Striker of The Gods

The final of the world cup

But the defining moment came in the final. Wembley Stadium, London. Colombia vs England. The atmosphere was biblical. 90,000 souls. The real deal was to come true in the real final. Everyone was cheering on him. Two nations holding their breath. England had fought through a brutal campaign. Colombia had ridden the back of a violet storm that could shake whole galaxies. As the whistle blew, tension electrified the air, and the players took their positions, each one aware that history was at stake. What is more, the determination was at its peak. With every pass and tackle, the hopes of millions rested on their shoulders, and the dream of glory was tantalisingly close. They knew that this was their first final.

The score was 2–2 in the 87th minute. Caos received the ball just inside his own half. What happened next would be replayed for the next hundred years. He took one touch. Then he ran. Not at full speed, but at a singular speed. Defenders lunged. He danced through them like smoke. Forty yards. Thirty. Twenty-five. He could hear the roar of the crowd building, a wave of anticipation that surged through him, fuelling his every stride. As he approached the penalty area, time seemed to stretch; he spotted his teammate making a perfect run towards the goal, and with a deft flick of his foot, he sent the ball soaring through the air, aiming for the ultimate prise.

The entire stadium rose as one. English defenders converged in a desperate wall. Caos planted his left foot thirty-nine feet from goal — exactly thirty-nine — and launched himself into the air. The Great 39-Foot Chilena. Time seemed to freeze. His body inverted in perfect, violent grace, right leg whipping through the air like a scythe forged from chaos itself.

The ball met his instep at the apex of the leap, and he struck it with every ounce of pain, love, rage, and refusal he carried. The crowd collectively held its breath, a moment suspended in anticipation. With a resounding crack, the ball rocketed towards the net in the most fiery way that could contain the greatest thing that we could shake for them to continue taking them to the corner of the world, blurring the lines between hope and reality as it spiralled into the goal, igniting an explosion of joyous disbelief.

The shot was not a goal. It was an exorcism. The ball screamed through the air in a perfect, dipping arc, spinning with such violence that it left a visible violet trail. The English goalkeeper barely had time to flinch before it ripped the net from its moorings, slamming into the stanchion with a sound like thunder breaking.

The crowd erupted, a cacophony of cheers and gasps reverberating around the stadium. For a fleeting moment, time stood still as players and fans alike absorbed the sheer magnitude of what had just unfolded, their collective breath held in anticipation of the impossible.

The crowd erupted, a wave of ecstasy washing over them as the players embraced in a chaotic jumble of elation. In that moment, the stadium became a cauldron of emotions and sex and happiness that they could not contain, each heartbeat synchronised to the pulsating rhythm of triumph and disbelief and appreciation for what they had achieved by then.

3–2. Wembley fell silent for three full seconds and then exploded. Colombia had won the World Cup. Chaos landed on his feet, stood motionless in the centre of the pitch, and for the first time in his career, he did not celebrate. He simply looked up towards the sky, one finger raised, not for the mother who stayed, not for the father who hid, not even for the records. Instead, he raised it in gratitude for the journey that had brought him here and there for reality to face the tragedy and suns surrounding him the countless hours of training, the sacrifices made, and the unwavering support of his teammates. In that poignant silence, he realised that this victory was not just for him but for every dreamer who dared to believe against all odds.