Harbinger Of Glory

[In the stands]

”I didn’t really believe it when they said, but is this the kind of player we let go?” a man in a puffer jacket said as he watched the Hull City players restart the game.

The man he had thrown the question to just shrugged, while the former turned towards the pitch.

The man in the puffer jacket squinted toward the pitch as Leo tracked back, sliding into position as Hull City pressed.

”At least they got something out of him, right?” he asked, voice low but sharp, but his mate shook his head slowly, eyes following Leo’s movement.

”No. Nothing. Not a penny. And if there had been, you can bet it would’ve been documented.”

The first man’s brow furrowed, lips tightening. ”Seriously? Just... let him go?”

”We didn’t,” the mate muttered, almost to himself, shaking his head.

”Just... let him walk.”

A pause hung between them as they watched Leo intercept a loose pass, deftly turning and feeding it back toward Wigan’s half.

The crowd’s chants rolled over them, but they hardly noticed, still stuck on what they couldn’t believe.

”Did they even... put in a buyback clause or something?” the first man pressed, leaning closer, voice edged with disbelief.

The other exhaled, shaking his head again.

”Doesn’t seem so. Not from what I can see. Not a hint of it.”

A bitter laugh escaped the man in the puffer jacket.

”This club... this club is sick,” he muttered, voice low, almost swallowed by the noise around them.

He turned back toward the field just as Leo darted across the Hull City midfield, closing down a pressing forward with precision, his focus unwavering even under the weight of every eye in the stands.

The first man’s gaze followed him for a long moment, a mix of frustration and awe settling into his expression.

”Look at him,” he muttered, almost to himself. ”Look at what they let slip through their fingers.”

The mate beside him only nodded, lips pressed together as the game carried on, but their thoughts stayed on the boy in front of them.

The referee’s whistle pierced the tension for a moment, drawing both men briefly from their conversation, but the murmured judgment lingered.

”This club... sick,” the first man repeated, letting his words trail into the roar of the crowd, his eyes fixed on Leo again as Hull City pressed forward.

....

”And we’re just past the half-hour mark here at the DW,” the lead commentator said, voice rising with the rhythm of the crowd.

”Hull City turning over the ball again, but Max Power sliding in with a crunching tackle to stop the advance.”

The camera followed Leo immediately as he snatched the loose ball resulting from the incident described by the commentator, his frame so delicate in that situation, yet so powerful.

With a half-roulette, he pivoted left, darting past a Hull midfielder before slowing, letting his teammates stretch forward into space before he recycled the ball back to Tilt, who returned it to him with a crisp, measured pass.

”Smart of the 17-year-old. Not letting his mates get overworked. How many players could confidently say, ’I played like that at 17’?” the co-commentator added, voice almost incredulous.

”Now, Leo’s pretending to burst down the left... and the Hull player takes the bait. Beautiful deception, just like that.”

Leo switched direction, gliding across midfield to the right, slipping the ball to Max once more who only tapped it back to Leo, only for the youngster to pass it back to Max, causing the run of the Hull City player to slow as Max passed it back into the triangle that had formed, Leo at the apex, with Nyambe and Max on the flanks.

The Hull player marking Leo fumed, gesturing at his teammates for failing to press effectively after being used as the piggy in the middle, but the momentary lapse in concentration proved costly.

”Wigan exploiting that tiny lapse perfectly,” the lead commentator said as Leo moved past two Hull players.

”Brilliant footwork, now... he’s past his marker...”

Leo slid the ball across to Callum Lang, the right winger, and didn’t stop.

So Lang returned the pass with Leo once more getting hold of the ball and cutting inside deftly before shifting the ball to his left as though lining up for a shot while the crowd got behind him.

Two Hull players lunged to block him, but Leo slipped the ball through the narrowest of gaps to Mclean on the far side.

”Here it comes...” the co-commentator’s voice rose with excitement.

”Mclean..... and....he strikes! Into the far corner! Goal number 2 for Wigan!”

The home stands erupted, the roar washing over the pitch as Mclean sprinted to Leo, leaping onto him in celebration, both players laughing, breathless and exhilarated.

Cameras panned to the touchline, catching Dawson pumping his fists high, the grin on his face betraying pure satisfaction.

”Absolutely clinical from Wigan,” the commentary continued, voices rising and falling with the waves of sound from the crowd.

”That build-up....precision passing, clever movement, and when it mattered, Leo just pulling the strings... and Mclean finishing it brilliantly. That’s the kind of play that has come to define a Championship evening here at the DW.”

The broadcast lingered on the celebration for a moment, capturing the jubilation and the tangible energy on the pitch, before pulling back slightly to track Hull City regrouping, as the Wigan players took their positions once more.

....

The two men lingered near the upper stands, eyes fixed on the pitch but minds elsewhere.

The one, bundled in a puffer jacket, shook his head slowly, the movement almost a sigh.

”If we let a player like this go...” he murmured, letting the words hang.

”Then Leo’s batch... it must be full of some top-tier talent.”

The other, leaning slightly on the railing, let out a soft snicker.

”No, that’s not quite right,” he said, shaking her head with a wry smile.

”If Manchester United let someone like Leo go, the real question is, how many others, just as talented, before us, have they let slip through their fingers over the years?”

His companion stared for a moment, brows furrowing as he considered the words.

The pitch below roared with life, but above it, the two seemed wrapped in their own quiet bubble, the hum of the stadium fading behind their conversation.

”I mean, think about it,” he continued, tilting his head as if letting the thought settle.

”Pogba, he went. Left their academy. And what happened? He flourished at Juventus. Then United had to pay a record fee to get him back.”

The former exhaled, thinking about the thought of such missteps, repeated over the years, to the point that it was almost staggering.

He glanced down at Leo, who had just gone into the Hull City half after they kicked off.

”And now, look at this kid,” he muttered under his breath, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

....

A quarter of an hour later, the referee’s whistle rang sharply through the stadium, cutting through the ebb and flow of the game like a blade.

Players slowed to a jog and then began their walk toward the tunnel, the first-half tension dissolving into a brief respite.

From the stands, the Wigan crowd erupted in chants, each voice layering over the other, calling Leo’s name with a mixture of awe and celebration.

”Leo! Leo! Leo!”

He jogged lightly off the pitch, sweat glistening on his brow, chest rising and falling from the intensity of the first forty-five minutes.

The roar of the supporters followed him all the way, filling the DW Stadium with a familiar, pulsating energy.

The commentators’ voices came alive over the broadcast, capturing the sentiment of the crowd.

”Once again, it’s Leo who has taken the spotlight tonight,” one said, excitement threading through his tone.

”Remember the last game against Sunderland? He scored the winner there, and tonight, he’s been pivotal from the first whistle.”

His partner chimed in, voice rising with enthusiasm.

”Absolutely. He won the penalty for Wigan’s opener and then assisted the second goal. And it’s not just the goals, he’s everywhere, moving into pockets of space, making things happen. Hull City’s midfield has no idea where he’ll be next, and he’s making them pay for every lapse.”

On the pitch, Leo made his way toward the sideline, catching his breath as Dawson stepped forward.

Without hesitation, the coach wrapped his arms around him, a firm but reassuring embrace, the kind that spoke volumes without words.

Leo returned it briefly, a nod of acknowledgement passing between them, before stepping past to the tunnel.

”A first-half masterclass. Fifteen minutes until the restart, and it’s going to be fascinating to see if Hull City can regroup or if Leo and ’friends’ will continue to dominate this match. At the moment, it’s Wigan two, Hull City, nil.”

The camera lingered on Dawson, still holding Leo for a brief moment, before pulling back to capture the tunnel and the players retreating for a short break.