God Of football

Chapter 915: Routine Arsenal.

Both teams took their spots after the handshakes and photos, settling into their shapes as the last of the pre-match noise faded into a steady rumble.

Arsenal stood ready in their familiar spacing, Yokohama in a tight and disciplined block across from them.

The whistle went, and the match opened with Arsenal kicking off.

Izan received the first touch, dropping slightly off the line in his false nine role before rolling the ball back and drifting forward again, but that touch ended up being his last for a while.

Yokohama had come prepared.

Every time he so much as drifted near a pocket of space, two blue shirts closed it off.

When he tried to move across the frontline, another shadow stepped in.

It wasn’t reckless pressure either.

It was coordinated, loud, and constantly re-adjusted from the backline, with them even stopping him from dropping too deep to get the ball, while the commentators caught on quickly on the broadcast.

”They are not giving him a moment. Every time he moves, someone’s checking their shoulder. That’s excellent organisation from Yokohama, but it only is the first few minutes of the game.”

From the stands, fans murmured louder with each wave of blue around him.

A few laughed in disbelief at how tightly he was being tracked, while others groaned whenever the ball moved in Arsenal’s direction, only to be cut off before reaching Izan.

Across the pitch, Yokohama’s players shouted instructions in bursts, especially whenever the spacing around him loosened.

”Close! Close! Left shoulder!”

”Not inside, not inside!”

Their captain barked reminders that echoed over the grass every time Izan tried to jog into a different channel.

Arsenal attempted to shift the ball elsewhere, passing around the block and waiting for gaps to open up.

Minutes rolled by with no change in Izan’s situation until a simple throw-in broke what Yokohama had built since the start of the game.

They won a throw on the left, and as their fullback stepped up to take it, Izan burst to life.

He pressed immediately.

Not a casual jog but a relentless run that forced the fullback to play backwards.

Yokohama tried to recycle quickly under pressure, but Izan just kept going, step after step, closing the next pass before the receiver even settled it.

A few whistles and cheers rose from the crowd at the sudden change of pace.

”He doesn’t stop. Look at him. That’s unbelievable work rate,” the commentator said.

The left back of the home side finally faltered when a rushed pass came off his boot at the wrong angle and skidded helplessly into midfield.

There, Zubimendi saw it early and stepped forward to intercept, sweeping the ball up and turning instantly toward the goal.

The Arsenal players broke off immediately as Zubimendi sent it out to Saka on the right, and Saka carried it inside with a defender tight on him.

Izan arrived again in the centre just as two Yokohama players closed in, but Saka still slid the pass into him anyway.

Because he knew they weren’t getting the ball from Izan, who didn’t even try to turn to face them.

Instead, with one smooth touch, he nudged the ball backwards into the gap behind Yokohama’s right back, where Saka had already read it and burst into the space.

The stadium rose as Saka whipped a first-time ball across the box.

Arsenal bodies surged forward, but Yokohama’s defender Jeisson Quiñones climbed highest and headed it away.

The relief from the home fans was loud, but it only lasted a breath.

Because as the ball dropped, Izan had already read the bounce.

He stepped onto it with his body opening for a strike, while arms reached out for him from behind.

”Careful! Careful!” Yokohama’s keeper screamed, almost crab walking on his line as he tried to get a clear view of where the shot was coming from, but it was very hard to do so amidst the sea of bodies in his vision.

”That’s trouble here. If he hits that clean—”

The commentators tried to say, but Izan didn’t get the chance.

The other half of Yokohama’s centre backs flung himself across the edge of the box, blocking the shot with his ribs rather than risking the ball flying through.

The deflection, then spun out behind him for a corner as the Arsenal fans roared, while the Yokohama fans exhaled, with a handful clutching their heads after the scare.

”Oh, they’ve escaped, I can tell you that,” the commentary came through as Izan turned calmly toward the right corner flag.

A ball boy stood waiting and tossed him the ball the moment he approached.

Izan caught it with one hand and spun it once in his palm, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly as the crowd noise swelled again with the anticipation of what could come from the corner.

Behind their noise, the commentators picked up a new thread.

”Arsenal’s set-piece coach is already at the edge of the technical area. They were the top-scoring side from dead balls across the major European leagues last season. This is where they’re frightening.”

”And look at this height mismatch,” Another voice added.

”Yokohama have some strong markers, but there’s still a clear gap when Arsenal stack the far post like that.”

In the box, the defenders kept pointing, shifting, and counting assignments.

Gabriel stood near the penalty spot.

Saliba held off his man at the back.

Declan Rice lingered a little deeper, almost pretending not to care about the ball until the moment it would arrive.

Izan raised his hand once, waiting for the confirmation, and when he got the nod from the group inside the area, he stepped back and curled his run.

The delivery came off his foot like he guided it with something unseen as the ball bent around the first cluster of bodies, skimmed over a pair of jumping defenders, and carried further than Yokohama expected.

By the time it reached Declan Rice, it looked almost ridiculous.

Rice barely needed force.

He redirected it with a slight nudge of his forehead, sending it inside the far post, and the keeper didn’t or just couldn’t move.

His eyes followed the ball all the way in before he finally reacted with a frustrated swing of his arm.

The stadium erupted on both sides, one half thrilled, the other shocked at how simple it looked.

”Perfect,” one commentator said.

”That’s outrageous quality. The weight, the shape, everything about that corner is intentional. He knew exactly where Rice would be.”

”And Rice was never missing one of those”, the other replied. ”That is a training-ground goal if I’ve ever seen one.”

Rice turned immediately toward the corner flag where Izan was already stepping away from the arc.

He jogged over and wrapped him in a quick hug, patting the side of his head with a grin.

Saka caught up next, then Martinelli, then Nwaneri and Zubimendi from deeper positions.

Arms went around shoulders, heads pressed together, everyone laughing as they walked back toward the half line.

”How does he kiss the ball with his foot like that, like he was whispering to it?” a fan asked his friend, getting a shrug in return as the replay ran again on the big screen, showing Izan’s strike, the exact flight of the ball, and Rice arriving like he had been pulled there by a string.

”So it’s Arsenal up ahead, not any surprise there, but Yokohama, at least for now, haven’t been doing badly as this goal they conceded was just as a result of a very brilliant corner routine!”

Once the ball was placed back on the centre spot, Yokahama didn’t linger.

Their midfield pair exchanged a glance, and the restart came with real intent.

The first pass went straight into Aziangbe, who slipped his body between Saka and the ball with a smooth touch.

He let Saka’s pressure glide off him, rolled out of it, and carried forward with the kind of confidence that made the home fans stir a little.

”Space here for Aziangbe right after the restart”, the commentator said as the midfielder slowed down, glancing around for options, and after settling on one, he nudged the ball to his left, where Kenta Inoue had already straightened his run.

Inoue took it on the move, slowed just enough to size Timber up and then cut inside like he meant to burst through the gap.

Timber, though, didn’t buy the feint.

He stepped in sharply and slid, timing it just right as his toe clipped the ball cleanly and sent it spinning away toward midfield.

The challenge itself was textbook.

The stadium picked up with a cheer that rolled out from the upper tiers, but it cut off almost immediately when Inoue didn’t get back up.

He was on his side first, holding his shin.

Then he rolled, wincing hard, his hand stretched out as if that alone might steady the pain.

Timber, turning and seeing the seen, pushed himself off the turf and walked toward him, palms open.

”I didn’t touch you, man. I got the ball. You alright?”

His voice wasn’t defensive, just concerned and slightly confused as the referee had already motioned for the medical team.