God Of football

Chapter 197: Crumbling

The players trudged off the pitch, heads down as they walked towards the tunnel. Baraja walked past Izan, briefly meeting the youngster’s gaze before disappearing into the tunnel.

”It’s been all Valencia so far,” the commentator summed up. ”But Mallorca’s defense, and especially Pedrag Rajkovic, are putting on a masterclass. Something has to give in the second half.”

The Mallorca fans celebrated the goalless draw at the break as if it were a victory, applauding their team’s grit.

Meanwhile, the Valencia crowd buzzed with mixed emotions—admiration for their side’s dominance yet anxious murmurs about the inability to capitalize. The stage was set for a dramatic second half.

...

The Valencia dressing room was tense, the air thick with frustration and silence, save for the distant hum of the crowd outside.

Ruben Baraja stormed in, his expression a storm cloud of suppressed anger. He paced to the center of the room, hands on his hips, before exploding.

”Is this what we’ve become? A team that can’t break down Mallorca? A team that wastes every chance?!” he barked, his voice reverberating off the walls.

His eyes scanned the room, lingering on each player as if daring them to respond.

”We are Valencia! We fight, we create, we finish! And yet here we are, unable to put the ball in the back of the net!

This isn’t a one-man show!” His gaze, sharp as a dagger, briefly landed on Izan. It wasn’t long, but it was long enough for the implication to hang in the air like smoke.

”If you’re waiting for one player to do it all for you, you’ve already lost.”

Baraja turned sharply to face the squad again, his tone a bit soft this time but disappointed ”Every single one of you has a responsibility out there. Play as a team.

Support each other. Create space. Take your chances. This game isn’t won on talent alone—it’s won on grit, on heart, and on belief.”

He paused, allowing his words to sink in, before finishing with an icy calm.

”If you step onto that pitch in the second half expecting someone else to save you, don’t bother stepping on it at all. You’re better than this. Prove it.”

As Baraja turned away, the players exchanged uneasy glances. Izan sat still, his expression unreadable.

The coach’s words had struck home, and the room buzzed with renewed resolve as the players prepared to reclaim the second half.

....

”Welcome back, football fans, to the second half of this electrifying semi-final clash between Valencia and Mallorca!

The tension here at the stadium is palpable as both sides gear up for what promises to be an intense 45 minutes of football.

With a spot in the final on the line, neither team is willing to back down. Valencia has shown glimpses of their attacking brilliance, but Mallorca has been resolute in defense, with moments of counterattacking flair.

The players are making their way back onto the pitch, the crowd is roaring, and the stage is set for a thrilling conclusion.

Will Valencia’s creativity breakthrough Mallorca’s stubborn backline, or will Mallorca find that decisive moment to steal the spotlight?

It’s all to play for—get ready for a second half full of drama, skill, and passion!”

.....

The second half began with a tense atmosphere, the Valencia players jogging back onto the pitch as the crowd roared their support.

Ruben Baraja stood on the sidelines, his arms crossed and his jaw set like stone.

Izan remained on the bench, his face a mask of focus, but the weight of the situation was clear in the way he leaned forward, elbows on knees, watching every movement on the pitch.

Valencia started with purpose, moving the ball more sharply than they had in the first half.

Baraja’s halftime tirade seemed to have sparked some life into them, and for a moment, it felt like a goal might be on the cards.

The players pressed higher up the pitch, forcing mistakes from Mallorca, and the crowd fed off their energy, growing louder with every interception and attack.

But the cohesion Baraja had demanded wasn’t fully there. Passes still went astray, and the final ball lacked precision.

The frustration began to creep in again. Izan watched from the sidelines, his foot tapping against the ground as he resisted the urge to warm up prematurely.

He could see the gaps, the missed opportunities, the lack of conviction in their runs.

In the 55th minute, the unthinkable happened. A careless turnover in midfield handed possession to Mallorca.

Their winger wasted no time, darting down the left flank, leaving Valencia’s Correia in his wake.

The defense scrambled to recover, but the damage was done.

The winger delivered a low, driven cross into the box. Valencia’s center-backs hesitated for a split second, and Mallorca’s striker capitalized, ghosting in at the far post to tap the ball into the net.

The roar of the Mallorca fans cut through the stunned silence of the Mestalla.

”Oh, what a match we have here. Valencia has conceded so suddenly. We thought we might see a goal at their end but now, Valencia are on the back foot.

Is this the start of an upset?”

On the Valencia bench, Baraja kicked a water bottle in frustration.

On the pitch, the Valencia players looked shaken, their heads hanging low as they trudged back to the center circle for the restart.

They exchanged blame-filled glances, with defenders gesturing angrily at each other.

The cracks in their unity were becoming more apparent by the second.

Baraja turned to his bench, his eyes scanning the substitutes. Izan sat still, his gaze fixed on the pitch.

The teenager’s jaw was tight, his fingers gripping the hem of his training jersey. He could feel the coach’s eyes on him, but Baraja hesitated.

The last thing he wanted was to throw the young star into a situation where the entire team seemed to be relying solely on his brilliance to save them.

”Izan, warm up,” Baraja finally barked, his voice sharp. The bench stirred as Izan rose, pulling off his bib and jogging down the touchline.

The crowd noticed immediately, their cheers growing louder as they realized their rising star was about to enter the fray.

Baraja watched Izan closely as he stretched, his thoughts a swirl of frustration and expectation.

He knew the boy had the talent to change games, but he couldn’t shake the worry that the team’s over-reliance on him was a recipe for disaster.

The game continued, but Valencia’s confidence had taken a hit. Passes grew sloppier, and their pressing lacked the conviction of the opening minutes.

On the sidelines, Baraja shouted himself hoarse, urging his players to wake up, to fight, to play with the passion that the club demanded.

Izan finished his warm-up and stood by the touchline, waiting for the break in play. The teenager glanced at Baraja, who gave him a firm nod.

The moment was coming, but for now, all eyes were on the team that seemed to be crumbling under the weight of their expectations.

The game had already become a frustrating affair for Valencia. They dominated possession but lacked the cutting edge to break Mallorca’s disciplined defense.

As the minutes ticked by, the frustration among the players was palpable.

On the sidelines, Izan stood by the fourth official, stripped of his training bib, bouncing on his toes, ready to come on.

The crowd noticed him and began to cheer, their hope resting on the teenager’s shoulders.

Baraja had already barked instructions at him. ”Be smart, Izan. Link up, move, and create.

Don’t try to do it all alone,” he had said, though even he knew how much weight the substitution carried.

Izan stood at the touchline, eyes glued to the play, heart pounding with anticipation.

The fourth official held up the substitution board, and the fans’ cheers grew louder. But then, it happened.

A misplaced Valencia pass in midfield was all Mallorca needed. Their midfielder pounced, intercepting the ball and immediately releasing their winger down the right flank.

Valencia’s defense, caught out of position, scrambled to recover.

”Track back! Get back!” Baraja screamed from the touchline, his voice rising above the noise of the stadium.

But the damage was already done. The winger raced forward, unopposed, his pace carrying him deep into Valencia’s half.

The defenders converged too late, leaving a gap in the center. Seeing the opportunity, the winger cut the ball back to the edge of the box, where Mallorca’s captain was waiting.

With one touch to steady himself, he unleashed a thunderous strike. The ball sailed past the outstretched arms of Marmadashvili, crashing into the top corner of the net.

The stadium fell silent, save for the wild celebrations of the Mallorca players and their fans in the corner of the stands.

Izan stood frozen on the touchline, his boots on the grass but his debut in the match, delayed by the cruel timing of the goal.

His heart sank as he watched the ball hit the net. Around him, the Valencia players sagged, their heads dropping in collective despair.

Baraja’s face turned red with frustration, and he punched the air in anger. ”Unbelievable!” he muttered, shaking his head as he turned to the bench.

The fourth official glanced at Baraja, who gave a curt nod. The substitution proceeded as planned, but the energy in the stadium had shifted.

Izan jogged onto the pitch, greeted by applause from the fans desperate for a miracle, but the weight on his young shoulders had just doubled.

The scoreboard now read Valencia 0 - 2 Mallorca, and with less than 30 minutes to play, the task ahead seemed monumental.

Izan looked to the heavens as he took his position, exhaling deeply, before clapping his hands to rally his teammates.

If there was a way back, it would take every ounce of his talent and resolve.