Harbinger Of Glory

While the commentary rained down from the gantry, the stadium decided, collectively and without reservation, to lose its mind.

The roar came in a wave, rolling down from the stands in layers until the whole ground was one continuous, heaving noise.

On the gantry above, the two commentators sat back almost simultaneously.

”And that,” the lead one said, letting the noise fill the pause for him, ”is why these players play their hearts out, and I’ll tell you something. I’m not sure this crowd is going to let these players leave the pitch for quite some time.”

”You’d understand why,” his partner offered.

”Look at the injury list this club has been dealing with as we’ve talked about before. They’ve been grinding through this run on fumes and sheer stubbornness, and then today, they finally win after drawing 3 games in a row and look at the person who’s doing it.”

Down on the pitch, Leo had started moving toward the nearest stand with his arms raised above his head, applauding the crowd.

The fans in that section responded immediately, matching his rhythm before abandoning it entirely for something louder and less structured.

”Look at him,” the lead commentator said quietly, almost to himself.

”This boy will surely become a cult name should Wigan make it into the Premier League if he hasn’t already become one!”

”After the goal,” the co-commentator continued, ”when Bristol threw everything at them, he dropped into that defensive shape beside Whatmough like he’d never been away. He did things, he managed the clock and helped the team see this game across the finish line.”

”A sliver of hope,” the second commentator said softly. ”That’s what he is for this football club right now. In a season where almost everything that could go wrong with their squad has gone wrong, that boy is a sliver of hope. And today, a sliver was enough.”

”Leo.”

Under the roar of the crowd, it was Dawson’s voice drawing Leo back from his reverie.

Leo turned and found him standing a few metres away from the edge of the technical area with a tired look.

Leo jogged over, and without ceremony, Dawson unfolded his arms and pulled him in by the back of the neck, tucking him under his arm as the two of them turned and walked toward the tunnel together.

”Let’s go get you some ice,” Dawson said with an honest laugh as the tunnel mouth swallowed them quickly, and Dawson steered them past the cluster of reporters waiting at the edge of the mixed zone.

”Not today, lads,” he muttered as they went past them before the duo made the next turn towards the dressing room.

...

Now that the game was over, Leo couldn’t help but feel that the usual walk to his apartment was longer than usual.

When he finally got there, the door to his unit opened with a particular resistance that made him wonder if the building itself was passive-aggressive.

Leo pushed through it anyway and stood in the entrance for a moment before exhaling a long, slow breath and then letting it go a couple of seconds later.

Then he stepped inside, pulled the door shut behind him, and the click which came from the latch was the quietest sound he had heard all evening.

The room was exactly as he had left it.

Which shouldn’t have been remarkable, but after the last few hours, it felt strange that the world in here had waited, indifferent and unchanged, while everything out there had been so loud and consequential.

He didn’t turn the main light on.

The lamp on the bedside table was enough, and he moved toward it slowly, with a different kind of exhaustion, only a person in his position and body could feel.

”Yeah, I am not okay,” he muttered as his mind continued to replay the words of Dr Navarro from a while ago.

It had been doing that since the medical room — looping back in fragments which somehow made it worse than if he had just raised his voice and been done with it.

”You understand what re-injury at this stage means, Leo.

Two months becomes four. Four becomes six.

And at your age, with your body still developing, we are not talking about a setback.

We are talking about something that could define the entire shape of your career before it has properly started. And what I don’t understand is why you would let him talk you into this.”

He had looked at Dawson when he said that last part, which was a move Leo had privately respected even while sitting there wishing the floor would do something useful and swallow him.

Dawson, to his credit, had taken it and not deflected it.

Leo sat on the edge of the bed now and worked his sneakers off one at a time, setting them down with more care than the situation probably required, before he lay back onto the bed.

The ceiling now had a faint water stain in the far corner that he had spent a collective amount of time staring at over the past few months, and there it was again, faithful as ever.

”She wasn’t wrong,” he thought.

That was the uncomfortable truth sitting in the middle of everything.

The risk he had taken was real.

The logic had been sound, and if the hamstring had gone out again in his cameo instead of holding, this room would feel very different right now, and the ceiling stain would be getting a much longer visit.

But then he thought about Keane handing him the ball.

About Ezra’s hug that had clearly been saving itself.

About the noise the DW had made when the net moved.

And he thought about none of it being available to him if he had stayed in this room the way he was supposed to.

He turned onto his side, where the light painted his face once more, but he still didn’t seem to mind.

”I’ll think about it tomorrow,” he muttered to no one in particular.

Sleep came before he could finish the thought, and he was still in his tracksuit when it did.