Harbinger Of Glory

”Masterful tackle. That was almost another goal had Sancho been let through,” the commentary judged, but the United fans weren’t in agreement.

They fully felt that the challenge was a bit overdone and that the referee should have at least given them a foul, but that didn’t happen.

Instead, the referee pointed towards the sidelines on the other side, where Erik Ten Hag, sensing the momentum shift, had chosen to use all the remaining substitutions he had to slow down the game.

The physios came on with water bottles nobody needed, players walked slowly to their positions, and the moment that had been building in Wigan’s favour quietly bled out onto the Wembley turf.

”This is how football is won sometimes,” the commentator said.

”Not with the ball, not with a tackle. Erik Ten Hag has seen exactly what was happening, and he has simply stopped the clock. You cannot legislate for that. The Wigan fans know it, Dawson knows it, everyone in this stadium knows it.”

The Wigan supporters made their feelings known regardless.

Dawson watched it all and then turned to his bench before glancing at the opposing manager and then scoffing before also making a change of his own.

Darikwa came off, Aasgard went on, and Bennet tucked back into a back four alongside Tilt, Hughes and Whatmough.

”Dawson responding. Wigan going to four at the back now, which tells you everything about what the next few minutes are going to look like.”

The fourth official raised the board after the substitutions had been made and displayed six minutes of added time for the whole stadium to see.

Manchester United took advantage of the throw-in to try and re-establish their hold on the game, but it never fully caught on in the 2 minutes that they tried doing so because Wigan came on fully, pressing like headless chickens.

They pressed and pressed until United’s De Gea had no choice but to clear it when Fletcher almost intercepted his pass.

The clearance, though, found Joe Bennet on United’s right flank, but the left back didn’t hold onto the ball for long.

Immediately he got the ball, his eyes searched for Leo, and despite being harassed by Bruno, Bennet still did well to play the ball into space.

”Lovey spin by Leo,” the commentary judged after Leo faked a pass only to turn away after Sancho tried to intercept.

A few more instances like this happened, but after realising that they were getting nowhere near the ball, it deterred the United players from charging in recklessly and that gave the Wigan players more time to settle after Leo waved his hand forward again, trying to start and mount another attack at United’s end.

His teammates read it and pushed up.

”Calderon again. He will not stop.”

He found the box with the next ball, and Fletcher got up for it, legs gone, running on whatever you run on when fitness has long since packed its bags and left.

His head got to it despite all the adversity, just not on target.

The groan from the Wigan end said everything.

”Oh, so close. Fletcher has missed that, and Wigan may not get another.”

Noah hadn’t shifted in his seat for several minutes.

He now had his arms folded in all seriousness while his eyes never moved away from the pitch.

Jonas, beside him, was leaning forward with his knuckles pressed to his mouth, watching United sit deeper and deeper with the ball at their feet.

”Why are they letting them have it?” Jonas muttered. ”Why are they sitting off?”

He asked, but no one was that free to listen to him.

Not even his own assistant, who was also stuck watching the scenes on the pitch.

The goalkick following Fletcher’s missed chance was eventful to say the least.

De Gea crouched down and began retying a boot that didn’t need retying.

A moment later, the sky suddenly started looking pretty.

The referee watched him for a few seconds, then, knowing what the former was trying to do, reached into his pocket, pulled out a card and then flashed it across the face of the Manchester United goalkeeper.

”Yellow card for De Gea. The referee has seen enough of that.”

The Wigan end roared its approval, previously appalled by the antics of the keeper.

Resignedly, De Gea sent the ball long, into the Wigan half and there, Whatmough climbed above Weghorst and won it, somehow managing to come down with it cleanly before finding Leo in one motion.

”And this,” the commentator said, dropping his voice slightly, ”could be the very last kick of this football match.”

Leo pushed forward.

His mind was going faster than anything else.

What was he to do?

The whistle could be sounding after this chance, so it was now or their demise.

The options were there, but they were just not showing well.

And so Leo, in a bold move, decided to experiment with the clock running down.

Getting closer and closer to the Manchester United box, he slowed down and began rolling the ball at his feet, waiting.

The action got a lot of Manchester United players uncomfortable, especially Lindelof, who kept stepping out of the defensive line.

”There,” he thought after a second.

McClean, as if understanding what was up, started moving, and Leo’s eyes went to him and held there.

The United backline shifted quickly, moving left to cover while Wan-Bissaka immediately moved in front of McClean to keep the latter behind him.

Seeing the fast shuffle, Leo changed his mind in a split second, knowing something always had to give and with United shuffling so suddenly to the left, it meant that the right was open.

And so Leo lifted it over them instead, towards the right.

The commentator tried opening his mouth to speak, but Ezra arrived to the ball at full stretch before he could do so.

That was how fast he got there, and immediately he did, he killed the momentum of the ball, before firing away at the United goal.

There, De Gea tensed, and despite the ball coming straight at him, he knew the power behind it could force him to turn it into the back of his own net.

And so instead, he fisted the ball out, scrunching his face up a bit as a result of the gloves doing little in that moment to keep his hands safe.

”OOHHHHH, SUPER STOP,” the commentary called out on the gantry as the ball fell to Sancho, who tried to clear and didn’t, and suddenly Leo had it again right outside the box with bodies coming from everywhere at once and no time to think about any of it.

His left leg went back, and three commentators across different broadcasts all started talking at the same time.

Then it came down and caught the top of the ball, punching it into the turf, and it bounced up sharply and went through legs and through bodies and through everything United could throw in its path, rolling and rolling toward the far post like it had somewhere to be.

It felt like the ball would roll out at any moment, but bobbling out of the numbers, Bennet was already on his way.

He’d started the run before the ball had even cleared the last pair of legs, curving in from the left, and he met it at the byline and cut it back.

”He’s seen it early... threaded it through... that’s outrageous—

And Wigan might be in!”

Fletcher was at the back post with hands all over him and bodies everywhere.

But he only had one thing in his sight, and the moment the ball got close enough, he stuck his foot out before poking the ball into the back of the net, rustling the net as Wembley took a breath.

Then ninety thousand people made a noise that had two completely different meanings depending on where you were sitting, and both of them were deafening.

”GOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLL!!!!!!!”

”FLETCHER. ASHLEY FLETCHER. ONE ONE. IN THE LAST BREATH OF THIS GAME, WIGAN HAVE DONE IT. THEY HAVE ACTUALLY DONE IT.”

Fletcher’s shirt was off and gone before anyone could grab him.

He was running with his arms out, his mouth open, and nothing coming out of it, just air, because there were no words for it, and he knew it.

The Wigan bench was already on the pitch.

All of them.

Staff, substitutes, water carriers, all of them streaming onto the Wembley turf in blue, and it was chaos, and it was beautiful, and in the middle of it, the commentator was still going.

”Look at where they’re running. Look at it. They’re not going to Fletcher. They’re going to Calderon. Every single one of them. Because that pass, that moment, that ridiculous piece of vision from a seventeen-year-old boy who should not even be on this pitch right now. He has just kept Wigan Athletic alive. That is football... at its most elegant.”