God Of football

Chapter 983: Something Else.

”We are just watching the Ballon d’Or ceremony, not the UCL final,” a guy of average build and height said as he opened the door and entered the apartment sideways, balancing a pizza box on one hand and taking his coat off with the other.

”Wait,” he said, stopping just inside the frame, while squinting at a notification he had just gotten on his phone.

”Did I miss it, or did Izan just win the Kopa again?”

No one answered him straight away.

It was just two hands that reached for the box while another pair helped slide it off his palm entirely.

”He did,” someone said as the first guy stood still.

”That makes it his second.”

The guy frowned as he finally sat, still standing halfway like his body hadn’t caught up yet.

”You can do that?”

One of his friends, now devouring the pizza, just shrugged.

”Apparently, you can.”

On the screen, Raya, together with Hannah Hampton, winning the inaugural women’s yashin trophy, was stepping down from the stage, trophy tucked awkwardly under one arm, smiling like someone who had forgotten the speech he had planned.

”That’s the funny part,” another voice chimed in, nodding at the TV.

”He said the same thing. Literally said he didn’t know you could win it twice.”

A few laughs rolled through the room as someone wiped grease on a napkin, eyes never leaving the broadcast where Kate Abdo reappeared right after David Raya’s exit.

”And now,” she said, ”we move to an award that needs no interpretation. One that isn’t based on votes but purely on a factual thing. An award built on numbers.”

”Here we go,” someone muttered as Kate Scott continued.

”The Gerd Müller Trophy,” Kate continued, ”for the top scorer of the season.”

The guy with the pizza leaned forward, elbow on knee.

”If this is anyone else, I’ll eat the box.”

”And the winner,” Kate said, already knowing the reaction she was about to trigger, ”is Izan Hernandez.”

The theatre on screen erupted in applause while the room did the same.

”Of course.”

”Come on.”

”Is anyone shocked?”

On screen, the camera found Izan again.

He stood this time without surprise, before Komi planted a little kiss on his cheek as he went forward like the filial son he was.

One of the guys swallowed his bite and shook his head. ”He’s winning this all while playing primarily from the attacking midfield position and centrally too.”

As if on cue, a graphic filled the screen, showing the 89 goals that Izan had put up to win that award and just then, the room went quiet and into thinking.

It was only after a while that one of them laughed a disbelieving laugh to bring them all back out of their thoughts.

”Hold on.”

Another leaned closer.

”That’s just the footballing year, right. What about the calendar year?”

They all stared at each other before they turned around after hearing a typing sound from behind.

”So he has 89 in the footballing season like they said. And he has 84 since the start of 2025”

”Damn,” one of them said as they turned back towards the television.

”Damn indeed,” another scoffed.

”That means he is 7 goals off Messi’s 91 from 2012.”

”In September?”

Another in the friend group scoffed, leaning back hard enough that the couch creaked.

”That record was supposed to be untouchable when we were growing up, and now...” he finished, trailing off at the end.

”There’s still three months,” the pizza guy said, shaking his head now.

”Three.”

”If he has his mind set on it, he’s probably breaking it next match,” someone else replied, not even joking.

”Watch.”

A voice from the corner, dry, almost bored.

”It would feel better if there was at least someone chasing him.”

Silence followed that.

Not because they disagreed, but because they didn’t know how to answer it.

Another guy leaned back, arms crossed.

”You think there is? I mean, there were contenders at first, but now they are all just extras.”

They all turned back to the screen where Ewa Pajor, the Barcelona Femini number 9, with 43 goals in 46 appearances, had joined Izan, taking the women’s Gerd Müller Trophy.

A moment later, and after the speech by Ewa Pajor, the two exited the stage as Kate returned with a softer smile, one hand resting against the card in front of her.

”Football isn’t just about individuals,” she said.

”Sometimes it’s about an idea that grows bigger than one person.”

The screen behind her split in two.

Men’s Club of the Year and Women’s Club of the Year.

When Arsenal’s crest filled both frames, the reaction came in layers, not in surprise but in acknowledgement of what it took to win the award.

Gullit let out a low chuckle as the club representatives for the men’s side and the women’s side climbed the stage.

”That,” he said, shaking his head, ”has never happened before and not in such a dominant fashion.”

The camera operating on the broadcast immediately began moving around, showing faces, like Izan’s, Saka’s and then others like Arteta’s, as well as a few from the women’s side that had made the feat possible.

Across the room, a few Arsenal players stood, clapping harder than etiquette demanded.

After becoming the third club to win the sextuple, it was a given that they were going to be given this award.

After this category, Kate didn’t linger and immediately moved on to the next category; the Coach of the Year or the Johan Cruyff award came next.

”And the men’s award goes to Mikel Arteta, congratulations,” Kate said as the lights immediately found Arteta before he even reached the steps.

The latter smiled a satisfactory smile, like he had finally accomplished a dream of his.

Before long, the women’s category followed, with Sarina Wiegman winning the award.

The two coaches gave similar short speeches, but the room was already moving on by the time Arteta and Wiegman got off the stage.

”The next award,” Kate said, voice lowering, ”is about what football can do away from the pitch.”

The Socrates Award.

The mention of the Maxwell Foundation brought a murmur before the applause arrived.

”I hope all these awards being related to Izan in one way or another won’t mean what I am thinking,” a fan at home said as an unfamiliar face in the football scene showed on screen, because although most who saw her had an idea of who she was, it was a bit unexpected.

Komi stood slowly and paused at the aisle, hand brushing her dress down, while behind her, Miranda followed.

”If someone told me years ago that this would be my life,” she said, after she got on stage, ”I would have laughed. Or cried. Probably both.”

A few heads bowed as she continued.

”This foundation carries my husband’s name. My son’s heart. If we’ve helped even one person feel less alone, then everything has been worth it.”

She smiled through the tears as the room stood in applause, before Komi came down.

When Kate and Guillit returned again, there was no confusion about things being in the end game.

”Many strong and bold women came to stake a claim, but alas, only one gets to take home the gold. Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of the Ballon d’Or femini is....., Aitana Bonmati.”

The Barcelona player, after her name was mentioned, rose to her feet, before making the walk to the stage to claim what was her third Ballon d’Or.

After her speech in Spanish, Kate came for what was going to be her last category of the night.

”And now,” she said, letting the words breathe, ”there is only one left.”

She smiled, almost knowingly.

”In other years, this moment belongs to suspense.”

Laughter, tinged with a bit of nervous energy, rippled through the auditorium after her words.

”But this year,” she continued, ”it belongs to something else.