God Of football - Chapter 756

Chapter 756: Can’t Stop What You Can’t Touch.

From the stands, all they saw was a teenager, dancing past defenders like they were shadows.

Until Izan slowed, weighing his leg like he was about to murder the ball, and he did, because the moment the ball left his leg, there was no stopping it.

“IZAAAANNN!!-”

The crack of boot against ball echoed like a gunshot as the strike bent, dipped and zoomed, like a comet tearing through the night sky.

Nuno Mendes, initially approaching the ball with his side, shuddered a bit, causing the ball to whisk past him as Donnarumma, all muscle and stretch, flung himself with everything, but the ball was merciless.

SMACK.

It rattled the inside of the right post, kissed the iron, and bounced across the line, nestling into the back of the net as Donnarumma crashed down, arms outstretched, staring behind him as if betrayed by physics itself.

And that was what it took to fracture the stadium.

A cauldron, emotions spilling everywhere.

On one end, Arsenal’s pocket of fans exploded, with their flags whipping behind as voices broke into howls of disbelief and joy, limbs flailing in the air, grown men and women clutching at each other like they’d just seen the impossible.

“IIIIIZZAAANNNNN MIURAAAAA!” Darren Fletcher’s roar cut through the chaos.

“With a rocket to send Arsenal ahead on the night and level on aggregate. Just what more? What more do you do when your opponent has the player called Izan!”

Ally McCoist was laughing in disbelief.

“That’s outrageous, Darren! Absolutely outrageous! The power and the confidence behind the ball. The ball had no chance of missing from the way that Izan fired it.”

On the pitch, Izan didn’t sprint away in wild celebration.

He slowed as he reached the edge of the Paris half, pressing a finger to his lips, staring straight into the sea of PSG ultras.

Shhh, and the jeers cascaded instantly.

Boos, roars, insults, and every curse they could muster were hurled down at him.

To Izan, it was music.

Their hate, their noise, all of it fed him.

For weeks, for ninety minutes, they’d spat slurs and venom.

Now they were drowning in their own fury, and he was the conductor of it all.

His teammates were on him in a heartbeat.

Saka leapt on his back, Havertz wrapped him in a bear hug while Rice and Gabriel sandwiched him from the sides until they all tumbled down in a mass of red shirts, but that didn’t stop Odegaard from joining them last, laughing as he slapped Izan’s head, while the Arsenal fans above them screamed themselves hoarse.

Down the touchline, Arteta was a blur of fists and fury.

He hugged his assistants, punched the air, and screamed towards the Arsenal supporters, veins bulging as if he’d scored it himself.

The bench too didn’t stay still as it emptied, Calafiori sprinting like a madman, coaches leaping and colliding in pure euphoria.

Meanwhile, the commentators kept pouring fuel on the fire.

“Paris thought they had him in their pocket, but he’s not a player you contain, he’s a storm you endure!” Fletcher thundered.

“He is who he says he is!” McCoist chuckled breathlessly. “Telling sixty thousand Parisians to shush! If you didn’t know him before, it makes me wonder if you even love football, because if you hate Izan, aside from when he plays your team, then you do not truly love football!”

The referee jogged up, arms out, beckoning Arsenal’s red swarm to scatter.

With reluctant laughter, they peeled off, one by one, Odegaard tugging Izan back towards the centre circle as the scoreboard glared:

PSG 0 – 1 Arsenal.

“Come on, guys, all they did was just draw level,” Luis Enrique called from the touchline.

“Keep the press and draw the momentum to our side.”

But even though Luis Enrique spat out these words, he knew it was much easier said than done.

But the words of Luis Enrique weren’t all bad, as Paris restarted, almost launching an attack instantly until Vitinha took hold of the ball and motioned for calm.

They had wanted to strike back quickly, as they so often do, launching one of those terrifying long balls from deep, the kind that usually turns defenders’ stomachs, but Arsenal had built a fort at the back, so it was going to be a futile effort.

So they kept waiting and bidding their time as Arsenal chased after the ball, winning it a couple of times only to lose it the next moment as Paris began doubling up on opponent players.

“Ici c’est Paris, Nous n’avons pas peur,” the Parisiens called as Pacho got the ball, and as if spurred on by the chant, he smacked the ball towards Kvarastskhelia, who had been calling for the ball in space for a while now.

The ball cut through the air, spearing toward the Arsenal half, but Saliba read it like he’d been waiting all night.

He slipped in front of Kvaratskhelia, and he rose, cool as you like, cushioned it back toward Rice, and Arsenal had it cleanly under control again.

“And once again, Arsenal show their aerial prowess again, Darren — you can fire all the rockets you want, but for a team that has been dominating the air game since the start of the season, nine times out of ten, they’ll just send the ball right back with interest,” Ally McCoist’s chuckle floated through the commentary.

“To the left!” McCoist shouted, almost gleeful, as the play drifted wide.

And as if he had heard McCoisr’s words, Gabriel whipped the ball out left with a snap of his boot, once again, to Izan.

Darren Fletcher’s voice sharpened, “You can see it coming… but you cannot stop it.”

Izan smiled as the ball rolled to him, turning slowly to face the half of his opponents.

He nudged the ball forward, slow and deliberate, inviting Hakimi to flinch, daring Vitinha, who had joined Hakimi to double team, to edge across.

Both tensed at the obvious trap, but couldn’t resist going in, until Izan simply laid it back with one touch, as if to say not yet.

The red shirts reorganised around him.

Odegaard shifted into the half-space, Saka peeled wider, Rice took two steps deeper, the backline spreading like a net as Arsenal reset, slowly but with complete authority, every pass stretching PSG a little thinner.

Paris chased.

They pressed in twos and threes, Hakimi darting, Vitinha covering, even Kvaratskhelia dropping in toharry Timber.

But Arsenal refused to panic.

The ball zipped across the grass, short and sharp, Odegaard pointing, Rice swivelling his head, Izan jogging back into a pocket where he could take another touch and keep the rhythm flowing.

“This is control. This is maturity beyond their years. They’re dictating the tempo in Paris, and if you are Paris, you do not want that!” Fletcher’s voice dropped to a murmur

And then finally, at least, one of the first half came.

Fweee, fweeeeee.

The players froze, and the crowd exhaled.

Forty-five minutes were in the book.

One half down, another to go.

“Well, Darren, I’ll tell you what, I’ve watched a lot of football in my life, but that kid just seems to surprise me about everything that I have watched him.

Every time he gets the ball, you can feel the tension rise, not just in the PSG defence, but in the whole stadium.”

Darren Fletcher leaned into the thought, his tone carrying equal weight and excitement.

“Yeah, and it’s not just the flair or the running either. It’s the decision-making. Did you see that last sequence? He tempted Hakimi and Vitinha, had the crowd rising out of their seats, and instead of trying to force the moment, he just reset Arsenal’s shape.

That’s the maturity we always talk about showing here once more. Arteta will love that, control over chaos, even though his side seems to thrive in chaotic football. And for Izan, he seems to be enjoying himself as he’s smiling while he does it.

That’s not a lad weighed down by the occasion, that’s somebody who’s actually enjoying it, and that’s a terrifying sight if you’re Paris. You can double him, you can chase him all night, but if he’s playing with that kind of freedom, you’re in trouble.”

For a moment, the noise of the fans unknowingly filled the pause between them, the whistles, the applause and the low murmur of half-time debate rippling through the stands.

Then McCoist’s voice, lighter but just as sharp, came through again.

“Well, Darren, if the second half is half as good as that first one, we’re in for a cracker. Arsenal have given themselves belief, PSG have had flashes, but they’ll need more, and the kid everyone’s talking about has already left his mark on the night.”

“We await the end of the halftime break!”

The camera caught Izan entering the tunnel, sweat dripping down his temple, that same smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

For Arsenal, it had been a near-perfect half.

For Paris, it was a question of how to stop what they couldn’t even touch.

This is the first of the day. Have fun reading, and I’ll see you in a bit with the promised slightly mass release and then the last of the day.