Harbinger Of Glory

Leo’s delivery had pace and whip on it, bending toward the penalty spot with enough venom to tempt runners from both sides.

It looked dangerous for both sides as the Burnley defenders sought to clear while the Wigan players sought to put the ball in the back of the net.

But before either side’s thought could materialise, James Trafford took command.

The Burnley goalkeeper burst off his line, rose above the crowd of bodies with both knees tucked high for protection, and claimed the ball cleanly above everyone’s heads before Wigan could attack it.

”No risks there,” the commentator said as Trafford landed and didn’t linger.

The keeper took two quick strides toward the edge of his area and launched the ball long before Wigan had fully recovered their shape, turning defence into attack in one movement.

The pass sailed beyond the halfway mark, falling right near the Wigan box as the Burnley forwards rushed, but Amos had read it almost as soon as it left Trafford’s boot.

He stepped out confidently from his box, met it just outside the area and cushioned it under control before lifting his head.

Burnley were already back in his team’s half, and as he watched on, he found it almost unsettling how quickly the away shirts reorganised themselves.

By the time Amos rolled the ball into Whatmough’s feet, Burnley’s front line had settled into the same narrow positions they’d occupied for most of the opening exchanges.

Behind them, the midfield shifted in perfect sync, each player taking away a passing lane rather than a man.

Leo drifted into his usual pocket as a Burnley midfielder slid across while Tiehi dropped a few yards deeper only to have another follow.

The picture looked almost identical to the one Wigan had spent the last twenty minutes trying to solve.

”They’re doing it again,” the co-commentator observed. ”Look how compact they are through the middle.”

”They’re not interested in pressing the ball,” the main commentator replied. ”They’re pressing the next pass. Every time Wigan look inside, Burnley have already closed the lane.”

Whatmough carried the ball forward a few strides, waiting for the opening that usually appeared, but it wasn’t going to change, not that it had so previously.

Leo moved once to give way, but no change happened as every passing angle disappeared almost as quickly as it formed.

Whatmough eventually settled for the safer option out wide, and Burnley shifted across as one, the entire block sliding with the ball without ever losing its shape.

It wasn’t spectacular, nor was it aggressive, but it was relentless and draining the Wigan players.

From the technical area, Dawson watched in silence, his eyes moving with the Burnley midfield rather than the ball.

Beside him, Nolan folded his arms before pulling out one of the tablet computers they used for analysis.

”They’ve rehearsed this, and it’s not looking shoddy in the least.”

Dawson hummed at Nolan’s words but didn’t glance over.

His gaze just stayed fixed on the movement in front of him before he gave a slow nod.

”They’re making sure Leo never sees the same form twice so he doesn’t adapt to it. And it’s working really well!”

Dawson sat still and watched, all while the clock zoomed closer to the half-hour mark.

”Twenty-two minutes played,” the commentator said, almost like he was trying to remind the broadcast about their presence after how dull the game got.

”And Burnley have managed just that. They haven’t even made an attempt at their opponent’s goal, while Wigan, on the other hand, have had two.

The first from Leo’s extraordinary long-range effort and a Reyes shot that went well wide, but beyond that the game has been almost entirely defined by Burnley’s willingness to sacrifice any attacking ambition in favour of making Leo Calderon’s life as difficult as possible.”

”And it has worked,” the co-commentator said.

”Which is the uncomfortable truth that nobody inside this ground wants to hear. Burnley have identified the problem, and they have applied the solution and for the better part of half an hour it has held.”

Back on the sides, Dawson finally rose from the bench and began moving toward the touchline, cupping his hands around his mouth, about to instruct something, but then he stopped as Leo had dropped deeper.

And it wasn’t a slight change but something significant as he pulled himself out of the midfield entirely and sat alongside Whatmough and O’Shea, forming a back three with the two centre backs while Tiehi held his position alone.

In reaction to that, the full backs pushed higher, and suddenly the shape of Wigan looked completely different from what it had been thirty seconds ago.

Dawson lowered his hands, watched it for a moment and then snorted before shaking his head as something between a laugh and a sigh came out of him.

”You genius,” he said, directed at Leo.

”You just don’t know it,” he added before moving back into his seat, ready to watch the show unfold.

On the pitch, the Burnley players looked at the new shape and hesitated as the ball went out for a goalkick.

Their pressing triggers built around a specific picture that was no longer there, and in that hesitation Leo had a quiet word with O’Shea, leaning toward him without breaking from the position.

”Use your experience as a defensive midfielder,” Leo said. ”When their attention is on me, drive forward with it.”

O’Shea, though a bit sceptical, nodded once and stepped back into position.

Following that, Amos passed to Leo.

The Burnley forwards moved toward him and then stopped, the dilemma revealing itself in real time.

If they pressed Leo now after not doing so for the entirety of the game up till now, they would leave gaps in the midfield for the full backs who had pushed higher to invert.

If they didn’t, too, Leo was certainly going to find bodies with that exceptional passing range of his that they had been warned about by their coach in the whole build-up to the game.

There was no clean answer, and while Burnley’s players took a fraction too long finding one, Leo didn’t wait.

He hit it low and driven into the grass, the ball skipping toward the left where Bennet gathered it.