Harbinger Of Glory

After the quarter-hour break had passed, the players of both sides walked back out together as the tunnel opened them up to the pitch again.

The moment they stepped out, all could see that the grass looked darker now and heavier.

The floodlights caught the first flecks of rain as they drifted down, barely more than a mist, but enough to change the air.

Leo stepped onto the turf and felt it immediately under his studs, that slight give that told you the surface was starting to get slick.

Ezra, in a puffer jacket, slowed beside him and tilted his head back, eyes following the sky.

”Of course,” he muttered. ”Just our luck.”

His breath fogged faintly as he spoke, a thin cloud that vanished as quickly as it came while Leo hummed to his words.

He then tugged his gloves tighter, one finger at a time, then reached down to pull the collar of the white under-compression shirt higher against his neck.

The fabric sat snug beneath his jersey, already damp where the rain had kissed it.

”Can’t let it mess with me, though,” he said finally with a smug look.

”Not if it’s really coming down.”

Ezra snorted softly.

”Rain always makes things hard, and don’t jinx things.”

”Jinx what?” Leo replied, eyes already drifting across the stands.

After that, Ezra peeled off toward the bench with the rest of the other players, jogging lightly, while Leo continued forward, glancing around the stadium as he moved into position.

In a matter of seconds, the noise swelled around them again; a low rumble building into rhythm as the away end found its voice.

And up in the broadcast gantry, the commentary returned.

”Looks like the weather’s decided to have its say,” the lead voice noted, rain-speckled lights glinting behind him.

His partner chuckled.

”Just a touch of it so far. Let’s hope it doesn’t spoil what’s been a very competitive cup tie.”

The referee standing near the centre circle glanced around as if checking if anything on the pitch could impede the game, but after noticing otherwise, he lifted the whistle and let one sharp blast ring throughout the stadium.

The second half was underway, but so was the rain, which had settled into a more rampant fall.

For the player, their shirts clung a little quicker while footing demanded more attention and strength.

”Nope. Not easy,” Leo muttered after he found himself already moving, lungs working as he chased a loose ball across the middle third.

He could hear Max Power’s voice cutting through the noise, saying, ”I’ve got him!”, but with his momentum, Leo kept going anyway.

He stretched into stride just as the Southampton player nudged the ball past him with a perfectly timed and subtle touch.

Leo tried to pivot, tried to recover, but his planted foot betrayed him.

It slid on the damp surface, and in a heartbeat, his balance was gone.

He hit the turf with a dull thud, gloved palms skidding as he tried to brace himself.

Still, the Southampton player surged on.

”Danger here,” came the commentary, sharp with urgency, as the red-and-white shirt drove forward, head up and the Wigan box in sight.

But like he had said earlier, Max Power recovered brilliantly, angling his run to shepherd the attacker wide, forcing him closer and closer to the corner.

Still, the Southampton man did just enough.

With a quick adjustment and the snap of the ankle, the ball was whipped in, skimming through the rain, fast and vicious.

”That’s a wicked delivery,” the co-commentator breathed as a head met it inside the area, but.....

”Ben Amos with the spectacular save!” the lead voice roared. ”Oh, that was surely a goal, but Wigan’s keeper gets just enough on it to keep them alive!”

Whatmough’s celebration of the save was halted after Ben Amos got right to his feet and pointed at the ball, which was still loose, spinning and begging to be claimed.

”Who’s first to it?” the commentary scrambled while Darikwa charged back, legs pumping, shoulder to shoulder with Nathan Tella.

Tella reached it first, but Darikwa stayed tight, leaned in, and did enough.

The ball ricocheted off a boot and trickled over the line for a throw, but then the whistle went and soon, all the players turned towards the referee, who stood a few yards back with his eyes fixed on the spot where Leo still sat on the grass, rain speckling his hair.

”And play is stopped here... because it seems Leo has picked something up.”

In the away end, bodies leaned forward instinctively as a murmur rippled through the section.

Despite being a while away, Darikwa was the first to reach him.

He slowed as he got close, hand already halfway out, but the referee stepped in sharply and waved bodies away.

”Come on, lads,” he said in a heavy scouse accent. ”Give him space. Back up.”

The Southampton players and a few of the Wigan players retreated in reluctant steps, boots scuffing the wet grass as the medics jogged on with their bags bouncing at their sides.

Leo stayed seated, one hand planted behind him and the other resting just beneath his thigh.

”What happened?” one of them asked as he dropped to a knee.

Leo exhaled through his nose and pointed.

”There,” he said. ”Felt something give when I turned.”

The two medics exchanged a look before the older of the two began to examine Leo while the other glanced instinctively toward the touchline.

Before either could speak, Leo shook his head.

”It’s fine,” he said quickly. ”Just... sort it out.”

”It might be more than that,” the medic warned, low but clear.

”I know,” Leo replied. ”Just help me out.”

Just as Leo said that, the referee approached and asked if they would need to take it to the sides, but the two medics shook their head before getting started.

They worked fast as spray hissed against the air, cold enough to make Leo wince.

On the touchline, Dawson stood still, arms folded tight across his chest.

His brows pulled together as he watched the exchange, trying to read what the medics had almost said before stopping themselves.

Back on the pitch, Leo pushed himself up before they could stop him.

”Alright,” he said. ”I’m good.”

They walked him toward the sideline as play resumed, Southampton taking the throw while Leo tested his leg.

The referee glanced over, waited, then waved him back on.

On the touchline, Dawson was already waiting on the medics.

”What did he say?” Dawson asked, eyes never leaving the pitch.

The medic answered without hedging.

”He felt something give under the thigh. Could be nothing. Could be more.”

But Dawson didn’t like the pause that followed.

”Hamstring?” he asked.

The medic shrugged.

”Could be. But it could be nothing too.”

Immediately after those words, Dawson shook his head once. ”I’m not risking it.”

He turned and barked a name toward the bench.

”Cousins. Get warm.”

Back on the pitch, Leo glanced over his shoulder and saw the little talk as well as Cousins already tugging a bib on and he immediately understood that his time might be up.

So he pressed.

Harder than before.

”You’d think that fall might slow him down,” the voice said, surprised at Leo’s energy.

”But if anything, Leo Calderón looks like he’s found another gear.”

A minute and a half later, Leo tracked back, won a loose ball, and moved it on with one touch.

He couldn’t feel his left leg because of the cold rain, which had started falling harder, and as a result, couldn’t even feel his thigh.

When the ball found him again on the left, McClean was there, barking for it.

Making up his mind, Leo initiated a clean give and go with the veteran pulling them up the flank as the rain slicked the turf beneath them.

Eventually, Leo got the last possession and carried it further, but in the next second, his eyes flicked up just long enough to see Ryan Finnigan closing fast.

And so he shaped to cross as the commentary rose with the movement.

”They’ve got numbers in the box here...”

Finnigan slid in, committing fully, boots skimming over wet grass.

But the cross never came.

Leo chopped the ball back instead, letting Finnigan sail past him with his momentum wasted.

And seeing the space that had opened up behind Finnigan and on the edge of the box, Leo took it.

He drove inside, but just as he did, his left foot slipped for a split second, reminding him of what he had going on.

So before he could fully fall, he hit it.

”He’s going alone here!” the commentary shouted as Leo wrapped his foot around the ball and sent it skimming low, a carpet shot that kissed the wet grass once and stayed true.

The keeper set himself for one corner, then had to change.

Still, he was too late as his body twisted the wrong way while the ball slid past his reach into the bottom left corner and met the net before a raw, crashing roar swallowed everything else.

”GOAL!” the commentary screamed.

”He’s done it! Amidst what looks like a bad leg, Leo Calderón drags Wigan level in the 5th round of the FA cup final!”

”What a strike and the confidence to go for it amidst a plethora of options! What are these kids growing up on?” the co-commentator said in surprise as Leo tried to get up, but his leg refused him.

It had gotten too stiff, and so he sank back instead, breath tearing out of his chest as he fell flat onto the grass and brought both hands up over his face, rain tapping softly against his gloves as the noise kept rising around him.