Harbinger Of Glory

The shot cannoned off his shin and flew over the crossbar, and for one impossible second the stadium forgot which team it supported.

”AND IT’S BLOCKED BY CALDERON!” the commentary roared as the entire ground gasped together, and then DW erupted in celebration and with pure, overwhelming relief.

Leo landed heavily on the turf, chest heaving as he stared up at the grey Lancashire sky.

A second later, blue shirts came charging in from all around, and somehow, Jake was the one who reached him first.

”What are you?!” he shouted, grabbing Leo by both shoulders on the floor as Carlo helped him haul Leo back onto his feet.

Ezra, on the other hand, slapped the top of his bandaged head before immediately apologising.

The fans celebrated the block as though it had won them the match.

”I DON’T BELIEVE WHAT I’VE JUST SEEN!” the commentator said again.

”That might be one of the greatest goal-line interventions you’ll ever witness in Premier League football!”

On the broadcast and the jumbotron in the stadium, the replay rolled again.

”And everyone’s going to ask how Koleosho hasn’t scored...”

At that, the co-commentator cut straight across him.

”No.”

”They should be asking how Leo Calderon got there.”

”He started this sprint nearly twenty-five yards away, running towards his own goal. He’s already played over eighty minutes with a bandaged head.

Most players would have stopped after Foster squares it because they think it’s over, but he doesn’t.”

”That...” he said, almost laughing in disbelief, ”...that is desire.”

While this went on, the cameras found Dawson.

The Wigan manager was crouched on the touchline, both hands resting on the top of his head as he slowly exhaled, and only after another second did he finally stand.

The next shot cut across to the opposite technical area where Vincent Kompany hadn’t moved.

His arms remained folded tightly across his chest, but the frustration on his face needed no explanation.

He simply stared at the replay on the stadium screen before turning away, muttering to himself before kicking a bottle near the Burnley bench.

Leo rolled his shoulders once, caught his breath and jogged back into position as Burnley prepared the corner.

Brownhill swung it in, bodies rose, but O’Shea climbed highest, thumping the header clear beyond the edge of the area as Burnley recycled possession, but Wigan held firm.

The minutes drained away until eventually, the fourth official stepped towards the halfway line with his board in tow.

He lifted the electronic board, and as he did, it lit up.

+7

”A generous seven minutes added on,” the commentator said.

”And Wigan must be running on nothing at this point. Burnley have exhausted them with a tactical approach that the rest of the league will be studying this week.”

”Leo Calderon has been rendered almost anonymous in the second half,” the co-commentator said.

”And he’s got a head wound that’s making him look like he’s come from a different kind of game entirely. Still, he’s saved Wigan from a certain goal, which is funnily the best a Wigan player has done today despite all their efforts!”

Leo glanced at the board as the fourth official walked away and shook his head slowly.

He got the ball from Amos, looked forward and thought about going himself, but his body gave him an honest answer about that.

So he turned and played it to O’Shea instead, just as he had for almost the entire second half.

Burnley let him because that had been the plan all afternoon.

The ball moved instead to O’Shea, who stepped confidently into midfield before sliding it into Tiehi’s feet.

Tiehi barely needed a touch before feeding Femi Seriki on the right.

The right back took the ball into stride, and Seriki advanced ten yards before Burnley’s block shifted across as one.

There was no route down the line and no route inside too.

He spotted Reyes drifting into the pocket and tried to force the pass through, but it never arrived.

A Burnley boot clipped it loose, and for the briefest moment, everything stopped as Wigan looked caught out again.

Then everything happened at once.

”Lose ball!” someone screamed, and Lyle Foster looked like it was exactly what he had been waiting for.

He pounced before anyone else reacted, allowing the ball to roll across his body before spinning away from pressure, already preparing to drive into the open field Burnley had been chasing all afternoon, but he never finished the turn.

Leo arrived like he’d been launched and slid in without warning, his studs buried into the turf.

Body completely committed.

Foster’s eyes widened, and he instinctively leapt over the challenge, the ball disappearing beneath him as Leo hooked it cleanly away.

The moment his momentum carried him through the tackle, Leo was already back on his feet.

With a single touch, Leo lifted his head and, with no hesitation, wrapped his foot through the ball and launched it sixty yards toward the opposite flank, falling in the process, but then he got right back up.

”Wigan have turned defence into attack in the blink of an eye!” the commentator shouted as Ezra moved to the position of the ball.

He brought the pass under control near the touchline before Charlie Taylor closed him down.

The Burnley left back tried to pin Ezra, but the latter didn’t feel uncomfortable in the least.

He was a touchline winger who loved to hug the line, and so with a little shift, Ezra moved the ball like he was about to go inside, causing Taylor to follow suit, about to turn and chase, but with his left leg, Ezra pushed the ball right behind Taylor, who’d already committed.

Wasting not even a split second, Ezra skipped past the fullback with a burst of acceleration that drew the entire crowd forward.

”He got away!” the commentary bellowed, and the roar inside the DW rose with him.

Ezra drove toward the edge of the box before lifting his head, where he spotted Jake was charging through the middle with three Burnley shirts following him.

It wasn’t ideal what he was about to do, but nothing about the game had been ideal so far, and so without hesitation, the cross came immediately, and it hung in that awkward space between goalkeeper and defenders where everyone believed it belonged to them.

At least until Jake launched himself up to lay claim to the ball, but he brought baggage with him as Jordan Beyer rose with him, same as Delcroix, who threw himself across, but all three missed.

Trafford, in goal, watched on as the ball skimmed over every head in the middle and continued toward the far side of the box where Carlo was arriving, but so was someone else.