"Oh, it’s fallen for Izan!" the comntator roared, voice rising above the stadium’s noise.
The young attacking midfielder steadied himself, breath tight, boot hovering just above the ball as the crowd gasped in collective anticipation.
He drew his leg back, the floodlights catching the sweat on his temple as the noise around the stadium swelled.
"Izan Hernández—!" the comntary ca roaring as Izan let fly from the edge of the box.
The ball bent beautifully, moving through a sea of bodies that had thrown themselves into the way to block the ball before curling away from Courtois’s desperate fingertips, before kissing the inside of the far post and snapping into the side netting.
For a heartbeat, Lincoln Field froze.
Then the noise hit, an explosion of red and white euphoria.
The Arsenal end erupted in a wave of sound so fierce it almost drowned out the comntator’s voice.
"Oh, my goodness! Izan Hernández! Once again, with one shot out of nowhere and he’s just lit this place up! You can not take your eyes off him for one second."
The cara shook from the sheer force of the crowd’s roar.
Arsenal fans were on their feet, flags waving, strangers hugging.
Even the neutrals couldn’t help themselves, half rising, half grinning at the brilliance of it.
From the field, Izan didn’t celebrate much.
He just pumped his fist in the air once and then spun on his heel the instant the ball nestled in the net, breaking into a sprint toward the goal.
Asencio tried to block his path, arms out, muttering sothing half in protest, half in frustration, but Izan didn’t even look at him and just tried to take the ball.
The referee’s whistle pierced the air, short and sharp, and Asensio froze, stepping aside as Izan scooped the ball out of the net.
He didn’t waste a second.
Ball in hand, face set, he turned and began jogging toward the centre circle, eyes ahead, jaw tight.
Around him, Madrid players were shouting, reorganising and trying to reset.
But the noise from the Arsenal supporters rolled over everything.
Back in the stands, the two young n from earlier were spectating among the crowd.
One of them, the sceptic from earlier, sat there stunned, mouth half open, eyes following Izan as he carried the ball back.
His friend grinned, shaking his head, voice raised over the din.
"Told you," he said, almost laughing.
"That’s one of the many things he can do with the ball at his feet."
And on the broadcast, the comntators were still breathless, the excitent raw in their voices.
"Ga on now," one of them said, as Izan set the ball on the centre spot.
"This boy has just changed the ga once more. I an, what can he not do?"
"Yeah, and that’s exactly what you want to see if you’re Arteta," the co-comntator added.
"Composure, hunger, belief. Arsenal are back in this last group ga fixture."
[Hampstead]
The living room exploded with the sa energy as the stadium on the screen.
Komi was the first up, nearly spilling her bowl of Weetabix as she threw her hands in the air.
"GOAL!" she scread, pointing at the TV.
Beside her, Hori and Olivia yelled just as loud, fists pumping, laughter mixing with disbelief.
Miranda, usually the calm one, was also cheering, half-standing with a spoon still in her hand.
"Did you see that?! Did you see that?!" Olivia said, jumping once, unable to stay still.
"Of course I saw it!" Hori shot back, laughing breathlessly. "It’s Izan! It is my brother."
Komi flopped back onto the couch, grinning so hard her cheeks hurt, the echo of the stadium’s roar bleeding through the TV speakers into their small living room.
....
But as the ga restarted, Real Madrid wasted no ti, getting into stride, refusing to let the Arsenal goal dampen their montum.
If anything, it fueled them.
They moved the ball with the kind of ease that only confidence and muscle mory could produce.
It was almost reminiscent of their league rivals in the Catalan capital.
"Madrid just toying with it now," one of the comntators said.
"One would expect them to keep it less risky after conceding, but they’re stroking it around like it’s a training drill."
...
[The part above felt so wrong to write]
...
Arsenal, on the other hand, pressed high as they’d always done since the start of the ga, bodies shifting, lungs burning, but Madrid were playing like they’d slipped into a trance, short passes, quick touches, little triangles that pulled the red shirts one step too late, again and again.
Their passes, after a while, began getting dangerous by the second, as Rice’s voice cut through the din on one occasion when the ball got too close for comfort, shouting at his teammates to hold shape, waving his arms for Saka to tuck in.
As the ga progressed, Lewis-Skelly barked sothing at Martinelli, urging him to stay compact, but the ball was already gone, Modric to Camavinga, Camavinga to Jude, and with two touches, the Englishman sent it back to the flanks.
"Co on, guys, more intensity," Arteta animatedly gestured from the touchlines, but it was hard for the players to hear over the roaring of the crowd, which had intensified as the late monts of the ga approached.
"We just passed the 77th minute mark, and Arsenal are trailing here in Philadelphia. It is still 2-1 for Real Madrid, courtesy of goals from Mbappe and Gonzalo and another to draw one back for Arsenal from the substitute, Izan. And as we go on, here is Real Madrid on another move."
Jude received it back from Trent, with the English fullback darting into space on the right just as he let the ball go.
Without much contemplation, he spun a pass across the player occupying Madrid’s right flank and found Trent.
The Arsenal midfield spun on instinct, eyes tracking the switch.
"Cover! Cover the flank!" Havertz shouted, already sprinting across, pointing furiously as the Madrid shirts fanned out.
But Trent had space now, and ti.
Izan and Martinelli were sprinting toward him, shadows converging, but he wasn’t panicking.
He took one touch to steady himself, looked up once, then whipped his right foot around the ball just before the Arsenal forward duo could get to him.
It left his boot with that trademark curl, bending through the air, sailing above the Arsenal line, dipping perfectly into the box.
"Dangerous ball in!" the comntator’s voice climbed with the flight of the ball.
Inside the penalty area, it was chaos, white and red shirts jostling for position as the ball sank in.
Mbappé, held by the shirt, powered through, ghosted off Gabriel’s shoulder, leapt like he had springs in his legs, and t the cross perfectly.
The contact was clean, flush, the kind of header that usually finds the corner.
The entire stadium seed to hold its breath as the ball moved towards the back of the net, but then the sound that ca caused the Arsenal fans who had hung their heads low to snap them back up.
Clang!
The sound was sharp, tallic, rciless as the ball crashed against the post, spinning away like it had been slapped by fate.
"Oh my goodness. Deflected onto the post by the fingertips of David Raya."
The Arsenal fans roared, half in relief, half in defiance, as Lewis-Skelly reacted first, charging down the rebound and clearing the ball with everything he had, sending it spinning upfield and out of danger.
"Oh, how close was that?!" the comntator cried, his voice cracking with the mont.
"Mbappé denied by the post! Inches away from possibly sealing it and Arsenal survive by a whisker!"
On the sideline, Arteta exhaled hard, hands on his knees, muttering sothing under his breath before he turned his attention to his players strolling around the touchline.
"Get Gabi ready," he muttered to Cuesta, who stood behind him, before turning his gaze back towards the pitch.
On the pitch, Rice turned to his back line, face flushed, shouting, "Wake up! That’s our warning! Keep your eyes open, guys. We can’t concede here."
Valverde jogged over to take the throw, wiping his palms quickly on his shorts before hurling the ball back into play.
"Madrid keep the pressure on," the comntator said as Valverde’s throw found Camavinga, who nudged it back to Trent.
Trent didn’t even think twice.
With the outside of his boot, he lifted his head, scanning the far end of the pitch before swinging his foot through the ball.
The pass cut through the air in a perfect diagonal, floating toward the opposite flank.
"Beautiful switch from Alexander-Arnold!" the co-comntator exclaid, his tone half in awe.
The ball dropped right at Vinícius’s feet on the left wing, as he took a touch to draw Ben White closer.
Then, with that trademark shimmy, he bought himself half a yard, and it was just enough.
Vinícius shaped up for the cross, the crowd rising in anticipation.
He curled his right foot around it, sending the ball arcing into the box, spinning wickedly toward the far post.
"There’s danger here!" the main comntator’s voice rose as bodies jumped for it, Mbappé, Gonzalo García, and even Jude arriving late.
But before anyone could get a clean touch, Raya was there.
The Spaniard surged forward, punching through the chaos, gloves slicing through air and leather as he t the ball first, thumping it clear of danger, the sound echoing above the roar.
"Raya again!" the co-comntator said, impressed. "The keeper’s keeping Arsenal alive! But Ti is ticking."
User Comments
0 comments from readers