Harbinger Of Glory

”Well, if you’ve just joined us,” the commentator said as the broadcast returned from the break, ”it’s Brighton one, Wigan nil here at the Amex.”

Rain still fell in a thin curtain under the floodlights, steady but harmless, while the stands filled once more with the returning crowd from their various halftime affairs.

Brighton kicked things off, and that saw them moving the ball crisply through midfield as they drag Wigan into their tempo, but Wigan didn’t let up.

They pressed yes, but they did so cautiously without leaving too much space for their opponents.

But just as the clock hit the 53rd, it was almost like a switch flipped in them.

They pushed and continued pushing until they won the ball back, and when they did, it worked its way out to McClean on the left flank, and for a moment, it looked promising.

He leaned into his run, nudging the ball ahead of him as Joe Bennet began to overlap in support.

Then the turf betrayed him.

The moment he tried to bolt past his opponent, his standing foot slid, the ball escaping his control, and suddenly the move collapsed.

The Brighton right back immediately swooped in and sent the ball into space meant for Denis Undav.

”Brighton break again,” the commentator said quickly as the German forward gathered the loose ball and surged through the middle.

He moved with that strange balance of patience and urgency, drifting through the open spaces as if the Wigan midfield were magnets pushing him forward rather than bodies trying to stop him.

Opposing shirts converged but never quite got close enough to sweep the ball from his feet, and when Undav reached the final third, he slowed down before lifting his head to scan the box where Brighton shirts were already gathering.

Settling on an option, he clipped a dangerous ball forward.

A teasing delivery, curling into the danger area where Neal Maupay seemed poised to attack it.

But Ben Amos had read it early.

The Wigan goalkeeper stepped forward decisively and plucked the ball clean from the air before things could unravel or get messy for Wigan.

”Important claim from Amos,” the co-commentator added.

He dropped to one knee with the ball tight against his chest, then rose almost immediately and launched it long toward midfield.

Max Power, whose influence had been missing from the game for a while now, collected the throw with a firm touch and turned, releasing it wide toward Darikwa on the right.

For a second, Wigan looked like they might build something once, but then Mitoma arrived.

When Darikwa tried to send a daring carpet ball forward, he stepped across the path and nicked the ball away with a quick, clean touch before accelerating past him.

”Mitoma again!” the commentator exclaimed as the winger skipped forward.

Charlie Hughes tried to close the angle, but Mitoma glided past him too, cutting inside with the ball glued to his boots.

The noise inside the Amex surged as the scenes unveiling and behind the Wigan goal, home supporters had already risen, arms lifting instinctively.

Bearing down on goal, Mitoma shaped his body, leaning slightly as he prepared to bend the shot around Amos, who stood his ground with arms spread wide.

But the shot never came.

Whatmough arrived like a train through fog, causing Mitoma to falter at the last second, but it was already over.

The defender thundered through the challenge, sweeping both ball and man in one fierce motion that sent Mitoma tumbling across the wet turf.

”Oh My Goodness!!!What a tackle!” the commentator shouted as the ball spun away.

”You don’t see too many like them nowadays,” the commentary lauded as Whatmough pushed himself back to his feet and roared, chest heaving, the release of tension pouring out of him.

He turned briefly toward Darikwa with an irritated look that needed no translation but quickly tossed it out of his mind.

The Amex crowd did not share the celebration.

A wave of boos rolled down from the stands, arms pointing toward the referee as shouts for a penalty echoed around the stadium.

But the whistle stayed silent.

Estupiñán had already grabbed the ball that had trickled out for a throw and hurled it back into play, Brighton eager to keep the pressure on.

The minutes that followed settled into a familiar pattern.

Wigan tried to stitch together attacks, quick passes through midfield and hopeful runs down the wings, but Brighton’s defensive line stood firm.

Dunk cleared one cross with authority while Veltman cut out another through ball before it could reach Fletcher.

When Wigan did manage to test the box, Jason Steele was there, stepping forward calmly to smother the danger.

Time began to slip, and slowly but surely, the scoreboard ticked steadily toward the final ten minutes.

Then, in the seventy-ninth minute, Dawson made his move.

Ezra stepped onto the pitch as McClean jogged off, the veteran winger shaking his head slightly as he passed.

Ezra barely noticed.

In his mind, there was only one phrase echoing from the words Dawson had just spoken to him.

”You are bait.”

Dawson had said it plainly.

Draw them out.

Make them follow.

And as if wanting to prove his merit, the ball found him almost immediately, and he didn’t hesitate.

The moment his feet touched his boots, Ezra surged forward, driving straight at Tariq Lamptey, who had also just come on with sharp and impatient strides.

Lamptey matched him step for step, the Brighton fullback quick and alert, but Ezra kept pushing until they reached the byline.

The space tightened, but Ezra tried to muscle his way inside the box, forcing his shoulder through the narrow gap.

Still, Lamptey didn’t give an inch.

The defender slid across and hooked the ball away cleanly, sending Ezra tumbling over the challenge as the clearance bounced behind for a corner.

While on the broadcast, the commentator’s voice lifted with the moment.

”Brighton survive, but that’s the spark Wigan have been searching for!”

Ezra pushed himself up from the turf, wiping rain from his face as the ball was retrieved.

Seeing the person standing beside the ball, Ezra suddenly bolted towards the corner flag before receiving the short pass from Cousins.

A cross looked the most likely option, and so Tariq jumped in the way after Ezra raised his leg, but the latter only pushed it past the Ghanaian defender before following and keeping up with the ball.

”Lovely by the Wigan youngster. Is there a chance for Wigan here?”

Even with the swarm, Ezra forced his way past an outstretched leg of Caicedo, but a second later, he wished he had collided with that leg because Lewis Dunk slid in, clearing the ball from his feet smoothly, sending him tumbling to the ground while Dawson on the touchline grabbed his head in frustration at the move not working.