God Of football

Chapter 712: 77.

”Well, you heard it from the man himself,” Kate Abdo began, her tone both warm and steady as the cameras shifted from the roars of the Santiago Bernabéu to the gleaming CBS studio.

”Izan Miura Hernández, still ineligible to drink or drive for that matter, but he is carrying Arsenal into the semi-finals of the Champions League. Thierry—” she turned gracefully to her left, eyes meeting the Frenchman’s, ”—you’ve been in these moments before with Arsenal. You’ve felt the highs and the heartbreaks. How does this one sit with you?”

Thierry Henry leaned back slightly in his chair, fingers rubbing his chin as if steadying his thoughts.

His eyes were sharp, burning with both pride and nostalgia.

”Kate,” he started slowly, ”what I saw tonight reminded me of why this game can touch your soul. Arsenal weren’t at their very best, Madrid came for them, but then...” he paused, almost as if savoring the words before letting them out, ”then a kid took the game in his own hands. And not just any kid—our kid.”

The weight of the phrase drew a soft murmur from the studio, Jamie Carragher and Micah Richards both nodding.

”Thierry,” Kate pressed, ”you’ve always spoken about players who make the difference. How much of tonight was Arsenal the team, and how much was Izan?”

Henry smiled knowingly, tilting his head toward the camera.

”Football is always about the collective, Kate. Arsenal had to defend, had to suffer, had to believe. But moments—games like this—are written by individuals. Izan gave them life when it looked like it was slipping away. That’s the truth. Two goals, an assist, away from home, in the Bernabéu? I have never believed in destiny more than this. It’s like he was born to torment them.”

Jamie Carragher jumped in, his Scouse inflexion sharp with admiration.

”Yeah, look, Thierry’s bang on. Arsenal as a team did enough to stay in it, but Izan—he’s the one who tipped the scales. You can talk about tactics, you can talk about defending deep, but Real Madrid know all about special players, and tonight they were on the other side of it. They were on the receiving end of something they usually dish out.”

Micah Richards laughed in disbelief, leaning forward with that booming energy of his.

”And it’s the calmness! The composure! Just 2 years of professional football under his belt, but he walks into the Bernabéu like it’s his backyard. That second goal? Ridiculous. That’s when I stood up here in the studio and said, ’nah, I never knew football could be played like this.’”

Kate turned back to Henry, her eyes narrowing just slightly, knowing there was more to be drawn.

”Thierry, you’ve spoken like a proud father tonight. Before we close—do you have anything you’d like to say directly to your former club, to the Arsenal fans watching at home?”

Henry’s expression softened as he looked down briefly, then raised his head, his gaze steady as it locked on the camera lens.

For a moment, it felt as though the studio fell silent, waiting.

”Somebody already said it all,” he began, his voice low but weighted, each word landing with care. ”You might have brushed it off, or you might have forgotten. But that name...” he leaned forward, the intensity in his eyes clear, ”is Izan Miura Hernández. And he is the best player in the world.”

The camera lingered on Henry’s face as his final words echoed, the image sharp against the backdrop of the studio lights.

No one rushed to fill the silence—because sometimes, nothing more needed to be said.

.......

On one of the Emirates private planes, Saka was hunched over his phone, grinning like he’d just stumbled on buried treasure.

He turned the screen towards Izan, who had a sleeping mask on, the headline bold at the top of a sports page:

”Izan is the best in the world — says Thierry Henry.”

The photo beneath was of Henry in the studio, caught mid-sentence, his finger pointing toward the camera as if he’d been carving his words into stone.

Izan, one hand pulling his mask aside, squinted at the screen before letting out a small chuckle, shaking his head.

”It’s a bit over the top in my opinion, inni’t?”

Saka leaned back in his chair, smirking.

”Bro, you’ve got former players, legends, pundits... even Messi and Ronaldo fans on Twitter... all agreeing on one thing.”

Izan tilted his head, feigning confusion. ”And what’s that?”

Saka side-eyed him, lips curling into a grin.

”If you’re looking for me to stand here and sing your praises, you’re looking in the wrong place.”

He stood up, slipping his phone back into his pocket, and walked off with a mischievous shake of his head.

Izan rolled his eyes, chuckling under his breath as he moved the sleeping mask back into its place.

”Typical Saka,” he mumbled as he proceeded to continue with his sleep.

Before the banter could stretch any further, Carlos Cuesta stepped into the lounge, clapping their hands to get everyone’s attention. ”

Alright, lads, let’s settle down. The plane’s ready for takeoff, so get everything set, and, Skelly, I do not want to see the bag still in the aisle.”

The teenager nodded before taking the mentioned item out of the way.

The chatter dimmed into a low hum as the players began gathering their things.

Conversations cut short, headphones slipped over ears, jackets zipped up.

The adrenaline of Madrid’s night still lingered in the air, but now it was folding itself into quiet anticipation for the journey ahead.

......

77.

It started with a stat account, then a bookmaker, then the papers: Izan — 77 goals in all competitions since the start of the season.

Eight shy of Gerd Müller’s famous 85 (set in a calendar year, 1972) and thirteen off Lionel Messi’s 91 (calendar year, 2012).

The comparisons were imperfect — season total versus calendar-year tallies — but the momentum didn’t care.

Headlines asked if ten games, give or take, could possibly hold that many goals as clips of his Madrid brace were looped underneath.

Graphics showed goal curves bending upward like a plane on takeoff.

By dawn, the swirl had become a storm.

Morning shows ran ticking counters.

A late-night podcast in Argentina called him ”the calendar’s enemy.”

A French paper asked whether Paris would be the stage for history or the place where it stalled.

Then, at 09:43 the next day, Arsenal cut the engines on the whole thing.

A short club statement slid into inboxes and feeds with the clinical calm of a hospital corridor:

Following an assessment overnight, Izan has developed an infection in the swollen left ankle sustained in Madrid. He will undergo treatment immediately. Expected absence: 3–4 weeks (re-evaluation in three).

And the noise dropped more than a few decibels in an instant.

Pundit panels pivoted from over/under goal counts to timelines and ifs.

If the shorter window held, he’d still miss one leg of two against PSG, and if it stretched closer to a month, he’d return to a calendar thinned out by five to seven matches already played.

The same producers who, hours earlier, had prepped montages about 85 and 91 now swapped them for zoomed-in freeze-frames of an ankle with the colour of a bruised plum.

Supporters tried to balance the two truths: the stat that felt like fiction, and the statement that yanked everyone back to the ordinary cruelty of football.

The ”77” graphics were still being retweeted, but they read differently now.

Not as a countdown, as it was being done earlier, but more like a postcard from a stretch of road suddenly closed for repairs.

And inside the club, the tone matched the message.

Arteta’s morning briefing was shorter than usual, focused only on the essentials and the session the next day was reframed around one idea: ”without him, for now.”

”We can’t crumble at this point,” Arteta had said after their afternoon session.

”That would make all our hard work futile, so get that thought out of your minds and step up.”

By evening, the papers had already shifted their tone.

Headlines read:”Can Arsenal Survive the Semi Without Him?” and ”From 77 to Standstill.”

Bookmakers adjusted their odds as columnists offered the obvious reminder: Müller and Messi’s records live in calendar years, while Izan’s tally is a season-long burn.

Apples and oranges — both remarkable, but both suddenly out of reach until his body decided otherwise.

In homes and group chats, the conversation shifted too.

It was no longer about chasing 85 or 91 goals.

It was about ice, rest, antibiotics, and a return date everyone tried not to circle, even as they couldn’t help checking the calendar twice.

The number he had built would remain.

It wouldn’t shrink or vanish.

It would just sit there, frozen like a scoreboard at halftime, waiting for the body that had created it to step back onto the pitch and remind everyone how it had ever climbed so high in the first place.