God Of football

Chapter 1020: The Shark!

The Cape Verde players, after staring at the celebrating Spanish players for a while, turned and began walking to their respective positions.

On the sidelines, their manager walked forward a bit before putting his hands together to draw the attention of his men.

Most glanced his way and caught the words he said, but they knew they had to get their own thoughts right before they could implement those of another.

For the fans in the stands, their joy of appearing at the World Cup had been cut short.

As an island that had to sometimes play teams they hadn’t even heard of to make the tournament, the circumstances at the moment were a bit downing.

Still, they picked themselves up and began rallying whatever support they could behind their players on the pitch.

”It’s only the fourth minute here, and Spain are already leading. What a game we could be having on our hands,” the commentator said, settling into it.

The Spanish players came back from the corner flag in ones and twos as the celebrations faded away, leaving pleased but refocused faces.

The referee stood at the centre circle and waited until the Spanish players settled into their half, and when they did, he restarted the game.

Cape Verde kicked off and immediately, almost by unspoken agreement, kept it in their own half.

They were now playing like cats scared of getting wet.

Like men who had touched a hot surface once and were now moving through the kitchen differently.

Spain weren’t pressing high, content to sit in their shape and let the Africans have the ball in their own territory, and so for nearly two minutes the game existed in a strange suspended state which saw Cape Verde passing sideways and backwards while Spain just watched.

As the lull hovered over the game, the crowd died down in reaction.

They were now just watching and waiting for what could come next.

”It’s now Cape Verde taking advantage of Spain’s pressing nature. Luis De La Fuente’s side isn’t really doing too much, and Cape Verde must be thanking their stars.”

After a while, the pressure eventually started building.

Spain weren’t really pressing as said earlier, but they were still trying to win the ball back, and right as Cape Verde were getting comfortable on the ball, they snapped into action.

Ferran Torres, who had edged higher and closer, made the angle difficult for their centre-back until eventually it was too much.

The ball came long out of the Cape Verde backline, punted into Spain’s half just to make the squeezing feeling stop.

Cucurella, who had just repositioned near the corner flag, took the clearance on the left flank before glancing up, but he knew he had to make a decision soon because Arcanjo was coming.

The pressure didn’t bother him in particular, but he wasn’t going to take any chances either.

With that in mind, he shifted the ball inside before Arcanjo could get there, finding Pedri in the pocket, and the game changed temperature immediately.

”Spain on it now,” the commentary barked as Pedri took it on the turn and in the same movement felt the Cape Verde press close around him.

For a second, it looked like Cape Verde might win the ball back, but that was just how Pedri played.

One of the Cape Verdain players instantly stuck his leg out the moment it looked like the ball was loose, but in the next second, Pedri slid it through his legs and into the path of the player who had just settled beside the huddle.

”Lovely escape by Pedri. Now Izan has the ball, what should we-” the commentary tried to say but didn’t get to finish because Izan, without controlling the ball, touched it straight back to Rodri without looking,

Rodri took it in his stride and immediately moved it again with a singular touch, out to the right, finding Pedro Porro already past the halfway line.

The overlap arrived at exactly the moment the ball did, and as if not wanting to break tradition, Porro touched it once to Lamine on the right flank.

”Spain, also committing numbers forward now,” the commentary judged as the crowd rose slightly, leaning forward in their seats to see what was coming.

Lamine, unlike the previous holders of the ball, controlled it and then pushed it outside with one sharp touch to beat the Cape Verde midfielder who’d tracked across, and now he had space.

The crowd rose in tandem as Lamine looked up and saw the shape of things.

But all his mind kept pointing to was Izan, who stood centrally.

The problem, though, was the number of bodies between them,

Still, the whole stadium knew that wasn’t going to stop Barcelona’s wonderboy.

”Oh, that’s Lamine. He’s past one, two now,” the commentators described as Lamine left the ball to Izan after a bit of space had opened up.

The two exchanged a give and go with Izan, much quicker and much more agile between the two of them, moving through the bodies around them like they were suggestions rather than obstacles.

”Yamal and Hernandez, playing through the pressure. That’s simply beautiful,” the commentary narrowed as Lamine got it back again, and this time he didn’t hold it.

Seeing the swarm ahead, he flicked the ball with his heel to Izan, hoping his mates had a much better idea than he did.

The Cape Verdian swarming and charging towards Lamine, changed their attention towards Izan, but they had only made a couple of steps when Izan drew his leg back and smashed the ball back past them.

The ball moved sharply, almost like a shot.

It stayed low, hugging the grass and then threading between two Cape Verde bodies who had no idea it was coming until it was already past them, and there was nothing to do about it.

Ferran Torres was already moving.

As the ball got near, it slowed and found him like it had been addressed to him specifically.

He was inside the box now, where the keeper was coming out to cut the angle while another Cape Verdian body stuck right beside him.

He knew that any more hesitation and the chance would go, but he wasn’t going to do that on the biggest of stages.

He had to show why they called him the shark, and he did as his leg came through.

Cape Verde’s Varela saw the motion and committed, leaning towards his left to close the angle, but Ferran simply rolled the ball to his left, and leaned left to cut the support he had been giving the Cape Verdian defender.

The breaths around the stadium hitched for a second, but it was only that as Ferran poked the ball into the back of the empty net before anyone in the stadium had fully exhaled.

”GOOOOOOOOOL—”

The Spanish section went up like the first goal had never come down while Ferran turned towards the corner flag.

”That’s brilliant. A finish of pure genius and Spain have doubled their lead,” the main commentator described as Ferran Torres slid on the turf, came to a stop, and before he’d even got up, started pointing directly at Izan jogging in behind him.

”Ferran Torres, two-nil, and he’s pointing straight at the captain. Ferran did well to keep his cool, but credit where it’s due with that ball from Izan to set it up smoothly for Ferran. That is why he has the armband around his arm!”

The co-commentator went on as the Spanish players converged, with high fives and hugs going around.

”Two-nil and it’s just nine minutes played. Spain has not even played a quarter of this game, and the contest is already..... well. We’ll see. But two-nil in nine minutes against a side making their World Cup debut. What are we watching here tonight?”

On the other side of things, the Cape Verde players stood scattered, trying to find comfort in each other’s faces, but it was futile.

Was this how every team was going to play in the World Cup?

If so, they knew that they’d better step their game up somehow or be ready to pack their bags before they could even play their third game!

[A/N: Guys, I can’t breathe. I’m locked up by Coolvamp together with a band of readers, and they are talking about not letting me leave until I finish this book. Please help! But thanks for reading, and I will see you soon!]