Harbinger Of Glory

The days that followed were quiet on the Wigan side of things.

Nothing coming out of the club suggested they were thinking about anything other than the next game.

They just went inside and shut the door, the way you do when something big is coming, and you know talking about it won’t help.

The big something was Manchester United in the FA Cup semi-final at Wembley.

Sky Sports had their panel together two days before the tie, four men around a desk with a screen behind them cycling through graphics and squad lists, and from the first minute it was clear what kind of conversation it was going to be.

”Look, I think we all know how this one ends,” Jamie said, leaning back in his chair.

”United are at Wembley, City are at Wembley, and barring something absolutely extraordinary happening, we’re getting the final everyone’s been talking about since the draw was made.”

”I don’t disagree,” Jobi said.

”And I feel for Wigan, genuinely. A few months ago, they were the story of the season, weren’t they? Or at least, in the championship, they were. That run they went on, the results they were getting, people were sitting up and paying attention. I even had them for qualifications, but it’s grim now. The injuries have just ravaged them. Absolutely ravaged them.”

”How many are they missing now?” the host asked.

”At least six first team players and some more of the substitutes. Some of them are significant ones. And they’ve been patching it together ever since.”

”And it showed,” Jamie said.

”Three draws on the bounce before the Bristol game. Listen, they’ll go again next season, I genuinely believe that. Dawson has built something real there. But this season, for them, the cup run has been the dream, and United are probably where it ends. As for the league, I truly wish them the best, though I think it’s going to take some special performances.”

The screen behind them cut to a graphic of the projected final.

City in blue and United in red, and even if it felt disrespectful from some points of view, it was the absolute truth, even if it was hard to accept.

”Well, that’s that,” the host said as he grabbed the papers in front of him.

”Manchester City have already beaten Sheffield United to be the first team in the final.”

”And the final is going to be something special, though.” Jobi took over at the last, and just like that, the conversation moved on, smooth and natural.

Like heavy clouds, ready with rain, the day for the clash fell upon the respective sides involved.

The Wigan bus pulled into the underground lot at Wembley with a couple of hours to spare.

Inside, the players sat quietly as the bus finally came to a halt in their designated parking spot.

The only noise around was the sound of the air conditioning winding down and twenty-odd men sitting with their own thoughts in the half-light of a concrete tunnel that smelled like every other concrete tunnel in football.

Then Dawson stood, and the rest followed.

They came down the steps one by one.

The captain, Darikwa, came first, with a bag over one shoulder, taking in the surroundings without making a show of it.

McClean followed behind him, then Power, then a handful of others whose names the Championship table had learned to respect over the course of a long and difficult season.

Leo stepped off near the back, ahead of the last two, while Ezra, from behind, pulled up to walk beside Leo.

”Time really is weird in football,” Ezra muttered as he reminisced about the two of them playing in the U21S just some months ago.

He was on the verge of solidifying himself as a starter and was just a few consistent and good performances away from that, while Leo could be said to have already broken into the senior team, as his injury was the only thing keeping him from starting, but even with that, he was on the bench.

They were led inside through a corridor that eventually opened into the area where a line of journalists had set up, cameras and recorders ready, waiting for whoever came through.

Most of the Wigan players walked through it with their heads down or their eyes forward, the practised indifference of men who had done media before.

However, the media weren’t particularly intrigued by them, except for their dark horse story, and so the flashes came, albeit in moderate numbers.

But a few of the journalists did look twice, recognising a narrative as they saw one of the younger ones in the Wigan squad near the middle of the group.

One in the Wigan tracksuit walking with his bag at his side like he belonged there, which he did, except that for the better part of a week, the story going around had been that this particular player hadn’t been in training, that it wasn’t suitable for him to play, and yet here he was walking into Wembley Stadium on the afternoon of an FA Cup semi-final looking like he had slept well.

The cameras started going, and the lights came with them, flashing without much rhythm or courtesy, and Leo kept walking and kept his face neutral until they were through.

On the other side, he exhaled, slow and quiet.

”Right,” he said to nobody, and kept moving.

Dawson dropped his bag in the dressing room, looked around at the space for a moment, and then suggested.

”Take a look around. It’s not every day that you get to play in one of the cathedrals in football.”

Hearing his words, nobody argued with that.

”Okay, mister,” Thelo Aasgaard said as he turned around, following behind Callum Lang, who had just been waiting for that kind of suggestion to be made.

The players then started filtering back out in twos and threes.

These were footballers, professionals, men who dealt in training cones and set pieces and video sessions, but they were also human beings, and Wembley was Wembley.