Harbinger Of Glory

Jonas had barely gotten two sentences into the introduction when the shot from Bruno brought everyone in the box to their feet.

The conversation stopped where it was.

”Oh, that was travelling,” a voice said in the back as the numbers around began to settle down.

Afterwards, when the noise had settled and people had sat back down, he glanced back toward Noah.

The man in question now had his eyes fixed on the pitch, and the business card Jonas had offered was still sitting on the armrest between them from when he’d handed it over.

Whatever ease had existed in those first few exchanged words was gone.

Noah was somewhere else entirely now, and pulling him back would have been pointless.

Jonas faced forward as he glanced at the card he had gotten in return.

He slid the business card into his breast pocket and made a mental note.

”There would be time at halftime.”

With all the concentrated attacks Manchester United were throwing at Wigan, the net of the latter club took too long to rattle because, twenty minutes in, it was still deadlocked.

That got the Wigan fans a bit noisier, but they immediately got shut down when Wan-Bissaka changed play, switching the direction of attack for the left flanks.

”Lovely ball by Wan-Bissaka and a nice touch to match it!”

Rashford received it wide on the left, and Darikwa came to meet him the way he always did, compact and experienced, cutting off the inside.

Twelve years of professional football showed behind his stance, but Rashford went outside anyway.

Knowing full well that it was a trap, Darikwa still bet on his ability, but the moment he made up his mind to move, he had already lost.

Because in the next moment, Rashford touched the ball back, and Darikwa was behind him even before he’d fully committed to the direction.

The United end rose instinctively.

”Rashford, and he’s gone past Darikwa far too easily there,”

the commentator said. ”And now he’s got Martial ahead of him on the edge of the box.”Rashford slipped it to Martial and kept running.

Martial took one touch, waited for the bodies to scramble across, and laid it back into Rashford’s path the moment the space opened.

And with all the time in the world, Rashford stood over the ball, almost like a man about to take a free kick, as the ball approached and before it could feel his feet, he glanced up once, and then he hit it.

The ball left his boot low and hard, and then somewhere around the edge of the six-yard box it dipped, sudden and sharp, and Ben Amos was already going down before it dropped.

His hands got to it, but not around it.

The ball squirmed underneath him, and the stadium was already opening its mouth when it smashed against the post for the second time in the game, the sound of it cutting through ninety thousand people mid-breath.

”Ohhhhh,” the commentator exhaled. ”Amos gets a hand to it, but it’s gone under him, and somehow, somehow it’s hit the post again.”

The Manchester United academy product slowed slightly, slipping his hands across the back of his neck, but the ball was still in play.

The rebound fell to Antony six yards out, who immediately looked into the box, searching for options.

Rashford saw that and immediately moved to connect, but without controlling the ball, Antony caught it on the volley, catching all the eyes on the pitch who thought he was sending a cross in, off guard.

”And it’s Antonyyyy!!!”

The commentators bellowed on the broadcast, but the effort cleared the bar by several feet, disappearing into the United end, and for a moment, the only sound was the collective, slightly disappointed exhale of the United faithful before the applause started, generous and acknowledging, the kind that comes when your team does everything right and gets nothing for it.

”Antony with the follow-up, and that’s gone well over,” the co-commentator said.

”But listen, if you’re a Wigan fan watching this, that’s two moments off the woodwork now. At some point, that post stops being so generous.”

Dawson exhaled through his nose as Antony’s effort cleared the bar, and the applause from the United end floated down toward the touchline.

Nolan stepped forward from behind him.

”We need to do something,” he said quietly while looking at Amos as he grabbed the ball once again.

Dawson shook his head.

”I know what you’re thinking. We should drop deeper, shouldn’t we?”

”It makes sense,” Nolan affirmed.

”Yes. Even though it makes sense, it’s not really the right thing to do with our expertise.”

Dawson kept his eyes on the pitch.

”Right now, they at least have room to clear it or room to breathe. The moment we drop deeper, we’re inviting them into our box. At that point, it’s either they score a scrappy one, or we do it for them.”

Nolan said nothing further as Dawson folded his arms and stayed where he was.

The next twenty minutes were Wigan at their most honest.

No illusions, no ambition beyond the immediate, just eleven men doing the most unglamorous work in football and doing it with everything they had.

Clearances.

Second balls.

Bodies in the way of things.

It held mostly, and even carved out a chance in the thirty-seventh minute that brought Wigan’s first meaningful touch in the final third, after Callum Lang collected a loose ball thirty yards out and drove forward before his shot rolled comfortably into De Gea’s arms.

The commentator noted it with the measured enthusiasm of someone acknowledging a minor curiosity.

”And that is Wigan’s first effort of the game. De Gea doesn’t even need to move for it.”

His partner said nothing, which said enough and 4 minutes later, it was still the same.

Dawson stood on the touchline in the forty-first minute and did something he rarely did during games.

He muttered a silent prayer, watching his team hold the line and quietly willing the referee toward the halftime whistle.

But his prayers must have been misheard when Luke Shaw got the ball.

Playing in the centre-back role for the day, he suddenly started a move deep in his own half, carrying it forward with the confidence of a man who had identified something and decided to act on it before anyone told him not to.

He drove through the middle, drew two Wigan midfielders toward him, and then shifted it wide right before they could close him down fully, before continuing his run to the right flank as the ball moved ahead of him.

”Shaw, carrying it forward, good drive from the left back,” the commentator tracked.

”He’s released it and continued the run, now he’s wide right, and Wigan are scrambling to adjust.”

Antony received it on the overlap, facing opposition from the returning Joe Bennet, but he moved it inside with a singular touch and cut the ball back across the face of the goal.

”Cut back, Martial is there and...”

The commentary called after him, but Martial raised his leg and let it run.

”Oh, he’s let it go, he’s let it go for Rashford at the back post and...”

And Rashford didn’t break stride.

He met the ball at the far post and tapped it home with the composure of someone completing an almost automatic task, sending the Wigan end into shambles.

”GOOOOOAAAAAAL, Manchester United. It’s Marcus Rashford. It’s one-nil. It is the Forty-third minute, and the siege has finally, finally produced what everyone in this stadium felt was coming.”

The celebrations cascaded down from the United sections in waves, scarves and arms and noise, and on the pitch, Rashford was already being buried under red shirts near the corner flag.

On the Wigan bench, Leo watched it happen.

He let his head fall back against the headrest and stared up at nothing for a moment, eyes briefly closed.

”And there it is,” the co-commentator said, his voice settling into something almost resigned on Wigan’s behalf.

”You can defend and defend and defend, but Manchester United have had so much of this game that something was always going to give. Wigan have been magnificent in their resistance, but they have finally faltered, and now they probably go into halftime a goal down with forty-five minutes to find an answer that, frankly, very few people in this stadium believe they have.”

In the executive box at the top, Jonas couldn’t help but join in, though he celebrated quietly.

Seeing all the smiling faces around, he couldn’t help but search for something contrasting.

And thinking he could find it in the eyes of the face of the man next to him, he turned towards Noah Sarin, but his expression told otherwise.

It was almost like he was celebrating, but at the same time, he dreaded what was coming.

”Are you a Manchester United fan by any chance?” Jonas couldn’t help but ask, to which Noah Sarin turned to look at him with a questioning gaze.

”It’s just that....” Jonas continued, ”Your face looked a bit celebratory.”

”Ah, that,” Noah said, rubbing the back of his neck.

”No, it’s just that Leo might come on now!”