God Of football

Chapter 1018: Uncharacteristic!

In the tunnels at the Mercedes-Benz Stadium, now the Atlanta Stadium, 22 players were lined up and waiting because of the World Cup.

Silence, something not really expected in that setting, was something that rang out through the whole tunnel.

It was something that was supposed to be impossible with 71,000+ fans above you yelling their lungs out, but somehow, it was.

The number 10 gleamed enviously on his back, reminding people of what one had to put into carrying that number, but that wasn’t all.

The armband weighed on his left arm, showing what one had to be to carry that responsibility of sorts, and at 18 no less.

The Cape Verde players were stunned to say the least.

How can an 18-year-old make them feel so......less!

But they did, and until they left the tunnel, there was no escaping it.

They just had to face it, head on, just like what was coming.

The person in question, Izan, felt the stares but chose to ignore them and instead looked back down the line behind him.

Pedri.

Rodri.

Porro.

Cubarsi.

Lamine.

They all did what they could to get rid of all the pent-up tension and stress in their muscles.

Men with a mission.

That was the only viable description for them if one ever decided to do so, but as all this went on, the match officials settled at the mouth of the tunnel with the whisk of their hands, and both sides walked out behind him.

”UAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH—”

The sound that came down from the stands wasn’t something you could prepare for, even if you’d heard it before.

Somewhere in the wall of noise, individual voices broke through for just a moment.

”IZAN MARRY ME!”

”I LOVE YOU, SPAIN!”

And then the deeper, rhythmic swell underneath all of it —

”VIVA LA ESPANA, VIVA LA ESPANA!!!”

For Izan, there was something about this crowd that he couldn’t quite place as he led.

The mix of it, Spanish voices, the Portuguese voices, the American ones and voices that belonged to neither but to everything at the same time.

Aside from the holy cocktail of languages being spoken, the stadium gave him a feeling.

One that he hadn’t felt since he made his debut at the Mestalla.

Back to being fifteen and running out in front of a crowd that had decided to love him before he’d done anything to earn it yet.

It had all felt so big at that time, but time flew.

He blinked, and he was back in Atlanta.

Up in the stands, eyes were drifting to his arm.

You could see it on the broadcast too, the cameras finding it, settling on it, and the commentator’s voice coming in over the top.

”And there it is. The armband. It was confirmed two days ago, but seeing it is something else entirely. Izan Hernandez Miura, eighteen years old, is captaining Spain at the World Cup. The youngest player ever to captain a side at the greatest tournament in dare I say, humane history. Eighteen years old.”

The main commentator took a moment, as his partner took over for him for a second.

”I mean, what do we even say?”

As the commentary went on, the cameras around the stadium found his face.

His hair was pulled back into something that was more suggestion than bun, as the sides fell loose and left a few strands across his forehead.

The cameraman, seeing the switch to his feed, went up so close to Izan that the latter had to lean back for a second with a smile still plastered across his face.

”First World Cup for so many of these players. First World Cup for Yamal, for Cubarsí, for Huijsen. For Izan, and what a stage to walk onto for the first time.”

The toss went to Cape Verde.

Their captain looked at Izan across the centre circle, said something to the referee, and elected Spain to kick off.

Izan nodded, turned, and walked back to his teammates, who were already pulling into a huddle, but he didn’t join.

He stood just outside it, a step back, staring toward the Cape Verde half with the blank expression of someone whose mind was already somewhere the rest of the people around him hadn’t reached yet.

A few of his teammates glanced at him.

They were all waiting for him, but then Rodri’s voice came from the middle of the huddle, breaking the silence.

”I don’t know what’s going on in his head,” he said, nodding toward Izan without making it a big thing.

”But whatever it is, he’s going to come through. He always does. So let’s just do our jobs.”

He looked around, meeting the eyes of his mates, and that was it.

The huddle broke, and soon, Ferran Torres, leading the charge, took his position at the top.

He looked back at Izan standing behind him and felt his own heart going harder than he expected.

He shook his thoughts away in the next second as the referee came to his side, and before anything else could get in the way, the referee’s whistle came through, and Ferran touched the ball back.

The World Cup had begun for Spain.

”We are underway,” the commentary spat on the broadcast as Izan let the ball go past him and let it run to Pedri behind him like it wasn’t his concern yet, and Pedri took it with Rodri beside him in the double pivot, as their shape settled.

The Cape Verdian players waited for nothing to settle and were already on Pedri.

The latter moved it wide to Lamine, who received it with a grin.

He genuinely smiled because of the ball meeting him in space, and when he looked up, his smile widened.

Because it was one of the very things he enjoyed in life.

A one-on-one.

And yet as Lamine made his few feints and attempts at the dribble, he found himself wanting, and the Cape Verde player was onto the ball before Lamine could recover.

The ball moved quickly into midfield and then wider.

”Spain, giving it away early. Very uncharacteristic of them, though Yamal was perhaps a touch ambitious there.”

The Cape Verdian midfielder, Deroy Duarte, looked like he was going to pass it back.

It was the most promising option for them to keep control, but then he sent it outward instead.