God Of football

Chapter 1052: Telephone Box!

The Portuguese players reached Ronaldo almost at the same time.

Bruno Fernandes got there first, both hands grabbing Ronaldoʼs shoulders before laughing in disbelief.

”You are not normal, Cristiano.”

”No...” João Neves muttered as he arrived a second later, still shaking his head.

”How did you even get there?”

Pedro Neto, on the other hand, stared, his hands on his head like heʼd seen a ghost, and maybe that wasnʼt very far off the truth.

From where heʼd been running, heʼd seen the entire move unfold, yet being so close to the source of the entire thing still didnʼt seem to make too much sense.

Cristiano wasnʼt supposed to attack crosses like that anymore.

Not at forty-one.

Not after more than two decades at the highest level and certainly not this early in the game.

Yet there he stood, grinning as teammate after teammate crashed into him.

João Félix finally arrived, wrapping an arm around Ronaldoʼs neck before speaking directly into his ear.

”I thought Iʼd overhit it.”

Ronaldo laughed at that while slipping a hand over his head like he was wiping sweat away.

”I thought so too,” he muttered with a smile as Vitinha arrived, still breathing heavily from his celebrations running around.

Around them, the Portuguese supporters had almost forgotten themselves.

Every section behind the goal had become one enormous celebration, and all around the stadium, in the sections with the Portuguese players, it was the same thing.

They all knew that this wasnʼt simply Portugal taking the lead.

It was Cristiano Ronaldo shutting down some very awry criticism of his game despite providing joy to billions of people over 2 decades.

”Spain...” the commentator allowed himself a second before continuing.

”...have conceded only their second goal of this entire World Cup.”

”And what a goal to concede,” McCoist snorted.

”Some have spent the whole tournament talking about Ronaldoʼs inability because of his age, but that doesnʼt look like something a forty-one-year-old man should be doing!”

”That...”

”...is instinct built over twenty-five years.”

Near Spainʼs goal, nobody moved at first.

Unai Simón remained on one knee, staring back at the net while Laporte rested both hands on his hips.

The teenage centreback in the Spanish backline slowly exhaled through pursed lips as one by one, each player lingered in their own way.

Only one player reacted immediately.

Izan, having watched it all unfold from the centre half, walked straight towards his half, meeting the gazes of his teammates.

A few of them were still watching Ronaldo celebrate.

”Hey,” Izan roared amidst the crescendo and clapped sharply.

”Enough standing around.”

The sound finally pulled their attention toward him.

”Itʼs one goal.”

”Get back to your positions. We have 88 minutes more to play,” he said, glancing at the timer in the stadium.

”Weʼve got plenty of time.”

All at once, the spell that the goal had cast over them broke.

The Spanish attackers began jogging back toward halfway, and only then did Izan glance once toward the corner flag where Portugal remained huddled on top of Ronaldo.

Izan watched him for only a second longer before turning away.

While he did so, Unai Simon sent a long ball towards the halfway line where Izan had now settled.

Without even looking at it, Izan extended his right heel behind him, and there, the ball kissed the back of his boot before popping softly into the air.

With another turn, his body rotated beneath it almost lazily as the ball dropped toward his laces.

He cushioned it with the top of his boot before letting it settle perfectly beneath his sole.

Then he nudged it onto the centre spot.

A small murmur spread around the stadium, and from the gantry, even the commentary couldnʼt keep to itself.

”Thereʼs Izan for you. I donʼt know how he does it,” said Clive Tyldesley.

”Even restarting play somehow becomes theatre with him.”

Beside him, McCoist nodded in agreement!

”Itʼs almost unfair. Heʼs one of those footballers that people canʼt stop watching.”

Down on the pitch, the Portuguese players under the beckoning of the referee finally began trudging back to their half, passing by the Spanish players who were each already settled in their respective positions.

Eventually, everyone settled in their respective positions, and before long, the refereeʼs whistle sounded throughout the pitch.

Izan rolled the ball sideways and then thought of dashing forward as Olmo met it, but rather than playing backwards, the midfielder returned it immediately.

The Portuguese front line reacted instantly, but so did Spain.

Izan, not expecting the return pass, opened his body before drilling a firm diagonal pass toward the left flank of Spainʼs attack.

”Ball into Cucurella here from Izan,” the commentary called on the broadcast as the full-back met it in stride.

The Chelsea man (formerly) settled the ball as Baena arrived underneath him.

The exchange lasted barely a second before Baena slipped the ball centrally again, where he found Olmo, but it didnʼt come without its challenges.

The moment he received it, three Portuguese shirts, in Bruno Fernandes, Vitinha and João Neves, collapsed toward him and immediately, all the passing lanes disappeared.

”So little room...” the commentator observed.

”...and this is where Dani Olmo is at his best.”

Like clockwork, Olmo shifted his hips left, causing Bruno to bite, but then his right foot rolled across the top of the ball before dragging it behind his standing leg.

Vitinha lunged in, but Olmo pulled back, causing the former Wolves man to miss as João Neves stepped in, looking like he was going to win the ball, but the ball somehow emerged through the smallest gap imaginable, same as Olmo, as a ripple of applause spread around the stadium.

”Oh thatʼs gorgeous.”

”Wonderful feet by Dami Olmo!”

”Three Portuguese players beaten inside a telephone box.”

Without lifting his head again, Olmo threaded the pass wide, finding Lamine immediately.

Nuno Mendes stepped forward as the two youngsters met almost shoulder to shoulder.

Lamine, reacting to the sudden pressure, nudged the ball inside, trying to make light work of the left back, but Nuno stayed with him.

Lamine pushed again, trying to look for the space to drive into, but he still got nothing.

The PSG defender refused to bite.

Then, just as Lamine tried bursting outside...

Nuno slid in perfectly.

His left boot nicked the ball cleanly before his momentum carried him through.

The Spanish winger stumbled over the challenge and landed on the grass as Portugal recovered possession, and with it came applause raining down from the Portuguese crowd in the stadium.