God Of football

Chapter 1044: No Izan, No Problemo!

Half an hour passed, and when it did, the final strains of the Spanish anthem faded into the Californian air, replaced moments later by Austria’s as their supporters answered with a wall of red and white from the opposite end of SoFi Stadium.

It was time for the round of 32 affair.

Scarves hung high while hands rested over hearts in respect for the anthem that was being played.

Then, as quickly as it had begun, the ceremony passed.

Team photographs, followed by the captains’ handshakes as well as the exchange of pennants, proceeded to follow, the usual pre-match pleasantries being observed.

The moment it was finished, the players peeled off their warm-up jackets and tossed them toward the benches before jogging into position as the officials carried out their final checks.

The knockout rounds had arrived, and there would be no second chances now.

"And here we go," Peter Drury, who was describing his second Spain game in a row and sounding pleased with it, said as the broadcast settled.

"The World Cup has already reached the round of 32, but it is now Spain’s turn to see what they can do as the road continues here in Los Angeles against an Austrian side hoping to author one of the tournament’s great surprises."

As the commentary went on, the stadium cameras, as always, swept across the Spanish lineup before lingering on the substitutes’ bench.

There, looking almost too relaxed for the occasion, sat Izan Hernández Miura.

His elbows rested on the armrests of his seat, one leg crossed over the other as he watched the players finish taking their positions.

"One of the stories coming into tonight," Drury continued, "is that young man on your screen. Just eighteen years of age, only two starts and one substitute appearance so far..."

"...and already six goals," his co-commentator finished.

"Level with Kylian Mbappé."

"And level," Drury smiled, "with Lionel Messi."

A brief chuckle came beside him.

"I honestly don’t know what’s more ridiculous."

"Messi still doing this at thirty-nine....or Izan doing it at eighteen."

Drury laughed softly.

"I was about to say the same thing."

"The age difference between those two is over twenty years, and yet here they are sharing the top of the Golden Boot standings."

"The race has absolutely exploded," the co-commentator replied.

"You’ve got Mbappé on six. Messi on six. Izan on six, and that is not even it. Erling Haaland, who is playing his first World Cup with Norway, who haven’t qualified in 28 years, isn’t far away."

"Harry Kane is lurking, and Jude Bellingham could easily catch fire, same with Vinicius and even Oyarzabal for Spain."

"There are plenty of candidates, but if you’re asking me today, ...I still think it’s between those three."

"Messi, Mbappé, and Izan."

Drury nodded.

"I’ll admit I was hoping we’d see Izan from the start tonight."

"Messi scored twice against Austria in the group stages, and I was hoping to use his performance as a reference for what is to happen today, but Luis de la Fuente clearly believes he can manage his minutes and still get the job done."

"And that’s quite the vote of confidence in the eleven he’s put out."

By then, both teams had settled into formation.

The referee glanced at each assistant one final time, and a moment later, a sharp blast of the whistle followed.

Austria rolled the ball backwards, and Spain let them breathe, for only a few moments before they turned on their press, their highline defence working in tandem with the attack.

The difference in confidence showed almost instantly as Spain won the ball back within a few minutes and began showing their dominance.

Every Spanish shirt seemed to know where the next pass would go before it was even played, but their individual brilliance also showed with players like Rodri and Porro setting the tone of the match even before the Austrians had truly found their feet.

And then there was Lamine Yamal.

Konrad Laimer had spent most of his career on the opposite side of the pitch, but tonight, he had been asked to fill in at left-back.

Within minutes, it looked like the longest ninety minutes of his career.

Every time Spain worked the ball wide, Lamine wanted it, and every single time, he drove directly at Laimer, fearless and relentless.

One moment he was darting outside and then the next he was cutting inside.

Then he would simply stop, stand over the ball and force Laimer into another impossible decision.

It wasn’t long before Austria’s left winger abandoned his own attacking duties to help.

That lasted barely five minutes as soon as a midfielder joined them and then another.

Sometimes three Austrian shirts converged on Lamine at once, but it hardly mattered.

If they stayed narrow, he escaped down the line.

If they blocked the line, he threaded another impossible pass into midfield or down the line somehow for Pedro Porro to get a cross in.

"He is terrorising that side," Drury observed as Lamine skipped away from another challenge.

"They’ve thrown everyone they can at him, but at the moment, none of it’s working."

As the game went on, the pressure built.

Wave after wave crashed against Austria’s defence, which looked solid at the start but eventually began looking shaky.

Eventually, one sweeping move carried Spain deep into Austrian territory after Lamine once again dragged the ball back, like he was about to take the middle route before slipping the ball between Laimer and then Xaver Schlager for Porro, who clipped an early delivery toward the penalty area.

Nobody could quite reach it so the ball sailed beyond everyone before dropping near the opposite touchline.

And somehow, Marc Cucurella had anticipated exactly that.

The Chelsea full-back gathered it without breaking stride before lifting a delicate cross back toward the penalty spot and waiting underneath it was Mikel Oyarzabal.

The Real Sociedad captain barely needed to leave the ground.

He got his head to the ball despite the pressure from Alaba as his header flew beyond Alexander Schlager.

The net rippled, and with it, the stands in the SoFi Stadium rippled too.

"GOOOOOAAAAAL," the commentary roared on the broadcast.

"Spain lead!" Drury exclaimed as Oyarzabal wheeled away with both fists clenched as teammates chased after him.

"And eventually the pressure tells!"

Beside Drury, laughter accompanied the replay.

"Well... Spain say, no Izan, no problem."

Spain’s celebrations eventually subsided before Austria restarted with noticeably greater urgency.

For the remainder of the half, they enjoyed their best spell of possession.

They carried the ball higher and pressed more aggressively.

They sometimes even forced Spain into a handful of hurried clearances, but Unai Simón remained largely untroubled.

The Spanish back line stayed composed until the referee finally called time on the opening forty-five minutes.

The Spanish supporters rose together, applauding their players off with one goal ahead and exactly where they wanted to be.