Harbinger Of Glory

Even with them out of the rain, the residual rainwater dripped from the players’ sleeves as they filed into the locker room, with the boots of some players squeaking on the tiled floor.

A few dropped straight onto the benches, heads tilted back as they drank deeply from their bottles.

While others stood by their lockers, pulling off wet shirts and muttering under their breath about moments that had slipped away in the first half.

When the door opened again, Dawson stepped in first with Nolan just behind him.

A second later, the latter clapped his hands once, cutting through the chatter of the locker room and bringing the attention of the men to the gate.

”Alright, settle down, lads. Give him a minute.”

A couple of players were still tugging fresh shirts over their heads when Dawson moved toward the middle of the room.

”You’re not doing badly,” he began calmly, while from behind, an analyst entered the room.

”Considering the mismatch.”

A few players exchanged looks at that.

”But you’re not doing well either,” he added.

The analysts who had been stationed near the back of the room moved quickly.

One of them rolled a small projector onto the table and flicked it on while another pulled the curtain across the small window.

”We’ve got about thirteen minutes,” Dawson said, glancing briefly toward the clock.

”So let’s not waste them.”

The analyst finished setting up and stepped aside.

And after that, the lights went off with a quiet click, leaving the glow of the projector to fill the room.

A still frame appeared on the wall where Lang had the ball at his feet, mid-stride, pushing toward Brighton’s penalty area.

Dawson stepped closer to the projection and pressed play, and just after a couple of seconds had passed, he paused it again.

In the frozen frame, Lewis Dunk had just stepped out from the defensive line, lunging forward to close the gap between him and Lang.

Dawson raised a finger and pointed to the patch of grass behind the Brighton captain.

”Lewis feels confident,” he said.

The players watched the screen, brows beginning to knit.

”He’s made tackles. He’s blocked crosses. He’s had a good half,” Dawson continued.

”So what happens when a player starts feeling like that?”

No one answered.

”He stops thinking, well, not fully, but he stops thinking too much.”

The next clip rolled showing another moment from the first half where Dunk was charging forward again and committing early since it was working for him.

Dawson paused it again, and it showed another patch of empty space behind him.

After that, he stepped aside as the analyst skipped to another sequence.

And another.

Five moments in total, each one different in detail, but they all had one thing in common.

Dunk stepping out.

Dunk committing.

Dunk leaving the Brighton back line slightly exposed.

It wasn’t really reckless, but it was careless enough.

By the fourth clip, several players were leaning forward in their seats, wondering what their coach was getting at, while others seemed to already have an idea.

After a moment of silence had passed, Dawson turned his head toward Fletcher before posing a question towards the latter.

”What happens if you get into that space?”

The analyst brought up a final freeze frame where Brighton’s defensive line stretched unevenly across the pitch with Dunk slightly ahead of the others as they tried to keep up with their captain.

Fletcher studied it for a second before nodding slowly.

”He’s got to turn,” Fletcher said. ”And if he turns, he’s already lost.”

Dawson gave a small nod in return.

”Exactly.”

He turned back toward the rest of the room.

”They’re overconfident,” he said.

”Not just him. All of them. It’s not something they are doing at will, but they are still underestimating us.”

A few players shifted, listening more closely now.

”That means we don’t beat them playing their game,” Dawson went on.

”If we try to match them pass for pass, press for press, they’ll win that fight.”

He tapped the wall lightly where the frozen image still showed Dunk out of position and looked around the room.

”So let’s bring them down to our level. If we take advantage of their mistakes, it will be as good as playing any championship side, and although it isn’t hard to do that, it will really increase our chances of equalising or even pulling ahead if things go well for us.”

”Take the moments they give you,” he said. ”Mistakes like this. Small lapses. One good run, one well-timed ball, and suddenly they’re the ones scrambling.”

Several players nodded now, the idea settling in while Dawson folded his arms loosely.

”That’s the work,” he said. ”Put it in, and it won’t fail you.”

The room stayed quiet.

Then he gave a small shrug.

”That’s about as much as I can do for you.”

A few faint smiles appeared.

”Once you’re back out there, my influence is minimal,” he added.

”Effective, hopefully. But minimal.”

He stepped away from the projector and glanced at the clock again.

”You’ve got a couple of minutes,” he said. ”Think about what you’ve just seen and get your heads right.”

After that, the room remained dim as the players sat with the images still burned into the wall behind Dawson, each of them quietly picturing the same stretch of grass waiting behind Brighton’s setup.

Eventually, the players began slipping their boots back on, as well as a fresh change of jerseys for those who wanted it.

Leo, in the corner of the room, like he didn’t exist, stood to his feet with a sigh, and even if he didn’t want it, the braces got the attention of his mates.

Not knowing what to do with the eyes that were on him for a few seconds, Leo nodded before muttering a ’You can do it’ to the players who were on the pitch before following the bench players out.

Seeing their injured teen sensation do this made the players feel revived because they were the ones supposed to give hope, not the other way around.

”Okay, guys,” Darikwa said, tugging the hem of the fresh undershirt he had worn to make it fit better.

”It’s our turn to do the rest. Let’s go out there and play like we’ve got something to prove because we do.”

”We can’t let the fans out there go back home with nothing.”

”We at the back are going to sacrifice ourselves to keep them from scoring,” he continued, looking at the forwards.

”And so do your best to put the ball into the back of the net at their end.”

Fletcher, leading the pack, nodded before the players began slipping out of the dressing room.