Harbinger Of Glory

Right as the sequence died, Dawson’s whistle sounded.

"Fletch."

Fletcher looked over as the manager motioned with his hands before speaking.

"Be quicker."

The striker nodded first.

"Keeper’s already moved," Dawson continued.

"You have to see that before the ball gets to you."

Fletcher glanced back at Amos before nodding.

"Okay, Daws."

"Don’t wait for the ball to tell you what to do."

Fletcher nodded again as the players tried to reset, but before the drill could restart, Dawson’s whistle sounded once more.

"Take five."

The players stopped, and a few immediately walked toward the water bottles while others dropped onto the grass.

Dawson remained where he was, and he watched them for several seconds without saying anything.

Nolan eventually walked over and stopped beside him.

"What are you thinking?"

Dawson breathed out heavily and kept his eyes on the players.

Then he shook his head before speaking.

"Am I overthinking this?"

Nolan smiled slightly.

"You tell me."

Dawson gave a quiet laugh before snorting.

"Yeah."

He looked back toward the pitch.

"Maybe I am."

Nolan waited as Dawson exhaled.

"But how this game goes for us is going to depend on how well we adapt."

"During the game?"

"Especially during the game."

He folded his arms.

"We can spend all week preparing for what Arsenal might do. They can do something completely different once the whistle goes."

Dawson looked toward the players again.

"They’re going to change things, and we’ll have to change with them."

Across London, Arsenal were doing much the same.

Only their sessions carried a different kind of pressure.

Mikel Arteta had been involved in almost everything that week.

More than usual.

He stopped drills repeatedly.

Sometimes it was a positional issue.

Sometimes it was a player’s decision.

Sometimes it was simply pressing triggers that weren’t sharp enough.

On one occasion, Arteta stopped an attacking exercise, walked directly onto the pitch and positioned himself between two players.

"No."

He pointed toward the space behind him.

"You should be keeping up with your teammates so you can be quick enough to win second balls."

He demonstrated the movement himself, then immediately returned the ball to the player.

"Again."

The players reset, and the sequence began again.

This time, the movement worked, and at that, Arteta nodded.

"Better."

All around, the players nodded.

Nobody questioned the extra involvement.

They understood the pressure around the manager who had been building for years.

Almost five years had passed since Arteta had taken charge of Arsenal.

There had been success and several seasons where Arsenal had come painfully close to the Premier League title.

But close was becoming an uncomfortable word.

Second place was still second place.

And now, halfway through the opening part of another season, a newly promoted Wigan side had somehow put nine points between themselves and Arsenal, who were in their usual second-place position.

Arteta knew what was at stake and so did his players.

Two teams were approaching the same match from different directions.

One was trying to protect something nobody expected them to have, and the other was trying to take it away.

.....

Away from London and the Premier League, the preparations for Arsenal and Wigan meant very little.

There were no television panels running through the fixture.

No supporters arguing over who would win and no discussion about whether Wigan’s unbeaten run could continue.

Instead, a small room was filled with the sound of a football match playing through speakers and in that room, Luciano Spalletti sat quietly in one of the chairs.

Beside him sat a black-bearded man who had barely said a word since they started, and across from them, a screen showed Leo Calderon.

The footage changed every few minutes.

Different matches, different opponents and different situations.

Spalletti wasn’t watching the screen as much as he was watching the man beside him.

The man’s eyes barely moved.

He followed Leo whenever he received the ball, watched his positioning when he didn’t have it and occasionally leaned forward whenever something caught his attention.

Then a clip played.

Leo received the ball in a tight area, took an ambitious touch around a defender and somehow escaped with possession.

At that, the man snorted, causing Spalletti to glance at him.

"What’s funny?"

The man kept watching the screen before pointing at it.

"That. That was very funny."

Spalletti looked back at the footage where Leo had beaten the defender and continued the attack.

The man shook his head.

"It’s funny because it worked."

A small smile appeared on his face, and then when he looked toward Spalletti, the smile disappeared almost immediately.

Spalletti raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything as the duo continued to watch for another thirty minutes.

Eventually, the man lifted his hand.

"I’ve seen enough."

Piatelli, who had been sitting further back in the room, immediately reached for the controls and paused the footage.

But his eyes didn’t leave the man beside Spalletti.

There was clearly something about his presence that had kept Piatelli curious throughout the entire session.

The man noticed and turned toward him.

"How did you find the kid?"

"It was actually Thomasso," Spalletti answered as the man looked back toward Piatelli.

Spalletti continued.

"For some reason, he’s been keeping tabs on the boy since he was ten."

Piatelli shifted slightly in his seat as the man gave a small nod.

"Ten?"

"Yes, that’s what my father said," Marco answered as the man looked back at the frozen image of Leo.

"He’s very talented. I have watched your matches with him, and it seems you try to replicate what he does at his club."

"But that freedom he gets..."

"That will eventually backfire."

Spalletti raised a brow.

"How?"

The man gestured toward the screen.

"Look at how often he is allowed to make his own decisions."

He leaned forward.

"From what I’ve heard, he hasn’t even played two full seasons professionally."

Spalletti nodded.

"And yet he plays like that."

The man tapped his fingers lightly against his knee.

"Most of the time, he’s mature. Very mature."

He looked at the screen again.

"But then you’ll see something."

"What?"

"A weak decision."

"Or a risky one, and sometimes for no reason at all."

Spalletti said nothing as the man continued.

"He gets away with a lot."

Piatelli leaned forward slightly as the man continued speaking.

"The teams he plays against don’t punish him, or maybe they don’t get the chance to."

After he finished, he pointed toward Leo’s frozen figure.

"But if he meets a team that actually punishes those mistakes..."

The sentence was left hanging, but Spalletti understood it.

"He could be exposed."

The room went quiet again as Piatelli looked toward Spalletti.

The older coach remained focused on the man beside him.

Then the man asked, "When is his next match?"

"In two days."

The man’s head turned.

"Against?"

"Arsenal."

At the mention of the London-based club, his eyebrows rose, and for the first time during the entire session, his expression showed genuine interest.

"Una prova vera. (A proper test.)"

Spalletti nodded as the man looked back toward the frozen image.

Then he turned toward Spalletti.

"Can we get there?"

"You want to watch it?"

"Yes."

He nodded toward the screen.

Spalletti considered it for a moment, and then he nodded.

"I’ll have the liaison work on it."

"Good."

Spalletti glanced once more toward the screen before looking at the man he’d called in a few days ago.

"So now, to ask, what do you think about what I proposed? I know, as the former captain of the Azzurri, you’ve been dying to have a hand in the revival of the blue shirt."

"I am interested, Spalletti," the man said with a smile, "but I am not yet convinced!"

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