A call to arms
You’ve heard of Leonidas and Odysseus, even if you don’t remember them. As the names indicate, both are heroes from Greek mythology, belonging to a world older than we can comprehend, but not so distant that their stories have faded.
You’ll most likely know Leonidas I as Gerard Butler in the 2006 film 300, where he leads an army of Spartans to the Battle of Thermopylae to confront the Persian ruler Xerxes, and his army of 300,000. The Spartans didn’t march with false illusions. They knew the scale of what was coming—vastly superior numbers, overwhelming force, certain defeat. And yet they stood. Not because the odds were good, but because some lines, once drawn, have to be held. And so even in defeat, Leonidas and his men became something greater than the outcome. They became a symbol of resistance, of what it means to refuse to step aside.
Then there’s Odysseus in The Odyssey, Homer’s epic poem. No grand last stand, but a long, punishing journey. Years of setbacks, wrong turns, storms, losses. Every time he got close, something dragged him back again. But he kept going. That’s his story. Not a single moment of triumph, but a refusal to stop moving forward. However far he was pushed off course, he never gave up on getting home.
But it’s not the heroes that have allowed the fables to endure, it’s what those stories stand for. Perseverance when the road stretches far longer than expected. Defiance when the numbers are against you. And turning up when it would be easier not to.
Because when people show up, things change.
In football, we call it the ‘12th man.’
It’s a misnomer, but we forgive it, because it still says what it needs to, and it sounds right. The 12th man isn’t an individual; it can be a handful of fans behind the goal on a cold November night, or 50,000 inside Anfield for the UEFA Champions League semi-final against Barcelona in 2019. Three goals down. Written off. Finished before it even began. But not to the Liverpool fans in the stands. Not because it felt good to cheer, but because it was real. A true crowd doesn’t just watch, it shapes what happens. Noise becomes pressure. Pressure becomes mistakes. Belief becomes momentum. The victory didn’t start on the pitch. It started in the stands.
And beyond sport, the same truth holds.
The Fall of the Berlin Wall didn’t happen because one person decided it should. It happened because thousands showed up, then tens of thousands, then more. Pressure building, presence growing, until something that seemed permanent suddenly wasn’t.
That’s the truth running through all of this. From ancient battlefields to modern stadiums to divided cities.
Showing up matters.
On Saturday, Willand face an uphill battle. Even if we exalt in victory we might still feel the depths of defeat. Our fate is not only in our own favour, but with the gods, should you choose to belive.
We might face 300,000 like Xerxes’ army, and we’re not standing at Thermopylae. It won’t be myth, and it won’t be marble statues on a battlefield. It’ll be grass, mud and a scoreboard that doesn’t care for stories.
And when it starts, we don’t watch. We don’t wait. We don’t hope from a distance.
We show up. We bring friends. We believe.
And if we do that—properly, together—then whatever the odds say before kickoff won’t matter when the final whistle goes.
