wound down until added time, and as the whistle for halftime finally cut through, it felt like a release.

Players turned toward the tunnel, some jogging, others walking, hands on their hips, while a few fans stretched, others headed for the concourse in search of warmth and something to talk about while the game was on hold.

”Well,” the commentator said as the teams disappeared from view, ”that first half gave us one moment to lift us out of our seats, and not much else. Let’s hope the second half finds a bit more spark. Even if the goals don’t come, the game could do with a little life.”