God Of football Chapter 879: Clean Sweep

Chapter 879: Clean Sweep.

Pii, Piii, Piiiii.

The whistle was still echoing when the first red shirt broke from the touchline.

A rush of bodies followed, players, coaches, substitutes, every soul in Arsenal colours streaming onto the pitch like a red tide.

The noise wasn’t just loud anymore; it was physical, sothing you could feel pressing against your ribs.

“There it is. They have had to wait for their ti, but it is their ti and it is their year!” the comntator’s voice thundered over the pandemonium.

“From bottlers to World Champions, Arsenal are the Club World Cup winners.”

The bench had flooded the grass, substitutes leaping into the air, arms waving, colliding into teammates who barely had ti to brace.

Saka, who had been taken off in the latter stages of the ga, jumped onto Izan’s back, ruffling the hair of the youngster, while just beside them, Rice, chest-bumped Odegaard.

“Seventeen years old, three goals in the final, and a performance that will be rembered as the ceiling in this competition. Izan and Arsenal are champions.”

Near the touchline, Arteta moved slower, a small smile breaking through as he made his way towards Luis Enrique.

The PSG coach stood waiting, face unreadable, his coat pulled tight around him as they shook hands firmly.

Enrique gave a single, tired shake of his head, the corners of his mouth twitching into sothing that looked like resignation.

“You were a level above us this season,” he said simply, voice drowned by the chants rising behind them. “We simply couldn’t match it.”

Arteta nodded once, respectful and grateful.

“Your team fought well,” he replied quietly.

“We did fight,” Enrique said in Spanish, as he looked at the scoreboard, “But I am not sure if we did so well.”

Enrique gave a faint smile and walked away, the lights catching the lines of exhaustion across his face.

Arteta turned back toward his staff, and in that instant, the restraint broke.

Carlos Cuesta threw his arm around him while Albert Stuivenberg shouted sothing in his ear, and within seconds, they were all in the middle of it, a pile of embraces, laughter, and disbelief.

The Spanish manager, always so composed, finally let it go.

His arms went up, his voice cracked in the middle of a cheer.

Across the pitch, the players had taken over, and the caras captured it all.

Izan lifted onto shoulders, his arms outstretched to the fans, confetti already beginning to drift from the rafters.

And everywhere you looked, red shirts were colliding, shouting, pointing toward the fans.

On the other hand, the remaining PSG fans who had stayed behind were clapping slowly, not out of joy, but of reluctant admiration for what they had witnessed.

Above it all, the comntary rolled like the final note of a symphony.

“Arsenal Football Club, champions of England, champions of Europe, and now, champions of the world. What a journey under Mikel Arteta. What a night in New York.”

The confetti cannons went off in tid bursts, red and white strips raining down as the players began moving toward the far end of the pitch.

After that, staffers and FIFA officials rushed to assemble the podium, the golden badge of the Club World Cup trophy gleaming faintly under the lights.

But before any of that, the players had one more ritual.

They found Arteta near the touchline, still shaking hands with one of the executives.

Gabriel and Martinelli appeared behind him first, nodding to each other like conspirators.

Then, suddenly, a pair of arms wrapped around the manager’s waist.

“Boss, you’re coming with us!” Saka shouted, laughing as the group closed in.

“No, no, no, guys—!” Arteta tried to protest, his words lost in the laughter, but it was already too late.

Up he went, launched into the air.

They tossed him again, and again, chants of “Arteta, Arteta, Arteta!” rising with each throw, with unfiltered joy on the faces of the players.

Behind them, the stage was nearly ready, the Golden platform lit by soft dark light, draped with the FIFA banner as the officials began lining up the dals, photographers adjusting their lenses.

Gradually, one by one, the players started to notice.

The throws stopped as Arteta landed back on his feet, hair ruffled, face glowing with sweat and happiness.

The PA announcer’s voice cut through the roar of the crowd.

“Ladies and gentlen… the presentation ceremony for the FIFA Club World Cup will begin shortly.”

The broadcast eased back in over the noise of celebration, the cara gliding across the pitch that shimred under the floodlights.

“And now, ladies and gentlen, we move on to the individual awards…”

The announcent echoed across the stadium, and applause followed as the first na was called.

“The Golden Glove, for the best goalkeeper of the tournant… goes to David Raya!”

The Spaniard broke away from his teammates with a grin so wide it could’ve lit the stadium itself.

As he jogged towards the podium, the Arsenal fans raised their scarves, chanting his na.

Raya waved, a mix of pride and disbelief written across his face, before shaking hands with Gianni Infantino, who handed him the gold-gloved trophy.

Caras flashed as he raised it toward the stands.

“A brilliant tournant from the Arsenal keeper,” the comntator said.

“So of those saves against Paliras and tonight against PSG were simply top class.”

Before the crowd had fully settled, the announcer continued.

“The Golden Boot, awarded to the top scorer of the Club World Cup, goes to… Hernandez!”

A new wave of cheers swept the stadium, louder than the previous as Izan jogged up with that relaxed stride ofhis, clapping softly as he reached the stage.

He received his trophy, posed for the caras, and was about to step down when the announcer’s voice cut in again.

“And we’re not done with Izan just yet! The Best Young Player of the Tournant goes once again to Izan Hernandez!”

The laughter from his teammates below could be heard over the mics below.

Izan turned, laughing as he went back to shake Infantino’s hand again.

The FIFA president leaned forward with a grin and said sothing that made him chuckle before the crowd could catch it.

“Alright, I swear this is the last one,” the announcer teased, earning a few laughs from the press box.

“The Best Player of the Tournant—no surprise here—goes to Izan Hernandez!”

Even Izan couldn’t help but laugh this ti, rubbing the back of his neck before heading back up.

Infantino t him again, handing him his third trophy and shaking his head in amusent.

“You’re running out of hands, my boy,” Infantino said, still smiling. “I hope you go on like this.”

“I also hope so,” Izan replied lightly, earning a laugh from the nearby photographers.

When he turned to leave, a staff mber brought over his two earlier awards.

“A clean sweep by Arsenal in this Individual award section. What a tournant this team have had,” the comntary ca.

Izan took them all carefully, holding one under his arm, another against his chest, while the last glead in his hand.

Raya, waiting by the side of the podium, waved him over and together, they posed for the caras, so of Arsenal’s pillars of the tournant standing shoulder to shoulder, both grinning for the cara like kids just as the flashes painted them gold in the fra.

As they ca down, Saka shouted over the noise, “You’re lucky he’s not a keeper, Dave! He’d have taken that one too!”

Raya just raised a hand in surrender, smiling proudly at the young Spaniard.

On the touchline, Arteta gathered his staff, exchanging hugs with each of them.

Then, the group began walking towards the stage, the confetti still floating lazily across the pitch like snowflakes in floodlight.

One by one, the players followed, so still laughing, the dals glinting in the background as they were brought out.

Izan was near the back of the line, walking just before Odegaard.

The captain glanced at him, holding Izan’s shoulder and pushing him forward when the ti ca for him to go for his trophy.

When Odegaard reached the top, the disc-shaped trophy with its interlocking silver rings was waiting.

The crowd hushed for a beat as he took it, gripping it firmly with both hands.

For a mont, he just stared at it, the gold reflecting the red around him as he walked forward, settling in front of his mates on the other stage.

Then, as if sothing inside him burst, he raised it high into the night sky.

The stadium erupted.

Fireworks exploded above the roof, streaks of red and white raining across the air.

The Arsenal players below leapt, shouted, and embraced as gold confetti began to fall.

The stands trembled with chants of “We are the champions!” while fans sang and waved flags high, their voices lting into one thunderous, unforgettable roar of glory.

“So there you have it. Out of 32 teams, Arsenal are officially your 2025 Club World Cup champions,” the comntary ca as the fireworks continued painting the sky red.

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