Harbinger Of Glory

By noon, the streets around Carrow Road had turned yellow and green.

Tables, which had been full and well seated earlier, were now left with pints half-finished and abandoned as fans spilt onto the pavements, drawn toward the stadium as if it was the only place that mattered.

Like always, you had the intense crowd that followed the regular fans with drums and the like.

And then you had someone else, the ringleader, who had climbed onto a low brick wall and was leading a chant that didn’t bother with rhythm so much as volume.

When the first broadcast drone buzzed overhead, a few supporters spotted it and pointed.

”There!” one of them shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth as if the lens could hear him better that way.

”Get that on camera!”

A group beneath it began jeering upward.

”Death for Wigan!” someone roared, half laughing, but it still felt feral and threatening.

The chant caught for a moment, exaggerated and theatrical, like a crowd playing its part in an old public spectacle.

It wasn’t hatred in its purest form.

It was theatre beckoning.

Loud in its form, hostile, but real and physical.

And to make matters worse, or best for who you asked, the dark-tinted Wigan team bus finally turned the corner.

There was a shift in the air as phones came out.

And soon, the middle fingers followed.

”You wankers,” a fan, groggy from what seemed to be all the beers he had taken, shouted.

As the bus crawled toward the stadium entrance, a few fans rushed forward, palms slamming against the windows.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

”Go back up north!”

”Playoffs are ours!”

Security moved quickly, forming a barrier and barking warnings.

A steward shoved one overzealous supporter back by the shoulder.

”That’s enough! Step away!”

It was cagey, bordering on the edge of chaotic, but the bus never slowed.

Inside, the noise came through as a dull percussion against glass.

Ezra leaned toward the window, watching faces blur past.

He shook his head amusingly while pointing towards the fans outside.

”When did we start a rivalry with Norwich?” he asked, glancing across the aisle.

”I’m Wigan born and bred, but nobody told me. I thought we only had Blackburn Rovers and those boys from Bolton to worry about!”

Chris Sze let out a short laugh from two seats ahead, before turning to spot Ezra through the gaps in the seating.

”It’s not a rivalry,” he said, turning slightly in his seat.

”It’s desperation.”

Ezra raised a brow.

”That’s comforting.”

Chris grinned.

”Think about it. We’re fifth. They’re seventh, and it’s just a 4-point gap. Everyone’s dreaming about a promotion. We’re just standing in each other’s way.”

”So it’s a clash of interest,” Ezra muttered.

”Exactly,” Chris replied.

”If we were mid-table, they’d be offering us tea or whatever it is they eat in Norwich.”

While they were speaking, another loud thud hit the side of the bus, causing Ezra to glance back out, but the latter then shrugged a moment later.

”Fair enough. Let’s ruin their weekend, then.”

Chris smiled, then turned his gaze forward again as the bus dipped down into the underground entrance, with the roar from outside swallowed by concrete and shadow.

A moment later, the doors hissed open.

—

[Hlaf an hour later,]

Above ground, the noise rebuilt itself in the confines around the pitch, where the roar of the Norwich fans refused to die down.

”And here we are at Carrow Road,” the commentator began on the broadcast as the camera panned across a restless sea of yellow.

”Two sides with identical ambitions and very little margin for error.”

The lens then cut to the Norwich players and Wigan players emerging from the tunnel.

”The home side, led by David Wagner, have been building something relentless this season. High press, quick transitions, a team that doesn’t let you breathe for long. At home, especially, they turn this place into a vice.”

On the broadcast, footage rolled of Norwich swarming opponents much better than them on paper and forcing errors high up the pitch.

”They sit seventh, just outside the playoff spots, and a win today could bring them within just a point!”

The screen then shifted towards the faces of the Wigan players as they went past the Norwich ones, shaking hands as they passed.

”And then there’s the visitors. Dawson’s men come in fifth, technically the higher-placed side, but this is no straightforward assignment. They’re navigating a brutal run of away fixtures, and they’re doing it without some key names.”

A graphic flashed briefly, showing the men in question before the commentator came through again.

”No, Tom Naylor. No, Curtis Tilt. And of course, no teenage sensation, Leo Calderon.”

The camera lingered on Leo’s image for a fraction longer than necessary.

Miles away, in a room that smelled faintly of antiseptic and muscle rub, a hand settled on Leo’s shoulder.

He was lying with his torso up on a treatment table as a physio worked carefully along the tight muscle of his injured leg, with the only noise in the room being that of the roars from the Wigan game being shown on the screen.

”Teenage sensation,” the doctor behind him muttered, almost to himself.

”I used to be called that, too. Back in medical school.”

Leo let out a dry scoff, eyes still closed.

”Yeah?” he said.

”Were you tearing hamstrings back then, too?”

The doctor chuckled, adjusting his grip.

”No. I was breaking exam records and flirting with all the assistants and nurses I could see!”

”Not the same thing,” Leo replied while shaking his head at the latter remark.

The physio pressed a little deeper into the muscle, and Leo sucked in a quiet breath.

”Easy,” the doctor warned.

”We don’t need him relapsing or coming back for our necks later on!”

”You think I’d do that?” Leo replied, to which the doctor shook his head.

Leo didn’t say anything next.

He just turned back to face the television, where the lineups were now being shown.

Back at Carrow Road, the commentator’s voice swelled with the rising noise of the crowd.

”With both sides chasing promotion and the margins this tight, there’s everything to fight for today. Norwich wants to close the gap. Wigan want to protect their place. It promises to be tense, it promises to be physical, and it promises to matter. This is the English Championship!”

The camera cut once more to the sidelines, where Dawson was just shaking his hand with David Wagner.

”And at Carrow Road,” the commentator concluded, as the referee checked his watch on the pitch, ”there will be no hiding.”