God Of football

Chapter 992: A Feast For The Eyes!

After a few minutes of moving around with the ball, both sides were directed back towards their dressing rooms as the time for the start of the game approached.

For the excited fans in the stadium, kick-off couldn’t come any sooner.

However, while they were waiting, near the centre circle, a small podium was quickly and quietly raised, almost as if it were trying not to draw attention to itself.

A few fans, mostly younger ones, even pointed towards it and asked their guardians or parents, but with how unassuming it was, it was hard to figure out what it was, though the expressions on a few faces as the broadcast camera panned across the stadium suggested that they might have had an idea of what was to come.

Then the lights softened, just a touch, and the first notes of the Champions League anthem spilt into the stadium.

The players emerged again, this time in order with their mascots by their side and the match officials leading the way.

Like it always was at home, Arsenal appeared in their recognisable red and white, while Olympiacos followed in their third kit for the season, a flat, steely grey that looked almost colourless under the floodlights until the lights hit the red streaks across it.

As the teams lined up, the Emirates found its voice properly.

A chant started low, then grew, carried from one stand to the next.

Izan’s name came first.

Then the story.

”WHO IS HE?” a man who seemed to be leading the chants shouted, and the fans responded in kind.

”Izan Hernan-dez, came from Alboraya.

Valencia gave the red and white dream.

On a North London day.

One hundred and twenty-five million pounds,

They laughed at us then, called us mad all around,

They said it was madness — they said we were wrong,

But Izan led Arsenal, we won all along!

They laughed!

They laughed!

They called it insane!

Now we’ve won everything,

And who’s laughing again?

Now everybody wants him,

Now everybody tries,

Now they say it’s cheap —

For the king of the Emirates sky!

Ohhhhhh Izan,

Red through and through,

From Valencia to Arsenal —

There’s only one you!

Amidst the bellowing chants, the camera found the subject of the songs in line with his hair tied back the same way it had been for a while back.

Hearing the songs raining down, he couldn’t help but nod slowly to the tune and then give a small grin of appreciation.

The child mascot in front of him stood stiff as a board, eyes wide, trying not to look back too much, but he failed, like most kids would when you had Izan behind you.

The anthem swelled and ended, and what followed was the exchange of pleasantries as the teams broke apart.

Then the lights dimmed further while the broadcast commentary slipped in.

”They didn’t really get the chance to applaud him,” the commentator said.

”But now they get to do so, after the little king has gotten his hard-earned rest!”

Following closely, the broadcast cameras turned towards the pitch where Izan walked toward the setting alone, with a gait that told others, if they hadn’t known any better, that he wasn’t happy with it.

”At least smile a bit for the cameras,” Miranda said as she leaned against the glass from the executive box.

Below, Izan finally reached the platform, picked up the Ballon d’Or, and lifted it high.

After that, he just held it up for a few moments, arms letting the stadium do the rest.

”He is the current Ballon d’Or holder,” the commentary continued. ”And the youngest to ever win it by some distance.”

Players and staff of both teams, as well as the fans alike, applauded like their lives depended on it.

Izan then lowered the trophy, handed it to a waiting staff member with a quiet nod, then jogged back toward his half, where his teammates had already formed a circle after the toss.

Ødegaard leaned in as Izan arrived.

”Any words?” he asked as Izan entered the fray, but the latter just smiled once more.

”The first time feels so nice that I can’t help but think that...”

”We have to do it twice,” they finished for him as they broke away.

”Why you copying my flow?” Saka asked Izan, but Izan wagged his finger in front of Saka.

”I don’t recall your name being Chloe or Kelly,” the latter said, to which Saka burst out laughing, nodding before moving towards his position, but in the process, a ripple went through the stands.

Something was off and very so.

Glancing at the Arsenal set-up, all could see that Izan wasn’t leading the line as he did at times, nor was he floating behind the striker.

Again, he wasn’t even in the wing position but had dropped back alongside Rice to form a double pivot.

The murmurs started almost immediately, mostly out of curiosity rather than admonishment.

”Isn’t that Zubi or Martin’s Job?” a fan asked as a few wary glances were exchanged between fans, and talk of complacency floated around the away section.

It didn’t take long for the stadium cameras to cut to the touchline, where they found the culprit, Arteta standing idly with his hands behind his back.

A while later, the referee checked his watch.

”And so,” the commentator said as the whistle lifted to his lips, ”we are underway.”

Pwii, Pwiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!

El Kaabi rolled the ball back to start it, and that was all Olympiacos were allowed.

Because the moment the ball was in their half, Arsenal were on them instantly.

The front three surged forward together, not sprinting wildly, but closing with intent as they tried to block the lanes, but it wasn’t only those three.

Ødegaard followed a step behind, pointing, directing and herding the away side toward spaces that looked open but weren’t.

Olympiacos, flustered, tried to play out, but that was all they could do.

Try!

Within seconds, they realised something was wrong.

Every outlet they thought they had was already occupied.

Every angle they wanted to escape through was filled by red and white shirts arriving half a beat early.

It felt less like pressure and more like strangling.

Then it got worse because.

Rice stepped up, followed by Izan.

Suddenly, it wasn’t four Arsenal players in their half.

It was six, but that wasn’t even the end.

The back four of the home side crept forward in unison and settled on the halfway line, calm, upright, like that white stripe was the edge of their box instead.

”What in the Pep Guardiola is this. Arsenal are looking like a tortoise with its shell off, but it seems to be working. They’ve cut off every passing lane,” the commentator said quickly. ”There’s no breathing room here for Olympiacos.”

Panicked, the away side went long.

The ball sailed, hopeful and hurried, toward Podence, who ran to meet it, but Ben White read it early and also had the headstart.

Still, Podence did well to match and come side by side with White, but the latter did just enough, leaned into Podence at the right moment, and took him clean out of the contest as the ball spilled loose, but it wasn’t ownerless for long because Rice was already there in anticipation.

”It’s only 22 seconds on the clock, but Arsenal already have the ball,” the commentary said as Rice released it to his right and towards the gift that kept on giving in Izan.

The latter reacted and moved toward the pass, but then he didn’t touch it.

He shaped his body like he was about to cushion the ball, selling it with his eyes, his hips, everything so clearly that Dani García lunged, committed, and ran straight through empty space as the ball slipped between his legs.

The stadium gasped at the scene, as the commentary in the gantry cut out for half a second, swallowed by the sound.

By the time the voice came back, Izan already had the ball under control and was moving.

He nudged it once, then twice, but on the third time, the ball wasn’t at his feet anymore.

He had struck it.

”What in the...” Retsos, Olympiacos’s defensive wall and captain, uttered but a dipping pass, bent and weighted, had already dropped behind the Olympiacos back line like it had been placed there by hand.

For a split second, defenders hesitated, still trying to work out when it had even left his foot.

And that was enough because in the next moment, Victor Gyökeres burst through the gap, threw himself at the ball, and poked it past the keeper to put Arsenal ahead with 34 seconds on the clock, and in an instant, red shirts swarmed Gyökeres, who was even stunned himself while noise poured down from the stands, wild and unrestrained.

”A feast for the eyes. A rare moment, where the pass outclasses the goal. Izan is just not on our plane. He’s transcended it!”

”Incredible,” the co-commentator said, barely keeping up. ”It’s barely past the half-minute of the game, and Arsenal are already ahead. This is starting to look like a mismatch.”

While the oldheads in the gantry lost their minds over the goal, Izan jogged toward the pile of bodies, calm as ever, a small smile on his face as he joined the celebrations, while Olympiacos players stood frozen, still trying to understand how the game had slipped away from them so fast.