God Of football

Chapter 925: How It Feels.

The first hand that went up belonged to a boy near the middle.

He wasn’t shy, but he looked like he’d been rehearsing the question in his head for a while.

”Coach Izan,” he started, causing Izan and a few of the boys to chuckle at the title he added to Izan’s name before the latter motioned towards him.

”Speak freely,” he said, earning a nod from the player who continued with his question.

”You talked about hard work several times since you got here,” he said. ”But... most of the time, hard work without talent doesn’t get you far.”

A few players nodded right away, relieved someone had said it out loud.

Izan didn’t rush.

He gave the boy a quick nod as the ball finally let go of the hand that was up the whole time he was asking his question.

”You’re right,” he said, and that made a couple of heads lift.

They hadn’t expected agreement.

”Hard work without talent won’t turn you into Messi or Ronaldo.”

The boys exchanged glances.

”But,” Izan added, ”there’s a difference between being born with world-class talent and having no talent at all. And that second one? It doesn’t exist. Everyone in football has something. Some of you just haven’t found it yet because you’re comparing yourselves to the wrong things or just not in the right atmosphere.”

A murmur went around the group as most of the players seemed to lean forward in interest in what he had to say.

”I’ve seen players who could dribble past anyone,” he said, ”but their end product was terrible. Does that mean they’re useless? No. It means they need to refine what they’re already good at. If you can take players on, then learn when to dribble, when to carry, and when to release. Every time you beat a man, you pull defenders out of shape. That space you create becomes someone else’s advantage.”

Some of the boys relaxed back onto their palms, absorbing the point.

A few still looked doubtful.

”So here’s a better example,” Izan continued. ”Filippo Inzaghi.”

A couple of boys blinked.

A few tilted their heads.

They’d heard the name before, but only from old highlights.

”Inzaghi wasn’t fast. He wasn’t strong. He wasn’t technical like the forwards you watch today. But he had one talent that he worked on more than anything else: finding space. That’s it. Pure instinct mixed with repetition and discipline.”

He held up a finger.

”And he scored over three hundred goals. Think about that. Three hundred goals from someone who wasn’t physically special but up there, he was just good.”

Some of the boys’ eyes widened.

They’d known he was good, but not that good.

”Sir Alex Ferguson once joked that Inzaghi was born offside because he was always right on the edge, always sniffing around the six-yard box. And most of his goals actually came from there. That tiny area that defenders hate. He lived there. He mastered it.”

Now the nodding was different.

It wasn’t polite anymore.

It was conviction.

”It doesn’t matter if you think you’re not the fastest or the strongest,” Izan said.

”What matters is recognising what you do have and sharpening it until it becomes a weapon. Nobody here is empty. You all have something.”

Silence settled over them for a few seconds as the players nodded more and more until another hand went up from the left side.

Izan glanced over with an easy smile and pointed at him. ”Go on.”

Before the boy spoke, Izan noticed the Association president standing at the back, arms folded, head slightly bowed in approval.

He wasn’t smiling widely, but his expression held a quiet pride.

The boy finally cleared his throat.

”My question is....,” he said as all the players turned towards him.

...

The Q&A wrapped up when one of the guides stepped forward and clapped his hands once.

”Alright, that’s our time,” he announced. ”We’ve got to move on.”

A loud groan rolled through the group as some of the boys dropped their heads back, and others pressed their palms to their knees like they’d just been told their free period was over.

Izan couldn’t help laughing as he turned away.

”You’d think I stopped them from scoring a tap-in,” he murmured.

He and the Association president walked back toward the touchline together, where the president gave him a sideways look.

”That wasn’t so hard after all,” he said.

Izan smiled. ”Nope, it wasn’t.”

Behind them, the guides had already shifted into work mode.

They gathered the U18 players, the U21S, and the few extra talents they’d invited for the camp as a voice swept across the pitch with calm authority.

”Here’s what we’re doing,” the head of the guides said.

”We’re splitting into four teams. Eleven players each, plus three substitutes. You’ll play each other. Treat it like a proper match. No slacking.”

The boys nodded, some serious, some buzzing with nerves, others rolling their shoulders like they were about to step into an actual league fixture.

The guide started sorting them, calling out positions, pairing certain players together, and deliberately separating others.

A few names triggered excitement in the younger boys, who seemed suddenly aware of who they might be facing.

From the sideline, Izan watched the whole thing with an amused squint.

”So this is what Arteta feels like.”

He lightly folded his arms.

”Standing out here, watching everyone get ready. Feels kind of... empowering.”

The Association president let out a short laugh.

”You want to coach someday?”

”I think I will,” Izan answered without hesitation.

”I can’t see myself being far from a pitch. Not in this lifetime.”

”That doesn’t surprise me.”

Izan breathed in, the warm air settling over the field.

”But that’s years away. I still have twenty seasons ahead of me. Maybe more if my body doesn’t betray me.”

”We’ll see,” the president said.

”If I’m still alive and in the job by then, I’ll put your name forward for the national team. You’d have to reject it yourself if you didn’t want it.”

He paused, then added with a small smile, ”Though I doubt I’ll last that long.”

Izan turned to him sharply, eyebrows raised.

”I think that’s too soon?”

”Why not?” the president replied. ”If your future looks anything like what you’re doing now, you’d be an obvious candidate.”

Izan let out a quiet breath, shaking his head resignedly.

”Then, that would be an honour.”

They both looked back toward the pitch as the final groups settled into formation.

Team A, made up of half the U18 squad and a handful of the invited players, was tightening their laces and jogging into their starting positions.

Across from them, Team B, led by the U21S and a few standout invitees, were mirroring the same preparations.

The chatter dropped gradually as the atmosphere shifted into a more serious tone.

The referee assigned for the scrimmage checked his whistle and then blew it after the players were all set.

Izan stayed by the touchline beside the Association president, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket as the players kicked off.

From here, the pitch felt wider with everyone bursting to show what they can do.

The game opened with a burst of energy as Team B pressed high immediately, forcing a scramble from Team A’s back line.

One of the younger boys on Team A wriggled out of the pressure with quick feet, but his clearance bounced awkwardly, and the U21 midfielder pounced on it, driving down the left.

Then, a voice came from behind him.

”My boys don’t look that fired up in their actual matches. They must really want to impress someone today.”

Izan glanced over his shoulder and saw a man in his late forties standing there, arms folded, eyes fixed on the pitch.

The Association president stepped slightly forward after seeing the latter and introduced the two.

”Izan, this is Yuzo Funakoshi, our U18 head coach.”

Funakoshi gave a small bow of his head.

”It’s a pleasure.”

Izan shook his hand.

”Good to meet you.”

”Likewise. I’m curious to see what they show you,” Funakoshi said, then returned his attention to the play, expression tightened by focus.

Izan looked back toward the field just in time to catch a slick movement where a midfielder on Team A killed the ball under his boot, dipped his shoulder, and rolled past his marker.

The moment he slipped through, Izan saw the lane open.

The player must have seen it too, because a while later, he threaded a pass straight into it, a clean vertical ball that cut between two defenders.

Izan nodded to himself.

”He’s got good vision,” he murmured.

The president hummed in agreement, but Izan leaned forward a little, tracking the midfielder’s movement as he accelerated, slowed to check his run, then darted again to support the next phase.

”He’s going to need careful management, though,” Izan added quietly.

”He switches speed so fast. Accelerates, stops, turns, then goes again. If they push him too hard without the right care, his knees might burn out faster, resulting in injuries.”

He said it casually, almost without thinking, but the silence behind him told him both men had heard every word.

Funakoshi’s eyes narrowed in thought, while the president’s chin dipped slightly, as if storing the comment somewhere important.