God Of football

Chapter 973: Like An Eternity.

The Champions League anthem swelled through the stadium, rich and familiar, echoing off steel and concrete.

The moment it came to an end, the formalities began to unwind.

The visiting side turned towards the home players and began making their way down the line, shaking hands with the players until they ran out of hands to shake.

Izan, after slowing down a bit when he got to Nico William’s, moved out of the line and slipped the warm-up jacket from his shoulders before passing it back toward the bench.

The away shirt underneath caught the light.

Navy blue, sharp against the pitch, metallic lightning streaks cutting across the fabric, while the armband sat high on his left arm, neon green and impossible to miss.

”Incredible scenes here,” the commentator said.

”Arsenal begin their Champions League defence tonight, and for the first time this season, with Izan leading them out from the start.”

A short pause followed as on the screen, Izan stood on the side, watching his mates take off their jackets.

”Seventeen years old and a Captain.”

From the side, a curt chuckle slipped from the lips of the analyst after the commentator’s remarks.

”Ridiculous,” he said, not unkindly. ”But look at him. It fits.”

In the next second, Izan was moving towards the match officials, as on the other side of things, Inaki Williams did the same.

The two captains met, shaking hands curtly, as the referee showed his coin to the two.

After making their decisions, the referee tossed the stainless steel coin into the air before letting it fall to the ground as the verdict arrived.

Then, ”Good luck,” Iñaki said.

”You too,” Izan replied in Spanish before they drifted apart as the photographers rushed in.

”All set here in Bilbao,” came the voice from the commentary as the players all moved into their respective positions.

”And, Athletic will get us underway.”

Iñaki Williams placed his boot on the ball and glanced up just before the whistle cut through the noise to get the game going.

”And our match is underway.”

The ball rolled backwards, and before the standing crowd could settle on their seats, Arsenal, or its forwards to be specific, snapped sharply into the press.

Eze burst forward instantly, replacing Martinelli on the left and pressing like he had something to prove.

He closed the angle, forcing the pass back until they had just one outlet.

Which was to breathe through Unai Simón, the Spanish international, as the latter stepped up to take the ball.

But Arsenal did not let up.

Gyökeres charged him down, all momentum and muscle, eating up ground in three long strides.

Simón got a bit off guard by the sudden situation, locked his eyes onto Mikel Vesga and swung through the clearance under pressure, but the ball didn’t get the chance to move where he wanted.

Shortly after leaving the foot of Unai Simon, the ball struck Gyokeres on the thigh after the latter jumped into the way.

It was so sudden that it left the home fans and keeper unable to react as the deflection sent the ball spinning, looping awkwardly toward the open goal.

Simón turned, eyes wide, feet frozen, while the away end inhaled as one, hands flying to heads ready to celebrate, but then the ball kissed the outside of the post and skipped wide.

A collective groan followed, mostly from the away end as the Bilbao fans let go of the air caught up in their chest.

”Oh, nearly,” the commentator breathed.

”Arsenal so close to striking before this game has even had time to settle.”

Gyökeres slowed his steps, backing away with a shake of his head.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard, before turning to face the keeper again.

Simón, after taking the ball from one of the ballboys, bent to place the ball for the goal kick, taking an extra second before stepping back, hoping his mates would have gotten into better spaces by then.

And then he sent it long, back into play, where it went on a bit dully, for the following 15 minutes.

Because even though Arsenal were on the front foot, they did nothing really fruitful with it, even being a bit wasteful with chances carved out of nothing at times by Izan.

After that, the game went stale, with both sides just not doing too much with the ball.

Possession traded hands without bite, which in turn got the momentum of the crowd running low.

Fifteen minutes passed like that with neither side quite landing a punch.

”It hasn’t been all bad,” the commentator said at last, almost trying to convince himself, ”but it seems both teams are still feeling each other out.”

A little chuckle came after that, and then right on cue, the ball found Izan.

He was wide on the right touchline, boots barely lifting from the grass as he moved with it.

The burst of space they all expected never came, with Izan just walking the ball like he was walking a pet.

Adama Boiro squared up in front of him, knees bent and eyes stuck at the feet of Izan.

Every option ran through his head at once.

Was he going inside?

Outside?

A Cross?

He tried to read Izan’s hips, his eyes, the angle of his run.

But Izan did nothing.

He turned back and rolled the ball calmly into Jurrien Timber’s path.

Boiro exhaled and relaxed, just a fraction.

The danger, it seemed, had passed.

But a moment later, the ball was back.

Almost instantly, Timber fed it straight into Izan’s feet again.

And this time, Izan let it run across his body, the ball sliding past his standing leg as he spun the other way.

In the same motion, he ghosted beyond Boiro, leaving the fullback reaching for a shirt that was no longer there.

The pace came from nowhere.

One second, Izan was drifting, the next he was gone with no way out for Boiro.

”Oh, blistering. It seems he’s got his pace back,” the commentary snapped to life as Izan burned down the flank, the turf blurring beneath him.

As he neared the box, his stride shortened, control tightening.

It looked for all the world like he would drive to the byline and cut it back.

Boiro scrambled behind him, desperate now, stretching to recover ground and get in front of Izan before anything happened.

What he was met with instead was Izan slowing down, like he was waiting for him.

He rolled the ball onto his left before following that with a single, lazy step-over masking his next move.

Boiro bit, shifting his weight just enough just before Izan nudged the ball past him and slipped into the box, clean and balanced.

”Is there a finish here?” came the call as Izan shaped his body like he was about to shoot.

He got the reaction he wanted as Unai Simón set himself and the Bilbao defenders threw themselves across the angle.

But his effort was much more than just a shot.

It wasn’t a cross blasted with hope either, but a gentle, arcing ball floated toward the far post, with the perfect weight on it.

The fans in the stadium watched along as Eze arrived on the blind side, timing his run in silence.

He was not known for his heading, not really, but this was different.

He had been afforded time, space and freedom, with the net staring right at him.

So he met it cleanly.

The contact was simple and firm as the ball skimmed past Simón, who only half-moved, already knowing the truth as it passed him and rippled the net.

GOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLLLL!!!!!

The noise rose from the burrows of San Mames as the away fans overshadowed the home crowd with their roar despite the number disparity.

”There it is. Life in this game at once!” the commentator said as on the pitch, Eze spun away, pointing straight at Izan, shouting something lost beneath the noise while Izan barely reacted before he was swallowed by red shirts, arms thrown around shoulders and hands slapping backs.

”Oh, he’s a troll,” the commentator laughed over the chaos.

”He had them all waiting for the shot, only for him to touch it towards Eze at the far post. You can’t even blame Unai Simon for not trying.”

The analyst followed.

”And he won’t mind that one bit. As captain, that’s leading by example. Assist on the board, Arsenal in front.”

The huddle broke a while later as Izan jogged back toward his half, together with his mates.

The Bilbao players, lingering around like they could erase the goal, finally did the same after a while with their heads down and trying not to let the frustration that came with the concession of a goal show.

”We have had to wait 17 minutes for the first goal to come around. It hasn’t been that long, but if you are in the stadium with us, it has almost felt like an eternity.”