God Of football

Chapter 433 - 1st Half In Belgrade [Pistacho031_3]

The Serbian anthem faded into the sky, a wall of sound swallowed by the night air as the players broke from the line-up and moved into position.

Flags waved high across the stands, the red and blue of Serbia clashing with patches of white and red from traveling Spanish fans.

The floodlights hummed above, casting their pale glow across the pitch like the start of a play under theatre lights.

High above the halfway line, the commentatorsʼ booth buzzed with low conversation, microphones already hot as they prepared to narrate the first steps of a new Nations League campaign.

”A beautiful, deafening evening in Belgrade,” the lead voice said, his tone reverent but edged with excitement.

”Spain returns to competitive action after their Euros triumph this summer, but thereʼs been plenty of noise even before kickoff—both on the pitch and off it.”

”And it hasnʼt all been about the football,” his colleague added, a grin heard more than seen.

”Weʼve got flares outside the stadium, chants echoing all afternoon... and of course, a great deal of focus on one name in particular.”

The camera found Izan sitting calmly on the bench, hood halfway over his head.

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on knees, gaze steady.

Izan starts this one from the bench tonight.

A few groans from the crowd when the line-up was announced, and honestly, not all of them were coming from the Spanish section.

”He wasnʼt warming up. Not yet. Just sitting, still, but not unnoticed.

”It speaks volumes when a barely seventeen-year-old gets this kind of reaction.

There were even some Serbian fans outside the hotel earlier trying to snap a picture—canʼt say weʼve seen that too often.”

But the attention shifted now as the players took their places on the field.

”Letʼs take a look at Spainʼs starting eleven tonight. Unai Simón in goal—solid as ever between the posts.

In front of him, a backline featuring Alejandro Balde on the left, Robin Le Normand and debutant Pau Cubarsí as the center-back pairing, and Óscar Mingueza on the right.”

”Cubarsíʼs earned it,” came the second voice. ”Heʼs had a strong start to the season and the previous one. But still, itʼs a big night for him.”

”In midfield, Luis de la Fuente is sticking to the trusted core—Pedri, Rodri, and Fabián Ruiz. Thatʼs class and control in equal measure.”

”And up front—Yamal on the right wing, Nico Williams operating from the left, and Álvaro Morata leading the line.”

As the camera cut back to the bench, a few fans in the front row of the Spanish section could be seen holding homemade signs.

One read simply: ”IZAN 10—STILL OUR STAR.” Another had a rough sketch of his goal against France in the Euros, captioned, Más que una promesa. (More than a promise.)

”Theyʼre not quiet about it,” the commentator chuckled.

”They wanted to see him tonight. But knowing how these games go, Iʼd say we wonʼt have to wait too long.”

Down on the touchline, Izan didnʼt respond to the chants.

But his hands moved slowly, loosening the drawstring on his tracksuit. A subtle tell.

If the game asked for something different, heʼd be ready to answer.

......

The whistle sliced through the Serbian night, sending the Spanish players chasing after the ball.

From the first touch, it was clear Serbia had no interest in playing conservatively.

Luka Ilić darted forward from midfield like a man possessed, carving an early line through the centre before being met—clean and hard—by Rodri, whose interception drew a nod of approval from Luis de la Fuente on the sideline.

”Serbia straight out of the gates here,” the commentator noted.

”And that was a warning shot. Spain need to hold shape.”

Pedri dropped deeper to collect, exchanging a quick one-two with Fabián Ruiz before shifting it wide to Balde.

The left-back charged forward with a sprinterʼs pace, drawing a roar from the Spanish end of the stadium—but his cross was cut out mid-air by the towering Milenković, who headed it away with authority.

And then came the counter.

Serbia turned defense to attack in the blink of an eye, a diagonal ball skipping over the halfway line toward Živković on the right wing.

Cubarsí, eyes wide but feet composed, closed the gap quickly, showing maturity beyond his years.

He didnʼt dive in—just held his ground, mirrored the movement, and forced the Serbian wide man to settle for a low cross to which Simón was ready and waiting.

”Nice work from the young man,” the second commentator said.

”Cubarsíʼs earned this start, and heʼs showing why.”

By the tenth minute, it was clear this wasnʼt going to be a game won in the midfield.

It was a war of transitions.

Fabián was the first to get a clean shot off, curling one from outside the box that swerved late and stung the palms of Rajković, who had to punch rather than catch.

A scramble followed, and Nico nearly got a boot on the rebound before a red shirt slammed it out of danger.

”Spain getting closer!” the commentator roared in rhythm to the Spanish attack.

But Serbia answered with ferocity.

A floated free-kick in the 19th minute saw Vlahović rise between Le Normand and Mingueza.

His header rocketed toward the bottom corner—only for Unai Simón to leap sideways and parry it wide with his fingertips.

”WHAT A SAVE!” the commentary box exploded.

”That looked in all the way!”

Fans in the Rajko Mitić Stadium gasped, hands clutching heads.

Serbian players called for a corner while replays showed the ball had indeed been veering inside the post.

Rodri clapped, walking over to bump fists with Simón.

Heroics.

The only thing keeping it level.

Spain tried to reset. Possession was theirs, sure, but not without teeth at their heels.

Every backpass was chased. Every sideways ball pressed.

By minute twenty-fifth, the Spanish tempo started to shine.

Yamal, ghosting in from the right, nearly danced through three defenders with some fast feet and a dummy that left one Serbian sliding.

But his final ball—an inside flick meant for Morata—was too heavy.

”Still waiting on that final connection,” one commentator remarked.

”But thereʼs no denying the creativity.”

Then came the thirty-minute mark. The moment both benches rose to their feet.

Pedri spotted a half-yard of space and slipped a pass between two Serbian midfielders.

Nico was already running. He darted forward, chesting the ball beautifully before flicking it with the outside of his boot.

It landed at Morataʼs feet.

And Morata did what Morata does.

He turned and fired—low and fierce toward the far post—but Rajković guessed right and went full stretch.

A fingertip save. Again.

”No way!”

”Another world-class stop!”

But it wasnʼt over.

The rebound fell to Yamal, whose shot was blocked off the line by a desperate sliding tackle from Veljković.

A second later, Fabián tried again, this time rattling the crossbar with a thunderous half-volley that drew a wave of groans from the Spanish fans.

Three chances. One sequence yet no goal.

Back on the bench, Izan had leaned forward.

Eyes locked on the pitch.

Spain kept the pressure up.

By now they were circling the Serbian box like vultures, drawing fouls, earning corners.

Pedri and Rodri orchestrated the rhythm, switching flanks with near-surgical accuracy.

But Serbia—gritty, fearless Serbia—refused to break.

In the 38th minute, Živković came inches from silencing the crowd when he beat Balde on the outside and launched a cross that bounced awkwardly through the six-yard box.

Vlahović lunged for it but missed by centimeters.

”Spain need to be careful,” came the low murmur from the booth.

”Theyʼre leaving space behind.”

Two minutes later, it was Spain again.

Yamal got the better of his fullback this time, carving inside and releasing a shot that deflected wide.

From the resulting corner, Cubarsí rose and headed just over the bar.

The ball hadnʼt found the net, but hearts were racing in both camps.

”Still 0–0 here in Belgrade,” the commentary said, ”but itʼs been anything but dull.”

As the clock ticked toward forty-five, Serbia earned a free kick just outside the box.

Ilić stood over it.

He struck clean—a thunderbolt that dipped viciously—but Simón was again equal, pushing it over the bar with two firm fists.

”That man is a wall tonight,” the color commentator muttered.

On the sidelines, Luis de la Fuente exhaled deeply. He didnʼt need to turn around to know what was happening behind him.

The final seconds of the half saw Spain nearly break the deadlock when Morata backheeled a pass into Pedriʼs path.

The Barcelona midfielder took it first time, his low shot grazing the outside netting.

Some fans screamed, thinking it was in.

The whistle came soon after.

Players dropped to their knees. Shirts clung to sweat-slicked skin.

Even the bench stood to applaud—not the scoreline, but the spectacle.

”This is what international football should feel like,” the commentator said over slow-motion replays of saves, flicks, and close calls.

”Relentless quality. Brilliant defending. And a goalkeeper masterclass on both ends.”

Spain walked off the pitch level, but not lacking momentum.

A/n; Sorry for the late release. 7 out of 12. see you in a bit with the second Gacha chapter for the day.