God Of football

Chapter 1047: Doomsday [1]

By the following morning, anticipation had swallowed almost everything else.

Across Spain, cafés buzzed with debate before breakfast had even finished.

In Portugal, every sports station had abandoned every other topic.

Across America, broadcasters promoted the fixture almost hourly.

Some called it the biggest international match in years, while others went further, calling it names like;

A clash between generations.

One final masterpiece against football’s brightest future.

No one wanted to miss it.

Back in Chattanooga, Luis de la Fuente stood with folded arms as another training session unfolded before him.

The ball moved exactly where he wanted, the intensity was right, and the concentration never dropped.

Yet...

”...Not enough.”

The words escaped almost unconsciously as his assistant and son looked across.

”What?”

De la Fuente kept watching.

”We should be ready to deal with everything that the football world knows.”

Hundreds of miles away, Portugal’s own session had reached full intensity.

João Félix danced away from João Cancelo with two quick touches before driving toward the byline.

Without slowing, he whipped a vicious cross into the area that felt too close to the goalkeeper and too awkward for a striker.

At least...

...it should have been.

Timing his run to perfection, Cristiano Ronaldo exploded between Rúben Dias and António Silva, rising with an almost impeccable movement, something that he’d refined over decades of playing the beloved game.

His neck snapped forward and met the ball the next second as the header flew like a bullet.

Diogo Costa never even moved and only heard before seeing the net ripple violently behind him.

Ronaldo landed lightly before jogging away as though nothing remarkable had happened.

A whistle sounded from behind the goal, only to be followed by another from the sidelines as several substitutes exchanged looks.

”...How?”

One of them shook his head.

”He’s forty-one.”

”That he is alright,” Raphael Leao said, ”but he’s forty-one going on twenty-five.”

A few yards away, Roberto Martínez watched Ronaldo retrieve another ball without saying a word.

The Portugal manager slowly nodded to himself and was glad he had someone with a repertoire as intense as Ronaldo’s.

Football’s biggest egoist wasn’t done and not by a long shot.

........

[Doomsday]

By the morning of the match, the broadcasts had long since abandoned trying to rank the day’s fixtures.

There was England against Mexico, with a place in the quarter-finals on the line.

There were tactical discussions, predicted line-ups, debates over Harry Kane’s form and whether Mexico could spring another upset after a tournament that had already claimed several giants.

Yet every conversation, no matter where it started, eventually found its way back to the same destination.

The same match and the same two names.

”...England against Mexico is first up,” the host said as graphics of both teams appeared behind him, ”and if that match is anything like what we’ve seen throughout these knockouts, we’re in for another tremendous afternoon.”

One of the analysts nodded.

”It should be an excellent game, but let’s be honest,” he said, smiling knowingly.

”The football world is waiting for tonight.”

At that, the screen behind them changed, showing Spain’s flag as well as Portugal’s.

”I don’t think I’ve ever seen anticipation quite like this,” another panellist admitted.

”You’re talking about Spain, unbeaten in thirty-three internationals, against a Portugal side led by perhaps the greatest goalscorer the sport has ever known.”

”And depending on who you ask,” the host added, ”today is either the continuation of Spain’s dominance...”

”...or the end of an era.”

Silence lingered for a moment before he continued.

”If Portugal lose, Cristiano Ronaldo’s dream of lifting the World Cup almost certainly ends forever, at least as a player!”

”And if Spain lose...” he looked toward the camera.

”... one of the favourites goes home. This isn’t just another knockout game. Somebody walks away tonight with something they’ll never get back.”

The hours that followed seemed determined to crawl.

Social media refreshed itself every few seconds.

Television stations filled the wait with old World Cup classics, tactical breakdowns and interviews from former players who all somehow reached different conclusions.

Eventually, football returned as England went against Mexico.

It did exactly what the tournament had spent days promising.

England struck first and then struck second, in the 36th and then the 38th minute respectively, all courtesy of Jude Bellingham seemingly killing the game before it’d even gotten to the peak.

Then Mexico answered four minutes later, swaying England’s control over the game through Quinones.

The two sides came from the break with Mexico at the helm of the game despite being a goal down, but that didn’t translate into anything as 15 minutes after the start of the half, football’s lethal sweetheart, Harry Kane, found the back of the net to make it 3-1.

Still, Mexico refused to disappear, and ty the time the final whistle sounded, England had survived a frantic 3-2 victory, earning their place in the quarter-finals after ninety breathless minutes.

Ordinarily, that would have dominated every headline, but it barely held them for half an hour.

After watching the England match, it further boosted the anticipation towards the Spanish and Portuguese match at the thought of what could be.

Every road led back to Dallas, and by late afternoon, the area surrounding AT&T Stadium had transformed into a sea of red and white.

Spanish songs rolled from one side of the plaza while Portuguese chants answered from the other.

Every few seconds another roar erupted as supporters caught sight of one of the giant screens replaying highlights from both nations’ journeys to the Round of 16.

Then the first police escort appeared.

Phones immediately rose into the air.

”It’s Spain!” the crowd roared as the team coach rolled slowly through the security gates before stopping outside the players’ entrance.

Applause thundered around the vehicle as one player after another stepped onto the pavement.

”Lamine!”

”Vamos!”

”Izan!”

The cheers only grew louder, then barely five minutes later, another wave of noise swept across the plaza.

Portugal had arrived.

The chants changed almost instantly.

”Cristiano!”

”Cristiano!”

The two sets of supporters answered each other across the barriers, neither willing to surrender an inch before a ball had even been kicked.

It already felt like kickoff.

Inside the stadium, the routine checks went on.

Staff moved efficiently through the corridors while equipment managers carried boots, medical bags and tactical boards toward their designated rooms.

Near Spain’s dressing room, a member of the tournament staff carefully wheeled over a polished presentation box.

”Here you are.”

”Thank you,” Izan replied with a polite nod before looking at the case in front of him.

It had become part of his routine since the start of the World Cup.

\

He crouched slightly, resting a hand on the lid as though about to open it, but then his name got called.

He looked over and found one of Luis de la Fuente’s assistants was already walking toward him.

”The manager needs you for the press conference as captain.”

”Oh,” Izan said and glanced at the unopened box before giving a small nod.

”Right.”

”We’ll come back to it.”

He rose to his feet and fell into step beside the assistant, leaving the box where it was as they disappeared deeper into the stadium.

By the time they got there, the media room was already overflowing.

Rows upon rows of journalists filled the seats while conversations hummed beneath the bright lights.

The moment the side door opened, dozens of heads turned together, and then a moment later, the flashes followed.

Within seconds, the room became a storm of camera shutters as Luis de la Fuente walked in first, followed closely by Izan.

De la Fuente acknowledged the room with a small nod before taking his seat while Izan settled into the chair beside him, placing his hands calmly on the table as another burst of flashes lit the room white.

The Spain manager glanced sideways, a faint smile showing while Izan returned it just as subtly.

At the front of the room, the moderator waited for the photographers to finish before adjusting the microphone.

He looked across the packed hall, then down at his notes.

”Ladies and gentlemen...”

He paused until the room finally fell silent.

”We’ll begin now.”