[Two days before Stoke.]
The training pitch at Christopher Park hummed with energy — the kind that only came after back-to-back wins.
Wigan had jumped to 13th.
Mid-table, sure, but within touching distance of the playoff places.
A reminder of just how thin the margins were in the Championship — one bad week and you could drop like a stone, one good fortnight and you were suddenly glancing at the top six.
The mood? As bright as the sky above them.
Dawson stood with arms folded near the halfway line, sunglasses on, hood up — his version of casual.
"Bit of fun today," he'd said earlier, just before training started.
But fun, by Dawson's standards, looked suspiciously like hell.
The players were split into three rotating teams for a high-intensity possession game in tight spaces.
Two-touch only. No hiding.
Keep the ball moving or get hunted.
No cones, no bibs — just raw pace, sharp minds, and men who didn't want to be the ones doing punishment sprints after losing a round.
