After the escape, Carlo looked into the box and immediately had one thing on his mind.

He slipped his left foot right under the ball, sending it pinpoint towards Jake, but at the last, the cross was met by Romero, who powered a header clear.

The ball fell to Bissouma, who once again wasted no time, nudging it into the feet of Pierre-Emile Højbjerg, who had replaced Pape Matar Sarr earlier in the half as Tottenham almost replicated the attack that had just failed, only this time, Højbjerg turned in one smooth movement before sending Kulusevski racing away down the right.

Following that, the match became relentless.

Attack.

Defend.

Attack again and defend again.

Neither side allowed the other a moment to breathe as the ball pinged back and forth between the two halves with neither having a moment’s peace.

"This has turned into basketball... no, tennis!" the co-commentator laughed.

"One end, then the other. Nobody can keep hold of it."

In another Tottenham build-up, Kulusevski slowed for the first time all evening.

Instead of driving down the outside like he’d been doing since the start of the game, he chopped onto his left foot, drawing Joe Bennett across with him.

That move alone opened a pocket of space, and right in that pocket, Maddison arrived perfectly.

Without waiting, Kulusevski let go of the ball, rolling it into the stride of the former Leicester player right as Bennett clipped him from behind.

Without waiting for the ball to settle, or trying to even control it, James Maddison rifled a shot through the sea of bodies, driving it low with intent towards the far corner.

At once, Ben Amos tensed in his goal, before lurching sideways.

He launched himself full length across the goalmouth and got both hands behind the strike, pushing it safely behind for a corner.

In the next second, the stadium answered with a wave of applause as players from both sides bent over with their hands on their knees, finally given a few seconds to breathe.

"That’s the breather for them. For nearly ten minutes now," the commentator said as the clock ticked past the seventy-ninth minute, "this match has barely stopped. It’s been attack after attack, and somehow it’s still only one goal between them."

On the touchline, Ange Postecoglou stepped toward the edge of his technical area.

He pointed into the penalty area before waving his arm back and then forth.

"Cristian!" he roared as Romero looked over.

"Get in there!"

The Argentine centre-back immediately began jogging forward without question as Postecoglou then pointed toward

"You stay."

The Dane nodded and dropped back alongside Van de Ven, all while Kulusevski walked across to take the corner.

When he settled, he lifted one hand into the air as inside the penalty area, bodies jostled for position.

After a little scuffle, the referee exchanged a few words with the players before stepping away.

When he did, Kulusevski delivered.

The cross curled dangerously toward the six-yard box, and slowly, Romero arrived late, exactly as planned.

He threw himself toward the ball, looking to make the effort count, but so did Whatmough.

The Wigan captain attacked it without a second’s hesitation and managed to glance the ball away, but Romero’s momentum carried straight through him as their heads collided with a sickening thud.

The clearance dropped loose inside the area, and before any Wigan player could lay a claim to it, Richarlison reacted first and smashed it into the roof of the net.

The away end erupted as the Tottenham players began to wheel away in celebration.

"Surely that’s the goal that settles it!" the commentator shouted over the broadcast, but the celebrations lasted barely two seconds when a sharp whistle cut through the noise.

The celebrating Tottenham players turned to find the referee waving both arms.

"No goal!" he roared over the noise settling across the pitch while confusion spread across the stadium.

Richarlison turned back toward the official with both arms outstretched, but the referee ignored him completely.

His attention was fixed on the penalty area where Whatmough lay motionless, one hand pressed tightly against the side of his head.

From the sidelines, the medical team were already sprinting onto the pitch.

And while they did, the replay appeared on the big screen showing why the goal had been disallowed.

Romero had won nothing except the side of Whatmough’s skull, and the fans, just by watching it, could feel it by how the collision echoed even through the television microphones.

"Yeah... that’s the right decision," the co-commentator said, his voice noticeably quieter now.

"Player safety has to come first."

While this happened, Leo had already wandered across.

He stood a few yards away, hands on his hips, watching silently while the medics worked.

Nobody spoke.

Not even the Tottenham players.

After a couple of minutes, the applause slowly started to roll around the stadium as Whatmough slowly sat up.

Then, with help from the medical staff, he climbed to his feet and at that, the entire home crowd rose as one.

Every stand applauded.

Whatmough acknowledged them with a small raise of his hand before walking carefully toward the touchline to complete the concussion check.

Once the referee was satisfied everything was in order, play resumed as Whatmough was waved back on.

The game continued but only for five minutes.

Then, without anyone near him, Whatmough suddenly lowered himself onto the turf.

He stayed there, and once again, the referee blew his whistle immediately before jogging over.

"You alright mate?"

Whatmough looked up and slowly shook his head.

"I feel dizzy."

That was enough to warrant the referee immediately waving on the medical staff.

On the sideline, Dawson let out a quiet sigh as he watched the medics near Whatmough.

He’d already watched the centre back go down, and he wasn’t sure if the latter could go down safely a third time.

He turned and then settled on Curtis Tilt, who seemed to notice the manager’s gaze and glance up from the bench.

"Shirt on," Dawson said while gesturing.

The defender nodded and quickly pulled his jersey over his head.