Chapter 98: Pound For Pound.
For a moment, everything seemed to pause as the players settled into position, the stands swelling with restless anticipation, and then it all erupted into motion.
Wigan, chasing started sharply as the ball zipped from foot to foot, crisp passes linking midfield and attack as their opponents played through the press.
But then Wigan upped the Ante.
Will Keane pressed aggressively, forcing a hurried clearance from Boro’s back line that drew a roar from the home stands.
The sound carried a pulse, the kind that gave the DW Stadium its bite on days like this.
"Positive start from Wigan," the commentator’s voice boomed on the broadcast.
"They’re looking to set the tempo early, and that means not letting Middlesbrough breathe."
In the dugout, Dawson stood with his arms folded, face unreadable.
Nolan was just behind him, murmuring something about shape and pressing triggers to the analyst.
The early energy was good, but Dawson knew this Boro side were no strangers to chaos.
They liked to soak pressure, then strike when you overcommitted, and it took only seven minutes for the visitors to bare their fangs.
A quick break down the right saw Jones slip the ball infield to Chuba Akpom, who spun sharply past Tilt before sending a low cross across the box.
Watmore arrived late, just missing by inches as the Boro fans in the corner let out a guttural cheer, part relief, part warning.
"Dangerous that," the co-commentator added.
"That’s what Middlesbrough do. You think you’ve got them penned in, and suddenly they’re behind you."
Wigan responded with grit.
Darikwa tracked back, crunching into a tackle that drew a half-cheer, half-grimace from the crowd.
Keane dropped deep to link play, flicking a clever one-two with Max Power, who darted inside before curling a low effort wide of the near post.
"Ahh, unlucky!" a fan shouted, slapping his seat.
"Keep it up, Maxie!"
another roared.The game settled into a rhythm, fast, combative, evenly matched.
Passes clattered into tackles, second balls became battles, and both sets of fans rose and fell with every half-chance.
By the twentieth minute, the score was still level, but the tempo had teeth.
Boro began to show their edge.
Their midfield, smooth, compact and unhurried, started to stretch Wigan, forcing them to chase more than they wanted.
A low hum of tension began to ripple through the stands as the visitors tightened their grip.
"Wigan need to get back to keeping the ball," came the analysis from the gantry.
"Boro are dictating now, small margins, but you can feel the shift."
From the bench, Leo watched quietly, his hands tucked under his thighs, breath fogging faintly in the cool air.
The noise of the crowd, the flashes of movement, the rhythm of the game and it all felt strangely distant.
He could hear Dawson shouting instructions, could see the patterns forming, but it was like standing behind glass.
It was always like this, but today was a bit more than usual.
Every time Wigan attacked, his eyes tracked the flow, thinking, picturing, analysing and every time Boro broke, he felt that jolt of helplessness that only came when you couldn’t affect it.
He leaned slightly forward, elbows on knees, gaze fixed on the pitch.
He wanted to be out there.
Out on the field, Middlesbrough were finding joy down Wigan’s left.
A teasing cross forced Amos, in the starting lineup in a while, into a sharp save at his near post, drawing applause from the home fans.
Amos held the ball tight to his chest, exhaling as if trying to calm the storm.
"Big stop from Ben Amos!" the commentator said.
"He’ll be happy to have that one. Still looks sharp even after the layoff."
Action from the touchline saw Dawson call out Cousins, who was walking again, instead of at least jogging.
The crowd found its rhythm again, the chanting thickening.
"Come on Wigan, come on Wigan," rolled around the stands in steady waves as Keane and Broadhead pressed together, forcing a turnover near the halfway line.
Max Power darted through, chipped a pass into the box, but it bounced harmlessly to the keeper.
Groans rippled, but it once again turned into cheers from the away end as Boro countered immediately, leading to a pass to Akpom at the end.
But their Striker’s effort from outside the box just scratched the crossbar before going out of play.
"That’s class," someone muttered in the crowd.
"You can’t give him that space," another added.
Thirty minutes in, and it was breathless football, no goals, but full of intent and friction.
Both sides trading blows, both refusing to yield.
From the touchline, Dawson clapped once, loudly.
"Keep at it! Don’t drop!"
"Cousins walk again, and you are coming off."
His voice cracked over the crowd noise.
Leo sat back slightly, exhaling.
His heart was beating faster than it should’ve for someone not even on the pitch.
"Cousins brings it under control, oh, wait, hang on..."
The commentator’s tone shifted mid-sentence, describing the scenes on the pitch as the rhythm of play had faltered in the space of a heartbeat.
Cousins had just received the pass on the edge of Wigan’s half, back slightly turned, moving across his body to open up to the left.
It looked routine, a simple caress to reset play, but his foot seemed to jam into the turf.
His left leg stuck awkwardly while the rest of him kept moving.
For a fleeting moment, his balance teetered.
His upper body lurched forward, his right boot stabbing at the ball just to keep it alive.
The touch rolled a few inches, but his body went the other way.
He crumpled with a sharp, strangled groan, clutching the back of his thigh as he hit the ground.
"Cousins is down! That doesn’t look good. He’s holding his hamstring," came the quick commentary, the concern edging in.
The ball, though, was still in play.
The Middlesbrough midfielder nearest him, Hackney, darted forward in a flash with a touch to steal it and then another to send it diagonally through the open space Cousins had just left behind.
"Boro could break here!" the commentator’s pitch rose. "Wigan caught short, down their right side, here comes Watmore!"
The second striker was already at full stride, hugging the line before cutting in sharply.
Tilt stepped forward to close the gap, but Watmore’s movement was liquid, a feint to the right, a quick roll of the boot, then a sudden twist back inside that left Tilt leaning the wrong way.
"Brilliant footwork!" the voice from the gantry shouted. "Tilt’s beaten, Watmore on his left, he’s going for it!"
The shot came next, fast and low, slicing through the thick Wigan air like a blade as Amos threw himself down, glove stretched, but it kissed the inside of the post and bounced into the net.
A split second later, the Middlesbrough fans behind the goal burst into a frenzy, in the cool afternoon air as chants cut through the air like crack.
"Goal! Middlesbrough take the lead at the DW!" the commentator declared over the noise.
"What a strike from Watmore, but questions will be asked about that build-up. Cousins looked to be in real trouble before the breakaway."
On the touchline, Dawson’s expression hardened.
He was already moving, jaw tight, hands waving as he marched toward the fourth official.
"That’s got to be stopped! He’s down injured before they even won the ball!" his voice could just be caught over the hum of protest from the home crowd.
Nolan jogged up beside him, trying to calm him down while staring at the referee, who was already surrounded by Wigan players.
Broadhead and Keane were the first to reach the man in black, pointing furiously toward Cousins, who still hadn’t moved much.
The midfielder was on his side, clutching his thigh, his face twisted in pain.
The referee, however, simply raised his arm and pointed back toward the centre circle.
The goal stood.
"The referee’s not interested," the co-commentator said grimly. "He’s saying play had continued because cousins hadn’t kicked the ball out or kept it, and that’s going to infuriate Wigan."
A chorus of boos swelled from the stands as the home fans waved their arms, shouting things that dissolved into the wind, their frustration mirrored by their manager.
On the pitch, Tilt bent down, checking on Cousins, muttering something low as the physios sprinted across the grass with their bags.
The rest of the players stood in uneasy silence, hands on their hips, breathing hard as the commentary filled the uneasy lull.
"Heartbreak for Wigan there. They’ve worked hard, but Cousins goes down, and in the same breath, Middlesbrough strike. It’s one-nil here at the DW, and it’s left the home crowd stunned."
After a while, Cousins was slowly helped up, the medical staff moving with deliberate care as they made their way off the pitch.
His head was bowed, his face pale with the kind of frustration only an athlete knows, but one thing every eye in the stadium knew was that he wasn’t going to continue the game.