Harbinger Of Glory

The roar came down from the stands like a wave breaking over the pitch.

Not a neat chant, but a roar kind of chant coming from fans that had completely lost themselves in the chaos and excitement.

A long, rollingahhhhhhhhmixed with scattered shouts and a few high-pitched ”whoooooops!” prevailed from the crowd below as they clung to Leo for that extra second before finally letting him go.

He stumbled back onto the patch of grass near the corner flag, breath still lodged in his throat, when the announcer’s voice cracked through the speakers.

”Goal for Wigan. Number twenty-two, LEEEOOOOOO—”

The rest never came from him as the crowd took it, swallowed it, and hurled it back.

”CAAALDEERROOON!”

Leo turned, chest rising, adrenaline buzzing under his skin.

He raised a fist to them, thanking them in the only way his body remembered how, while Mclean, following behind, ruffled his hair, laughing under his breath before patting him on the back and heading off toward his position.

”What a moment from young Calderon... and what a finish. Wigan needed something special, and he’s given them exactly that.”

The broadcast continued with the co-commentator/ analyst talking while on the pitch, the Sunderland players gathered the ball and nudged it toward the centre spot.

Shoulders dropped, but not fully beaten.

There was still time, they thought, even with the clock ticking well over the 3rd added minute.

A few of them exchanged quiet words, urging each other to stay switched on while the referee walked into the centre circle, checked both sides with a quick glance, then lifted the whistle to his lips.

The restart barely lasted more than a heartbeat.

Sunderland knocked it back and immediately launched a desperate long ball into Wigan’s half as the commentary followed the flight.

”They’ve gone long straight away. Last chance here...”

Tilt met it with a commanding header, sending it out for a throw.

The referee didn’t look at his watch, and that encouraged the Sunderland players as they lined up one more time, heaving bodies forward.

The ball came flying in again, but Tilt rose for a second header, clearing it even further out.

It bounced toward the touchline as Dajaku and Sze chased it, but the latter ultimately got there first with his headstart and slid in, keeping it alive, scraping it away from going out, while Dajaku turned to chase the ball.

But Leo had tracked the play and stepped up to meet the loose ball.

And when the ball got to his feet, he smashed it upfield, clearing the danger, and the whistle sounded right as the ball crossed halfway.

Relief.

Release.

The entire stadium erupted again, this time in a rolling cheer that the players could feel in their being.

Applause rained down from all sides of the DW, pockets of fans shouting Leo’s name while others hammered the advertising boards.

The commentary layered over the scene as the camera panned to the touchline.

”And that’s full time. Wigan take all three points. A massive result for Coach Dawson and his men in their quest for a possible promotion, like every other Championship club dreams of.”

Dawson was already shaking hands with Tony Mowbray, a respectful nod from both managers.

After that, Dawson stepped onto the pitch, greeting Sunderland players he crossed paths with before wrapping an arm around his own boys one by one.

Every player looked spent but proud.

The camera caught the moment he reached Leo.

Dawson pulled him into a tight hug, lifting him an inch off the ground for a second before setting him back down, a grin breaking across his face.

”That’s what I am talking about,” he said quietly.

”That’s my fucking boy,” and then added loudly, causing Leo to chuckle after the camera hovering around them possibly caught his speech, and the commentary continued over it.

”With this win, Wigan move up to ninth, officially jumping three points ahead of Sunderland, who had been just above them on goal difference before the game. They now sit four points clear of the team in eleventh and keep their push for the playoff places very much alive.”

The final shot drifted back to Leo, who now stood near the centre circle, turning slowly as he applauded every stand, taking in the noise and the faces while the crowd answered with another swell of cheers that filled the cold evening air.

Leo finally drifted toward the tunnel afterwards with the rest of the team, still trying to come down from the rush of it all.

A few fans along the front rows leaned over the barriers, shouting his name as he passed.

He gave them a quick smile and a small wave just before Nolan came up beside him and bumped his shoulder lightly.

”That’s a topper, son,” he said, voice low but warm.

He gave Leo another nudge, this time angling him toward a small podium that had been set up a few metres away for the post-match interview.

Leo let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding.

”Right... yeah,” he said, though it came out softer than he meant.

”Go on,” Nolan added.

”You’ll be fine. Just breathe and say what you actually think. They like that more than any polished stuff.”

Leo nodded, even if his stomach still felt tight.

He had done one of these before, but that didn’t make the second any easier.

He walked toward the setup, boots scrunching lightly on the turf.

A few crew members were around the small stage, adjusting a microphone, checking the framing of a portable camera.

One of them saw Leo coming and gave him a quick thumbs up, as if to say he was in the right spot.

”And with me, I have today’s match winner, Wigan’s own, Leo Calderon,” the interviewer said after things got in order, to which Leo just nodded before the interview began.

.....

In the forecourt outside the DW, where clusters of fans were still hanging around, riding the high of the win, a regional news crew stood among them, lights up, mic in hand, trying to catch the raw mood before everyone drifted off into the night.

The reporter turned to a man in his mid-thirties in a Wigan jacket, cheeks still flushed from the cold and the shouting, while people who seemed to be his friends surrounded him.

”So, what did you make of that finish?” the reporter asked as the man let out a long breath and shook his head with a grin.

”He’s goated, mate. Proper goated. That kid’s the only one out there who looks like he wakes up wanting to play football. You can see it in how he moves. Some players jog around. Calderon goes hunting.”

”Honestly, this is the first proper match of his, and the kid didn’t even start, but wow, he did well with the little time given to him.”

A couple of fans behind him shouted their agreement, one of them leaning in with a laugh.

”We might as well call ourselves Comeback FC at this point. Every time we go down, you just know we’re gonna pull something mad out of nowhere. It’s horrible for your nerves, but it gets your blood bumping like nothing else.”

The crowd chuckled, a few still buzzing, bouncing on their feet in the glow of the stadium lights as another fan stepped closer to the mic, half raising a hand, half invited by the camera’s attention.

”My thoughts are, we should give the captaincy to the kid at this rate,” he said.

”He’s the only one out there barking, dragging us up the pitch, fighting for every ball. Six games I’ve seen him in. Five of them he was man of the match in my head, and even the one he wasn’t, he still put in a shift, even though it was his first on the professional scene.”

He tapped his finger on the reporter’s mic to drive the point home.

”And I remember when I first heard an academy lad was getting four grand a week. Four grand. I nearly lost it. I thought he better be Ryan Giggs’ lost nephew or something. But after this? Pay him more.”

The reporter tried to keep a straight face, but the man wasn’t finished.

”Fuck, I’ll pay him myself if the club can’t!” he added, hands raised like a man ready to pass a collection bowl around.

That cracked everyone up as laughter rolled through the group.

Even the reporter let out a chuckle before turning back to the camera, still smiling as the scene settled.

”Well, any last thoughts on your expectations and what you make of this team?” the reporter posed the question to the group.

After a moment, a middle-aged man came into view.

”It’s still a bit early since we haven’t even played half the season yet, but I like our odds. We still have players like Fletcher, Whatmough, Joe Bennett and more out. But I guess I can say,” he paused, slowing down, while the little pause pulled the crowd and reporter in before we continued.

”Wigan are back!”