Harbinger Of Glory

Boot studs clicked against the tiles, laces being tugged, the low hum of chatter bouncing around the Wigan locker room.

Tendayi Darikwa sat at his stall, tugging the second boot tight when James McClean leaned over from the next seat, a smirk already tugging at his mouth.

”So,” McClean began, voice carrying just enough to draw attention from the nearby lads, ”how’re the kids? They like that Nintendo thing I picked up for them?”

Darikwa glanced sideways, still adjusting his sock before answering.

”They liked it too much. Makes them lazier every day. Their mother’s on top of it, though. At least she was—” he paused, a small grin flickering, ”—but she’s pregnant again. Needs to take it easier now.”

McClean sat back, grin widening into full-blown mischief.

”Aye, look at this man. Two goals in life already, and about to bag a third!”

The locker room burst into laughter suddenly after hearing McLean’s remarks.

Even Max Power, sitting in the matchday warm-up kits with his arms crossed, couldn’t hide a smile.

”Congrats, mate,” Power said, shaking his head.

”Really, congratulations.”

The words carried, and soon enough, half the squad drifted over, clapping Darikwa on the back, shaking his hand.

Darikwa chuckled, raising his palms like he hadn’t wanted to make it a big deal.

”Didn’t plan to say it yet,” he admitted, ”but since McClean’s got the loudest mouth in Wigan...”

All eyes turned on McClean.

He, of course, refused to meet them, whistling toward the ceiling as if it had nothing to do with him.

From the back, a voice cut through the laughter.

”Wait,” Leo said, looking genuinely puzzled, ”when did he score a goal? The game hasn’t even started.”

The room roared again as Darikwa shook his head, smiling warmly at the kid.

”Not that kind of goal,” he said.

Before McClean could twist the knife, Chris Sze leaned forward from his spot.

”His wife’s pregnant, Leo. Third child.”

Leo blinked.

”Oh...” but McClean pounced anyway.

”See, you’ve got to explain it to the baby in the room!”

He gestured dramatically toward Leo, who just shook his head and muttered something under his breath as he slumped back toward his seat.

The mood was still buzzing when the door opened as Dawson stepped in, clipboard under his arm, and froze for a moment at the noise.

Some of the lads were still moving back and forth toward Darikwa’s corner.

”What’s all this then?” Dawson asked, raising a brow.

McClean’s eyes immediately flicked to Darikwa, with the latter breaking out into laughter as their eyes met before he waved him on.

”Go on. You’ve said it once, make it twice.”

McClean gave a theatrical nod before turning toward Dawson.

”Boss, our captain here’s about to become a dad for the third time.”

Dawson’s puzzled face softened as he stepped closer and offered a brief smile.

”That’s good news, Tendayi. Congratulations.”

”Thank you, gaffer,” Darikwa replied.

Dawson looked around the room, the smile still lingering.

”Well, if it’s a good day already, let’s make sure it ends with a win, eh?”

He scanned the squad, his voice firming up again.

”And listen, if we get a penalty tonight, give it to Darikwa. Let him dedicate it to his wife and kids properly.”

There were murmurs of approval, a few claps against lockers.

”Now enough of this,” Dawson said, raising his voice a touch.

”Blackpool are already lined up in the tunnel. Don’t keep them waiting. Get yourselves sorted.”

The room scattered into final checks as shirts pulled down, armbands slipped on, studs thudding against the floor as the players began to file out.

The mood was still buoyant, but beneath it, the edge of focus had returned.

...

Outside the lockerooms, the floodlights bathed the DW Stadium in white, a familiar glow settling over the pitch as the players emerged from the tunnel to a wave of applause and scattered chants.

The commentators’ voices layered over the scene, bright and polished.

”And here come the teams,” one said, as the camera panned across the line.

”Plenty of noise inside the DW tonight, but one name will stand out for Wigan supporters, Tendayi Darikwa. The captain returns straight into the starting eleven after a spell out with injury. His leadership and presence on the right flank is something they’ve sorely missed.”

His partner picked it up without pause.

”And that’s not all. You look at this Wigan bench now, it’s healthy. Players like George Cousins, who’ve been regulars, find themselves relegated to substitute roles as the squad gets deeper.

Others like Max Power, the vice-captain, are also back and watching from the bench tonight. And alongside them, of course, James Fletcher and the youngster who’s been making waves, Leo Calderón. Slowly breaking his way into the side, and at just seventeen, already becoming a name people expect to hear when Wigan’s squad list is out.”

The camera angle shifted to the substitutes, catching the row of navy tracksuits sitting shoulder to shoulder.

Fletcher, leaning slightly toward the analyst’s tablet to watch the live broadcast feed, nudged the kid beside him with an elbow.

”You hear that?” Fletcher grinned, tilting the screen toward Leo.

”You almost get a mention every game now. Can’t even warm the bench in peace anymore.”

Leo let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head.

”Still haven’t made my proper debut though,” he said wryly.

”Every time I’ve played, it’s been off the bench. Doesn’t really count yet.”

Fletcher bobbed his head, acknowledging the point.

His eyes drifted back toward the pitch where their teammates were stretching into position.

Then he leaned closer again, voice low.

”Tell you what,” he said, a smirk playing on his lips.

Leo turned, eyebrows raised. ”What?”

”Let’s make it interesting,” Fletcher continued.

”In the next five games, let’s bet on who cracks the starting lineup first and keeps it. You or me.”

Leo blinked, half amused, half cautious. ”Come on, that isn’t fair. You’ve been in the squad for long time and you’re like the first in line to play because our team has only 2 strikers, while I have to fight against the 4 midfielders on the pitch as well as those on the bench.”

”But that is what makes it challenging and fun,” Fletcher coerced, while Leo shook his head.

”I won’t accept it, but let’s hear the stakes first.”

Fletcher rubbed at the back of his neck with exaggerated drama.

”Since I’m broke this month... loser washes the winner’s boots. Whole month. Every last stud scrubbed clean.”

Leo’s mouth curled into a smile as he looked back toward the field, where Darikwa was adjusting his armband and barking a word at the back line, before answering.

”It’s a bad deal for me, but still, it sounds fun. Let’s do it,” he said simply.

Fletcher grinned like a man who’d just set a trap. ”Good lad.”

On the pitch, the players settled into their positions, boots scratching divots into the grass as they squared up.

The referee raised his whistle, a hush cutting briefly through the hum of the stadium.

”And we are underway at the DW Stadium,” the commentator’s voice rang as the whistle cut through the air.

”Wigan against Blackpool. Let’s see what unfolds.”

The ball rolled, and the crowd surged in noise as the game began.

Wigan were quick out of the blocks, Darikwa charging down the right-hand touchline like a man eager to make up for lost time.

The ball zipped across the grass, shuttled between Tom Naylor and Broadhead, before a sharp pass was fed wide to the captain.

”And look at that, Darikwa straight into the action!”the commentator’s voice cut in.

”First touch of the game and already bombing forward.

That’s what he brings. Energy, intent, and that experience down the flank.”

Blackpool snapped back into shape quickly, their midfield clogging the channels, forcing Darikwa to check his run and recycle the ball back.

A murmur fluttered through the crowd, part anticipation, part impatience, before the rhythm settled again.

Wigan kept probing as Will Keane dropped deep, linking play with neat flicks, while McClean pushed high up the left, stretching the orange shirts back.

A neat one-two between Thelo Aasgaard and Broadhead followed, and drew a rise from the stands, but the move broke down on the edge of the box when the final pass was a fraction too heavy.

”That was slick,” the co-commentator said, impressed.

”Sharp little triangle play there from Wigan. You can see what they’re trying to do, pull Blackpool around and open that central space.”

Blackpool weren’t spectators, though.

A turnover in midfield sent them surging forward, Lavery sprinting into the channel before flashing a ball across the face of the goal.

Gasps shot up from the home end as the cross whistled untouched past the six-yard box, but that didn’t stop the cheers from ringing through the away section.

”Warning sign for Wigan!” came the commentary, urgent now.

The game had only just begun, but it was already alive.