Harbinger Of Glory

The applause came down in waves as the twenty-four players lined up facing the stands and, for a second, stood still.

The Wigan fans in the stands went on to sing the club anthem, and it was only after they were done that the players raised their hands to applaud them back.

After this, one of the staff came across the pitch toward Dawson and handed a microphone to the latter, who took it, looked at it briefly like he wasn’t sure what to do with the thing, and then brought it to his mouth, smiling since it was the only thing he felt comfortable doing at the moment.

”Welcome to the Premier League, Latics.”

The stands went again, harder than before, and Dawson let it run for a moment before raising a hand.

”Alright, alright,” he said, and the crowd came down just enough to hear him.

”Two seasons ago, most of us were looking at the table and thinking we were going to end up right back where we didn’t want to be. The English League One!

For some teams, it would have been a case for happiness, but for Wigan, it was a stain on our club. I am glad we avoided that!”

A single ”whoo” followed by a clap rang across the stadium, but it didn’t catch on, which made Dawson chuckle a bit since he could hear his players laughing behind him.

”Last season, we did what we needed to do. And today, for the first time since 2013, Wigan Athletic is back in the Premier League.”

The cheers came again, sharp and genuine.

”But I’ll tell you something,” Dawson continued, his voice settling into something more direct.

”We’re going to need you. Every single home game, every away game, you lot make the journey for we’re going to need all of it. We are here to stay, and to do that, we are going to need all the help we can.”

He looked along the line of players once before turning back to the stands.

”Enjoy the session. Stay around after, the lads might have something for you.”

He handed the mic back, and that was that.

The squad broke off after a round of simultaneous applause.

Leo, walking away, looked at the boots he had on, and he must say, it was one of the most comfortable pairs he’d ever had.

”A bit loose though,” he critiqued as he wondered if it’d come loose when he played aggressively with it.

As he was lost in his thoughts, a shadow came up on him in the form of Jake, who sniffed the air, causing Leo to back away with a weird expression.

”You feel that?” he said.

”Feel what?” Ezra said flatly.

”The air. Premier League air.” Jake sniffed again with the commitment of a man making a serious point.

”Smells completely different, bro. I’m telling you.”

”It smells like grass,” Ezra said.

”That’s the Premier League grass, though, isn’t it?” Jake said, glancing across at Leo.

”Tell him.”

”Leave me out of this,” Leo said.

Jake shook his head with the expression of an Italian looking at some tourists who were misappropriating some Italian food before catching up to Leo, who now had Carlo and Ezra walking beside him.

”The old owner must be absolutely fuming by the way,” he said.

”He held onto the club through the bad years only to sell it for Championship change, and now the new owner gets to enjoy Premier League tax!”

Nobody answered that one, but nobody disagreed either.

Leo reached into the bib bin and pulled out the only green bib in the pile.

Jake grabbed red, Ezra red, Carlo red, and they pulled them on as they spread out across the pitch with the rest of the squad.

After that, the session moved through its early stages with the ease of a group that had spent enough time together to not need much instruction.

The new players began assimilating well, while the fans watching from the stands kept their eyes on the players as they moved through their shapes.

”Is the vacation brekky keeping you heavy, Willy?”

”My nanny would be faster than that!”

”Oi, Jake, stretch as hard as you talk!”

The team coaches went at lengths, tearing the players apart whenever they tried to relax, but soon, their words got overtaken by a string of boos that began to rain down.

The coaches turned, same as the players, who saw and heard the boos rippling down from the stands and pointed at the figure emerging from the tunnel in full training gear with sunglasses still on and moving with the particular energy of someone who found the reaction more amusing than anything else.

Matheus Reyes reached the touchline, turned to face the stand that was giving him the most grief, and blew them a kiss.

The boos got louder, but that didn’t stop him from blowing another.

”You’re welcome”

From across the pitch, Leo watched as Reyes grabbed a red bib and pulled it over his head before he crossed onto the grass, and by the time Dawson had gathered the players around him to explain the next drill, Reyes had made his way into the group without rushing.

His eyes moved around the huddle and landed on Leo, the only player standing with a green bib, which made him look twice.

”So he’s the head of the pack,” Reyes said.

Leo raised a brow and said nothing for a moment.

He just looked at the man and thought, briefly, about whether he was a footballer or whether he’d wandered off a film set by mistake.

Before he could land on an answer, Dawson looked at Reyes.

”What did we talk about?” he said.

His voice was level, but there was nothing gentle in it.

Reyes held Dawson’s gaze for a second, sighed, and then gave a salute that was somehow both sincere and ridiculous at the same time before stepping back into line.