"And so it stands. It’s two-nil," the main comntator said, almost in disbelief. "Five minutes gone, and this is already getting uncomfortable for Olympiacos."
His partner ca in quickly.
"And sohow, Hernández playing in that deeper midfield role feels even more unfair. He’s assisted both goals. From there."
"This is becoming more unbecoming. Because if this is to follow what is becoming the trend in this ga, what will happen at the end of the final whistle?"
.....
Well, the final whistle was only a few seconds away, and by then, the chants had grown even more monstrous, and so much so that the stewards in the stadium had increased and were now circling the Olympiacos fans.
Not because the Arsenal fans were getting aggressive, but because they were helping the away fans exit the stadium.
While this went on, the ho fans, arms wrapped around each other, sang, rhyming, taunting and exalting.
"Izan, our saint! Sent from above! Deliverer of glory! Bringer of love!"
"From Alboraya he ca! Red and white his fa! Decades of drought—now ours to reclaim!"
The Emirates wasn’t just cheering.
It was accepting the finality of a judgnt that had already been passed by their players.
Every note, every clap, every roar pressed down onto the grey-clad Olympiacos players, who shuffled across the pitch like marionettes with broken strings.
Their bodies slouched.
Their legs dragged, and their faces stared hollow.
They moved not because they wanted to.
No, that life had left them long ago.
They only moved because the ball moved.
On the broadcast, the cara cut to the clock: 89:57.
The tension, the inevitability, the sheer scale of what had already happened hung in the air like a storm cloud.
"Well—" the main comntator began, voice trembling slightly, but before he could speak further, the clock hit 90:00.
And the mont it did, the referee’s whistle pierced the stadium, sharp and decisive, cutting through chants, sighs, and the scattered mutters of the away side.
No added ti and not even a second more, and the comntary condoned it.
"Perhaps... perhaps he made the right call," the comntator said, voice quieter now, almost reverent.
"Because there was no reason to continue. Not one."
The cara swept toward the scoreboard, and only the numbers glared back like a holy inscription.
ARSENAL 15 – 0 OLYMPIACOS
"This... this is... I don’t even know what to say," the co-comntator said, tone bordering on resignation.
"We’ve been forced to witness sothing that, frankly, no human being should ever watch. And certainly sothing no professional club or its players should go through!"
The comntator paused a mont longer this ti, letting the weight of the mont sink in.
"The biggest win ever in the Champions League," the main voice continued slowly, "was previously held jointly by Real Madrid and Liverpool—eight goals each past Malmö and Beşiktaş. A very dominant record, but that record... obliterated. Shattered. Torn to tatters. Arsenal... decided to go off tonight."
The cara panned slowly over the pitch where the grass was littered with balls while the nets sagged, and Olympiacos players stood in disbelief, so leaning on each other, so just staring at the ground, while others stood unmoving.
"Arsenal have utterly... rampantly destroyed Olympiacos," the comntary continued, the voice now low and drury-like, almost speaking through shock.
Then, it cut to Izan, standing in the centre circle, red shirt soaked, shorts dirt-streaked and a ball under his arm with not even a hint of fatigue nor even a flicker of ego beyond satisfaction.
He had been left on the pitch for the full ninety.
He had carried this evening’s statent, and he had finished it with surgical precision.
To so watching, it might have felt like overkill to keep him on even after the 5th goal, but to Arteta, it was just what it was and just that.
...
[WTF does that even an?]
...
"A brace of hat-tricks and another brace of hat-tricks in assists. Twelve goal contributions from Hernández alone in this ga," the co-comntator said slowly like a mistake might fetch for his head.
Izan jogged toward the tunnel, one ball clutched, the other bouncing quietly at his feet while the ho fans roared, still, even after fifteen goals, even after every Olympiacos player had stopped moving.
The echo of their shouts stretched across the stadium like a benediction.
"And... I an... we have to say it," the main comntator said, voice sorrowful, almost trembling.
"Izan Hernández... may have just... singlehandedly killed the football spirit in Olympiacos for the rest of the season. If they’re able to recover at all, it will take miracles."
"He’s been away for only a week, and in his absence, Arsenal, although they won, faced so opposition. But in his presence, they have made this ga like a dream. I say this tonight, but if this is what we’re to see for the remainder of the season, then may God save all!"
....
When the sun rose the next morning, it did not bring calm.
It brought replay.
Phones lit up with the sa image and the sa score!
15–0.
The clips circulated without context now.
No comntary.
Just the ball hitting the net again.
Again.
And again.
And again.
In a café in North London, a man in a navy jacket stared at his screen and laughed softly.
"We’ve battered teams before," he said to the woman behind the counter.
"But that... that was sothing else."
Across Europe, the tone was different but the sa.
In Athens, a radio caller spoke through a long silence before finishing his thought.
"I’ve seen heavy defeats. I’ve seen bad nights. That wasn’t a bad night. That was... I don’t know what that was."
In Madrid, a morning sports show replayed Izan’s sixth goal for the third ti in ten minutes.
"Six goals and six assists," one of the hosts said, tapping the desk as if testing the reality of it.
"He’s distorted my outlook on football and life! Wherever or whatever break Izan went on, needs to be looked into because it was worse before, but now, it’s dire!"
"I felt violated, like watching sothing I wasn’t ant to see!"
Then the broadcasters began to package it.
On BBC, the morning anchor delivered the headline with asured restraint.
"Arsenal’s 15–0 victory last night is now officially the largest margin in Champions League history."
Behind him, the scoreboard flashed. It looked almost theatrical in daylight.
Over on Sky Sports, the studio was less composed.
"You can’t legislate for a performance like that," one pundit said. "But you also can’t ignore it."
"Ignore what?" his colleague replied. "That they were better? Or that they were that much better?"
On beIN Sports, the highlights were frad no less differently while the people of Spain woke to a front page from Marca that didn’t celebrate.
It questioned.
A full-page image of Izan, expression unreadable beneath the stadium lights.
But then just after midday, a headline interrupted regular programming.
A formal statent had been submitted to UEFA.
Among the signatories were Real Madrid, alongside several other prominent European sides.
It spoke of "competitive integrity."
It referenced "unprecedented performance disparities."
And it urged UEFA to "ensure that the spirit and balance of the competition are preserved."
No accusation was written plainly.
No club was nad.
No player singled out.
But every presenter who read it paused at the sa point, and every fan who read the docunt knew who it was talking about!
User Comments
0 comments from readers