Stoke had started with bite.

The red kits swarmed into Wigan's half, a tight passing exchange on the far side pulling Bennett and Whatmough slightly out of shape.

Their winger raced to the byline and fizzed in a low ball across the box—sharp, threatening.

But it skidded just behind the striker, the kind of pass that looked perfect until the last half-second.

Tilt didn't wait.

He launched a foot through the clearance, high and clear, before it could turn threatening again.

"Good pressure from Stoke, but just missing that final connection," the commentator said. "You can tell they came in fired up."

Behind the attack, the away fans beat drums and hollered, their chants echoing into the DW air like a war drum.

For a moment, it looked like the tempo belonged to them.

Until Wigan took it back.

Jones passed short to Whatmough, who took one touch and fed it back to Tilt.

The defender, despite the press, didn't blast it and held onto the ball.

He let it settle, then played a calm, clean pass out wide to Bennett, who had dropped to offer support.

Bennett played it forward — simple, safe.

Back to Cousins, who also switched it wide.

Wigan weren't just clearing their lines; they were also playing through the press.

"This is the difference we've seen under Dawson lately," the co-commentator chimed in.

"They're not rushing things. It's calm, it's structured — and they're brave with the ball."

Whatmough again, now to Naylor, who turned quickly and slotted it into Tilt.

Back and forth it went — short, controlled, intelligent.

Each pass nudged Stoke further back, pulling their midfield out of sync.

And then Cousins looked up.

He saw the channel — empty space behind the line, and with little to no hesitation, he drew his left foot back and whipped the ball downfield, slicing it through the middle third like a sniper shot.

"Beautiful switch!" the commentator called.

Broadhead was already on the move, timing it perfectly.

He rose early — neck muscles tight — and met it cleanly with his forehead.

The header wasn't toward goal.

It was angled.

Down.

Right into the path of Will Keane's replacement for the day — Josh Fletcher.

Fletcher didn't wait.

The ball met the grass once before his left foot swept it forward.

Then again, flicking it inside the chasing defender, before exploding around the outside.

"Fletcher! With a bolt down the right!" the co-commentator shouted.

One moment, he was boxed in; the next, he was inside the area.

He had no time to think.

He just whipped it across the face of goal — fierce, low, skimming.

Jagielka saw the ball and stepped in to clear it, but the moment the ball glanced off his shin, his heart sank.

The touch, if it had been made by any striker, would have been a well-finished goal, but he was a defender in his own box.

The net rippled, and time froze.

Bursik had dived — full stretch — but the ball was already past him.

"No way!" the commentator exploded.

"That's heartbreak for Stoke! Phil Jagielka — the man with over 700 professional appearances — has just buried it into his own net!"

"Unlucky for Bursik, nothing he could do there. It's a freak deflection."

Wigan fans roared to life.

The noise surged, loud and guttural.

The DW erupted like a dam bursting.

Fletcher turned, confused for a split second — unsure whether to celebrate — but then Naylor sprinted over and pulled him into a hug, followed by Broadhead, and then Bennett.

"It might go down as an own goal, but that entire play? Wigan made that," the commentator said.

"From the build-up, to the header, to the pressure — they earned it."

Jagielka stayed crouched just inside the six-yard box, head bowed, hands on knees.

He didn't need to look up to know where the ball had ended.

The sting of the net rippling behind him was enough.

Bursik jogged past him, eyes low, retrieving the ball from the back of the net with both hands.

Just eleven minutes in.

The Stoke captain, Lewis Baker, jogged over, hand outstretched.

He gave Jagielka a firm pat on the shoulder, leaned close.

"Hey," Baker said quietly.

"It happens to the best of us, and it never feels good," Baker said to the veteran who stood slowly, nodding once, though his face stayed unreadable.

"Let's get it back."

Baker turned and clapped twice, loudly, as he stepped toward midfield.

"Reset, boys! Come on — we're not out of this!"

Stoke players drifted back to position, some quietly muttering to themselves, others kicking at the turf.

The sting of conceding early — and to an own goal — always cut deeper.

Bursik passed the ball forward, planting it at the halfway circle with a controlled scoop, then jogged back toward his box.

Meanwhile, the Wigan end was alive.

On the sideline, Dawson didn't move at first.

Then a single fist pump before he clapped once, then again, pointing back toward midfield.

"Don't let up, guys, be focused," he shouted.

In the dugout, Leo leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes fixed.

It was everything they'd trained for.

McClean, seated next to him, gave a slow whistle.

"Fair play," he muttered. "We're playing, lad. Really playing."

Out on the pitch, the scoreboard updated:

WIGAN ATHLETIC 1 – 0 STOKE CITY

OWN GOAL – JAGIELKA (11')

The stands pulsed with laughter, cheers, fists in the air.

A group of fans behind the dugout had broken into a song — off-beat and a little out of tune, but full of joy.

"That's what they wanted," the commentator said over the stadium feed, voice light.

"Something to cheer. Something to believe in. A treat on home soil — and what a treat that goal was, even if it came with a bit of help."

"You look at that build-up — the composure, the patience — and then Fletcher's burst down the line. It's good football and Wigan look confident."

The Wigan players returned to the half before repositioning themselves, just as the Stoke players did.

.........

By the half-hour mark, the match had turned into a one-sided affair.

Wigan were moving the ball with purpose, slicing the pitch into triangles.

Pass. Shift. Pass again.

It wasn't possession for possession's sake.

Every touch had intent. And the crowd could feel it.

"Since the opener, it's been all Wigan," the commentator noted, voice a touch breathless.

"They've woven a web in the midfield, and Stoke can't seem to find the scissors. If they don't break this rhythm soon, you feel like the next goal isn't far."

Wigan were advancing again.

This time, it was Broadhead slipping in behind his marker to pick up a clipped pass from Cousins.

A quick one-two with Naylor and the move opened to the left.

Joe Bennett surged forward, arms pumping, head up.

He shaped to cross—then pulled back, keeping the ball at his feet as the Stoke full-back overcommitted.

A low chuckle rippled from the stands.

Near the touchline, Wigan manager Dawson stood just outside his technical area, jaw tightening.

He was watching the rhythm too — but unlike the fans, his eyes weren't smiling.

His gaze darted backwards.

Where were the centre-backs?

Where was Jones?

A flash of white caught his eye.

Whatmough was all the way into the Stoke half.

Too high and too soon.

Dawson stepped forward and bellowed.

"Whatmough! Get back in line!"

The defender heard him and nodded, jogging backwards.

Dawson turned again.

"Jamie!" he shouted to his goalkeeper, who had wandered halfway out of his box to act as a sweeper.

"Back! We're not playing bloody futsal!"

Jones raised a hand in acknowledgement and retreated a few steps, but not far.

The message had been delivered — but the rhythm of the game had pulled them in too deep.

Like waves on a beach, they kept drifting forward again without meaning to.

Wigan probed the right now.

A slick little flick from Cousins nearly sent Bennett in again, as a roar from the crowd erupted.

But Bursik, Stoke's keeper, had seen enough.

He charged forward, met the bouncing cross from Bennett, and snatched it clean from the air with both gloves.

Without pausing, he hurled it long — a flat throw like a rope toward Jordan Thompson in midfield.

Thompson, under pressure, got it out of his feet quickly and slid it across to Lewis Baker.

And Baker?

He was thinking of something else.

He saw the keeper — Jones — high, almost lounging at the edge of his box.

Then he hit it.

Right foot slicing through the ball with ruthless technique.

It was a strike full of belief — the kind that's been tried a thousand times in training but rarely dared in a live match.

"Wait a minute… Baker's gone for goal! From halfway!" the commentator gasped, voice jumping an octave.

The shot flew — a flat, accelerating arc — not looping but cutting through the air like a knife.

Jones reacted late.

He twisted, backpedalling, boots thudding over grass.

Arms stretched. Eyes wide.

The fans rose to their feet, a wave of motion sweeping the DW.

And the ball kept climbing…

…before starting to drop.

Fast.

A/N: AHH, I haven't seen you guys in a minute. Have fun reading.