God Of football

Chapter 800: Long Morning.

The players finally bunched up in a loose circle, breath fogging in the cool Munich air, their chatter fading when Arteta stepped into the middle.

The coach of the north London club pulled his jacket tighter against the breeze, squinting at the group like he was measuring each of them.

”It’s cold,” he began, his voice steady, carrying easily over the quiet.

”But you’re not going to remember the cold.”

He paused, letting their eyes stick on him.

”Because very soon, you’ll feel the heat.”

A couple of players shifted while others, like Saka, pressed his lips together like he wanted to make a comment but thought better of it.

The rest, like Izan, just folded their arms, waiting.

Arteta let the silence breathe before continuing, pacing slowly in front of them.

”We didn’t come to Munich for sightseeing. We didn’t come here to count days or just pass time. We came here for the Champions League final and nothing else.”

”And that’s why, up until now, I haven’t asked you to do any real training. No tactical overload. No drills. No sessions that pull at your energy. Because I don’t want fatigue, not physical, not mental. Not even emotional. You keep yourselves light until the moment you need to be heavy.”

Some heads nodded in understanding as they finally saw the reason for the odd schedule.

Ødegaard gave the smallest flicker of a smile, like he already knew what was coming.

”But now,” Arteta said, his voice rising a notch, ”now it changes. You’ve had your recovery. You’ve had your calm. And now I need to know,” he tapped a finger against his temple, then his chest ”, if you can hold both your mind and your body together when it starts to burn. When it feels impossible. When Munich is pushing down on you and you still have to rise.”

The players stayed silent, caught in the weight of his words.

Arteta straightened, almost casual again.

”Ten minutes,” he said, his tone clipped now, business-like.

”Go back to the coach. Open your bags and get your trainers on, because when you get back here,” he pointed at the track circling the training field, ”you are going to run the lap of your lives.”

The words left the players itching, as if looking to take Arteta on, on the challenge he was about to throw at them.

They started moving toward the bus without much hesitation.

Izan stayed back for a moment, looking at Arteta, then at the field ahead, before finally turning to follow the others.

........

Away from the players and in the streets was quiet that morning, tucked into one of Munich’s calmer neighbourhoods as the sun was already beginning to stretch across the tiled rooftops.

A man in his late fifties stepped out of his modest townhouse, cradling a green plastic watering can in one hand.

He still wore his slippers that had seen better days, and his cardigan hung open as he made his way down to the row of terracotta pots lining the edge of his little front garden.

He hummed to himself as he tilted the can, sending thin streams of water over the lavender and the marigolds that leaned tiredly toward the light.

It was shaping up to be another ordinary morning, until it wasn’t.

From the corner of his eye, he caught movement.

Fast and rugged.

He straightened, holding the can mid-pour, blinking as a wave of black shirts, with red and green short sleeves, came charging down the street.

At first, he thought it was some sort of local marathon, young men in kits pounding the pavement, trainers slapping in rhythm.

But then he noticed the crest on the shirts.

Arsenal.

It could have been ordinary people who had bought the kits, but they were too orderly and serious to be faking it.

And if that wasn’t enough, the face of the Spanish-Asian boy that had broken hearts the previous year, during the Euros, led the charge, and there was no way he was going to forget that face.

His mouth fell open slightly.

There they were, footballers he’d only ever seen on television, faces that usually lived behind commentary boxes and flashing stadium lights, now running right past his quiet little home like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Aside Izan, he could pick out Saka in the middle of the pack, face relaxed but focused, and behind him, Ødegaard, running like his strides had been measured with a ruler.

Behind them rolled the team coach, creeping forward like a shepherd keeping its flock in line.

And inside, not lounging in the back, not barking from the front, but sitting in the passenger seat beside the driver, was Mikel Arteta.

His eyes didn’t leave the window, sharp and unblinking as he followed the rhythm of his players outside, like every stride told him something.

The man with the watering can still stood frozen, the flowers at his feet now dripping into puddles because he’d tipped too much water without noticing.

He half-raised a hand, as if to wave, but none of the players looked his way, or more so, that they didn’t notice.

Their focus was elsewhere, their breaths thick in the morning air.

Still, Izan did.

”Guten Morgen(Good morning),” he called towards the man, before focusing on his run before the latter could respond.

The coach hummed quietly as it rolled on.

And then, just as quickly as they had arrived, they were gone, vanishing around the bend at the end of the street, leaving only the faint echo of pounding footsteps and the low grumble of the engine behind.

The man exhaled slowly, shaking his head, a half-smile forming on his lips.

He’d only gone outside to water his plants, and instead, he’d seen Arsenal running through his neighbourhood.

For a long moment, he just stood there, the watering can dangling limply from his hand, staring down the empty street before slipping back inside his house.

Eventually, the run wound its way through streets and parks, past sleepy cafés opening for the day, and finally back toward the familiar outline of the sports science centre.

The players slowed as the pavement of Munich gave way to the trimmed grass around the training pitch.

They drew together in a loose group, hands resting on their hips, legs wobbling but still carrying them upright.

From behind them, Arteta stepped out from the coach, brushing down the front of his jacket as he walked across the grass.

His eyes flicked over the group, scanning faces, noting posture.

Then, with a short laugh through his nose, he shook his head.

’

”Well,” he said, voice carrying enough for all of them to hear, ”you’re in better shape than I thought. None of you are dead yet.”

That drew a ripple of chuckles, but most felt too weak to sustain it as Arteta clapped his hands once.

”Good. Now, stretch. Loosen yourselves properly. You think you feel fine now, but a cramp, a tight muscle, one careless step... that can ruin everything. Don’t be lazy.”

The squad spread out across the grass, some collapsing straight into seated hamstring stretches, others forcing themselves to do high knees or calf pulls.

Arteta folded his arms, nodding as he paced in front of them.

”Finish up, then go back. Straight to the hotel. Eat. Rest. You’ve earned it. But at one o’clock, we’re back on it. Midday session, and I don’t want anyone dragging their feet when the time comes.”

Izan, sitting on the grass with one leg stretched out, glanced at his watch after Arteta was done with his words.

The hands read just before ten.

His eyebrows lifted slightly.

Two hours, give or take, that they’d been pounding the streets.

No wonder even Timber, the workhorse after him, looked like he might not mind a nap.

Arteta gave a final wave of his hand toward the trainers, who stepped in with whistles and quiet directions, correcting stretches and pointing players through cooldown drills.

Then the manager turned sharply, already striding back toward the hotel with purpose in his step, leaving his squad in the hands of the staff.

The players grumbled softly as they went through the motions, rolling out shoulders, dropping into lunges, holding stretches until their legs trembled.

The air still carried the chill of morning, but their bodies steamed against it, shirts damp, sweat beading on their temples.

”Couple of hours...” Izan murmured to himself as he pulled his arm across his chest, staring at his watch again.

He exhaled, shaking his head with a faint smile.

Whatever else could be said about Arteta, he knew how to push them without breaking them.

A few minutes later, the trainers blew their whistles again, signalling the end.

And, one by one, the players rose, groaning and muttering about showers and breakfast, already picturing the comfort of hotel rooms.

The long morning was done, but the day was far from over.