Harbinger Of Glory

[6:37 PM]

”Good evening and welcome to the DW Stadium in Wigan, where the air tonight feels different from your average Tuesday fixture.”

Behind the voice of the commentary, the stadium noise escaped into the broadcast right as the commentary continued.

”It feels different because of what’s at stake, at least from Wigan’s point of view.

They have eighteen points. Manchester City, the reigning champions, have the same.

But Wigan have a game in hand, which is tonight’s fixture against Burnley, and a win here sends them to the top of the Premier League table outright.”

”Just let that settle,” the co-commentator said.

”A club that was in the Championship last season. A club with a fraction of the budget of every side around them in this table, and they go top of the Premier League, that is if they win or even draw tonight, though the former gives more breathing space.”

”The supporters inside this ground have been here since long before the gates opened,” the commentator said.

”You can hear them from up here, and the players haven’t even come out yet.”

The noise from the broadcast confirmed it, building steadily beneath the commentary.

Then it stopped being a background detail and became the story as the tunnel mouth produced the players and, at that, the DW responded to the sight of their own with everything it had.

”Both sides emerging now,” the commentator came through again.

”And Wigan tonight have gone with their strongest lineup. Not since the Chelsea game early in the season have we seen this group together from the start.

Carlo Regutti on loan from Manchester City, starting on the left. Will Keane leading the line. Reyes in the ten. Ezra on the right, as well as a name that has been a bit absent from the starting lineup in a few games in Femi Seriki at right back.”

”And then we have Leo Calderon, and I don’t think I am wrong when I say he’s at the helm of the team, at least on the pitch.

I think most people watching this evening would agree, is inarguably the best player this Wigan side has, which isn’t something you see every day considering Leo is only 18, the youngest in the squad.”

Up in the stands, Mia leaned forward over the railing, taking in the sea of people below even though she’d been to the DW more times than she could count.

She looked across at Sofia before nudging her to draw her attention.

”There are so many people today,” she said, straining a bit to get her voice to Sofia.

The latter smiled before pulling her away, all while keeping her eyes on the pitch.

”They’re here for your brother. They adore him,” she answered.

Before Mia could answer, a chant rose from the North Stand.

It started with a few hundred voices, then spread across the stadium until it rolled around the ground in waves.

Leo’s name threaded through lyrics the supporters had written over the season, the fans singing at the top of their lungs as the stadium cameras found him almost immediately.

Leo looked up at the giant screen, caught sight of himself on the Jumbotron and smiled.

He gave the North Stand a small nod before turning back toward the pitch, and the response was immediate.

The chant swelled another level, and beside Sofia, Vittoria watched the screen without saying anything.

Sofia glanced at her for a brief moment, then looked back toward the pitch.

Down below, the players peeled away toward their respective halves.

Burnley away from him, moved with little wasted motion, their expressions giving nothing away.

They hadn’t travelled to Wigan to become another Chapter in someone else’s story.

If anything, they were there to cause an upset, a sort of underdog atmosphere mingling around them.

While this went on, the broadcast camera glided toward the technical area.

”There he is,” the commentator said.

”Shaun Dawson. Thirty-five years of age and one of the youngest managers in the Premier League. Some of his former players were even older than he was back in the Championship.”

He paused as Dawson folded his arms on the sidelines, the manager also glancing at the jumbotron where his face was plastered before looking away as quickly as he found his face.

”Aside from his impressive age, what continues to impress me is how quickly he reads football matches.

He’s made a habit this season of spotting problems before they fully develop, then solving them before opponents realise they’ve created them.

Wigan have quality players, no question... but Dawson deserves enormous credit for what we’re seeing.”

The referee checked both assistants one last time as the players settled into their respective halves.

At the kickoff spot, Will Keane stood over the ball as the commentary came in again on the broadcast.

”A win tonight sends Wigan Athletic to the top of the Premier League,” the commentator said again as the referee’s whistle sounded.

”So here we go,” the co-commentator added right as Keane rolled it back to Reyes, who in turn sent it to the feet of Tiehi.

As the game began, Burnley almost stayed inactive, and that was the first thing Leo noticed.

Instead of charging the ball, Burnley’s front line spread across the pitch, allowing Wigan possession while quietly shutting every obvious route forward.

Their press wasn’t aimed at whoever had the ball.

Instead, it was aimed at where the next pass wanted to go, and the effect appeared almost immediately.

Whenever Leo or Tiehi drifted into space, a Burnley shirt arrived first.

They hovered, though they were not close enough to tackle.

Instead they did so to block the passing lane.

Behind them, the distances shifted constantly.

One defender stepped forward, another tucked inside, a full-back dropped deeper.

The shape never stayed still for more than a second.

And as Bennet got the ball on the left flank, he glanced inside the half and found nothing.

He recycled possession, playing a rare pass into the feet of Reyes, but he too was forced to switch play.

The opponents weren’t losing their edge, and at the same time, they weren’t chasing too.

Eventually Bennet found Leo just inside Burnley’s half and almost instantly, the trap snapped shut.

Three passing lanes disappeared almost at once, but even at that, nobody tackled him or tried to do so.

They didn’t even sprint toward him.

They simply stood exactly where he wanted to play his pass.

On the touchline, Dawson leaned forward slightly, watching the action unfold, and there it was.

Burnley had built their entire opening around removing Leo from the game, and it seemed that it was only taking effect now that Leo had gotten a touch to the ball.

Leo, on the other hand, lingered with the ball, trapped between the Burnley attack and midfield.

He looked right and then left, and then all around, but he found nothing.

He took one touch and then another, hoping to bait the Burnley midfield, but they held their positions, convinced the trap had worked.

Instead, Leo did the last thing any of them expected.

He carried the ball forward a yard...

...looked up...

...and hit it.

Not to pass but to threaten the Burnley goal.

Since they weren’t going to press, he was going to go at them, and he did so with a shot from well inside his own half.

For a split second nobody reacted.

And how could they?

Nobody was expecting what they were seeing as the ball climbed high into the Lancashire sky before beginning its long descent toward goal.

James Trafford only realised what it was halfway through its flight.

”Oh...” the commentator’s breath hitched.

”He’s gone for goal!”

Trafford backpedalled desperately, eyes fixed above him and heels almost tangling beneath his feet before he launched himself backwards.

The ball looked almost destined for the back of the net, but his fingertips reached it, though just!

The ball clipped his glove, struck the top of the crossbar with a sharp metallic crack, then bounced behind for a corner as for a heartbeat the stadium froze.

Then the DW erupted.

”OH MY GOODNESS!”

The commentator’s voice climbed with it.

”LEO CALDERON HAS JUST HAD A GO FROM NEARLY SIXTY YARDS!”

Trafford landed on his knees and stayed there for a moment before getting back up.

He looked at the crossbar and then all the way back toward the halfway line.

Then back at the crossbar again, almost checking that what had nearly happened had actually nearly happened.

All the while, the co-commentator couldn’t hide his amusement.

”I absolutely loved that,” he said as Burnley’s players looked around at one another.

Leo barely acknowledged any of it, or if he did, he didn’t show it.

He jogged straight toward the corner flag, collected the ball, and placed it carefully inside the arc while the noise continued to pour down from every stand.

”What an opening,” the commentator said as the cameras tracked him.

”We’re barely into this match, and Leo Calderon has nearly produced one of the goals of the season. Burnley have their warning.”

”Wigan have their corner. And this stadium is absolutely alive.”