Harbinger Of Glory

In the away end, the fans made their voices heard, but a younger fan laughed and shook his head after a person nearby asked when they had conceded.

”I know, right, mate,” he said before following up with a little chuckle.

”We’ve conceded, but I don’t feel like we have.”

An older man beside him leaned forward, eyes never leaving the pitch until it finally did when he replied.

”That’s because this lot have earned it,” he said calmly.

”They’ve played well enough for us to believe for the past couple of months, and that is not something we are used to. It’s new. We used to hope. But now we can believe.”

Around them, the chants picked up again, right before a sharp voice cut through them, sending the fans all glancing towards the pitch.

”Come on, let’s go!”

The shout pulled everything back to the pitch where Joe Bennett had stepped inside with the ball, carrying it just enough to draw a Southampton shirt before slipping a pass diagonally into the middle.

It looked like it was meant for Tom Naylor again, arriving from deep, but Leo had moved too.

He burst into stride from the side, chasing the same line.

The Southampton midfielder, who had been tracking the ball as well as Tom Naylor, hesitated, then turned, backpedalling as he tried to adjust his run.

For a split second, it looked like Leo would get there first, and he did.

But then he didn’t touch it.

He let the ball roll straight through his legs, and in the next moment, Naylor collected it cleanly, exactly where the pass had always been meant to go.

”Oh, that’s clever,” the commentator jumped in. ”A lovely dummy from Calderón.”

The away end reacted instantly, noise lifting a notch with a ripple of appreciation running through it while Southampton shuffled back, a little later than they wanted to be.

Leo, after his dummy, did not stop to admire the play.

He kept moving and drifted into space before pointing once just before he crossed the halfway line,

This time, Naylor saw him and played it in.

Still, the pass was poor.

It bounced awkwardly, slightly behind Leo, forcing him to adjust.

He stretched only to find himself wanting, and so he left his right leg trailing to hook it forward, just enough to bring it under control.

”Oh, he’s got that one, and he’s got it right,” the commentary said, but the contact came straight after.

Before Leo had recovered from his little trick, a Southampton player clipped him, sending the whistle blazing immediately after that.

”And that has been stopped. Wigan was just starting to find a rhythm here,” the commentator said as play stopped. ”And it’s brought to a halt right in the middle.”

Leo stayed down for a moment, more annoyed than hurt, while James McClean jogged over and bent down, offering a hand.

”You good?” McClean asked quietly.

Leo nodded, took the hand, and got back up, brushing grass from his shorts.

”Yeah.”

The referee moved away from the Southampton player, finger raised in warning, but he didn’t show a card.

Still, the message was clear.

On the touchline, Dawson was already shouting, arms slicing through the air, pointing toward the box.

He wanted bodies forward, and so his players went forward, so much so that it was only Ben Amos, the keeper and two more defenders remaining in the Wigan half.

Leo also followed suit and stepped away from the ball, leaving it for Bennett, who was much more suited to the ball from there.

After the referee’s approval, Bennett took a few steps back, eyes up and then smashed the ball back into play.

”Long ball from Bennett,” the commentator called as the run-ups began.

The cross arced high, hanging just long enough to invite chaos as bodies collided in the box.

”Get it! Get it!” one of the Southampton players called as the ball began its descent, but ultimately, none of them were able to get a touch on the ball as it dropped onto the grass.

It bounced once, popped up again, begging for a touch, but Southampton hacked it away, not far, just toward the sideline, relief rather than to start anything.

”Still alive,” came the shout from the gantry as Leo chased the clearance on the right, which fell into his stride in a couple of steps, and he did slow down.

After looking up and seeing a clear path, he opened his body and whipped a low, dipping ball back into the area, fast and dangerous.

”Here it comes,” the commentator’s voice climbed. ”Someone has to get to the end of this, and who’s it going to be?”

In the tussle of the box, Max Power lunged, shoulder to shoulder with a defender who had also lunged, trying to get it clear, but neither could do what they wanted.

And so just after that, Will Keane slid in behind them sharply, while McClean also threw himself forward from the far side.

Yet still, none of them reached it as the ball skimmed across the face of goal and ran harmlessly wide.

”Oooooooh,” rolled around the stadium, loudest from the away end as hands flew to heads in disbelief at how the ball hadn’t been a goal yet, and the commentary shared that sentiment.

”How have they not scored?” the co-commentator asked with a little laugh.

”Southampton got away with one there.”

The camera found the culprit of the chance Leo jogging back toward his half, shaking his head once at the chance that had been left gone begging.

”What a ball in and Leo, like the rest of us, thought that might be the equaliser, but no! Southampton still lead”, the co-commentator added, ” But you get the sense that Southampton won’t be leaving him free like that again.”

The play restarted with the goalkeeper sending it long with the ball hanging in the night air before dropping back into the churn of midfield.

After that, the half settled as both sides fought for possession of the ball, but with neither of them doing enough to use it for anything that counted.

And just like that, the remaining quarter of an hour slipped by without a clear opening, after the earlier surge.

And the moment the whistle finally came, the players slowed, some bending forward, others clapping hands together as they turned toward the tunnel.

.....

The door barely had time to swing shut before Dawson followed them in.

A few players had just dropped onto the bench, chests rising and falling, but that didn’t stop him from speaking his mind.

”Alright. That was good,” he started, causing the heads of his players to lift just slightly.

”But don’t get comfortable,” he added immediately, stepping forward.

”We’re not here to feel good at one down.”

He walked a slow line across the room, eyes moving from face to face, making sure everyone was present and not physically.

”We’ve played them,” Dawson continued. ”We’ve moved them. We’ve made chances. That’s not the problem.”

Then he stopped and turned toward Tom Naylor.

Tom was halfway through pulling his shirt over his head when he froze.

Dawson did not raise his voice, and that almost made it worse.

”Tom,” he said. ”Play the pass when you see the pass.”

”I don’t usually do this,” Dawson went on.

”I don’t like to point fingers. But the first goal comes from a mistake, and you know it does.”

Naylor nodded immediately, but Dawson still went on anyway.

”This isn’t about you alone,” he said, turning back to the group.

”You all took this game on yourselves. You chose to play. You chose to go after them.”

A few players straightened up.

”So don’t falter now. Not when you’ve shown you can hurt them.”

He glanced toward the far side of the room where the substitutes sat, some leaning forward, others still standing.

”And you lot,” Dawson said, pointing.

”You’re not spectators. You’re part of this. I need you ready. Mentally and physically. If your name gets called, you come on, and you change something.”

Dawson turned again, this time toward the forwards.

”Be clinical,” he said simply. ”The numbers don’t lie. We should be level. Maybe ahead, but we’re not.”

He paused, letting the words sink in.

”That means something is missing, and I need you to fix it.”

”You’ve earned the fans tonight,” he said. ”They’re behind you because you’ve given them something to believe in, so let’s not waste that.”

”When you go back out there,” Dawson finished. ”Play the next forty-five like it’s yours to take. For them. For yourselves.”

He stepped back, clapped his hands once.