Harbinger Of Glory

As the ball zoomed towards goal, Laporte flinched and moved aside, but so did the others as the shot flew toward goal.

”IS THIS IT?” the commentary questioned as Ortega lunged and felt it whisk past his arms before the crossbar rang out across Wembley like a bell.

The ball hadn’t entered the net.

”OHHHHH, that was almost it,” the commentator sighed as Ezra and Walker went for the loose ball, which went out for a corner in the next moment.

The Wigan fans, seeing the ball go out for a corner, sighed, but when they saw Ben Amos jogging forward from his goal, they understood that this was it.

The last stand.

”It’s almost over here at Wembley. Manchester City, ahead but by the singular goal that Wigan are trying to rewrite.”

Ezra’s corner came in, slowly looking over the heads of the players, and like a fairytale, Ben Amos got his head to it, pushing it goalward, and it looked for one extraordinary second like it was crossing the line until Dias threw himself at it and headed it clear from underneath the bar, his body almost horizontal as the ball cannoned away from goal.

The commentary lost itself completely.

”WHAT A CLEARANCE, BUT THEY ARE NOT OUT OF THE WOODS YET!”

The players scrambled, with some of the Wigan players falling over in their attempts at reclaiming the ball, but eventually, De Bruyne collected the clearance.

He looked up, and in his sights was the empty, abandoned goal.

He knew it was futile from where he was, but what if he took a few steps forward?

And so he did and hit it toward the unguarded net from distance, but Leo was already running before the ball had left his foot.

The commentary alternated between the two, the ball and the boy chasing it, and Leo’s vision narrowed to just that one thing moving toward the goal, and at the last second, he lunged and got enough on it to push it past the left post.

A chain of applause threatened to begin, but then the whistle went.

It was all over.

Wembley held its breath for the half second it took to confirm what it meant, and then the City fans rose, and the sound that came from them was enormous and sustained and full, as the commentary tried to capture it all at once.

”FULL TIME AND IT IS OVER. MANCHESTER CITY WIN THE FA CUP BY TWO GOALS TO WIGAN’S ONE. AND THEY HAVE ESCAPED, THEY HAVE TRULY ESCAPED BY THE VERY SKIN OF THEIR TEETH AGAINST A WIGAN SIDE THAT GAVE ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING THEY HAD.”

Leo rolled into the net after the clearance and lay there on his back, chest heaving, staring up at the netting above him with the noise of the stadium coming down from all sides.

The tears came before he decided to let them, and when they did, he rolled over, pressing his face toward the grass so nobody could see, and stayed there while the City players celebrated somewhere behind him.

Across the pitch, Wigan bodies slumped with some leaning over while others dropped their arses to the floor.

Still, the camera found him alone.

”Leo Calderon,” the commentator said, quieter now.

”This youngster faces his first football heartbreak at seventeen years old. He has given every single thing he had today, and it wasn’t enough, and that is not his fault. He should hold his head as high as it goes. With what he’s shown today, this will certainly not be his last!”

Leo, oblivious, stayed still for a while until he felt a tug on his shoulder.

He lifted his head and saw Erling Haaland, standing over him with one hand extended, looking down with something much more than pity.

The acknowledgement of a competitor.

Leo took the hand and got up.

”You made us work for it,” Haaland said as Leo nodded, wiping his face with the back of his wrist.

”I hope this won’t be the last time we meet,” Haaland continued before he pointed at his own shirt and then at Leo’s.

Leo, understanding what he meant, pulled his number 22 shirt over his head and handed it across, taking Haaland’s number r 9 in return.

After this, they walked a few yards together before Haaland peeled away to join his teammates at the centre of the pitch.

When Leo continued to the sidelines, he couldn’t help but spot Pep Guardiola, with the body language of the latter suggesting nothing else but that he was waiting for Leo.

He stepped forward and took Leo’s hand in both of his.

”You did very well,” he said, and looked at him directly when he said it.

”Stay for your medal. Don’t forget your medal.”

Leo blinked at the man’s words before a wave of realisation crossed his face.

He had genuinely forgotten about the medal.

”Thank you,” he said, while Pep smiled slightly before walking away.

The Wigan players gathered at the same side, as both sets of supporters began to applaud; City’s fans for their own team’s victory and then for the team they’d spent ninety minutes watching refuse to go away.

The guard of honour formed, and the City players lined up, as the Wigan players walked through it with their hands extended.

The City players reached out as they passed.

Several of them looked for Leo specifically and made sure to get to him.

The silver medals went around Wigan’s necks one by one.

Dawson received his last and stood back and watched his players with an expression that had no single name.

Then they watched Manchester City as they lifted the trophy.

”THERE IT IS. MANCHESTER CITY ARE YOUR 2022/23 FA CUP CHAMPIONS!”

The announcer in the stadium roared as the blue and white ribbons caught the Wembley air, and the roar that followed shook the upper tiers.

As this went on, the Wigan players stood in a line and applauded because they had earned the right to do that too, to stand at Wembley in an FA Cup final and applaud the winners because they had pushed those winners to their absolute limit.

Dawson turned eventually and walked toward the tunnel.

Seeing their manager finally begin to walk, all the Wigan players followed suit, their backs nothing less than stout and proud because they had done their utmost best.

It just wasn’t meant to be. Not today.