Harbinger Of Glory

The training ground was already alive with shouts, studs scraping grass, and the steady rhythm of the ball snapping between boots.

The autumn air carried a bite, and the morning mist clung low across the pitch, softening the edges of the world around them.

Leo was on his third full sprint of the session, sweat beading down his neck as he drove the ball past Jack Whatmough, who lunged in but was left spinning on his heel.

Leo feinted once more, his low centre of gravity carrying him away just in time before Whatmough called out breathlessly, ”Oi, Calderon, no place for those snake-like moves here!”

Leo laughed faintly but didn’t turn around.

He was too focused, too deep in that flow where every touch felt deliberate and alive.

And then out of nowhere, Tilt appeared, running Leo into the ground before claiming the ball.

Leo on the ground raised his hands, seeking a foul, but none came.

Moments later, a new drill began, a small-sided match across half-pitch.

Leo drifted between the lines, scanning.

The defenders in navy training kits were stepping up, pressing high, leaving just enough space behind them.

He shaped his body like he was about to drive forward, but instead slid his foot under the ball, threading a diagonal pass between two markers.

The weight was perfect as Will Keane latched on, barely breaking stride before smashing a low finish across the goal.

Ben Amos, fresh back from his hamstring injury, got a fingertip to it, but not enough to send it away before the net rippled.

Keane wheeled away, laughing.

”You’ll have to do a bit more than that if you want your shirt back from Jamie Jones, mate!”

Ben Amos straightened up with a grin, chest still heaving as he stood up.

”I could say the same for you,” he shot back, nudging his head toward the other half of the pitch, where Fletcher and Callum Lang had just combined beautifully to put one past Sam Tickle, the young third-choice keeper.

For a second, the two forwards just looked at each other before both burst out laughing. Keane shook his head, still catching his breath.

”It’s always gonna be like this, isn’t it?”

”Always,” Amos replied, wiping his gloves on his shorts.

”But then again, why are you talking like you are 50. You just turned 30.”

They both chuckled at Amos’s words before moving back to reset.

On the sideline, Dawson and Nolan stood quietly, watching it all unfold.

The crisp slap of the ball echoed faintly as players shifted through drills, some still panting from the intensity.

Nolan folded his arms. ”So,” he said, his voice low but carrying that tone of quiet calculation. ”What’s the plan for Middlesbrough, then?”

Dawson didn’t look away from the pitch.

His gaze followed Leo, who had just picked up the ball again, backpedalling before spinning into space.

After a long pause, he finally answered.

”We’re going to run them to the ground,” he said simply.

Nolan glanced at him and smirked. ”You make it sound easy.”

Dawson didn’t blink.

”It won’t be. We might even lose, but they won’t forget us after it.”

The whistle blew again, sharp and cold in the air, as the next drill reset, Leo jogging back to position, lungs burning, boots muddied.

Soon, a whistle sounded, ending the session as the players all surrounded the Dawson.

”I’ve seen a lot, and I have a lineup in mind for the game against Middleborough. Keep working hard if you didn’t get into the lineup matchday squad. As for the squad, it will be released into the team group, and if nothing happens, that is what we shall be fielding.”

The players all nodded at his words before Dawson spoke again.

”Go take a shower and then eat, before you leave for recovery.”

The players nodded once more before making breaking away towards the locker room.

.....

At the Cafeteria, the smell of rice and grilled chicken hung in the air as players moved between tables, swapping stories and teasing each other about the morning drills.

Leo sat at a corner table with Keane, Tilt, and Chris, his hair still damp from the shower.

A carton of orange juice sat half-empty beside his plate as he listened absently to Keane argue about who had misplaced a cone during training.

”I’m telling you,” Keane said, stabbing his fork into his food, ”it was Lang. He kicked it when no one was looking.”

Lang, two tables away, looked up.

”Don’t drag me into your delusions, mate. I was scoring for fun while you were out there chasing your touch.”

A few laughs rippled through the room.

Keane grinned.

Before Keane could fire back, a chair screeched across the floor.

Ryan Nyambe stood up, grinning widely as he held up his phone.

”Boys, guess who’s off to represent Namibia next week?”

The room quieted for a split second, then erupted.

”No way, Ryan!” Whatmough called. ”Finally, man! About time they called you back.”

Ryan laughed, shaking his head as a few of the younger lads clapped.

”Yeah, they called this morning. Thought it was spam at first,” he said, grinning as someone threw a grape at him.

”Spam call that makes you international,” Tilt said with a laugh. ”Lucky bastard.”

Ryan shrugged modestly but couldn’t hide his smile.

”Nah, just means more running. But yeah... feels good.”

The noise around the cafeteria swelled again, full of cheers and jokes, but Leo had gone quiet.

He smiled and clapped with the others, but his mind was somewhere else.

The sight of Ryan’s beaming face tugged something in him, a small, silent thought that had been sitting in the back of his mind the previous couple of days.

He had his own decision to make soon, one that would shape where he was headed next, at least in his youth career.

Across the room, Nolan and Dawson sat at a smaller table by the window.

Nolan was mid-bite when he noticed Leo’s faraway look.

He tilted his head slightly.

”You see that?” he murmured.

Dawson didn’t reply at first, his fork resting beside his plate.

His gaze lingered on Leo for a moment before looking back down and focusing on his food.

A couple more days passed, and by matchday, the air in Wigan carried that restless hum that always came before kickoff.

The Middlesbrough bus rolled through the DW Stadium gates just past one, polished and spotless.

Inside, players leaned against windows, headphones on, faces unreadable.

Security staff waved them through as a few clusters of fans gathered near the barriers, some cheering, some jeering in good fun.

Down the main road, more Wigan fans were trekking toward the stadium, scarves looped tight against the chill.

The closer they got, the louder it became, the clatter of shoes on pavement, the rhythmic chant of ”Wigan ’til I die,” and the distant sound of someone drumming on a trash bin like it was part of the pre-match anthem.

A few Middlesbrough supporters answered back from across the street, the two groups exchanging songs and shouts.

As the turnstiles clicked and fans began flooding in, the DW came to life.

The scent of pies and fresh-cut grass mingled in the air, the pitch gleaming under pale daylight as the stands began to fill.

Inside the concourse, conversations buzzed:

”They’ve gone strong again, haven’t they?”

”Yeah, Boro aren’t here to mess around.”

”Wonder if that Calderon lad’s starting?”

The answer came soon enough.

As the big screen lit up with the lineups, a collective murmur ran through the home crowd.

Wigan had named their strongest eleven: Keane, Lang, Tilt, Darikwa and a few more veterans, but Leo’s name sat on the bench.

A few fans near the front rows exchanged glances.

”Well, fair enough,” one said, folding his arms.

”Boro’s fifth in the table. He’s still young, no rush to throw him into that.”

”Yeah,” another replied.

Still, there was a subtle note of disappointment beneath their understanding.

The kid had been electric lately, his name whispered more and more around the DW and that made people want to see him.

Down in the tunnel, Leo walked with the substitutes, his tracksuit zipped to his neck as he stepped out onto the pitch.

He looked across at Ryan, who gave him a small grin, still riding the buzz from his call-up.

Leo smiled back, faint but genuine.

Then the sound hit, a deep, rising thunder from the other side of the stadium.

Middlesbrough’s travelling fans had found their voice, their chant rolling through the air like a wave.

It pulled an answering roar from the Wigan faithful, louder, fiercer, echoing off every steel beam and concrete wall until the noise filled the entire ground.

Players began stepping out from the tunnel one by one, boots clattering on the floor, the line splitting as they emerged into the light.

The afternoon sun had broken through the clouds just enough to cast a golden shimmer over the pitch.

”Welcome to the DW”, the announcer bellowed, eliciting another wave of chants from the crowd.

Matchday had well and truly arrived.