Harbinger Of Glory

What followed was twenty minutes of frantic football, the ball racing from one end to the other as both sides chased a second goal.

The fans in the stadium watched as both sides went pound for pound, with neither team refusing to give an inch to the other.

But it didn’t stay that way for long.

Yes, both teams were going at it with similar intensity, but one team’s slowly became misplaced.

It took a while for the fans to see that, and once they saw it, there was only one culprit.

Calderon.

Leo grew into it.

That was the only way to describe it.

The earlier assist had perhaps done something or unlocked something in him.

Because the player who had been operating carefully in an unfamiliar position began operating like himself in an unfamiliar position, and it was an entirely different sight to see.

He started calling for the ball where before he had waited for it.

He started pointing, directing, telling his teammates where it should go before they had decided, and the team responded readily.

The wheel at the back had finally been steered well, and that brought more peace of mind to them than they thought it could.

And while all that happened, Dawson stood on the touchline, smiling proudly as he watched a player he could only call his protege run inarguably one of the biggest games in life.

For almost the entirety of the game, Mauricio Pochettino had been standing with his arms folded and the composure of someone managing a routine afternoon.

He hadn’t flinched on either occasion of a goal in the game, but slowly, the heat of the game began getting to him.

He began making small adjustments, and then more deliberate interventions as he continued to address the issues that his team were facing.

”Pochettino is not happy with something,” the commentator said.

”And you can see why. Wigan have slowly gained the upper hand at least in these past few minutes.

There are troubles for him, but none like Leo Calderon, who, playing as a centre back, is now conducting this Wigan team like he owns the pitch.

The Chelsea press that was so devastating in those opening minutes has been taken apart methodically, and the Argentine will know exactly where the problem is.”

A moment later, the ball went out of play, and the stadium exhaled, the first proper breath it had taken in what felt like twenty minutes.

”The third break in play in what’s been like 20 minutes,” the commentary noted.

”You can hear it,” he said.

”The crowd. Both sets of supporters have been so pulled into this that cheering has been an afterthought.

That is the compliment you pay a football match when it gets so intense and intriguing like this. Both sides are locked together, and at the moment, there is no better side.”

Back on the pitch, James McClean grabbed the ball and then looked up for his options.

They were visible but barely.

He’d almost decided on one when he saw Whatmough rushing at him, covering the ground quickly for a man of his size and calling for the ball.

At that, James McClean didn’t linger any much longer and took the throw quickly.

The Chelsea players in the vicinity all spun towards the direction of the ball, but before they could think of pushing towards it, the centre-back controlled it and sent it forward first time, a firm pass into the centre of the pitch where Ashley Fletcher had Caicedo tight against his back.

As the ball descended, Fletcher somehow brought it down under pressure and nudged it into Reyes right in front of him, and suddenly Wigan were moving.

Reyes exchanged passes with Max Power in a crowded pocket, one touch, then another, and Chelsea’s midfield line opened just enough for him to slip through.

Gallagher had been watching it all unfold, anticipating whatever he felt was coming, and when he saw the ball bobble a bit loosely ahead of Reyes, Gallagher stepped across.

But midway through this action, he saw Reyes’s pace visibly increase, and before he could even think of sweeping the ball away, Reyes nudged it past him.

With nothing else to do, he stretched his hand out, seeking whatever of Reyes’ shirt that he could grab, but the latter was already on that, sidestepping Gallagher’s hand and then in the next second, Ezra had the ball.

”Ohh, lovely movement by the Portuguese. He’s done well to escape, but now he’s left it to Ezra!”

”Ezra has been electric today,” the co-commentator referenced. ”Every time he gets on the ball, something seems to thrum,” the commentator said.

And for a second, it looked like it might happen again.

Ezra drove straight at Thiago Silva, confidence carrying him forward after everything he’d done so far, but Silva refused to give him anything.

He didn’t dive in or overcommit.

He simply held his ground, waiting for the moment Ezra had to make a choice.

When it came, Silva was already there.

The tackle was clean, almost disappointingly so.

And the ball had been taken with such calm authority that Stamford Bridge rose to applaud it before Chelsea had even started the counter.

And Chelsea went immediately.

Silva’s looping ball found Enzo’s run and Enzo spun to face Darikwa.

The Argentine, uncharacteristically, began stringing a set of stepovers together trying to throw off the veteran, but Darikwa was on him in a second.

He swooped in and grabbed the ball, shoving away Enzo as he tried to carry the ball forward, but in the same manner, Moises Caicedo appeared and bodied him off the ball.

Darikwa’s intent to move forward with the ball had triggered some of Wigan’s players to move forward, and so when he lost it, those players were caught out, leaving the remaining players to fill out the gaps.

But the Ecuadorian wasn’t going to allow that.

With a singular glance into the box, Caicedo dragged his leg back and then smashed the ball.