God Of football

Chapter 318: Cometh Hour, Cometh Boy

The ball rolled under the floodlights, and the Euro 2024 final was officially underway.

England knocked it around their backline, feeling out Spain’s press—John Stones to Walker.

Walker to Rice. Rice to Bellingham. The rhythm of an opening chess match, each pass a test, and each touch a probe.

Izan moved instinctively, pressing forward the moment Rice hesitated.

Spain’s shape compacted, forcing England to retreat for a moment before Walker switched it long to Saka.

And then, in an instant, the game truly began.

⸻

Saka took his first real touch of the game near the halfway line, but Cucurella was on him immediately.

A quick shove, a tight squeeze—yet, no space to breathe.

Bellingham dropped deeper, offering an option, and Saka flicked the ball inside.

But Pedri was already reading it.

The Barcelona midfielder pounced, sliding in with perfect precision to poke the ball away and It fell straight to Izan.

He took one touch, then glanced up and then, he was off.

He turned into space, his feet light, his mind already shifting to the offensive stride. Foden was backpedaling, Rice was shifting to close him down.

But Izan saw the gap.

A delicate flick with his instep, and he was through—driving at England’s backline with terrifying speed.

The Spanish fans rose to their feet. Could they be seeing an electric start here?

Nico sprinted down the left, Lamine wide on the right. Morata peeled off, dragging Stones away.

Izan had options.

He feinted left, then cut sharply to his right, escaping Rice’s lunge. The box was near. The moment was rising.

Then—

Kyle Walker.

A blur of movement.

A last-ditch recovery run.

Just as Izan pulled his foot back to shoot, Walker lunged in, his outstretched boot barely deflecting the ball away.

The stadium gasped.

Izan stumbled, regaining his footing as England scrambled to clear.

First warning sign.

Spain had arrived at the final

.......

The clearance was desperate, yet decisive. Kyle Walker launched his boot high and long, sending the ball away from immediate danger.

For a split second, the stadium held its breath—a brief reprieve for England and a warning to Spain that every possession could turn into a battle.

Peter Drury’s mellifluous voice cut through the murmur of the crowd:

[Learned that word today in my Communications class •~•]

”A clearance, not by elegance but by necessity—a defiant surge in the chaos of battle.

Yet even as England finds momentary solace, the seeds of counter-attack lie in wait.”

Immediately, the ball descended into the midfield. An English midfielder gathered it cleanly, pivoting to launch a swift counter.

With a deft pass into space, Rice sought to exploit the fleeting gap left by Spain’s aggressive press.

The English bench tensed—Southgate’s eyes narrowed, while on the Spanish side, Luis de la Fuente’s jaw tightened in silent calculation.

The ball threaded through, finding its way to Jude at the edge of the box.

Bellingham, aware of the danger of a quick break, hesitated—a moment of uncertainty that allowed Spain.

The Real Madrid man sent the ball streaking towards the Spain box but Pedri, ever watchful, surged forward, intercepting the pass with a touch that whispered of impending retribution.

”And Pedri steals! In a moment that crystallizes the fine line between chaos and brilliance, Spain reclaims possession!” Drury intoned his words melding with the roar of the crowd.

For a heartbeat, the ball danced between English determination and Spanish ambition.

The English midfielders tried to reassert control, but Pedri’s and Izan’s presence forced them to yield.

The tempo shifted once more. The ball, now cradled by Spain, was rolled out wide to Nico, who eyed the crowded flank.

Nico’s pass was precise—a delicate chip that sought to breach the English defense.

Yet England, ever resilient, pressed back. Stones raced to intercept, his challenge forcing Morata, who had just controlled Nico’s pass to adjust at the last second.

Morata’s shot ricocheted off Rice’s boot and landed in the midfield, where Rodri and Bellingham collided in a tussle, each vying for dominance.

”Here is the beautiful uncertainty of football—where possession is fluid, and every challenge carries the weight of destiny,” Drury murmured, as the camera panned over the anxious faces in the stands.

English supporters, clad in white, roared encouragement, while Spanish fans chanted in a unified, fervent chorus.

In this ebb and flow, neither side could settle. England countered with a deliberate, measured advance—Bellingham, with his characteristic tenacity, gathered the ball and advanced.

His legs churned forward, but almost immediately, Spain pressed in. Rodri emerged from the heart of the Spanish midfield, colliding with the English runner.

A clatter, a scramble, and the ball popped loose once more.

The exchange was relentless—a back-and-forth that stretched each second into an eternity.

On the sidelines, Southgate barked orders, his voice tinged with urgency, while de la Fuente’s steady gaze urged his players to be patient, to seize that decisive moment.

The tension was palpable as the ball skittered between players on both sides, a symbol of the delicate balance in this grand contest.

And then, amid this oscillating tide, the breakthrough began to form. England’s throw-in deep in their half brought the ball back into play.

The throw was precise—an attempt to calm the oscillating rhythm—but Spain’s eyes were fixed on it.

Walker’s clearance had bought England time, but Spain were relentless in their pursuit.

Pedri surged forward once again, intercepting the throw with a deft touch that silenced a murmur of protest from the English bench.

He pivoted and played a low, slicing pass to a midfielder positioned just outside the penalty area.

The ball was now a tangible threat—a promise of retribution against the English resilience.

”And now, from the very depths of frustration, Spain weave their magic—Pedri, with that glint of genius, crafts an opportunity!” Drury’s commentary soared, drawing every ear and eye.

The English defense, scrambling to regroup, attempted a desperate clearance that found its way to Stones.

But the pressure was mounting. The ball was once again drawn into the vortex of Spanish ambition.

With another series of quick one-twos, Spain shifted the play from one flank to the other—Nico sprinting down the left, Lamine making a darting run on the right.

The entire stadium was a canvas of movement and emotion.

In this charged moment, Rice’s hurried pass found its way to Izan. His eyes, sharp and determined, locked onto a fleeting gap.

Yet even as Izan received the ball, the English defense, unwilling to relent, surged forward in a collective bid to stave off the inevitable.

For a moment, the exchange continued—a dizzying, chaotic interplay. Izan found himself caught in a duel with the indefatigable Kyle Walker.

Every step he took was shadowed by Walker’s unyielding pursuit.

The English captain’s presence was a constant reminder of the stakes at hand—a reminder that no moment of brilliance would be allowed to pass unchallenged.

But the stage was set. Amid the murmurs and shouts, amidst the clash of wills, Izan saw his opportunity.

The ball was at his feet, and the defenders around him were forced to commit

A moment of hesitation—an artful feint that sent a ripple through the defense. John Stones, caught off-guard, flinched as if in slow motion.

Then, with the world around him a blur of red and white, Izan shifted left—just enough—and unleashed a shot.

”IZAN SHOOTS—” Drury’s voice exploded, interlacing with the collective heartbeat of the crowd.

Pickford, ever valiant, leaped. His fingertips brushed the leather—a near miss that sent a jolt of disbelief through every soul present.

The net rippled, as if in slow motion, and the Olympiastadion erupted in a cacophony of joy and despair.

”GOLAZO! SPAIN STRIKE FIRST! And who else? Cometh the hour, cometh the boy! The youngest Pichichi in history, the crown jewel of Spanish football, and now… a scorer in the final of the European Championship! Izan strikes, and Spain lead England in Berlin!” Drury bellowed, his words draped in the poetry of the moment.

The Spanish stands exploded with ecstasy—scarves whirling, voices merging into an ecstatic roar.

In the VIP sections, shouts and smiles intermingled. Meanwhile, on the England bench, Southgate’s eyes were dark with determination as he turned to his assistants, his tone resolute: ”We respond. Now.”

Yet even as the Spanish bench surged in jubilant celebration, the battle was far from over.

Jude Bellingham, his face a mask of intensity, gathered himself near the halfway line, eyes still locked on the horizon.

The war for Europe was not decided by a single moment, however brilliant. It was a clash of titanic wills—a contest of possession, passion, and perseverance.

And as Izan’s teammates enveloped him on the pitch, the atmosphere crackled with the promise of more drama to come.

The war was only just beginning, and both nations braced themselves for the back-and-forth that was yet to unfold.

”8 goals now for the Valencia man. Platini had nine. Can the little magician from Alboraya do it” Peter Drury flowed as the Spanish players returned to their half.

Their fans roared behind them and although it was just a goal between them and the English, it was still something to be proud of.