God Of football

Chapter 865: The Goal To Put Them Ahead.

Arsenal, after the early retention of possession, had found their breath.

And at the centre of it all, like he usually was, Izan.

He played like he could see the game in layers, never rushing and always aware.

When Rice collected deep and looked unsure, Izan was already dropping into space between the lines, calling for it.

When he received the ball, he didn’t just control it, turning his shoulder instead, glancing up, and guiding play like a conductor easing into a symphony.

”Arsenal have started to find their flow here,” the commentator observed.

”And it’s Izan, everything seems to be going through him, much more than usual today.”

And a few seconds later, he proved why it was such.

He shifted past Enzo, flicking a disguised pass into Ødegaard, who turned it first time to Saka on the right.

Saka, back in the starting lineup in a while, drove forward, cutting inside, drawing a defender, before laying it back to Izan again at the edge of the box, the ball moving sharply than intended.

Still, Izan stretched and got to it before curling a right-footed strike towards the top left corner.

The ball zoomed past bodies, making its way for its intended spot, but perhaps Izan’s contact imbued the ball with so much curve that it clipped the outside of the left post, a gasp bursting from the Arsenal end of the stadium.

Sánchez was still diving when the ball bounced out of play, his outstretched arm nowhere near it.

”Oh, that’s inches away!” the co-commentator breathed. ”What a hit — Robert Sánchez was beaten all ends up.”

Izan just exhaled, shaking his head before turning towards Saka and showing the latter a thumbs up.

Chelsea, rattled but composed, tried to respond.

Palmer drifted inward, linking with Nkunku and Andrey Santos, forcing Arsenal backwards for a spell.

They moved it well, working a clever passage down the left that ended with Cucurella overlapping and cutting a cross low toward Liam Delap, but Saliba read it in time, sliding across to cut the ball out, clearing his lines before the former could pounce.

”Good move, Chelsea,” came the commentary. ”But Liam Delap just couldn’t get to it.”

The clearance only made it as far as Cole Palmer, who tried a hit from distance, but Raya caught it cleanly, holding onto the ball and trying to relieve the pressure off his mates.

Within seconds, Arsenal were back in control.

Izan again dropped deep to collect, spreading play from the base of the circle.

He drew in pressure, toyed with it, then slipped between two blue shirts and lifted a pass over the top for Havertz.

The German took it down beautifully, but Colwill recovered just in time to block the shot.

”Oh, that should have been the first goal of the game, but a lovely ball from Izan to set Havertz through,” the commentator said, almost laughing. ”He just sees things differently, doesn’t he?”

And he did.

Over the next stretch, Izan became a constant hum beneath the match, pulling the strings and linking everything Arsenal did.

His movement dictated how Chelsea pressed, and his confidence seemed to infect the rest of the team.

Every time he got the ball, the pitch tilted forward.

He fed Martinelli twice in quick succession, once slipping him through with a disguised reverse pass that forced Sánchez into a near-post save, and another time with a lofted diagonal that the Brazilian volleyed just over.

Then he turned play back central, drawing out the press before shifting left and releasing Lewis-Skelly, who crossed deep toward Havertz, but Chelsea scrambled to clear the German’s efforts.

The noise was relentless now.

The fans in red were up, singing, sensing momentum.

Even those in blue could feel the heat at their backs as Arsenal edged closer and closer to putting the back of the net.

At the half-hour mark, Izan picked up the ball near the halfway line again, taking two steps forward, before opening up his body, moving inch by inch towards the Chelsea goal.

But then, as if deciding that the little distance he had gone was enough, he let fly from distance, catching Robert Sanchez and his defence off guard.

The strike dipped late, clipping the right post this time, ricocheting across the face of the goal and then hitting the left post before spinning out for a goal kick.

”Oh, he’s hit the other post now!” the commentator exclaimed in disbelief.

”What an audacious strike that very nearly changed the scoreline of the game. You cannot get that closer without scoring.”

Saka clapped toward him, grinning and urging the fans behind the goal on.

The camera caught Arteta on the touchline too, hands together, shouting something that sounded more like encouragement than instruction.

By the thirtieth minute, Chelsea were still holding, but Arsenal were the side shaping the rhythm.

”This young man,” the commentator said as the camera zoomed in on Izan jogging back into position after a wasted chance by Chelsea.

”Is close to putting the ball into the back of the net one way or another, and you can feel it.”

A man somewhere in the lower stands leaned forward, speaking to the person beside him and half to himself.

”A goal’s got to come soon,” he said, shaking his head.

”Can’t waste a half like this. It’s been all Arsenal.”

Almost as if the pitch heard him, the crowd suddenly lifted, the noise swelling.

Up ahead, Saka stood over a throw-in with Izan moving toward him.

Saka launched it short, and Izan met it with a flick, a burst of instinct and confidence, lifting the ball over Andrey Santos, who had tried to sneak up on the former, but the Brazilian midfielder spun instead, caught off guard, as Izan steadied himself, pulling the ball down with his chest.

Then, in one motion, he turned and swept it diagonally across the pitch, a perfect arc toward the far side.

”Lovely switch,” the commentator breathed over the broadcast.

”Martinelli’s in space here.”

Martinelli cushioned it with his right foot, the ball obedient beneath his touch.

Gusto was closing in, low stance, ready to challenge.

But before he could, Izan was already on the move, charging across the width of the field, calling for it.

”Look at Izan, he’s still running and wants it back!”

Martinelli fed it into him, and Izan, without even pausing, returned the ball with a deft flick of his instep.

It was football’s poetry in motion, each touch perfectly timed as Martinelli darted forward again, exchanging another pass with Izan, who slipped between the lines and took it back just as he entered the box.

Everything seemed to slow as the defenders turned, finally knowing who to follow as Izan drew back his leg.

The defenders cut in, hoping to block the pass they expected, but then, he struck towards the goal instead, low, clean and curling toward the far post.

The ball kissed the turf, bent around the outstretched fingertips of Sánchez, and nestled into the bottom right corner, the stadium erupting with it.

”IZANNN! Oh, that is magnificent!” the commentator shouted, voice bursting with life.

”A goal that’s been coming, and it’s the young man again who delivers it! Arsenal lead in New York!”

Scarves lifted, voices collided into one thunderous road and on the pitch, Izan barely reacted at first, just slowing as he turned toward the corner flag, eyes closed, letting the sound wash over him.

Then he broke into a sprint, sliding feet-first, the turf spraying behind him until he came to rest flat on his back near the flag.

For a second, he just stayed there, staring up at the lights, bright and blinding, cutting through the mist, before raising a single finger to the sky as his teammates rushed toward him, forming a circle of red above his sprawled frame, their cheers drowned by the chaos from the stands.

”Brilliant, absolutely brilliant,” the co-commentator added, still in awe.

”Such a well-worked passing sequence with Martinelli and then a finish to match.”

”You watch him,” he said, ”and you forget sometimes how young he is.”

The crowd’s song carried on as the Chelsea players stood idly, with Robert Sanchez picking the ball out of the net and passing it forward for the restart.

Izan, on the other hand, finally sat up, smiling faintly as his teammates patted his head and shoulders.

He rose, brushed the turf from his shirt, and pointed toward the red section of the crowd where a group of supporters had been waving a banner with his name, raising his hands and telling them to raise the noise.

”Arsenal one,” the commentator recapped, voice steady but alive with awe.

”Chelsea nil. And it’s that boy Izan, the heartbeat of this team, who’s broken the deadlock in the Club World Cup semi-final.”

The broadcast cut to Arteta clapping on the touchline, a rare grin breaking across his face.

Then it shifted back to the pitch as Chelsea lined up for the restart.