Harbinger Of Glory

By midmorning of the following day, the Wigan training complex had regained its usual lively atmosphere as players moved into the complex from the parking lot, while the staff ensured that the facilities were ready for use.

The same couldn’t be said about the sombre mood in the office of the man at the helm of the club.

Dawson’s desk had disappeared under folders, and on the other side of it stood Nolan, flipping through a sheet that had already been marked up with three different pens.

He rubbed a hand down his face before dropping it back onto the pile.

”That’s another one,” he muttered.

Dawson didn’t look up immediately.

”Who?”

”The kid we called up a month and a half ago to stand in for Leo,” Nolan said, tapping the paper.

”Nothing serious yet, but that’s the fourth this week.”

Dawson leaned back in his chair and exhaled slowly.

”Fourth,” he repeated.

Nolan kept going, almost as if reading the list aloud might make it less irritating.

”Two muscle strains from the Brighton game. One ankle tweak after that game, and now this. Even McClean couldn’t participate because he stubbed his toe hard.”

”Are you joking with me?” Dawson muttered as Nolan tossed the sheet back onto the table.

”You think I have the time of the day for that. Plus, the physios say the lads are running close to the red.”

Dawson stared at the ceiling for a moment before letting his chair fall forward again.

”If this keeps up,” he said quietly, ”we’re not going to have anyone left.”

The room fell silent except for the clicking sound of the Pendulum cradle on the side.

”Seven games left in the league,” Dawson muttered.

Seven chances to hold onto a promotion place, but also seven chances to lose it.

”Should we throw in the towel for the cup?” Nolan asked after thinking for a while.

Dawson nodded once.

”I was thinking that too, but that’s not fair to us or the fans. We’ve strived hard in the competition, even losing a few places in the league on some occasions because of it, so why throw it now?”

He pulled one of the folders closer and opened it, scanning the medical notes inside.

”We can’t afford panic now,” he said. ”If we’re going to get through this run, the lads need to be careful. In matches, in training, and even in how they recover. No stupid risks.”

Nolan watched him for a second, then pushed himself away from the desk.

”Well,” he said, stretching his back. ”I’ll go see if the physios have anything new before the session starts.”

Dawson gave a small nod but didn’t look up.

Nolan paused at the door.

”Also, you have your protege to care for,” he said before stepping out into the corridor.

The door clicked shut behind him, and for a while, Dawson sat alone, shifting through the files one by one.

Injury reports.

Training load charts for all the players.

Every sheet told a slightly different version of the same story: the squad was holding together, but just barely.

Eventually, his hand stopped on one folder near the bottom of the pile.

”When did this come in?” he muttered as he flipped over the injury report of Leo Calderón from Dr Navvaro.

”Yesterday, huh,” Dawson muttered as he opened it.

Most of the pages were older assessments, the early days of the hamstring injury, but a newer sheet had been clipped on top.

The handwriting was unmistakably Navarro’s.

Dawson read it once, then again, with his eyes straining as he got to a highlighted part.

The decision to avoid surgery had been the right one. His recovery is ahead of schedule, and muscle response is stronger than expected. We can expect to fully have him back in training in the next couple of weeks, though under a much lighter load.

I would have recommended keeping him out for a bit, but after consulting with the therapist, he deemed it ’unfit’ to keep the boy out for too long because that can also affect his psyche and his thoughts about his worth to the club. Ultimately, the decision is with you, but here are my thoughts.

After going through, he leaned back slowly in his chair.

”Some good news to start the day,” he murmured, and for the first time that morning, the tension around his eyes eased slightly as his gaze drifted toward the training pitches outside the window.

Then he remembered something.

The tapes.

Dawson tapped the edge of the file thoughtfully.

”Wonder how far he’s gotten,” he said to the empty room.

With that said, Dawson pushed himself up from the chair with a quiet grunt and stepped out into the corridor.

Through the long glass panels lining the hallway, the pitches stretched out in strips of bright green under a pale sky.

Groups of players moved across them in neat clusters, each section guided by a different positional coach.

On the nearest pitch, the defenders were working on clearances, while farther down, midfielders were running tight passing drills, quick triangles drawn and erased on the grass in seconds.

Dawson slowed for a moment, watching.

One of the coaches spotted him through the glass and gave a small nod to which Dawson returned it with one of his own before continuing down the hallway.

He passed the main stairwell, took the next left, and followed the quieter stretch that led toward the analysis rooms.

The noise from the pitches faded with each step until only the buzz of the electronics around remained.

The door to the video room was almost shut, with a little bit of light leaking through the narrow gap.

Dawson stopped just outside and glanced in.

The room was mostly dark, with the only real glow coming from the projector screen where the green of a football pitch filled the wall.

Leo sat a few feet from it, leaning forward in his chair with a notebook resting on the desk in front of him.

The brace was gone now, and his crutch leaned against the side of the chair, forgotten.

On the screen, a player in a red-and-blue shirt had the ball at his feet.

Four defenders closed in, shoulders bumping, legs reaching, yet somehow the man twisted through them, slipping past the pressure with a movement that looked almost unfair.

Leo paused the clip.

Then he rewound it.

He watched again, scribbling something down in the notebook before reaching for the remote to replay the sequence once more.

Dawson watched quietly for a few seconds before pushing the door open.

The hinges gave a soft creak, but Leo didn’t notice at first.

The clip played again, the same escape from the swarm of defenders, the same impossible balance.

”He’s a bad example,” Dawson said from the doorway.

Leo turned in his chair and saw as Dawson stepped inside and pointed lazily at the screen.

”Messi,” he added.

”That is.”