God Of football

Chapter 818: Some, Still With Life.

Up in the stands, the hurt was raw.

One of the broadcast cameras swept across faces that had believed, faces that had seen miracles all season long and somehow thought there might still be one more.

But now, as the fourth Barcelona goal rippled the net, you could see it setting in, the stillness, the disbelief and the shudder of broken faith.

An elderly man, scarf half-draped around his neck, just sat there blinking at the pitch, lips parted but no sound coming out.

A father stood with his son in his arms, whispering something like, ”It’s alright, we’ve had a good run,” even though his own voice cracked halfway through.

And then there were the others, the ones who couldn’t bear to stay.

Rows of red began to rise from their seats, shuffling slowly toward the exits, eyes glistening, scarves held against their mouths.

For them, it wasn’t betrayal, it was heartbreak.

They had seen Izan lead them back from bad positions before, had seen him score the impossible, had seen nights that would live forever.

But not tonight.

Not at 4–1.

Not when there were barely sixteen minutes left on the clock.

In the VIP suite, Hori pressed her palms against the glass, her reflection trembling with the city lights below.

She saw the streams of red and white leaving, the half-empty patches appearing in the upper tier, and her voice cracked as she screamed,

”Why are they leaving?! The game’s not over yet!”

Her mother, Komi, caught her arm immediately, pulling her back before she could say more.

”Hori, please, sit down,” she whispered, voice trembling too.

She pressed a hand gently over her daughter’s mouth, partly to quiet her, partly to stop her own sobs from spilling out.

Hori’s eyes filled up.

”They shouldn’t leave...” she murmured, muffled against her mother’s palm. ”They can’t leave now.”

Down below, on the pitch, it was like watching life drain from a body.

The Arsenal players dragged themselves back into position, hollow-eyed and wordless.

Every step looked heavier than the last.

Havertz bent down to retie his boots, not because they were loose, but because it gave him a few seconds to breathe, to hide the tremor in his face.

On the sideline, Martinelli waited for his cue, but even he looked uneasy, torn between wanting to help and wanting to look away from what this had become.

The substitution board flickered, still meaning he couldn’t back out now.

19 in red.. 11 in green.

Trossard’s number in red, his in green.

The Belgian trudged off, gaze fixed on the turf, as Martinelli jogged on, half-heartedly clapping.

He looked around, at the thinning stands, at the bowed heads of his teammates, and for a brief second, you could see doubt in his eyes too.

The chants that had once thundered through the Allianz now drifted like echoes.

Here and there, someone tried to start a ”Come on Arsenal!” chant, but it faded before it could catch on.

The spirit had gone out of the crowd, the same way it had gone out of the team.

Across the pitch, Hansi Flick and his staff were gesturing calmly, no longer anxious, no longer wary.

They’d done their job.

And to make sure of it, the fourth official raised the board again, this time showing Eric García coming on for Lewandowski.

A defensive wall for a dying dream.

The change summed it up: Barcelona tightening the screws, Arsenal out of breath and out of belief.

Back at the centre circle, Havertz placed the ball down as the stadium lights glared off the sweat on his forehead.

He looked to his right, where Izan stood, a bit too unbothered and silent, unreadable.

The whistle blew, sharp and cold as Havertz rolled it forward to the sides.

And Arsenal began again, not in hope anymore, but in defiance, dragging themselves forward into a game that had already left them behind.

.....

It was supposed to be the end.

Barcelona were supposed to win.

That was what everyone thought, even me.

But that day, under the glaring Munich lights, I saw something different.

I saw why they called him the God of Football.

And for the first time, that title didn’t sound absurd.

It sounded earned.

———

”Eighty minutes gone,” Peter Drury’s voice came through, rich and solemn over the rising hum of the Allianz Arena.

”Barcelona four, Arsenal one. Time... slipping away, thought most of us doubt if anything could really come of these remaining few minutes.”

Declan Rice rolled the ball toward Izan near the halfway line, where the Spaniard took it under control, glancing up once.

The whole Barcelona shape shifted instinctively, as Gavi, on for Olmo, pressed in from behind, but Izan released the ball first time, switching play diagonally to the right.

Timber received it and immediately cycled it back to Saliba, who turned his head once before chipping it toward Myles Lewis-Skelly.

The youngster took it down well but found himself crowded by blue and red shirts, forcing a lobbed attempt to escape the press, but Koundé rose high, clearing with a thudding header that sent the ball spinning back toward the halfway line.

Izan jogged forward, slowing near the sideline where Martinelli stood waiting for a throw.

”Gabi,” he said, voice low, steady, ”I’ll put you through. Drive to the byline. Don’t cut in. Just cross.”

Martinelli’s eyes flicked to the captain’s armband, which stretched tight around Izan’s arm, still glistening under the floodlights.

For a heartbeat, his chest rose and fell, the doubt in him almost visible.

Then he nodded once, firm. ”Alright.”

The ball came back into play as Lewis-Skelly tossed it to Rice, who, without hesitation, zipped a pass back across to Izan.

Yamal pressed immediately, forcing the angle, his body closing the line of escape, but Izan barely looked up.

With a sudden flick, the ball snaked around Yamal’s boot, an elástico, fluid as water, before he pivoted on his heel, dragging the ball to the opposite side and sending a bending, perfect pass that whirled through the Munich air.

The ball curved around García and dropped precisely into Martinelli’s stride, who took it on without thinking.

”It seems not all of them are dead!” Tyler broke in, half-shocked, half-thrilled as Martinelli raced down the flank.

The Brazilian drove straight to the byline, glanced up once, and whipped a cross in.

It was a wicked delivery, low, fast, and dangerous, but Cubarsi met it with a desperate header, clearing the danger.

”A futile chance,” Drury sighed. ”And yet... the pulse flickers.”

Izan jogged toward Martinelli again.

His face was calm, but there was a quiet sharpness in his eyes, something restless beneath the stillness.

”Again,” he said, motioning with two fingers. ”Throw.”

Martinelli nodded, no hesitation this time, grabbing the ball.

He hurled it in quick, straight to Izan’s feet and with one motion, Izan flicked it up and over Kounde, who had sneaked up behind him.

Normally, the gasps would have rang out after the move, but even hearing a chant from the Arsenal end would be a blessing in the moment.

Martinelli caught it in stride, darting down the line again and curling a high cross this time, one that hung in the air just long enough for Havertz to rise.

But again, Inigo Martínez appeared.

The veteran met it cleanly, heading the ball away with authority as Barcelona broke immediately.

Pedri snatched it in midfield, skipping past Rice before threading a neat through ball to Raphinha.

And the counter was on.

Raphinha tore forward with Timber chasing, the Allianz or the Barcelona fans, rising to their feet again.

The Brazilian cut inside, a move he’d used to destroy defenders all night, setting himself for the shot, but then, in a flash of red, Izan appeared.

He had sprinted the entire length of the pitch, and the slide tackle came perfectly timed, studs grazing grass, clipping the ball right off Raphinha’s boot as the touch spun the ball backwards into Saliba’s path.

Saliba trapped it, looked up, and before he could even decide, Izan was already there, one hand raised, demanding it back.

Saliba obeyed that raised hand, sweeping the ball forward, hard, fast, and clean, but in that moment, the stadium, which was already silent, went quieter for reasons no one could explain.

The pitch seemed to tilt under his sprint as he began, as garnet and blue shirts chased shadows.

”And here he goes, Izan Miura Hernández, on the charge, suddenly full of life!” Peter Drury’s voice lifted, barely keeping up with the rhythm of his strides.

De Jong lunged to cut him off, timing his tackle perfectly, or so it seemed, but Izan just shifted, rolling the ball with the outside of his boot and slipping past the Dutchman like smoke through fingers.

”Frenkie left reaching! That’s magnificent balance!” Tyler added, his tone rising with disbelief.

Izan didn’t even glance back.

His stride stayed unbroken, smooth, low, fast as Gavi tried to recover, sprinting across to drag him wide, but Izan brushed him off with a shoulder dip, then lifted his chin and spotted Martinelli bursting down the left flank.

The pass was a bullet, angled and weighted to perfection, cutting diagonally through two defenders and splitting open Barcelona’s right side.

”Arsenal are away! It’s Martinelli!” Drury’s voice swelled as the Brazilian picked up speed.

A collision that echoed across the pitch.

Eric García, who had sprinted in headlong to close the space, came crashing through Izan’s shoulder and hip, sending both players tumbling to the grass.

”Oh, that’s clumsy! That’s late!” Tyler exclaimed, the replay freezing mid-air on the big screen above.

”And the counter looked so promising...”

The referee’s whistle split the roar of the crowd as both players lay on the turf for a second, but then Izan got up.

”You should check up on him,” he muttered, turning towards Eric Garcia on the floor.