Harbinger Of Glory

”Gather around,” Dawson said as the sun dipped behind the training dome.

He had finished his clipboard notes and called for quiet for what he had to say.

The Players heeded and gathered around the small whiteboard near the physio room.

Each player knew what was coming by the sheet Dawson held in his hand and everyone, especially the reserves and players with less standing in the team wanted their names to be on it.

Dawson tapped the list twice, the marker squeaking as he added two late names at the bottom.

”That’s the squad,” he said.

”Matchday Eighteen. Away kits, travel bags. Departure tomorrow morning at eight sharp.”

Leo’s eyes scanned the sheet.

He didn’t need to read long — his name was there.

Again.

One line under Fletcher’s.

Substitute.

Leo barely moved, but inwards, he was celebrating, the feeling of being added to the matchday squad for the second time.

Even if he didn’t play, the atmosphere alone could compensate.

Dawson’s eyes found his, then gestured for Leo to approach as the other players checked the list.

”Leo.”

Leo looked up. ”Yeah, coach?”

”You’ll get more time tomorrow,” Dawson said.

”It depends on what goes on in the match but we’ll have you slowly accommodate the league’s requirements.”

Leo nodded slowly, the weight of it sinking in.

That wasn’t just words — that was trust.

Dawson moved down the list.

”If your name isn’t here, U23s kick off at seven tonight. You can play if you’re fit. Nolan has the list.”

The locker room shifted slightly.

No one said much, but the message was clear.

This wasn’t punishment — this was the pyramid, plain and simple.

Some of the reserve boys — the ones who’d been hoping for a bench seat, maybe even five minutes at Vicarage Road — were now suiting up to play in front of barely a hundred people.

On the training pitch under the academy lights.

Leo watched a few faces drop.

A midfielder who had been rotated in all season long.

A winger who trained sharply all week.

They didn’t argue.

They just stood and nodded.

And that’s when it clicked.

Leo wasn’t lucky anymore.

He was moving.

And in doing so — he was moving past people.

........

”I wish they would call me up too” Jake groaned as he rose from Leo’s bed.

”You? With those Biscoffs and Cadburys. Do you think we are going to eat there? Seriously thought Jake, you have to cut down on those.”

Jake turned towards Leo, who was watching some game footage after Ezra’s words.

”We’re leaving” Ezra said drawing Leo’s attention.

”Okay. Tell Ben I said hi” Leo said but that made Jake who was already outside stop.

”Bruh, he’s down the hallway. Like he lives in the third room from yours. You can just pop in and say hi. And........”

Bang

”Some peace and quiet” Leo said after shitting the door on Jake but just before sitting down, his phone buzzed.

Dawson: Get your rest. Eyes on Watford. We’ll need everyone.

Leo stared at the message for a second, then clicked the screen off and turned to the ceiling.

”Right,” he muttered to no one.

........

”Come on Lads, we don’t have all day” Nolan croaked as the players hurried their steps.

The coach was waiting outside the complex, engine low, luggage compartments yawning open.

Most of the players shuffled in with their headphones already on, gear zipped, coffee cups in hand.

Leo moved quieter than most, slipping into the third row from the back.

Fletcher was already there — seat kicked out, legs stretched, hoodie halfway off one shoulder.

”You’re late,” Fletcher said without opening his eyes.

”I’m not.”

”You are,” Fletcher grinned.

”In football terms, anything later than me is late.”

Leo shook his head and slumped into the seat beside him.

He pulled the curtain shut halfway and leaned his head against the window.

He wasn’t tired but he wanted to sleep.

And yet, his chest wouldn’t settle.

His legs felt like they were vibrating under the track pants.

His second match.

In a row.

A chance to play properly — not just run the clock out.

He shut his eyes.

And then opened them again.

Fletcher snorted. ”You’re not sleeping.”

Leo sat up.

”Did you sleep before your debut?” he asked.

Fletcher stretched his arms behind his head.

”Nah. I watched three episodes of Peaky Blinders and spent an hour checking if my name was trending.”

Leo gave him a side-eye. ”Was it?”

”Course not,” Fletcher grinned.

”But I played like it was.”

They both chuckled.

A few rows ahead, Chris Sze turned around, balancing a bottle of water on his tray table.

”You two good?” he asked.

”Leo’s too excited to sleep,” Fletcher said.

Chris nodded knowingly.

”Could be his first proper run, yeah?”

”Dawson said I’d get more time.”

Chris didn’t say anything for a second.

Then he smiled.

”Then, just... take the game when it comes.”

Leo leaned back again, the window now bright with streaks of sun through light fog as the countryside sped past and a few hours later, he was in the away dugout, watching the vicarage road crowd ablaze.

The roar of the home crowd bounced from stand to stand as the referee’s whistle rang out and the match began under a fading grey sky.

Watford, in gold and black, didn’t waste time with feeling the game out.

Within the opening minute, their intentions were clear: press high, press hard, and stretch the width of the pitch until something tore open.

Wigan had barely settled into shape when the first warning came-a — fast give-and-go between Watford’s left-back and their winger slicing past the touchline.

The cross came hard across the box and missed everyone by a foot.

Still, the message was clear: they were going to run at Wigan.

Leo sat on the bench, bib on, boots laced tight, heart already pacing.

Then came the fifth minute.

A throw-in deep on the right side was taken quickly. Watford’s winger — fast, low-centred, and always shifting his weight — collected it in stride, cut inside onto his stronger foot, skipped past Broadhead with a drop of the shoulder, and had only one idea in mind.

The crowd stood before he even shot.

A left-footed strike, fast and rising, bent around Whatmough’s lunging block and snapped into the top corner.

Jones never moved.

1–0. Watford.

The stadium erupted.

The replays came fast, the angle behind the goal showing just how vicious the shot had been — pure, arcing power that curled away from the keeper’s reach.

”And what a strike that is! Watford draw first blood at Vicarage Road! Just five minutes in, and Wigan are already behind!”

On the bench, Leo sat still, expression calm but eyes scanning.

He followed the players walking back to the centre circle, reading body language more than anything. Fletcher looked annoyed.

Mclean had his hands on his hips while Whatmough shouted something at Cousins, motioning for more compactness, but the latter just shrugged.

From the technical area, Dawson stayed planted, arms folded, jaw set and watching the interaction between Cousins and Whatmough.

He then turned towards Nolan and uttered something but the latter shook his head.

Wigan held possession better after the goal, gradually winning more of the midfield, with Cousins and Naylor working tighter triangles through the centre.

Fletcher drifted wide to pull his marker with him, while McClean stayed high, looking for direct service.

By the 23rd minute, Wigan had their first real opening — a lofted ball from Whatmough that was brought down well by McClean near the byline.

He squared it into the box, but the defender cleared just in time, sending the away end groaning.

Two more chances followed in quick succession — first a low drive from Mclean parried by the keeper, then a glancing header from Fletcher that missed by inches.

Still nothing.

Watford didn’t sit deep either.

They pressed in bursts, trying to punish every heavy touch.

Their midfield was lively, aggressive, and physical in the transition.

Every time Wigan looked to build, someone in yellow and black snapped at their ankles or jumped the lane.

”Wigan have responded well since going behind, but they’ve yet to test Watford’s back line. A couple of half chances, but no clean breakthrough.”

”They ended that four-game losing streak with the win over QPR last time out, but they’re back under pressure here. One-nil down at the break would be far from ideal.”

The final five minutes of the half played out with intensity but little rhythm — a couple of speculative crosses, a poor touch on the edge of the box, a late yellow card to the Watford right-back for time-wasting on a throw and when the whistle came, relief flooded both teams.

The camera followed the Wigan players as they slowly gathered, wiping sweat, pulling up socks, and muttering to each other in short, clipped tones.

Dawson, looking a bit fed up, just turned and started walking toward the tunnel.

”You have to think Dawson will have words at halftime. His team hasn’t been poor — but they haven’t been sharp either. They need more quality in the final third, more urgency, more... bite.”

The camera lingered on Dawson’s back as he disappeared into the tunnel.