Harbinger Of Glory

The broadcast camera found Dawson pulling away from his staff on the touchline while beckoning his bench away from the sidelines for fear of punishment by the referee, but it seemed he was too busy getting things under control as the Wolves players trekked slowly towards kick-off.

When they kicked off, Wolves responded by retreating into their own half, leaving only Neto to press and Cunha to support any counter that might break.

The shape was compact and deliberate, and it made Wigan’s task considerably harder than it had been in the opening ninety seconds of the half.

Three times in the next twenty-five minutes Wigan found the edges of something.

The first came from Leo threading a ball between two Wolves midfielders for Reyes, who arrived at the edge of the box and shaped to shoot and then cut inside instead.

The move worked perfectly until the angle closed and the shot that followed went across goal and wide of the far post by a distance that made several people in the home end close their eyes.

The second came from a corner, a corner by Leo that had Tiehi attacking it at the back post and getting a firm header that Sa turned around the upright with a save that was better than it looked from the stands.

The third was the closest.

It saw Carlo driving to the byline from the left and pulling it back for Jake, who controlled it with his chest and swivelled and hit it on the turn.

The effort seemed goal-bound until Kilman appeared and blocked it with his shin, the deflection sending it over the bar as Jake stood with his hands on top of his head and the crowd mirrored him.

Eventually, the clock hit the 70th minute and with it came the groans and the feeling of loss that the Wigan fans were trying to do away with.

”Wigan must be feeling it,” the commentator said.

”Chance after chance and they cannot find the equaliser. The legs are starting to show the effort of this second half, and Wolves are still holding on.”

”There’s still time,” the co-commentator said.

”Twenty minutes plus whatever is added and I think just one goal changes everything.”

”Or,” the main commentator said, ”Wolves nick a third on the counter, and it’s done.”

The co-commentator laughed.

”Or that. Though maybe—”

He stopped as on the pitch Tiehi had the ball and was finding Leo.

”Though maybe Wigan might be able to find something to do with the ball here.”

Leo took the ball and looked at the shape ahead of him.

The Wolves players were retreating again, pulling back into that same compact block that had been the answer to everything Wigan had tried in the last twenty minutes.

And he knew before he’d taken a step that if they worked it the same way they’d get the same result, which was nothing.

He also knew that if they didn’t do anything, the clock would just run out.

He lingered, almost walking with the ball for a while before he picked his head up.

”Fuck it,” he seemed to mutter before he started driving forward.

”Leo Calderon is running at them, and it seems he’s decided to go once at them himself,” the commentary came as the two players poking out of Wolverhampton’s frame approached.

Cunha stepped across to meet him, but that was the only thing he did.

Leo pushed the ball onto his right, and then using whatever pace he had left, he burst into the other direction.

By the time the Wolves midfielder tried to recover, Leo was already through the gap he’d left behind.

The yellow shirts ahead of him shifted instinctively.

Their shape, so compact only moments earlier, began to stretch as players abandoned their positions to close him down.

Bellegarde came from one side and Lemina from the other.

They arrived together, trying to squeeze the space shut, but Leo took two quick touches, one carrying the ball away from Bellegarde’s reach and the next slipping it between the pair before either could plant a foot.

”He’s beaten another. And another!” the commentator exclaimed.

”Leo Calderon is gliding through this Wolves midfield!”

With every stride, the DW rose, beckoning Leo forward with each stride.

His mates reacted, all seeking good positions to settle themselves should he choose them, but then Max Kilman stepped in.

Unlike the others, he didn’t chase the first movement.

He held his ground, waited for Leo’s next touch, and slid only when the timing was perfect.

His boot reached the ball first, poking it away a split second before Leo could push into the penalty area.

”Outstanding defending from Kilman!” the commentator shouted as Leo stumbled onto the ground.

”Absolutely outstanding. But look at the run that forced him into it.”

Kilman was back on his feet almost immediately.

He swept the loose ball long into space for Pedro Neto, who had stayed high on the right and in an instant, the game turned.

Blue shirts spun and sprinted towards their own goal as Wolves broke with purpose.

Leo was among them.

He chased hard, but there was no panic in the way he moved.

This was the conclusion he’d come to.

To pull Wolves out, someone had to tempt them.

And so he had set up a counter for them, a bit to bring out the pack, and it worked.

Now, they were all attacking, and all Wigan had to do was shake off the counter.

Neto carried the counter deep into Wigan territory with Whatmough retreating in front of him without diving into a challenge.

The centre-back stayed patient, matching every change of pace and angle, waiting for Neto to make the first commitment.

Eventually, the winger looked up and wrapped his foot around a cross.

”Neto delivers...” the commentator called, but somehow Ben Amos had already read it.

He stepped off his line with complete certainty and claimed the cross cleanly above the crowd before anyone in yellow could challenge.

”Comfortably gathered by Amos.”

The next second, the goalkeeper barely broke stride.

He turned on his heel and, in the same movement, launched a long throw towards the left flank, where Carlo had already started his run into the space Wolves had left behind.

”Quick release from Amos...” the commentator’s voice rose again

”CARLO’S IN SPACE AND WOLVES ARE CAUGHT!!!”