God Of football

Chapter 847: Start Of A Dominant Campaign.

Izan tore after the loose ball like he’d been waiting his whole life for that bounce.

His boots skimmed the turf, stride light, balanced, confident.

The ball took a spin off the grass, but he killed it dead with the inside of his foot, cushioning it so cleanly it looked rehearsed.

”Arsenal could break here!” the commentator’s voice climbed, rising above the swell of the crowd.

And break, Izan did.

He shifted like he was moving into a higher gear, body leaning forward as he sprinted through the middle, the red of his kit cutting through the sea of white like a flare in the dark.

But the Madrid players reacted fast, with four of them closing in: Trent from his left, Modrić straight ahead, Alaba angling from the side, and Vinícius tracking back like a blur with his exceptional pace.

It was a trap to box Izan in and keep him from advancing further, at least, that’s what it was supposed to be.

But Izan didn’t slow down.

He dropped a shoulder at the edge of the circle, dragging the ball left with the sole of his boot.

Trent got to him first and so bit first, lunging in, but Izan rolled it back instantly with his heel, the motion almost lazy, then popped it through the tiny gap between Trent’s legs with a toe-flick that sent the crowd gasping.

He twisted back into stride before the defender could turn, meeting Modrić head-on.

The veteran timed his step perfectly, body low, eyes sharp, but Izan faked the pass, using his hips to sell it, before scooping the ball over the Croat’s trailing leg, skipping past like he wasn’t even there.

”Goodness me, how’s he done that!?” the co-commentator blurted, half laughing.

Alaba was next, strong, balanced, no nonsense, but his momentum was killed by Izan, who slowed for half a second, inviting him.

The Austrian stuck a foot in, but with a small drag back, a faint pause, and then an elastico, so smooth, his ankle was snapping over the ball so it jumped across to his left, Izan ghosted around Alaba’s right shoulder, leaving the defender flat-footed.

”Like magic,” the commentator said, almost reverently.

Vinícius tried the last tackle, darting in from behind, but Izan was already spinning, away, cutting the ball behind his own standing leg and leaving Vinícius chasing air.

The Arsenal fans were on their feet now, roaring, the noise swelling as Izan straightened up, green grass and open space in front of him.

And seeing that, Izan tore away, the ball glued to his feet like it had nowhere else to be.

The roar from the Arsenal section swelled as he burst into open grass, leaving behind the chaos he’d just danced through.

The commentators’ voices cut through the noise, one almost laughing in disbelief, the other trying to keep up.

”Oh, he’s out! He’s out of it! Izan’s wriggled free somehow; he’s got Martinelli on the left, Saka on the right, this could be on here!”

Across the pitch, the Madrid defenders were scrambling, backing off, uncertain.

Huijsen dropped deeper, Valverde hovered central, and Asensio angled himself sideways, trying to close the gap.

But Izan wasn’t giving anything away.

His strides were long, powerful, but light, each touch deliberate.

He glanced left, a faint twitch of the boot sending Martinelli surging wider.

Then his eyes darted right, where Saka was too, shadowing the run, hands half-raised, ready.

But Izan didn’t pass.

”He’s holding it... keeping them guessing!” one commentator gasped while the other Real Madrid players closed in.

Then, Izan leaned forward, drawing Huijsen in.

But just when it seemed he’d lost balance, he pulled his weight backwards, his left foot carving a groove into the turf as his right came over the ball, curling his frame in that moment between decision and instinct.

And then, he struck.

The ball left his foot with a sharp whip, snapping outward first, like it had no intention of finding the goal, before bending, twisting back inwards, its flight almost malicious in how it deceived.

For a second, Courtois froze, just a second, but that was all it took.

The ball screamed past his gloves, kissing the far corner netting with a sound that sliced through the tension like lightning splitting air.

And then Pandemonium.

”GOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLL” became the most prominent sound in the stadium as the jumping and rowdiness shook the cameras for the broadcast.

”IZANNNN! That’s outrageous! He had no reason to do that, but he has just done it!”

”He is the ’Bane of Madrid’. From tormenting Real Madrid in La Liga with Valencia, to knocking them out of the UEFA Champions League, and now in the Club World Cup. Just how does he manage to do it every time?”

”The boy who said they’d conquer Europe in three years... and did it in one, has just levelled the score for Arsenal on the world stage. He does what he says he will, and this might just be the start of another dominant season by Izan!”

The Arsenal section of the stadium, painted red in the stands, kept on moving from waves of noise onto the other as the Arsenal bench exploded forward, arms flailing, shirts flying.

On the pitch, Izan slid on his knees toward the sea of fans, his hands stretched out wide, palms up, almost taunting the noise to rise higher, and the crowd obeyed.

He finally rose to his feet, face a mix of fire and calm, chest heaving, lips curling into that slight knowing grin.

He just lifted his arms again, as if summoning the applause itself, and it came, rolling, rumbling, unstoppable, before he was mauled to the ground by his own teammates, some from the bench, and most from the pitch.

”That... that might be the moment Arsenal needed,” one voice finally broke through. ”It is now 2-all here in the Lincoln Financial Field.”

Xabi Alonso stood frozen for a moment on the touchline, the stadium’s noise crashing over him like a wave he refused to acknowledge the scenes in front of him.

His jaw tightened, eyes fixed on the pitch where Izan was being dragged back to his half by his mates.

Then, slowly, he rubbed both hands over his face, a long, heavy drag that said more than words ever could.

”The videos and stats weren’t wrong,” he muttered.

The fourth official glanced his way, like he was offering an option as Alonso exhaled, sharp through his nose, before gesturing to his bench.

”Tchouaméni, Mendy, get ready.”

And the piece was clear.

No more risks.

Not now.

Not with the clock running down and Arsenal feeding off the noise like it was oxygen.

He wanted control, not chaos.

If Madrid tried to trade punches now, they’d bleed for it.

So, on came Tchouaméni, replacing Modrić, who walked off with a reluctant shake of his head, offering his hand to Alonso.

The Spaniard gave a curt nod in return.

Then came Mendy, jogging on to tighten the back line.

”And so the restart,” the commentary came as Mbappe rolled the ball back to his half from the spot and almost immediately, white shirts clustered together like a wall of calculation and experience, shifting left and right in unison as Arsenal tried to breathe between them.

”And that’s a clear message from Xabi Alonso,” one of the commentators noted, voice low and reflective.

”He’s locking it down. He saw the danger. Arsenal are swarming, and the momentum’s with them... but Real Madrid will not open up again.”

Still, Arsenal refused to fade.

Every time they touched the ball, they almost looked like scoring.

But Real Madrid, not known for their defending prowess, just sat deep absorbing the pressure from Arsenal as it came in waves upon waves.

Gabriel Jesus, who had come on moments after the equaliser, was left stranded between the Madrid centre-backs, Huijsen and Asencio tightening the space so thoroughly that even breathing looked like an effort.

A couple of half-chances came his way — one hopeful cross from Saka, another chipped ball from Ødegaard, but each one found only Courtois’ gloves and a defender’s head.

And with each minute ticking by, the game slowed.

Arsenal still pushed forward with the ball, but it looked as if Madrid had set the terms again.

They wouldn’t chase. They wouldn’t gamble.

And when the final whistle came, it wasn’t loud but came like relief, cutting through the noise of a stadium that still hadn’t exhaled since Izan’s strike.

”And that’s it. That is full-time,” came the commentary, the words trailing off under the swell of applause.

”It was looking like a win for Real Madrid just moments ago, but Izan managed to scrape a point for Arsenal with his brace. A match that promised chaos, that delivered brilliance, and in the end, both sides walk away with something.”

The players on the bench, subbed off or those who hadn’t seen felt the pitch beneath their feet, all spilt out of the dugouts.

Players on the pitch dropped to their knees, while some squatted out of exhaustion.

Alonso turned towards Arteta, shaking hands with the Arsenal boss, before walking away towards his men, who looked like they had gone through a marathon as the commentary came on the broadcast again.

”It’s Real Madrid 2, Arsenal 2, and to those of you watching at home. See you on the next one.”