God Of football - Chapter 877

Chapter 877: Never Stopped Him.

The halftime noise faded into a hum as the cameras drifted down from the wide stadium shot and caught Izan walking out of the tunnel beside Arteta.

The two spoke quietly, the older Spaniard leaning closer as Izan covered his mouth with his hand, nodding slowly at whatever his manager was saying.

The lights overhead made his breath visible in the cool air.

Then, with a short tap on his back from Arteta, Izan jogged forward, joining his teammates on the pitch.

The same eleven that started on both sides were ready again, and the commentators picked up right away.

“No changes from either side,” one said.

“Arteta looks satisfied with what he saw in the first half. You can see him having a quiet word with Izan on the way out there. Maybe just a small tweak, a bit of advice before they kick things off again.”

“Yeah,” the other replied.

“We all know the tireless heart Izan plays with, so there was no need for the fans to worry about him being taken off. What I’m impressed by the most is PSG, whose players look fresh even after all that running in the first half. A very intriguing pressing system, Luis Enrique has here.”

While the commentators went about their job, the players got into position, switching halves while the referee seemed to consult with the other officials in the Video room as they made the final checks.

And then, Kai Havertz placed the ball in the centre circle and looked around.

A short whistle later, he tapped the ball forward, and the second half of the Club World Cup final was underway.

“Arsenal here at the start, moving the ball quickly, just like before, trying to slice through PSG’s press,” the commentator observed, but the French side were just as ready, stepping higher and closing every line.

Each pass seemed to have two blue shirts waiting on the other end, so Arsenal recycled to alleviate the pressure.

The ball went from White to Rice, then back to Saliba, before being forced all the way to Raya.

“It’s the same pattern again,” the co-commentator noted.

“Paris squeezing every space and so forcing Arsenal to work for every inch. They are ahead here, though, and it won’t bother them if Paris choose to chase after the ball since keeping the ball from your opponents prevent them from putting it in the back of the net.”

That was when Izan dropped deeper, calling for the ball with a single wave of his hand.

Rice sent it his way.

And in one smooth motion, Izan turned, and suddenly he was gone, accelerating like a blur.

“He’s gone here! Izan is tearing forward, forty yards and counting!”

The young midfielder darted past Fabian Ruiz, gliding past another challenge, the crowd rising with every step.

But before anything could open up ahead, Ruiz tugged at his arm and then his shoulder, finally pulling him down some yards away from the halfway line.

The whistle went, and groans filled the stadium, mainly the Arsenal fans, displeased that what they expected had been stopped before anything could even happen.

“Fabian Ruiz brings him down there,” came the call.

“It’s cynical, but it is a very good foul, and Izan doesn’t make a fuss. He just gets up, dusts himself off, and accepts the handshake. You can see the respect there between two international teammates.”

But what began as a single foul soon turned into a pattern.

Each time Izan touched the ball, a boot followed.

Sometimes a clip on the ankle, sometimes a bump on the shoulder.

Nothing too brutal, but enough to slow him down, and the referee seemed to shrug most of it away, so it became more repetitive.

The crowd began to notice and, therefore, showed their discontent at the referee for letting the Paris players continue without a card or even a warning.

“Listen to the reaction from the Arsenal end,” one commentator said.

“They’ve had enough of these little knocks on Izan and are making it known, but it seems like the official isn’t going to bother too much with them. Paris are rotating the fouls, taking turns so no one gets booked.”

On the touchline, Arteta had already seen and had decided not to make a scene of it in the early challenges, but after it got too much, he voiced it out, walking towards the fourth official on the touchline.

The cameras caught him gesturing, pointing to his watch, to the number of fouls.

Still, play went on.

Then came the moment that broke it all open.

Izan had drifted wide right, pushing Saka inside as he carried the ball forward.

Nuno Mendes tried to match him stride for stride, but Izan’s burst was too sharp, and so Mendes lunged, sliding low and clipping his boot.

Izan stumbled and nearly stayed up, but then Pacho arrived, charging through and sending him tumbling past the corner flag.

The whistle came late, but it came.

“Free kick for Arsenal!” the commentator shouted over the boos and whistles.

“And that’s got to be a card for Mendes, yes, the yellow’s out. But Pacho… somehow gets away with that one.”

The replay flashed on screen showing Izan flying past Mendes, then the heavy shoulder from Pacho, with the latter even adding some elbow action, but it looked like he would get away with that.

The Arsenal players surrounded the referee instantly, White, Rice, and Havertz all waving their arms, demanding consistency from the referee who had suddenly decided to officiate like he had never watched a game of football in his life before.

The referee, red-faced and stern, kept pushing them back.

“Away! Away! Back off!” he shouted, gesturing with both hands, but that only made the players come onto him more.

Martin Odegaard, who had been checking on Izan, immediately went forward, pulling his mates back as the official threatened to issue yellow cards.

“Arsenal players not happy at all,” said the commentator, his voice dipping.

“They want something for Pacho there, and you can’t really blame them. Izan’s been kicked all over this second half, and the referee’s done very little about it.”

Through all the shouting, Izan rose to his feet.

He brushed the grass and dirt from his shorts, ran a hand down his sleeve, and walked straight toward the ball.

His face was calm and detached, as if everything else, the protest, the whistles, the noise, was irrelevant.

He placed the ball carefully on the grass, adjusting it until it sat exactly right.

The referee who had done away with the Arsenal players finally turned to the Paris players, pushing them back a few steps as they shuffled forward to form their wall.

“Arsenal free kick,” came the call.

“This could be dangerous because it is Izan who is standing over it now, the man they’ve been trying to stop all night… and although the angle isn’t very helpful, nothing is stopping him from teeing up his mates in the box with a cross that might very well end up in the back of the net.”

The camera zoomed in on him, eyes fixed, the noise of the crowd swelling again, as the referee finally stepped aside.

Beside him, Rice leaned in, his hands resting lightly on his knees, eyes still locked on the Paris wall ahead.

Izan whispered something quick beside him, barely moving his lips while the cameras on the side tried to catch what he was saying, but it was futile.

Rice straightened, glanced sideways, and gave the smallest of nods as the referee lifted the whistle to his mouth, blew once and then the noise from the crowd ceased.

Almost like they had intended that.

Then Rice moved.

He took two strides forward, shaping his body like he was about to whip a cross into the box.

The Paris wall jumped, and Donnarumma shifted his weight accordingly to the right, reading the shape of Rice’s foot.

But then came the flick.

With the inside of his boot, Rice nudged the ball behind him, rolling it perfectly into Izan’s path.

The movement was so subtle that most in the wall didn’t even register it until it was too late, but when they did, Izan had already taken that instinctive half-step to the left, letting his body angle open as he struck.

His left foot met the ball with a clean, ringing sound that cut through the air.

The wall split mid-jump, and the ball curved over their shoulders, bending high and then dipping like it had a mind of its own, curling right into the top left corner.

For a heartbeat, it felt like the whole stadium froze, all 82,000 pairs of eyes tracking the same spinning white blur before the ball smashed the inside of the corner, almost becoming one with the post.

And then came the eruption.

“FRENCH DESTRUCTION FROM THE SPANIARD!!!!! DRINK IT IN!! Because what more do we have to say?”

“Not that it has ever stopped, but Seventeen years old, in a Club World Cup final, and he’s putting the ball exactly where he wants it. Football as we know it might just be renamed after this kid at the end of his career because it is about to be a long 17 to 20 years for the world if this is to go by.”

Have this one too guys. I will see you in a bit. Also, I got my laptop back but my phone had already been done in. But it’s all good since I can now type freely and well. You truly don’t appreciate something until it’s gone. This chapter is dedicated to my laptop. ○( ＾皿＾)っ Hehehe…