God Of football

Chapter 940: Writing On The Silver.

The noise inside the stadium had settled into something close to resignation.

Arsenal were two goals up in the European Super Cup final, and the rhythm of the match had shifted to a place Tottenham couldn’t seem to reach, and the commentators couldn’t help it.

”Arsenal leading by two in a game of this magnitude... Tottenham just don’t look like they know where the answers are coming from,” Drury said, the edge of disbelief still there from the earlier goals.

On the pitch, Kevin Danso took the ball on the edge of his box and cleared it with far more force than direction.

It wasn’t a pass.

It was frustration disguised as a defensive choice.

The ball dropped near the halfway line, and bodies crashed into each other as both sides tried to get control.

The ball ended up at Izan’s feet.

And the moment it did, the noise in the stadium dimmed.

It was small at first, like a ripple across water, but it lingered as he burst forward, cutting through the gap between Tottenham’s midfielders, and the noise grew again.

Drury caught it instantly.

”He’s off again. This feels dangerous... it feels like the kind of moment we’ve already seen tonight and time again.”

Izan hadn’t even reached the penalty area before Danso charged in from behind.

No hesitation, no disguise, no attempt to hide his intention.

Izan’s legs went from under him, and he hit the turf hard before the whistle came sharply, but so did the reaction.

Arsenal players sprinted toward the scene, pushing past Tottenham shirts.

Shoves flew in every direction as words turned into hands grabbing collars.

Someone tried to drag someone else back.

Someone else tried to step between two players who clearly didn’t want to be separated.

Izan though, sat up on the grass with a quiet wince in his expression, rubbing his elbow and taking a slow breath.

The referee waded in after a while, clearing both sides and pointing straight at Danso before handing the latter a yellow card.

”Danso, with a tackle to set the town, but he’s just gone for the man in a late and reckless challenge, and this is very much a sign of how rattled Tottenham are. You can tell exactly who he wanted to send a message to, but I do not think that will do them any good,”

Izan rose to his feet with a short nod toward the physio who hovered near the touchline, then waved him off.

He walked to the ball and placed it down for the restart.

”Izan, restarts. Not a reaction from him despite being the person subjected to that challenge,” Drury said as Izan got the return ball from Timber.

Danso stepped up again, and this time, he went for the ball.

He actually got close enough to make it look like a fair challenge, but Izan shifted to his right, rolled the ball under his sole, dragged it away with the outside of his boot, then pulled it back across his body.

Danso’s footing gave way.

Once.

Twice.

He tried to recover, but Izan feinted again, and Danso slipped onto the grass completely, scrambling on hands and knees while Izan turned away with the ball still glued to his foot.

Even a few Tottenham players winced as Drury’s voice rose, half awe, half alarm.

”Oh no... no, no, no. He cannot do this to him again.”

Before the commentary could settle, Izan threaded a pass forward with the kind of delicacy that made the entire stadium inhale.

It curled, straightened, then slowed at the perfect moment.

The ball rolled into Saka’s path as if someone had measured the distance with a ruler.

Vicario rushed out, arms wide, while the commentary got caught up in words to say, but before they could conjure anything up, Saka twisted his hips in the opposite direction of his strong foot, leaning slightly to sell the wrong angle, then wrapped his boot around the ball and sent it rising and bending around the keeper.

It arced over Vicario, dipped under the bar, and brushed the net with the kind of softness that only made the finish crueler.

3–0. Arsenal and Drury didn’t wait for anything.

”More and more and more. They are running riot. This is astonishing. Arsenal are running away with the Super Cup as Saka makes it three, and Tottenham are falling apart at the seams!”

Saka sprinted toward the Arsenal end, where the roar met him halfway.

He slowed near the advertising boards, arms out, and somewhere in the chaos, a fan hurled a Tottenham shirt toward him.

Whether it was planned or pure coincidence, no one knew, but Saka caught it without breaking tune.

For a second, he looked at it.

Then he wiped the soles of his boots with it, one after the other, quick and deliberate.

The reaction was immediate.

Tottenham fans exploded in anger.

Some surged forward until stewards stepped in while on the pitch, Van de Ven stormed up to Saka with his hands out in warning, shaking his head and saying something sharp.

Other Spurs players followed, crowding around him, but they weren’t the only ones.

Arsenal shirts arrived in equal numbers, pulling Saka back, pushing others away, ready to match any trouble Tottenham wanted to start.

”This is chaos. Absolute chaos. You can feel the fury inside this stadium. Saka may have just lit a fuse he cannot control, but this is turning out to be something more than just a game.”

The referee finally broke through the cluster of players and pulled Saka back by his wrist, dragging him away from the touchline.

After a brief exchange, the card came out, to which Saka nodded fairly, shaking hands with the referee before walking away.

”Caution for Saka,” Drury said. ”The right call, no matter how wild this is becoming. Arsenal have the scoreline, but the temperature in this stadium is red hot now.”

Saka shrugged, nodded once, and jogged back toward his teammates, who applauded him as if he had just planted a flag on the moon while the Spurs supporters raged behind the barriers.

”Arsenal three up. Tottenham rattled. And the European Super Cup final has never felt further from their reach.”

The chants didn’t let up.

They rolled from one end of the stadium to the other, sometimes clashing while Richarlison stood over the ball at the restart.

His boots were planted too firmly, like he needed the ground to hold him together.

He glanced back toward his own half and found the same picture he’d been seeing all night.

Nothing but teammates waiting for him to play it backwards again for the fourth time since kick-off.

He hesitated with his foot resting lightly beside the ball.

His shoulders sagged a little while the expression on his face looked like someone had quietly pulled him aside and told him Santa didn’t think he needed gifts this year.

Behind him, Arsenal’s supporters sensed it.

The taunting started immediately, sharp and rhythmic, bouncing through the stands with a kind of gleeful cruelty.

Tottenham fans tried to drown them out, but even their attempts sounded strained.

Every chant from the red end felt like a reminder of what was happening on the scoreboard.

”Richarlison looks absolutely beaten there. Every time the game restarts, they seem to go backwards more and more. Not a very good day for the men in white and navy.”

The referee stepped in with one short whistle, crisp and high as Richarlison finally nudged the ball back to Bentacur, who was instantly pressed by two red shirts.

Tottenham tried to string two passes together but couldn’t get out.

The press snapped tight, forced a turnover, and the stadium’s noise surged again as Drury’s tone dropped, almost resigned.

”It’s all heading in one direction at the moment. Tottenham don’t look like they have the belief, let alone the plan, to climb their way back from this.”

Tottenham shuffled the ball from one side to the other like a team trying to avoid eye contact with the situation.

Another forced long ball.

Another clearance swallowed up by Saliba as if it had been passed straight to him.

Every second of it fed the confidence of the Arsenal players and fans, who were looking more and more like the victors despite the second half not even being played.

On the sideline, Thomas Frank folded his arms, eyes keenly staring at the scene of defeated men in front of him.

He looked like a man recalculating a route after taking a wrong turn and seeing a dead end ahead.

”Thirty-seven minutes played,” Drury came again, ”And I’ll be honest, this feels finished already. Arsenal are in complete control of the European Super Cup final. Tottenham have no foothold, no momentum, no sign of a spark. It is only the first half, but the writing is already on the wall.”