God Of football

Chapter 804: Football Is So Much More.

The reporter who had been chosen rose awkwardly, smoothing the creases of his shirt before adjusting his glasses.

He cleared his throat, voice carrying just enough to be picked up by the microphones scattered across the desks.

”Good evening, Hansi. Karl-Heinz Becker, Kicker. I wanted to ask—how do you view this matchup against Arsenal? And, if I may add, there’s been much discussion in the media about Arteta’s methods, particularly the so-called ’Marathon Session’ he held with his players. What’s your opinion on that approach?”

A ripple of murmurs stirred through the room, several heads turning as pens began to scribble quickly against notepads.

The reference to Arteta’s extreme training had been a headline magnet all week, and many wanted to hear the take of the opposing coach, and possibly a scoop or

Hansi Flick leaned back slightly in his chair, his hands steepled in front of him, his gaze calm but steady. He waited a beat before answering, letting the anticipation in the room settle into silence.

”The matchup itself,” he began, his German accent clipped yet measured, ”is between two teams who have earned their place here. Arsenal are strong, very strong, compact, disciplined, but also expressive in the final third.

We know their strengths, we know their threats, and we also know our own. Tomorrow, it will not be about who has the better ideas on paper, but about execution, mentality, and small details.”

He paused to take a sip of water before continuing, his eyes flicking briefly toward the rows of journalists.

”As for Mikel’s methods,” Flick said carefully, ”I can only speak for myself. Every coach has their way of preparing their team. Some learned from Guardiola, some from Klopp, others from different schools of thought.

But in the end, you are not your mentor—you must develop your own approach. If Mikel believes that pushing his players in such a way benefits them, then that is his responsibility.

My job is not to critique but to respect. Coaches are not the same; what works for me may not work for him, and what works for him may not work for me.”

The words were calm, diplomatic, but they carried the authority of someone who had been around long enough to choose his words carefully.

Flick gave a small, tight smile as he leaned back, signalling that was the end of his answer.

The reporter gave a small nod of thanks and sank back into his chair, pen already scratching notes.

From there, the questions came thick and fast.

One journalist asked about whether Barcelona’s recent win in the league and the eagerness to match the wonderful performances would weigh on the team psychologically.

Flick responded with his usual composure, emphasising the importance of compartmentalisation, that a final is its own occasion, detached from league context.

Another pressed about Arsenal’s high pressing line, and Flick replied that Barcelona had prepared for various scenarios, refusing to divulge details.

But then came the shift.

A Spanish reporter, younger than the rest, stood with an almost mischievous glint in his eyes.

His voice rang out clearly across the room, his question pointed and designed to stir.

”Lamine,” he began, ”tomorrow you face Arsenal and their young star, Izan Miura Hernández. There has been much debate in Spain and England about the two of you, two teenagers carrying enormous expectations. So I must ask... who do you think is better: you, or Izan?”

The room seemed to freeze.

Chairs creaked as bodies leaned forward.

Heads turned sharply, cameras whirred to life with a new urgency, and suddenly, all eyes weren’t on Flick anymore.

They were on Lamine Yamal, the teenager shifting slightly in his seat, the question dangling in the air like bait.

The moderator glanced nervously at Flick, but didn’t interject.

For a moment,Yamal’s lips pressed together, his fingers drumming lightly against the table.

He was used to being asked about pressure, about records, about his age, but this? This was different.

Reporters had asked him about Izan before, but not about who’s better between the two, at least not outright like this.

The teenager glanced sideways at Flick, who remained motionless, his expression unreadable, almost as if silently telling him: This is your battle to handle.

Yamal took in a quiet breath, then leaned toward the microphone.

”Better?” he repeated, a small laugh escaping his lips, not dismissive but genuine, as though he couldn’t quite believe the bluntness of the question.

”I don’t know if it’s about being better. Izan is... how do I put this... he’s special. We’ve all seen what he can do. He’s fast, strong, technical, and clever with the ball. For me, it’s not about who is better; it’s about being ourselves. If I try to be Izan, I will definitely lose. If he tries to be me, maybe he loses, maybe he doesn’t. But tomorrow, it’s not one against one. It’s Barcelona against Arsenal.”

His words drew a ripple of murmurs across the room.

Some reporters nodded approvingly, others scribbled faster, already crafting their headlines.

But the press never stayed satisfied for long.

Another hand shot up from the front row, and before the moderator could choose, the question came rolling out, loud and insistent.

”Lamine! But surely you have an opinion. People call you the future of Spain, but it is Izan who has been listed as some as the crown jewel of football. Do you think you’re ahead of him right now?”

A small smile tugged at Yamal’s mouth.

He leaned back, scratching the side of his neck, buying time with the awkwardness only a 17-year-old could make feel authentic.

”Maybe people outside think like that,” he said slowly, ”ranking us, comparing us. But when you’re on the pitch, it’s not about rankings. It’s about moments. Tomorrow, he could score two goals, or I could. Or neither of us. It doesn’t mean suddenly one is better forever. Football doesn’t work like that.”

”If we were to go the numbers route, then no, I am not close to Izan because he has close to 100G/A in all competitions, while I have just 47. But football is much more than numbers.”

Flick gave the faintest nod beside him, approving of the balance Yamal struck.

But the reporters smelled blood now, sensing the young man was opening up.

A woman near the middle raised her voice next, her Spanish accent carrying firmly:

”Alright, but if you had to pick, just for fun, who is taking the trophy home tomorrow? You, or Izan?”

The room broke into chuckles, a rare moment of levity in an otherwise tense buildup.

Even Yamal laughed, shaking his head.

”I mean... if I sit here and say ’Arsenal,’ I’ll have to walk back into the dressing room tonight and explain myself to the other guys, and I don’t think I might leave here without an explanation to the boss.”

He grinned, letting the room share in the joke.

”So no, I’ll say Barcelona. We’re here for the Champions League. Not just for me, not just for Izan. For the badge.”

That earned a round of polite applause, though the journalists weren’t finished. Another fired in quickly, piggybacking off the momentum.

”Do you feel pressure being seen as the one who must match Izan? Tomorrow, the world will be comparing every touch, every dribble, every shot. Does that weigh on you?”

This time, Yamal’s expression sobered.

He leaned forward again, his elbows resting on the table, his voice steady but lower, more reflective.

”Pressure? Of course. I’m 17. People talk about me like I’ve already played 10 seasons. But I try to remember that football is still a game. I play because I love it.

If I start thinking every touch is a comparison, every move is a battle against Izan, I lose the joy. And without joy, what’s the point? The best players in history, Messi, Neymar, Ronaldinho and Ronaldo, played with freedom. That’s what I want. Tomorrow, if I smile on the pitch, then I know I’m doing something right.”

There was a silence after his words, one that carried more weight than anything he’d said before.

The young man’s honesty had cut through the tension, showing not arrogance but maturity beyond his years.

The moderator tried to interject, but another question rang out from the back.

”Lamine, you spoke about Messi, Iniesta, and Ronaldinho. Do you see yourself in that line already, or are you still chasing it?”

The teenager blinked, then smiled faintly, a humility slipping back into his tone.

”No, no. I’m still learning. Messi is Messi. Iniesta is Iniesta. Legends. I am just Lamine, trying to grow. Maybe one day I will reach close to them, but not now. Not yet.”

His answer softened the tension, drawing murmurs of approval again.

But just as the mood lightened, another reporter raised his hand, the inevitable question firing across the hall.

”Final one for me, Lamine. Tomorrow, all eyes will be on you and Izan. Do you want this final to prove to the world that you are the best young player in football right now?”

The question lingered, the sharpest one yet, and Yamal didn’t rush his answer.

He exhaled slowly, his eyes flicking down to the table before lifting toward the mass of faces and cameras.

”No,” he said at last, firmly. ”Tomorrow is not about proving who is the best young player. It’s about proving Barcelona can lift the trophy again. If I play well and we lose, nobody remembers. If I play badly and we win, the trophy still comes home. That’s what matters. That’s why I’m here.”

The room buzzed with activity, flashes snapping, pens scratching, but Yamal didn’t flinch.

He sat back in his chair, gaze calm, as though he had shouldered the storm of questions and come out intact.

Beside him, Flick allowed the smallest of smiles to curl across his lips before the moderator finally stepped in, raising his hands.

”Alright, that’s enough for today. Thank you, everyone. We’ll see you tomorrow.”