God Of football

Chapter 772: Like Red Rag To A Bull.

”And then,” the host’s voice rang over the polished studio set, ”there were two.”

The camera panned across the screen as glossy highlights of Arsenal’s season flashed by.

Some of Izan’s goals, Saka’s darts and Odegaard’s captain’s clap before cutting to shots of Liverpool’s pressing, Salah’s sharp finishes, and Alisson’s crucial saves.

The host, seated at the desk in front of a backdrop that read Premier League Countdown, leaned forward, palms spread in measured drama.

”Saturday evening. Anfield. Arsenal against Liverpool. One match that could decide the title.”

A graphic came up in bold gold and red, splitting the two crests side by side.

The stakes were printed beneath them: Win for Arsenal = Champions. Draw for Arsenal = Champions. Win for Liverpool = Title race alive.

”But the build-up,” the host continued, ”hasn’t just been about the football. It’s been about the words. Arsenal’s group interview released yesterday evening has blown up across social media, and one declaration in particular has been seen as bold and arrogant by some fans”

The screen behind him cut to a clip of Izan from the Sobha Realty session.

His youthful face filled the frame, eyes locked on the camera, words replayed in crisp soundbite: ’Come Saturday, at Anfield, even though a draw would be enough, it’s win or nothing. Win. Or. Nothing.’

The clip ended, and the host gave a small, knowing smile.

”Confident? Certainly. Bold? Without question. But was it too much? Well, let’s hear what the fans want to say.”

Across the footballing internet, the reactions had been fierce and fast.

Liverpool fans, especially, had bristled at the audacity.

One trending post from a Liverpool supporters’ forum read: ’This kid thinks he can walk into Anfield, our ground, and just say it’s his to take? Champions aren’t crowned here by words; they’re tested by fire. He’ll find out soon enough.’

Another fan on Twitter had written:

’Respect to his talent, but arrogance has no place at Anfield. We’ll show him.’

That post carried a picture of the famous This Is Anfield sign, and it was retweeted thousands of times.

The backlash wasn’t limited to Merseyside.

Fans of other clubs like Tottenham, City, and Chelsea all had their say too.

’Arsenal getting ahead of themselves, as always,’one United fan wrote.

’Every time they open their mouth, they bottle it after.’

And yet, nestled beneath the outrage, in quieter voices buried deep in the comment sections, were the contrarian takes.

Posts from neutrals, or even rival fans who couldn’t ignore the numbers.

One user replied: ’Arrogant? Maybe. But is he wrong?’

Another added:

’Forty-four goals, twenty-two assists, unbeaten in the league, and Arsenal haven’t lost a single game he’s started. What more do you want from the lad? If anyone’s earned the right to talk, it’s him.’

The host picked up on that very thread as the studio screens now displayed the stats in clean white lettering against Arsenal red.

”Since Izan Miura signed for Arsenal, the club have not lost a single match in which he has started. Not one. The worst result? Three draws. That is a frankly absurd statistic, especially when you add to it the fact that he’s leading both the Golden Boot and the assist charts in the Premier League. Forty-four goals, twenty-two assists. Numbers you associate with video games, not with real life.”

A highlight reel rolled as some of Izan’s solo dribbles, his goals at the Emirates, and his sharp passes setting up Martinelli or Saka.

Each clip was met with the faint swell of crowd noise layered in the edit, a reminder of the electricity he carried into every match.

The host leaned back, letting the numbers settle in.

”So the question becomes less about whether his words were arrogant, and more about whether his words were simply the truth. Arsenal are unbeaten.

Arsenal are a win away from the title. Arsenal are ninety minutes from history. If that doesn’t give you the right to say ’win or nothing,’ then what does?”

The show cut briefly to a fan-vox montage, snippets of interviews outside pubs, cafes, and stadiums.

”I don’t like the arrogance, mate,” a middle-aged Liverpool fan said, arms crossed in his red jacket.

”We’ve been here before. Kids think they can talk, but Anfield humbles you.”

A younger Arsenal fan, wearing the club’s yellow away shirt, grinned straight into the camera.

”I love it. That’s what we’ve been missing. Players with no fear. He’s seventeen and carrying the whole team’s confidence, so why not say it? I mean, he’s not wrong, is he? Like Ronaldo said, it’s just confidence.”

Another neutral voice chimed in: ”If I’m honest, football needs characters like him. He’s backing it up with goals, with performances. He’s not saying anything he hasn’t earned.”

The clip ended, returning to the studio as the host adjusted his notes, his tone sharpening as he brought the narrative back full circle.

”And that’s where we are. Arsenal unbeaten in the league. Liverpool with the chance to delay their coronation and maybe, just maybe, set up a twist in this title race. The numbers say Arsenal should win. The history says Anfield won’t make it easy.”

He paused, giving the camera a direct look.

”It is all to fight for. Tonight, at Anfield.”

The music swelled, the program cutting to commercial break — but the words, the declarations, the stats, and the sense of inevitability lingered.

All roads now led to the clash that could define the season.

.......

The Arsenal bus turned off the main road and crept into the narrow funnel that led toward Anfield.

The hum of the engine was drowned almost immediately as red flares hissed.

Smoke clouded the street at the front at first and then from everywhere, making it hard to see, even from the bus.

A wall of noise surged in from both sides, swelling into a roar that shook the windows.

Liverpool fans had come out in their thousands, not just lining the pavement but spilling onto the tarmac, pressing against police barriers.

They weren’t just here for atmosphere.

They were here to suffocate Arsenal before a ball was even kicked.

Inside the bus, the players sat scattered in their seats, some with headphones clamped on, others staring out the tinted glass.

But even with the windows shut, there was no escaping the chants, the pounding fists slamming against the sides of the coach.

Every hit rattled through the frame.

Bukayo Saka leaned forward from his seat by the window, pulling the curtain aside to get a better view.

His eyes narrowed as he watched the crowd thicken.

A group of fans, half-shirtless despite the cold, waved scarves like battle flags, and the flares gave their faces an angry, ghostly red glow.

He let out a low whistle and muttered, just loud enough for the person behind him to hear, ”You didn’t have to go and fire up a whole generation, you know.”

Izan, who had been reclined with a sleeping mask covering half his face, slowly pushed it up to his forehead.

He squinted at the light, then at Saka, before lazily leaning toward the aisle to peek past the curtain Saka had drawn back.

The roar outside pressed against him like a wave as his eyes lingered on the crowd for a moment.

Then he leaned back, tugging the mask fully off and setting it in his lap.

His voice was calm, almost bored, though the corners of his mouth hinted at a smirk.

”This is all part of the game,” he said.

Saka shook his head, lips twitching despite himself.

”Easy for you to say. They sound like they’d eat us alive.”

The bus rolled forward again, inching through the narrow strip carved open by police on horseback.

”You don’t look tasty enough, Bukayo. They want an offering bigger than you. Someone like me,” Izan said, not bothering to look at the expression on Saka’s face.

Down on the ground, hands smacked the low windows, with others even spitting towards the direction of the bus.

Another fan held up a sign with a message that didn’t need translation:

YOU’LL NEVER WIN HERE.

By the time the bus reached the players’ entrance, the noise had risen to a fever pitch.

The brakes hissed, the engine cut, and for a brief second, the world went still inside the coach.

Just breathing, just the players exchanging silent looks.

Then the doors opened.

The first step onto the pavement was met with a boom of sound that felt physical as the chants shook the air.

Some fans sang the Liverpool anthem; others barked insults.

Every Arsenal shirt was like the red rag to a bull.

One by one, the players filed off, heads down, headphones on, trying to drown out the madness.

But when Izan emerged, the volume doubled.

A/N: Sorry guys for the release being all over the place. For this book, I don’t account it to anything except for my own laziness. Have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit with the first of the day so bye for now.