Harbinger Of Glory

In the midst of the barrage, Son glanced at the electronic signage wrapped around the DW.

The scoreboard showed what it showed.

He looked at it for a moment, then at the pitch before turning around and exhaling slowly.

They hadn’t done everything wrong.

That was the thing that sat with him the most as the Wigan players celebrated: that Spurs had played well for stretches of this game and had been two goals up.

And yet, they had still ended up on the wrong side of it.

The home side had simply refused to accept the version of the game that Tottenham had written for them and had eventually written their own.

He put his hands together and turned to his teammates.

On the other hand, and at the far side of the Tottenham quadrant, Carlo came out of the pile and found Leo arriving at the edge of it, still jogging over.

”I thought you were going to shoot,” Carlo said, pushing away the incessant pats to the back and hands in hair.

”I wanted to,” Leo said.

”But Ezra’s run was too good not to play.”

”Guess I should thank you then,” Carlo said as he bumped Ezra on the shoulder.

While they walked, Jake appeared beside them.

”My run,” he said, with great seriousness, ”pulled the entire defensive line across and created the space that made everything else possible. I just want that acknowledged.”

Without a second’s thought, Carlo walked away, and so did Leo, but it wasn’t only them.

Ezra, as well as most of the players, walked off, leaving Jake glancing at their backs.

The striker then looked at the crowd and decided they were a better audience anyway.

”Look at them,” the commentator said from the gantry, as the Wigan players settled back toward their half.

”This group of players. Most of them haven’t been in professional football for more than two seasons.

Some of them less than one. And they are relentless in a way that has nothing to do with tactics or systems. It’s hunger. Pure hunger.”

”And belief,” the co-commentator said.

”They were two nil down to a Tottenham side that had controlled large parts of this game and not one of them looked like they had accepted it. It’s a very good and strong mentality to have, especially when it’s this early on.”

Eager to waste as much of the time as they could before the match could restart, the Wigan players slowly trudged back into their positions, but under the referee’s beckoning and then warning, they soon settled.

When they did, it still wasn’t done yet.

”And Spurs, off with a very long kick-off,” the commentary said as Son quickly sent it long to Vicario, and one thing every eye in the stadium could notice was that there was no panic.

And at that moment, the home crowd didn’t know whether to be glad that time was going to run out or whether they should be uncomfortable at the Spurs players who were walking instead of scrambling.

The visitors moved the ball quickly, but smoothly, as if they were determined to erase the last ten minutes altogether, though they didn’t look in a rush.

”We’ve entered the final moments at the DW,” the commentator said.

”Tottenham have to respond, and you can be sure they’ll throw everything at Wigan now.”

The white shirts eventually pushed higher, settling into spaces to receive the ball, and once they did, Højbjerg dictated the tempo from deep, spraying passes from one side to the other while Maddison drifted between the lines looking for a pocket of space.

Wigan retreated into their shape, with every blue shirt behind the ball.

Leo stood in front of the back four, constantly pointing.

”Left!”

”Hold!”

”Stay with him!”

The instructions came one after another, and that was because there was no time to stop talking.

Tottenham still keen on, worked the ball from right to left before they eventually found Son, thirty yards from goal, and he needed only half a yard.

The South Korean shifted the ball onto his right foot and without even glancing at the post, he let it fly.

”Son...” the commentator warned as the ball was struck beautifully.

The shot climbed before dipping viciously toward the top corner, looking like it belonged there, and Ben Amos watched it all the way, unable to even twitch at the effort.

Until....

The ball crashed against the outside of the post before bouncing behind for a goal kick, all while the Wigan players, most of them, stood rooted to the spot.

”That was almost another twist in this fixture. Son Hueng Min with an effort of quality, only denied by some margin.”

”Wigan cannot afford a single lapse in concentration,” the co-commentator said.

”That’s the danger Son carries. Give him one opening, and he’ll punish you.”

Amos took his time retrieving the ball, not enough to earn a warning but enough to let his teammates catch their breath.

A moment later, he rolled it short to Leo.

The instant he got to it, Leo opened his body and carried it toward the right touchline, looking to draw Tottenham forward before releasing the ball, but Kulusevski had other ideas.

The winger closed the gap quickly and leaned straight through Leo’s shoulder just as he tried to play a return pass to Bennett.

The pass got through, but Leo was knocked cleanly off balance and tumbled onto the turf.

The referee looked to play on, but then Bennett slowed, forcing the referee’s whistle to sound almost immediately.

Kulusevski stopped for only a moment before turning away, his expression unreadable.

The referee jogged across but kept his cards in his pocket.

”That’s a professional foul,” the co-commentator said.

”Not a pretty one, but you’ll see those all the time in stoppage time.”

Leo stayed down for a couple of seconds, taking a deep breath before pushing himself back onto his feet.

He picked up the ball.

Then, instead of placing it immediately, he looked around.

Every one of his teammates was still sitting deep inside their own half.

Without a second’s thought. Leo swept both arms forward.

”Up!” he called and did it again.

The defenders looked at one another before slowly jogging past him.

Even Curtis Tilt pushed beyond the halfway line, and the crowd couldn’t help but murmur as the chatter spread through the stands before turning into acceptance.

”Look at this,” the commentator said. ”Leo wants everyone forward. He’s taking no chances of giving Tottenham one last attack from here.”

Leo carefully placed the ball on the turf and stood over it until a few seconds ticked away.

When he was settled with what he saw and just as everyone expected Leo to restart the play, he walked away, waving Ben Amos out of his penalty box.

The goalkeeper hesitated for a moment, glancing at the referee even before jogging out of his box as a chorus of protests erupted from the away end.

The Tottenham players reciprocated the action of their fans, immediately approaching the official and calling for Leo to be booked because of the delay, but the referee simply extended one arm, signalling for play to continue.

There was nothing wrong with it.

Amos reached the ball and launched it high into the night sky.

It travelled almost the length of the pitch before dropping just outside Tottenham’s penalty area.

There, Jake once more climbed above Van de Ven and managed to glance the ball onward.

It floated toward Vicario, though this time, the goalkeeper rose confidently and caught it above the crowd of players.

A ripple of applause spread around the stadium anyway.

They understood the need to keep the ball as far away from Ben Amos as possible, but Vicario wanted to do exactly the opposite.

He wasted no time in sprinting towards the edge of his area before he punted the ball long.

Every player turned, and every pair of eyes followed it, brooding for where it would fall.

The ball was still hanging in the floodlit sky...

The referee blew, once, then again to signal full time, and once he did, the DW rained down like hail, relief physically moving through the stands at the thought of the match finally coming to its end.