Harbinger Of Glory

The debate continued throughout the week.

Every new report generated another round of speculation, with supporters scrutinising journalists’ wording and trying to work out which players might actually leave.

At the training ground, meanwhile, Dawson had a match to prepare for.

Burnley were waiting, and the Premier League did not pause for the transfer window.

The sessions leading up to the game were not disastrous, but something about them had changed.

The players still worked hard, the drills were completed, and the coaching staff continued to push the group through its preparations.

Yet the usual rhythm seemed to be missing.

Conversations stopped when certain subjects came up, and more than once Dawson noticed players looking distracted between exercises.

It was difficult to blame them entirely.

Some had spent the week seeing their names linked with clubs they had never expected to hear from.

Others were watching teammates become the subject of increasingly large bids.

Even those who had attracted no reported interest could hardly avoid wondering what might happen if the squad began to change around them.

The problem became impossible to ignore during the final session before the Burnley match.

Dawson had been watching a possession drill when another sequence broke down.

A pass went astray, causing one of his players to chase, but there was no fight, despite him making it clear that they fight for loose balls even in training.

The ball was eventually forced out of the playing area.

Ordinarily, he would have allowed the players to retrieve it and start again, but this time, he blew his whistle and held up a hand.

”Stop there.”

The players slowed, with some bending to catch their breath while others looked towards him.

Dawson walked onto the pitch with a deadpan look, and a few players suddenly stopped looking his way.

The manager, seeing this, sighed and then began to speak.

”Right, I’m not going to stand here and pretend I don’t know what’s been going on all week. You’ve all seen the reports.

You know who’s been linked with who, and you know there have been offers for some of you.”

”I understand it,” Dawson continued. ”You hear a club like Chelsea is interested in you, or Milan comes in with an offer, and naturally you’re going to think about it.

I’m not going to stand here and tell you that you’re wrong for considering your future. This is your career. You have every right to think about where it might take you.”

He paused, letting the words settle before his tone grew more pointed.

”But while you’re here, you’re Wigan players. If you haven’t signed for another club, if you’re still walking into this training ground wearing our badge, then I expect you to give this team everything you’ve got.

That applies on the training pitch, and it applies when we step onto the pitch on Saturday.”

Dawson looked from one side of the group to the other.

He wasn’t interested in singling anyone out, especially when he knew several of the players had done nothing wrong.

The offers were not their fault, and he had no intention of making them feel guilty for attracting attention.

”What happens when the window closes, or what happens in the summer, we’ll deal with when the time comes. If you’re going to leave, then you’ll leave when the time is right.

That’s football. But until then, you’re here, and we have work to do. I don’t want anyone playing half-heartedly because they’re wondering whether they might be somewhere else next month.”

He let out a short breath and glanced towards the goal at the far end of the pitch.

”Look at where we are. Really look at it. We’re top of the Premier League. We’ve beaten teams that, at the start of the season, most people would have expected to finish comfortably above us.

We’re in a position to do something this club hasn’t done before, something that could make this team unforgettable to the Premier League and, more importantly, to the people who have supported Wigan through everything.”

His voice stayed steady, but the weight of his words was clear.

”That doesn’t happen because of one player, and it doesn’t happen because a club comes along and offers us a lot of money.

It happens because a team keeps working for each other. So let’s stop worrying about things we can’t control and get back to the things we can.”

Dawson fell quiet and studied their faces.

Some players nodded.

Others appeared to be listening, but their expressions gave little away.

Leo stood among the midfielders, hands on his hips, while Jake glanced briefly toward the staff gathered beside the touchline.

Carlo looked down at his boots, then lifted his head again.

Dawson sighed.

He had hoped that saying it aloud would be enough to clear the air, but he could see that the uncertainty had not disappeared.

It was difficult to blame the players for feeling unsettled when their futures were being discussed in public, sometimes with figures attached to their names that could change their lives.

Still, there was a match to play, and the table would not wait for them to settle their thoughts.

”Get back into position,” he said. ”Let’s finish properly.”

The players returned to the drill, and the session resumed.

The work continued, but the ease that had characterised the squad earlier in the season was missing.

Dawson watched them for a little longer, already aware that the coming weeks would demand more from him than simply choosing the right starting eleven.

By Saturday, the attention had shifted back to the pitch.

Burnley had not been enjoying the sort of season Wigan were having despite them both coming into the league in the same promotion window.

Sitting 19th in the table, they were fighting to stay in the division, and the visit of the league leaders offered them a chance to take points from a side that had become the subject of almost as much transfer speculation as football discussion.

The weather, however, made the afternoon even less inviting.

Rain swept across the stadium, leaving the pitch slick and the surface difficult to judge.

By the time the match reached its later stages, players on both sides showed the signs of a hard afternoon.

Their shirts were streaked with mud, their shorts darkened by the wet grass, and the ball was moving unpredictably whenever it skidded across the surface.

Leo had been at the centre of much of the contest.

Realising his importance to Wigan, Burnley had made little effort to give him time on the ball.

Whenever he received possession between the lines, a midfielder quickly closed him down, and the defenders were ready to step out if he tried to carry the ball toward the penalty area.

Several challenges had left him on the ground, and the referee had already been called upon more than once to settle things down.

With little room to play and even less time to think, Leo got the ball again as the game went on.

He took the ball in his stride, glanced at the scene ahead and tried to turn away from the player pressing him.

He shifted it across his body, looking to slip past on the outside, but the Burnley midfielder leaned in and drove his shoulder into his side.

Leo gritted his teeth and tried to hold his ground, but his opponent slipped into a tackle.

He stumbled, caught himself for a moment, then went down onto the wet grass as the referee’s whistle cut through the noise.

Leo remained on the ground briefly, mud smeared across the front of his shirt and down one sleeve.

The Burnley player, meanwhile, backed away, raising his hands as if to insist he had won the ball fairly.

A couple of Wigan players turned towards the official, asking for a clearer decision, while the home crowd responded with a mixture of cheers and whistles.

”It’s been a gritty afternoon here,” the commentator said as the broadcast followed the players gathering around the fallen midfielder.

”And the conditions certainly haven’t helped. The rain has made this a difficult pitch to play on, but Burnley have also made sure Wigan haven’t been allowed to settle into any sort of rhythm.

Leo Calderon has taken his fair share of attention today. He’s been crowded out, he’s been challenged repeatedly, and every time he tries to turn and drive forward, there’s a Burnley shirt waiting for him.”

Leo pushed himself up onto one knee before getting to his feet.

He brushed mud off his shorts, though the gesture did little to improve their condition, then looked to the referee as the official indicated where the free kick would be taken.

The camera widened to show the state of the pitch and the players spread across it.

The match had become a battle of second balls, hurried clearances and challenges that left little room for the kind of football Wigan had played so freely earlier in the season.

”And there are only about thirty minutes left to play,” the commentator continued.

”This is not what many people expected coming into the afternoon. Wigan are top of the table, Burnley are nineteenth, and on paper this looked like a fixture the league leaders would be expected to control.

Instead, they’ve been dragged into a proper fight, and with the rain still coming down, there’s no sign of this getting any easier.”