God Of football

Chapter 787: Mere Formality.

The first half at the Emirates wasn’t a normal match; it felt like a street party with a football game unfolding in the middle of it.

Every touch from an Arsenal youngster or player was met with applause, every defensive clearance with a cheer that might’ve belonged to a cup final.

The fans knew this was a free hit because three days ago the job had been done, the title secured in the most dramatic of fashions at Anfield.

Today was about soaking it all in.

From the first whistle, Newcastle played with intent.

Eddie Howe had fielded his a form of strongest XI, and within minutes they had carved a chance.

Wilson, ready and hungry, darted between two defenders to meet a clipped ball, only for Neto, starting in goal for the first time in a while this season, to dive low and palm it away.

The save wasn’t world-class, but the reaction from the crowd made it feel like it.

Chants of ”Neto! Neto!” rang around the Emirates, the Spaniard visibly smiling as he jogged back to his post.

”The home crowd is making the 2nd choice keeper, Neto, feel like Oliver Kahn,” the commentator said warmly.

Arsenal, on the other hand, weren’t free-flowing.

The rhythm wasn’t there, how could it be when the XI had barely played together this season?

But what they lacked in cohesion, they made up for in energy and inventiveness from a few creative minds on the pitch.

Ethan Nwaneri buzzed around midfield like he’d been plugged into the electricity of the crowd, while Zinchenko kept bursting forward from right-back into the middle, earning cheers even when his crosses flew harmlessly out of play.

The Emirates wasn’t here to judge; they were here to celebrate.

Newcastle threatened again in the twentieth minute, Gordon finding space down the left, cutting inside, and rifling a shot that rattled just past the upright.

Neto had thrown himself at it, maybe without a chance to reach it, but the crowd applauded anyway.

”Arsenal living dangerously at times,” the co-commentator noted, ”but you can see what this means to these younger players and some of these players that have lost their place in the main team. They’re desperate to prove themselves on this stage.”

Between these surges, the camera occasionally drifted to the Arsenal bench, where the contrast was almost comical.

Bukayo Saka and Izan Miura sat shoulder-to-shoulder, not glued to the game but to handheld consoles, fingers clicking furiously as they leaned into one another in concentration.

”Bro, you’re cheating. You’re screen-looking,” Saka muttered with a grin, eyes still locked on the small display.

”I don’t need to cheat to beat you,” Izan replied coolly, giving a sly smirk before hammering down on a button.

The two burst into muffled laughter just as the stadium roared for a Jorginho interception as the cameras couldn’t resist cutting the live feed to the pair, their hunched figures lit by the glow of the screens.

Arteta, pacing the touchline, happened to glance at the big monitor before his head snapped toward the bench immediately.

The manager’s sharp eyes narrowed, but before he could bark, Saka and Izan had instinctively hidden the devices under their tracksuit jackets, sitting up straight with the innocence of altar boys.

Arteta shook his head slowly, lips twitching at the corner.

He knew better than to waste breath; better to pick his battles.

He turned back toward the field, muttering something to his assistant Carlos Cuesta, who grinned knowingly.

On the pitch, the game’s pace picked up in the final minutes of the half.

Newcastle looked to pounce again as Joelinton, powering through midfield, slipped the ball to Gordon, who was through, only for Jakub Kiwior to stretch and block at full tilt, drawing another ovation.

And, Arsenal, perhaps sensing the interval, pushed back.

Nwaneri dropped deep, collected a simple pass, and with composure beyond his years, slid it into Jorginho’s path.

The Italian took one glance up, sweeping a first-time ball into space for Trossard on the left.

And the Belgian made use of the chance, as he drove forward, shifted it onto his right foot, and curled toward the far post.

The Emirates held its breath, hoping to see the ball in the back of the net, but it brushed the outside of the post and skidded into the advertising boards.

Gasps turned into appreciative applause, a chorus of ”ooohs” followed by chants of Trossard’s name.

”That was close!” the commentator exclaimed, his voice alive with the rhythm of the moment.

”Trossard inches away from giving the champions a lead on the stroke of half-time. He’s been such a reliable figure this season, and he almost produced another highlight there.”

The referee’s whistle followed seconds later, signalling the end of a half that had been more about atmosphere than scoreboard.

Arsenal’s makeshift side had bent but not broken, with flashes of promise and plenty of grit.

Newcastle had threatened, yes, but the crowd wasn’t restless.

In fact, they seemed to enjoy every second, the chanting never dying down as the cameras lingered on the Arsenal bench where the players jogged off.

”Half-time at the Emirates,” the commentator concluded.

”It’s goalless, but who’s really keeping count tonight? Arsenal are already champions, their youngsters showing their fight, Newcastle looking sharp but denied by some determined defending, and we’ve still got another forty-five minutes for the party to continue.”

And when the Emirates had barely settled back into their seats after the break, the murmurs of conversation began circling through the stands.

Everyone knew what they wanted most.

The football was fine, the atmosphere even better, but that wasn’t what they had paid to see.

The real prize sat waiting under a velvet cover somewhere in the stadium: the Premier League trophy, and that was what they wanted.

”I just want them to blow through this and get to the lifting,” one fan muttered to his mate, voice carrying faintly through the concourse microphones.

”We’ve waited too long for this moment.”

”Same,” the friend agreed, scarf wrapped around his shoulders.

”But still... wouldn’t hurt if they finished it with a win. Parade feels better after three points.”

Down on the pitch, the players emerged for the second half, with no visible changes to the lineups from both teams and as the referee’s whistle pierced the evening air, the game restarted.

But it didn’t take long for everyone inside the stadium to sense a change.

Newcastle weren’t strolling anymore; they weren’t treating it like a pre-season kickabout.

Perhaps, their pride had clearly been stung, because Howe’s side pressed higher, the front line chasing down Arsenal’s makeshift defence with added bite.

Bruno Guimarães snapped into tackles while Tonali pushed further forward with Gordon drifting into dangerous pockets of space.

Arsenal, brave as they were, began to look stretched.

In the 52nd minute, Livramento twisted past Zinchenko to cut back inside and let one fly, forcing Neto into a full-stretch save that drew gasps from the crowd.

But it didn’t end there as moments later, Wislon ghosted behind Kiwior, only to drag his effort narrowly wide.

”Arsenal need to steady themselves here,” the co-commentator remarked, tone tightening.

”This is Newcastle playing with wounded pride. They won’t want headlines tomorrow saying they couldn’t score against this Arsenal team that looks like their second team.”

The wave of black-and-white pressure built and built, and finally, it broke through.

Tonali, given too much time in midfield, spotted the run and sent a looping ball over the top.

Gordon peeled off the shoulder, perfectly timing his movement.

The ball dropped, and with one instinctive swing of his right foot, the English international met it flush on the volley, without a thought.

The ball whistled towards goal and arrowed past Neto, with the Spaniard’s fingertips brushing it in vain as the ball slammed into the far corner.

The away section erupted, thankful for the goal because even if they were not in contention for the league, European football was still on the line.

”And Newcastle have the lead!” the commentator roared, the sound rising above the groans of the home faithful.

”A sensational strike from Anthony Gordon, meeting it first time on the volley, and finally the resistance is broken.”

The camera cut quickly to the Arsenal bench, and behind them, some of the fans in the stands were still singing, still clapping their side on, but the reality had sunk in.

Arsenal were behind.

The title wasn’t in doubt, but nobody wanted to see the coronation come after a defeat.

”Make no mistake,” the co-commentator added, ”Arsenal will lift that trophy today. But you can bet the players and fans would rather do it with a result to match the occasion, not a loss.”

On the touchline, Arteta reacted immediately, spinning toward the bench.

Bukayo Saka pulled off his jacket, stretching his arms as the assistant readied his bib while others like Merino and Havertz joined.

But the cameras couldn’t resist lingering a moment longer on Izan.

Still sat back, still calm, hands folded in his lap.

The 17-year-old made no move to stand.

He knew his role tonight wasn’t on the grass but to save the legs for what mattered most: the finals still waiting on the horizon.

Still, he wasn’t going to leave the Emirates without touching the ball.