The Wizards of Luton Town (Part 3)

Whether due to my bleeding nose, both Leicester City's players and our own had retreated into their respective halves. The match had been paused at an awkward, delicate juncture, leaving everyone looking visibly drained of momentum.

Still, having regained its composure thanks to my interruption, the contest appeared to have washed away some of the frantic, bruising roughness that had plagued the opening ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠twenty minutes of the second half. Taking a stray elbow to the bridge of the nose felt like a fair price to pay for that much peace.

Naturally, it wasn't long before the intensity flared up all over again.

Neither side on the pitch was remotely satisfied with a 1–0 scoreline. Leicester City launched sharp, incisive waves of attack spearheaded by the new striker they had signed over the summer. Though the ball ended up sailing over the crossbar in the final sequence—handing us a goal kick—anyone watching could tell that the current score wasn't going to hold for long.

"At this rate, there's no way Allen's getting on the pitch," Dominic muttered, jogging past.

"Which is why we need to run harder and create another goal."

"Easy to say. If only it were that simple."

"I know."

I answered on a pessimistic note, but deep down, I didn't feel like it was out of reach. It might have sounded like arrogance, but unlike West Ham, Manchester United, or Newcastle—the Premier League sides we had faced in cup competitions last season—the two center-backs standing before me didn't feel like an insurmountable mountain.

Wrapping up our brief exchange, I pushed forward as I watched Mathias set the ball down for the goal kick. Looking back, I had spent the entire first half prioritizing link-up play out of concern that Leicester's two center-backs might overpower me physically. Most of my touches had been flick-ons toward our wingers or headed knockdowns into the center for Dominic.

Now, however, the landscape had shifted. The defenders were forced to account for both my aerial dominance and my shooting, which naturally diluted their focus. In truth, that long-range strike earlier had been the purest connection I had ever caught on a football. But regardless of luck, the ball had rippled the net, and that visual was permanently seared into their minds.

All that remained was to do what I did best.

"Dominic!"

The sequence mirrored our first-half playbook. Mathias launched the goal kick downfield, and despite the center-backs jostling around me, I brought the ball down and shuttled it cleanly to Dominic. The moment he gathered possession and heard my shout, he stabbed a pass forward.

This time, he didn't slide it along the turf. He lofted an arching pass straight into the pocket of space between the two center-backs where I was charging in.

Thud!

The collision didn't rattle my skull. The sound came entirely from Leicester's right center-back, who had slammed violently against my frame.

The Leicester defenders screamed for a foul, but the referee waved play on; the man had simply been tossed aside by my momentum rather than any illegal shove. Leaving them protesting in vain, I used my head to bounce the contested ball forward in mid-stride. Even to my own eyes, it was an outrageous piece of acrobatic control.

"Block him! Shut him down!"

Clearly enraged at finding himself stranded in nearly the exact same nightmare twice, the Leicester goalkeeper bellowed at his lone remaining center-back while rushing forward to close down the angle. But that was precisely what I wanted. There was no scenario better suited for my aerial advantage. A keeper narrowing the angle meant he was stepping off his line—and once he stepped off his line, I only had one choice.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

Thump.

I snapped my forehead upward. The ball drew an exquisite, looping arc through the air, skimming just inches above the goalkeeper's fully outstretched fingertips.

He had never anticipated a header from that distance. Paralyzed by delayed reflexes, the keeper could only watch as the ball dropped awkwardly behind him, bounced on the sodden turf, and rolled gently across the goal line.

"That's what I'm talking about! That's our Han!"

"Aaargh! Han, you beauty!"

"Let's go win the bloody FA Cup!"

Save for the away end roaring in delirious celebration, the King Power Stadium was plunged into absolute silence.

Past the seventieth minute, the toll of relentless chasing became obvious. Our midfielders, who had been running like mad dogs through the center of the park, saw their overall influence wane under sheer fatigue. Exactly as promised, Manager Gordon Morton pulled three of them off to secure the final stretch of the match.

Both Santos and Holt, brought on for Luke and Teddy, were defensive midfielders. Only Allen, who took Dominic's spot up front, offered an attacking profile.

"Scrap the modified four-four-two," Santos relayed as he crossed the halfway line toward me. "Back to our standard four-four-two. We lock it down from here on out."

"Understood."

With Dominic off, Allen took his place beside me in the frontline.

"Well, it wasn't a hat-trick, but thanks to your brace, the old man gets to step onto the grass," Allen remarked with a grin.

"If you're truly grateful, buy me dinner sometime."

"Of course I will."

Between him and Mathias, people seemed remarkably eager to feed me today. Then Allen leaned in closer, dropping his voice to a whisper as if imparting state secrets.

"Oh, and the gaffer told me to pass this along."

He recited Gordon's tactical instructions verbatim into my ear.

"...I mean, the logic holds up," I whispered back, "but are we really going to find a chance to attack in the time we have left?"

"If you nod the ball down just once, it's completely on."

"Are you sure?"

"Hey! I might look like an old wreck now, but I was a league top scorer in my prime! I've seen and done it all, so have a little faith in me, kid."

"Right, right. Far be it from me to doubt our club legend."

Either way, it wasn't something we could force immediately. We dropped back near the halfway line to shore up our defensive block.

As the match crept into the dying seconds of regular time, the exact window Allen had spoken of finally materialized.

"Now!" Allen shouted.

Tracking the high clearance that rebounded off our backline, I flicked the ball diagonally toward the space he had pointed out. With Leicester's ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠fullback caught high up the pitch, the flank was completely deserted. Allen sprinted forward with everything he had, brought the ball under control, and stormed down the touchline.

Age was an undefeated opponent, of course; the recovery pace of the fullback allowed him to double-team Allen alongside the center-back, trapping him in the corner. But that had been Allen's objective from the very beginning. Allen drilled a low cross deliberately into the center-back's knee, watching it deflect out of bounds.

A corner kick.

"Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant," Allen muttered, catching his breath as he trotted into the box.

"Well, you won the corner, at least."

"Told you to trust me, didn't I?" Allen puffed his chest out proudly.

"There's still the hard part left."

"True, but my gut tells me it's going in."

"A veteran's sixth sense?"

"Something like that."

Out by the corner flag, Ian Holt raised his left arm high into the air. It was the prearranged signal, confirming that Leicester City had set up their defensive assignments precisely as Gordon had anticipated.

The referee's whistle pierced the air. Holt nudged a short pass along ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the turf to Giovanni, who had crept over to offer an outlet. Instantly, an opposing midfielder lunged out of the penalty box to close Giovanni down, while Leicester's fullback stepped up to track Holt.

Meanwhile, I moved subtly toward the corner side of the box, sandwiching myself between two central defenders. Giovanni smoothly shifted the ball across to Mick Colback, who had drifted into space.

Without hesitation, Mick whipped in an Early Cross toward my forehead—a delivery we had drilled hundreds of times in training. Using subtle, veteran shoves and body leverage, I pinned both center-backs so they couldn't leap cleanly. Caught beneath me, the pair could neither challenge my height nor clear the ball.

And I had no intention of touching it.

The moment the whistle blew, Allen collapsed onto the grass and burst into tears.

"Old man, are you seriously crying?" I asked, walking over.

"Yeah, I am. Thank you, you bloody magnificent bastards."

He was sobbing, then laughing, then sobbing all over again. For a club legend who had weathered Luton's darkest days in the lower divisions, this triumph meant the world. And why shouldn't it? We had won, and we had earned every ounce of this joy.

It was a glorious night for everyone involved.

...Except Leicester City.

The very next day, Luton Town returned to league action for Matchday 7.

Even with the vast majority of our regular starters rested, Luton Town ground out a gritty 1–0 victory. Ugly or not, that result marked our eighth consecutive win since the start of the season, cup fixtures included.

We hadn't dropped a single point or lost a single match all year.

Whatever the internet was buzzing about, one undeniable truth remained: our team simply refused to lose. And that was a magnificent omen for everything ahead.