Harbinger Of Glory

Realising that they had been caught up, the defenders scrambled to get back.

Kobel stepped forward too, but ultimately Carlo got his boot to it before Kobel could claim it and poked it, just enough, redirecting it past the keeper’s outstretched hand and into the net, and the moment it did, the Signal Iduna went silent.

The Wigan players, on the other hand, forgot it was a pre-season game.

Leo took one step toward Carlo, but then stopped and turned to look back at Reyes, who was getting to his feet.

Reyes looked at him and raised a hand before Leo turned back and jogged toward Carlo, and by the time he got there, the rest of them were already there, arriving in a pack, and they came down on Carlo’s back with open palms and grabbed him.

”Carlo Regutti,” the commentator said.

”Carlo Regutti has scored his first goal for Wigan Athletic, and what a moment to score it. It’s only pre-season, but a first goal is still a first, and nothing takes away from that.

Wigan Athletic, newly promoted to the Premier League, are leading Borussia Dortmund in the Signal Iduna Park.”

”It’s two one,” the commentator said simply.

”Wigan are ahead for the first time tonight, and Dortmund will not have expected to be saying that at this point in the evening.”

In the same pub near the DW, one of the three men was on his feet.

”That’s the same goal,” he said. ”That is the same goal.”

”What do you mean, the same goal?” the man beside him said.

”You might not have been there, but in the open training session the club held a couple of weeks ago, this same sequence happened. Starting from Carlo’s pass to Ezra, cutting it back, and then Reyes jumping over the ball for Leo. It’s the same sequence. Only this time, Leo set it up instead of finishing it.”

The third man looked at the screen and then looked back and said nothing for a moment.

”They rehearsed that,” he said eventually before turning his gaze back to the screen.

Back inside the Signal Iduna, the Wigan players were making their way back to their half, and in the VIP section, a man in a dark jacket leaned toward the person sitting to his left and nodded toward the pitch.

”The number eight,” he said quietly, watching Leo jog back to the centre line.

”Doesn’t he remind you of Jude in some way?”

The person beside him looked at the pitch, but before they could answer, the referee’s whistle brought the game back to life.

Dortmund came out for the final stretch like a side that had looked at the scoreboard and decided the occasion demanded more than they had been giving it.

The caution was gone.

Whatever calculation Terzic had been running on the touchline, it had been set aside, and the players coming forward now were doing so with the intent of a team that understood the difference between a pre-season defeat and an acceptable pre-season defeat, and this was not going to be the latter if they had anything to say about it.

They pushed in waves, one attack bleeding into the next, and Wigan were back to chasing again, back to the ten minutes before the second goal, only now with the added complication of a lead to protect and legs that had already given a considerable amount.

Still, Dortmund’s push wasn’t without its qualms as Wigan almost punished them for it a second time.

Ezra found space on the right and whipped a cross into the box, and Fletcher, who had come on from the bench, read the flight of it and got his head to it at the near post, and for a moment the ball was going exactly where it needed to go, and then it wasn’t, curling just fractionally over the bar and bouncing off the roof of the net behind the goal.

Fletcher stood with his hands on his head for a moment before turning and giving Ezra a thumbs-up.

”So close,” the commentator said. ”Fletcher gets his head on it, and he’s directed it well, but it has just cleared the crossbar. Wigan would have put that beyond any doubt. As it stands, there are still a few minutes left, and Dortmund are not done.”

The German side pushed again and again until the Wigan penalty box became a crowded and uncomfortable place.

And then in the eighty-eighth minute, the ball shot towards goal from the feet of Reus, but halfway through, Max Power got between the ball and its destination.

And before he could know, the ball hit the arm, and the Signal Iduna went up immediately, the appeal rising from all four sides at once while the referee pointed to the spot to the applause of the crowd.

”Penalty to Dortmund,” the commentator said.

”The referee has given it, and I think he’s right to. Max Power’s arm is in an unnatural position, and the ball strikes it clearly. Wigan will be disappointed after working so hard to protect the lead.”

The Wigan players couldn’t even protest because the fault had been so clear.

After the referee cleared the Wigan box, Marco Reus stepped up and sent the penalty low to the right, levelling the score.

The equaliser landed on the Signal Iduna as Reus accepted the congratulations of his teammates.

The remaining minutes produced noise but no goals.

The two sides went all out, throwing caution to the wind, but ultimately, the whistle came without any of them putting the ball in the opposite net.

”And that is full time here at the Signal Iduna Park,” the commentator said.

”Two goals apiece between Borussia Dortmund and Wigan Athletic, and what a way to open the pre-season.

A newly promoted Premier League side coming to one of Europe’s great grounds and leaving with a draw. I don’t think too many people would have predicted that when the fixture was announced.”

”Absolutely not,” the co-commentator interjected.

”And Wigan will take real confidence from this.

The way they responded after going behind, the quality of the goals they scored, and the performances of the individuals. There is a lot to take from this afternoon.

But at the centre of it, we have enjoyed an entertaining game of football, and that is what matters for us spectators.”

Leo bent forward at the waist on the pitch, hands just above his knees, while catching his breath.

Despite coming on for only the second half, he had run almost double the distance the closest person to him had run.

A second later, a shadow loomed over him, causing him to straighten, and after he did, he met the face of Sancho, who stuck his hand out.

”Left England for the season,” Sancho said as they shook hands, pulling him in slightly, ”and Wigan have followed me all the way to Germany.”

He shook his head while laughing slightly.

”You lot are still haunting me.”

Leo laughed and then wagged his finger.

”It’s nothing like that.”

”I know, I know,” Sancho said, already smiling. ”Good luck this season, though. Genuinely.”

”You too,” Leo said as Sancho moved on and Leo stood where he was for a moment, watching the two sets of players begin to mix across the pitch with the post-match dispersal of handshakes and brief exchanges at the end of games, and he began moving through it slowly, taking hands as they came, exchanging nods and words he wouldn’t remember.

Then he turned and walked off the pitch.