Harbinger Of Glory

The first thing that came back was the noise.

It arrived in stages, muffled at first, like hearing something through water, and then all at once.

The full weight of Wembley came rushing in, and as Leo blinked, he saw a face instead of what was supposed to be the sky.

The face was that of the team’s doctor, who had his palm moving in front of his eyes with his fingers held up too.

”How many?” he questioned with a furrowed brow, making Leo focus.

”Two,” the latter said after a second, but the team doctor didn’t seem convinced.

”Follow my finger,” he said next, and Leo did.

Around him, he could feel the presence of players without seeing them clearly.

’Was it really that bad?’ he thought as the faces around him looked at him with eyes of worry.

Beyond that, the crowd that was usually rowdy had quieted down.

”I’m okay,” Leo said after a while, but the doctor didn’t move away immediately.

”Leo. Look at me.”

Leo once again complied until whatever the doctor saw seemed to satisfy him enough to exhale.

What had happened was simple and nasty in equal measure.

Leo had gone up for a ball in the sixty-first minute and had got his chest to it cleanly, but then an elbow had come from his left side and caught him in the ribs, tipping his balance before he could do anything about it.

He’d gone headfirst toward the turf and had managed to get a forearm down in time to take some of the impact, but some wasn’t all, and the ground had still found his head on the way through.

And it seemed that was the reason for the concern.

”Uh,” Leo coughed as a sharp ringing filled his head before vanishing like it was never there in the first place.

The Wigan fans in the stands had watched the medics come onto the pitch under the referee’s beckon, and now, with Leo sitting upright and the doctor stepping back, whatever breath they had been holding was let go.

As he walked off for further assessment, a warm round of applause from the Wigan crowd in the stadium followed.

In the stands, a Wigan fan in the third row had his scarf between his teeth the whole time Leo was being checked.

A single glance would make one question his sanity because of the look on his face, and it seemed his friend, sat beside him, thought the same thing.

”You alright?”

His head snapped to his friend as he recovered the question his friend had asked and took the scarf out of his mouth.

”It always looks like that boy might actually die in one of these games.”

The people around him caught what he had said, and what followed was the kind of laugh that happened when something was funny and true at the same time.

The man who had said it chuckled slightly, though his was because of the way his friend was laughing.

Even without mention, they all knew what he meant.

The Haaland incident eight days ago in the FA cup final.

The tackle from Harry Darling in the Swansea game.

And the elbow just now.

Leo seemed to find the most physically punishing version of every situation he walked into and then somehow walked back out of it.

”He always gets up, though,” someone behind them said.

And there he was.

On the touchline, Leo had moved the doctor’s hand away from his face with the patience of someone who had made their decision and didn’t need further consultation on the matter.

”I’m okay,” he said again, this time with enough finality that the doctor stepped aside.

As he got to his feet, Leo’s gaze drifted towards the Jumbotron, specifically the time and the score.

64:44.

1-1.

The moment he finished looking, he glanced back at the pitch where Wigan were playing the shape without him, and the gap he’d left was visible to anyone who knew where to look.

A second later, he met the gaze of the match official, who was beckoning him back into the game, and Leo didn’t need another word.

”And Leo Calderon returns to the pitch,” the commentator said with some sort of genuine relief.

”And we breathe again. For those just joining us, Wigan and their opponents are locked at one apiece here at Wembley in the Championship playoff final, just under half an hour remaining, and the prize for whoever finds a winner is a place in the Premier League next season.”

”The fall looked bad,” the co-commentator interjected.

”I hope Leo won’t be affected by that!”

As if to answer the commentator’s question, Whatmough sent a lob forward, past the conventry army that was beginning to form to close to the box for comfort.

Leo controlled it on his chest, the same chest that had taken the elbow twenty minutes ago, and brought it down to his feet without breaking stride.

Like nothing had happened.

Like it was always going to be okay.

And without looking back, he flicked the ball with his left leg like he was about to burst in that direction.

His body had moved so well that he sold a whole patch of grass to the Coventry midfielder who had tried to sneak up on him before bursting in the opposite direction.

Another wave of gasps rang through the stadium as Leo galloped forward like a wild horse.

”Leo might have to make a choice here. The density of bodies here is getting heavier and heavier!”

At this point, it was clear to all that the Coventry players had grown weary of Leo.

I mean, how couldn’t they?

They had scored the first goal in the 5th minute of the game after a mistimed tackle by Curtis Tilt gave them an early penalty.

And after scoring, they had been looking forward to consolidating their lead, but whatever they did, Leo thwarted.

And as if to add insult to injury, Wigan’s equaliser had come as a result of his corner, which Will Keane got onto the end of to poke it into the back of the net at the far post.

”Leo,” McClean called, breaking the Coventry players out of their thoughts.

The Wigan winger began to move the moment he finished speaking, and moving with him was the Coventry right back the moment he saw Leo’s leg raised like he was about to push the ball to McClean, but he couldn’t have been more wrong because in the next second, Leo sent a heavy cross into the box.