God Of football

Chapter 904: The Standard.

The stands filled slowly at first, then all at once, like someone had lifted a lid off the city and poured everyone inside.

People eased into their seats with bags of popcorn, cups of iced tea, skewers from the vendors outside and mainly anything they could grab before the queues became impossible.

The air felt warm and restless, humming with all the conversations that rose and fell in little pockets in the stands.

A father and his teenage daughter settled near the stands on the sides of the halfway line.

She clutched a small Arsenal flag while he balanced four drinks because she wouldn’t keep her eyes away from the tunnel enough to help him.

”Do you think Izan will start?” she asked.

”He should”, her father said as he passed her a first drink ”, and if he does, you can try waving that thing until your arm falls off. Maybe he’ll look this way.”

She hit her father on the shoulder, blushing a bit, before turning her attention back to the pitch.

A few rows behind them, two Milan fans in matching shirts argued playfully about who would score first for them.

”Leao, one hundred per cent”, one said while brushing crumbs off his hands.

”Yeah, maybe the first to dribble but to score for us, I am banking on Christian Pulisic since only he seems to see the goal when the ball gets into the box”, the other replied, laughing as he opened a packet of crisps.

Closer to the front, a group of local fans leaned over the railing, eyes bright with hope.

”If I get any player’s shirt today, I’m framing it”, a boy said.

”You won’t even wash it?” his friend asked.

”Obviously not,” the first said before the duo burst out in laughter.

Eventually, the sound in the stadium began building in layers.

Chants started in scattered bursts of excitement while phones lit up the stands as people filmed themselves trying to bottle the moment before it even began.

The giant screens flickered, replaying a few highlights of the pregame warm-ups with the stadium sound going up a notch as Izan’s frame moved on the jumbotrons.

Before the match began, the stadium lights dimmed slightly, and then the announcer’s voice rolled through the speakers, steady and booming.

”Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the players of AC Milan and Arsenal.”

The crowd rose as one, and the first pair of boots stepped into the light, with noise outside swallowing everything.

The broadcast cut straight through the tone of the stadium and settled into its rhythm.

”Football, a game, loved and core to billions around the world, but today’s football takes us to the National Stadium in Singapore,” the lead commentator said as both teams walked into the open, the lines forming neatly on the pitch.

The heat rose in gentle waves, and the crowd didn’t bother hiding their excitement.

Every cheer rolled down from the stands like a pulse the players could feel through their chests.

They went through the usual handshakes and greetings, cameras drifting from face to face.

When the lens found Zubimendi, the commentary followed.

”One of Arsenal’s new faces this season. There’s been a lot of talk from their camp about how quickly he seems to be settling in.”

His partner added, ”They’ve wanted a midfielder like him for a long time. Calm, reliable. You look at how they want to play, and he fits it straight away on his first game for Arsenal, even if it is pre-season”

The camera moved again and landed on Izan, who was taking off his jacket, and the crowd’s noise seemed to lift a little without meaning to.

”And there’s an old face,” the first commentator said.

”Funny to call him that. He’s been here for a year, but the way they treat him, you’d think he’s been here for twenty.”

His partner laughed quietly.

”Well, can you blame the Arsenal fans? He helped deliver their first Premier League title in twenty-one years and their first Champions League title ever. Then three more trophies on top of that. Five in one season... and maybe a sixth on the way with the Super Cup coming up. Tottenham on the fourteenth of August. Not far now.”

”To be honest, I wouldn’t put it past them to build a statue for him in the next couple of years because he has done with Arsenal what no player, even their greatest player, Thierry Henry couldn’t.”

The camera pulled back toward the centre circle as the players took their starting positions.

”It’s pre-season,” the commentator said, settling in for kickoff, ”but it sure doesn’t feel like it.”

The referee checked both keepers, glanced at his assistants, and lifted the whistle to his lips.

AC Milan got the game underway after the whistle sounded, rolling the ball back into midfield as a calm ripple moved through their shape.

Arsenal settled into their press, not rushing the first sprint, just shifting together and reacting to whatever AC Milan were trying to do.

The crowd in the stadium settled down, while their eyes looked keenly at the players on the pitch, that mood in stadiums when nothing has been fostered yet.

Milan pushed the ball wide, trying to stretch the pitch early, but what they expected didn’t materialise.

Their right-back for the game in Alexis Saelemaekers, clipped a pass down the line, hoping to find Yunus Musah, but it skidded too close to Zubimendi, who stepped across and took it cleanly.

Arsenal lifted their line at once, and the noise in the stands lifted with them.

”That’s a good early read from Martin Zubimendi,” one commentator said as Arsenal worked the ball forward with a bit more confidence, passing through the middle.

Izan, settled in his attacking midfield position, dropped into the pocket, checked his shoulder and slipped a neat layoff to Havertz, who tried to push the tempo with a first-time switch.

It didn’t come off, though, and Milan snapped it up again, turning the other way.

”That’s pre-season for you,” the co-commentator added. ”Sharp idea, legs still waking up.”

Milan tried to build through the centre, but Arsenal’s midfield tightened quickly.

A loose touch from their holding midfielder opened a small window, and Rice pounced, knocking the ball free.

The crowd reacted at once, a quick rise of energy sweeping through the lower tiers as Arsenal broke with a bit more purpose this time.

Saka carried it down the right, drifting past his marker before cutting into a shooting lane.

Izan appeared, offering an out to the English winger, but it seemed his mind was set in stone.

He swung his leg through it and sent a left-footed effort bending toward the far post.

It wasn’t troubling the keeper, but it got the stadium on its toes.

”Signs of life already,” the first commentator said. ”Arsenal look sharp when they win it in midfield.”

Saka, after the shot, rolled his eyes at his own effort before turning towards Izan, who shook his head and waved him back towards their half.

As AC Milan got the ball running again, the following minutes settled into a lull, a dull ebb that had the fans craning their necks and leaning forward to see if there was anything worth shouting for.

A ripple started low in the stands, and then it caught.

”Ball to Izan! Ball to Izan!” they sang, a rising chant that grew louder with each repetition.

The players on the pitch seemed to hear it, and Zinchenko, standing just outside the box, spotted Izan dropping deeper than Rice’s usual position.

”Let’s give the fans what they want,” he uttered and then slid the ball to him with a crisp, measured pass.

Izan received it in stride and then one-touched through the legs of Yunus Musah, drawing gasps from the crowd as he glided around the American midfielder.

”He’s back with it again,” one of the commentators said as Musah lunged to hold him, but Izan was already past, beginning to push forward as Milan’s defenders scrambled back into their box, while the midfielders did the same, leaving the spaces they were occupying before forming a low block in front of their defence.

As he approached with the ball, a small smirk curved Izan’s lips as he nudged the ball slightly, slowing down a bit as AC Milan showed no intent of coming for the ball.

So he sent it to them.

The stadium held its breath, all eyes locked on him, as he leaned over the ball.

Then, with a fluid swing of his foot, the ball launched twenty yards away from the edge of the box.

It cut through the air like a missile, arcing perfectly past bodies that had jumped into the way, and then past Terracciano’s outstretched hand before smashing into the top corner of the net.

And then a split second later, the crowd leaped to their feet, arms waving and voices cracking from cheering as the voices of the commentators came over the broadcast.

”A missile to blow the wall that AC Milan had set up. Izan again with his outrageous antics to put Arsenal ahead. That is just world-class. It’s ’Izan’ class all over again here in Pre-season!”

Some fans clutched their scarves above their heads while others pounded the seats in sheer excitement.

”Did you see that?!” one fan shouted.

”From outside the box! No one even touches that!”

Izan, the culprit, just stood still, even after watching the ball enter the net, before he turned back towards his half without giving his mates the chance to maul him to the ground.

It was pre-season, yes, but the stadium didn’t care.

That goal alone had set the tone, a reminder of the player the world had come to watch and enjoy.