God Of football

Chapter 1038: Can’t Keep Doing This?

On the sidelines, the Spanish substitutes leaned forward on the Spanish bench almost together, though more than one pair of eyes drifted toward Luis de la Fuente.

The Spain manager hadn’t even spared them a glance after not joining them at the half-time break.

He simply stood with his arms folded, watching as, back on the pitch, the referee checked both assistants.

Following that, he raised his whistle to his lips and soon enough, the second half was underway.

Ferran Torres rolled the ball backwards as Izan met it first time before Darwin Núñez arrived like a speeding train trying to rush Izan, but Izan bided his time.

To the fans watching, it felt like he might not react in time enough, but at the last, Izan bent his knees a bit and dragged the ball away with the sole of his boot, letting the striker slide harmlessly past.

While he was locked in his battle, the rest of the Spanish team moved ahead of him.

Rodri stepped higher while on the flank; Nico pinned the opposite full-back.

Then centrally, Ferran spun away through the middle.

The Uruguayans were suddenly overloaded, not being given the time to think or act.

Izan, still with the ball at his feet, glanced up once before opening his body and firing a diagonal pass toward the right touchline.

”Lamine Yamal immediately involved,” Drury said as the ball travelled quickly towards the Barcelona forward.

The pass travelled quickly as Lamine turned to face it, rushing towards it like he would take it in with his chest.

Reacting to him was Olivera, who sneaked up on Lamine or tried doing so, but he’d already been sold because at the last second, Lamine Yamal pulled out of the challenge altogether, causing Olivera to falter at the last second.

The Uruguayan committed to the header, only for the teenager to pull away at the final moment.

The ball sailed untouched over Olivera’s forehead before dropping perfectly into Lamine’s stride, right behind his fallen form.

The crowd loved it instantly, but that was short-lived as right after that, Sanabria stepped across.

When he did, Lamine met him with a grin.

His feet began dancing over the ball, one stepover flowing into the next without hurry, inviting the defender forward before suddenly exploding toward the outside.

Sanabria scrambled, trying to match Lamine’s pace, but right as he was starting to reach his top stride, Lamine slowed again.

That single hesitation drew the defender another step and then, just as quickly, Lamine snapped back inside, leaving Sanabria turning the wrong way entirely.

”Oh, that’s lovely,” Moreau laughed.

”He sells him twice.”

With bodies all around the central area, Lamine lifted his head.

In the next second, Ferran dropped between Uruguay’s midfield and defence and without waiting a single second, the pass went towards him.

The Uruguayans around all turned their attention towards Ferran, who looked like he’d take the ball inside, but right when they’d poised themselves, Ferran touched it straight back into the space ahead of Lamine without breaking stride.

Now confused and lost, the Uruguayans turned to face Lamine, but all they saw was his left leg being pulled back.

Before they could act, Lamine wrapped the outside of his foot around the ball first time.

His left foot clipped beneath the ball, sending it sailing over the defensive line with the kind of confidence that only comes from already knowing someone would be there.

”Lovely pass from Lamine. NOW ARE SPAIN IN?...” Drury said, his voice beginning to rise.

Araujo, seeing the ball dropping quickly, spun immediately.

He had been doing so well the whole game, and that was because of his instinct that he’d come to trust more since the start of the game and at the moment, that instinct was telling him to chase after the ball.

But before the thought settled into his bones, a flash of red had already burst into the gap.

”Izan!” he grunted.

The Barcelona defender dug into the turf and chased and somehow got there.

Paying no heed to his surroundings, his hand caught hold of Izan’s shirt inside the area, stretching the fabric in the process, and it was only then that he realised that Spain could be getting a penalty should Izan fall, and for a split second it looked enough.

But the latter didn’t fall.

Instead, he tore free with one violent stride that almost dragged Araujo off balance before planting his right foot into the grass and then in the next second, his body rose and then twisted.

The entire stadium seemed to stop breathing.

”No...”

Drury almost whispered it, but Izan was already horizontal.

His left leg whipped over his body, exaggerated to get to the ball, and he did.

In that posture, frozen in the air, he managed to get to the ball, all while Muslera moved with him, shifting to cover any gaps near his post in anticipation of the effort to come, but a split second later the ball wasn’t coming towards goal.

Instead of shooting, Izan sliced through the ball, sending it flashing across the face of goal with astonishing pace.

Muslera, who had shifted to cover the near post, now had to throw himself the other way, desperately trying to locate the pass and who it was for.

But he never did.

When he faced his front fully, Ferran Torres appeared like a prophecy.

The striker arrived at full speed and met the ball first time, and there was no finessing it.

He met the ball with unadulterated violence, like he was trying to rip the net off the goal.

And before Muslera’s hands had even gone above his head, the net bulged behind him, struggling to contain the effort from Ferran Torres.

And in the next second...

”GOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL!” Drury roared as almost the entire Akron, and millions, possibly billions more watching, roared with him.

”IT’S HERE. IT WASN’T EASY, BUT IT IS FINALLY HERE. SPAIN HAVE THEIR BREAKTHROUGH AND MY GOD THAT WAS WONDERFULLY DONE!”

”What more do you want to see?” Moreau shouted over him.

”WE’VE HAD A BICYCLE KICK IN THE SEQUENCE, AND THAT WASN’T EVEN THE FINISH. HOW DOES HE KEEP DOING THIS?”

Ferran was already sprinting away, screaming into the night before changing direction entirely and launching himself at Izan.

Both of them crashed onto the grass, and a second later the rest of Spain arrived.

Pedri.

Rodri.

Lamine.

Cucurella.

One after another they piled onto the celebration as the Spanish end exploded into a wall of noise.

And through the chaos, Drury laughed.

”I’ve run out of adjectives to describe him. That is how good this man is. Izan Hernandez is simply..... IS? ...he’s found yet another way to decide a football match.”