God Of football

Chapter 724: Forced To Act.

The sound inside Selhurst Park was deafening, the stands bouncing as if the concrete itself had a pulse.

Red-and-blue scarves were waving, flags thrashing above the crowd, and the chant of ”Eze! Eze! Eze!” rang loud enough that it carried straight into living rooms across the country.

The scoreboard in the corner glared down, unapologetic in its message: Crystal Palace 2 – 0 Arsenal.

On the Arsenal side of things, disbelief cut deeper than silence.

”This is unbelievable... we’re two down?” one fan groaned on the watch-along stream, his hand buried in his hair.

”It’s Palace, man. Palace! And we’re making them look like something bigger. We just beat Real Madrid 3 games ago, so what is this display?”

Another voice, sharper, answered: ”Mate, don’t disrespect Palace like that. They’ve been up for this from the first whistle. Look at Eze, he’s running the whole game. Our midfield’s getting walked through. Plus, we got saved by Izan in that Real Madrid game, and he’s not here.”

A third chimed in, muttering bitterly: ”Yeah, this is on us. We just don’t have the edge, and that’s why we look lost out there. A few are trying, but come on, they can’t do it alone like Izan does. The rest need to pick things up.”

The Arsenal section at Selhurst tried to sing louder, to drown out the home roar with the familiar ”North London forever...” but their voices wavered.

Some clapped rhythmically, urging the players to respond, while others shook their heads in resignation, their eyes already heavy with the look that says, I’ve seen this before.

On Twitter(X is just not it) and other social media platforms, the storm raged just as hard.

”Arsenal without Izan are like a knife with no edge. Pretty handle, but nothing to cut with.”

”Down 2–0 to Palace. I don’t even want to hear it. This is why you don’t let your squad rely on teenagers, no matter how good they are. Every player has gone butter”

”Big test for Arteta here. This is the kind of night title contenders find a way through. Lose this, and the narrative flips.”

Meanwhile, Palace fans were drinking it all in.

A sea of jerseys in pubs across South London were brimming with joy.

”Oi, look at that!” one shouted, replay rolling on the TV. ”Eze’s dancing through them, and what a finish, eh? That’s class.”

”Two-nil, mate. TWO-NIL. Against Arsenal. You don’t see this every day. Selhurst is rocking tonight!” another said, grinning from ear to ear.

Back in Hampstead, the reactions couldn’t have been more mixed.

Izan slumped further into the sofa, jaw tight, while Hori had that same mischievous grin from earlier.

”I told you, didn’t I?” she teased, rocking side to side like she’d just won something.

”You said, ’in your dreams,’ but look at the screen now. Two-nil to Palace. Dream come true.”

Komi chuckled lightly, though her glance at Izan was softer, a little concerned.

”Maybe you shouldn’t tease too much, Hori. Football... it changes fast. Arsenal still have another half.”

But Hori only crossed her arms and tilted her chin up with mock pride.

”Nah, I’m just saying. If Izan were playing, this wouldn’t even be happening. Right, Liv?”

Olivia smirked faintly, glancing between them. ”Well... she’s not wrong about that part.”

Izan exhaled sharply through his nose, eyes fixed on the replay of Eze’s goal as the second half threatened to begin.

.........

[Second half]

As the whistle from the referee barely settled, Arsenal reminded everyone that, despite the deficit, they were far from beaten.

Selhurst Park hummed with that edgy half-time energy, the home fans loud and unrelenting, but on the pitch it was Arsenal who began dictating the flow again.

Like they had in the first half, but these attacks had intent and purpose as compared to the ones from the first half.

The ball zipped between Arsenal shirts, passing triangles carved into the grass with precision, yet every advance seemed to meet an immovable Palace wall.

The first clear chance arrived through the artistry of Martin Ødegaard.

Collecting the ball on the edge of the centre circle, he drifted forward with the poise of a conductor, letting the game slow down around him before threading a disguised pass between two defenders.

Bukayo Saka latched onto it in full stride, his first touch cushioning the ball into space.

He came up against Mitchell once again, but Saka cut inside before cutting back out to cross Mitchell, causing the latter to stumble.

Saka cut inside onto his left once again, with Marc Guehi proving to be an obstacle.

The angle was narrow, and the pressure? Tight.

But Saka wanted it more as he drove his left foot through the ball.

”Here’s Saka... chance!” The commentator’s voice sharpened over the Sky Sports commentary.

The Arsenal fans behind the goal began to rise, expecting the net to ripple, but instead, Dean Henderson flung himself low, stretching his fingertips just enough to tip the ball wide.

A collective gasp went up, followed by roaring appreciation from the Palace stands.

”That’s magnificent goalkeeping,” added Colden Smith.

”The weight of that pass from Ødegaard was perfection, Saka did everything right, and still the goalkeeper finds a way. That’s why Palace have been so stubborn this season.”

Arsenal tried again.

Barely five minutes later, with a patient build-up that saw Zinchenko, drifting inside like a playmaker, slide a pass into Kai Havertz.

The German’s back was to goal, pressed tightly by Guehi, but he managed to swivel and feed Martinelli arriving at the top of the box.

The Brazilian barely needed a look before he opened up his body and bent a curling effort toward the top corner.

”It’s Martinelli!” the commentator cried as the ball zoomed towards goal, but it was denied, and not by Henderson but by the post this time.

The rebound dropped invitingly for Rice, who struck on the volley, but again, Guehi was there, stretching a leg to divert it behind for a corner.

The Palace fans erupted as if their side had scored again, fists pumping, drums rattling in the Holmesdale Road stand.

”And that’s exactly why Arsenal find themselves two goals down,” Colden Smith remarked.

”They’ve had the chances, they’ve carved open Palace twice in quick succession, but when that backline throws their bodies at everything, it’s not so easy to break through. This is a defensive wall Arsenal are running into.”

The frustration was visible.

Ødegaard stood with his hands on his hips, shaking his head while Havertz looked skyward in disbelief.

Arsenal were trying to level things, but every near miss only seemed to feed Palace’s confidence.

Each block, each clearance was celebrated as if it were a goal of their own, and Selhurst Park responded in kind, their chants growing louder, their belief swelling.

”And you can imagine what’s going through Mikel Arteta’s mind right now,” the commentator’s voice carried that hint of sympathy laced with intrigue.

”Two big, big chances already spurned, Palace still holding strong, and the Spaniard knows his side cannot afford to keep knocking and not break through.”

On the touchline, Arteta was pacing like a man caught between impatience and calculation.

One moment, his arms were folded, jaw set, the next he was clapping furiously, urging his team to push higher.

When a pass went astray, he didn’t just grimace; he bent at the knees, both hands tugging at his hair, before snapping upright again as if trying to shake it off.

He then turned sharply and whistled, raising his hand.

”Ethan! Jorgi!”

Ethan Nwaneri jogged from his seat, pulling off his bib, face bright with nerves and energy, while Jorginho, always calm, tucked his water bottle into the rack and started loosening up.

”Well, here we go then... Jorginho called into action, Arteta looking for a steady hand in midfield, and young Nwaneri, the teenager, being readied as well. That tells you two things: Arsenal need both control and spark.”

Just beside them, Leandro Trossard had been stretching for minutes already.

He looked over when one of the staff signalled, gave a brisk nod, and peeled off his jacket.

”And Trossard too!” the co-commentator jumped in, voice animated.

”Three changes are being lined up. Arteta knows he has to act. He knows time is sliding away.”

The fourth official began preparing his board, while the Palace fans nearby chanted gleefully, sensing the pressure.

Arteta crouched briefly, gesturing to Jorginho with both hands, palms facing down.

To Nwaneri, he leaned in closer, hand on the boy’s shoulder, speaking quickly but firmly, his smile half reassuring, half demanding.

All the while, the camera panned back to the pitch where Arsenal were still trying to probe against the blue-and-red barricade in front of them.

”This is what the Premier League is about—plans being ripped up, managers forced to improvise, to throw on youth and experience in the same breath. Arteta’s frustration is clear, but so is his intent. He’s not waiting for the game to come to him—he’s going after it.”