God Of football

Chapter 970: Religion.

Ange Postecoglou did not look at the bench when he made the call.

He stood tight to the touchline, arms loosely by his side, before he looked to his assistant by his side.

"Get Willy and Savona changed now."

The assistant nodded before turning towards the bench and motioning towards said players.

Willy Boly was already halfway up before the sentence finished.

Nicola Savona followed, tugging his bib off as he moved out of his seat.

After that, Ange leaned closer, lowering his voice.

"More bodies. More height. Slow it down," he muttered, almost to himself.

"We don’t need to be brave anymore."

Behind him, one of the analysts nodded, tablet tucked under his arm.

"We figured the trigger," Ange continued, jaw tight.

"Gabriel steps every time Izan touches it. I don’t know if it was a sign of trust, but we can’t take advantage of that anymore since they’ve given the ball to us in hopes that we commit a mistake."

He finally glanced back at the pitch where Izan was prowling, hoping for a loose ball or bad touch.

"Kid’s on something," Ange said quietly. "We’ll take the point and go."

Before the substitutions could be made, Morato went down.

It was obvious enough.

He hadn’t landed awkwardly or collided with anyone.

Just a sudden clutch at the ankle and a slow collapse to the turf.

The referee sighed and blew his whistle, and the Emirates erupted.

"Get up, you wanker!" someone screamed from the lower tier.

It spread quickly, the harassment rolling around the stadium, sharp and unforgiving.

Morato stayed down, face twisted, hands gripping his boot as the medics jogged on.

The pause did exactly what Forest wanted, and Boly and Savona stepped onto the touchline as the board went up.

Sangaré off.

Gibbs-White off.

Two defenders on and two attackers sacrificed.

"And so it seems. Forest taking off two attackers and bringing on defensive coverage. It seems that Ange has set his sights on getting the draw out of this game."

When play resumed, Timber stood with the ball in his hands, staring down the touchline.

He exhaled, then tossed it straight back to Forest, in a good show of sportsmanship.

And suddenly, Morato was fine.

He popped up, took the throw, and immediately touched the ball again, moving it inside to Murillo.

"Morato to Murillo," the commentator said. "Now, Boly."

Forest kept it simple, with just backpasses and side passes, but they got hounds on them.

Led by Izan, the Arsenal forward line snapped into a very aggressive press that even Jurgen Klopp would be proud of.

He, in particular, chased like someone chasing something personal.

Murillo shifted it early.

Boly went long.

In the next moment, the ball dropped awkwardly, and Neco Williams had to stretch for it.

He did not have time to settle since Izan was already there, and so he panicked and smashed it forward, more clearance than a pass.

Just then, the announcer’s voice rang through the stadium from the speakers above.

"The 4th Official has indicated that there will be 7 minutes of Added Time!"

The commentator laughed, breathless on the broadcast, hearing that announcement.

"Seven minutes added on. We are deep into it now. Plenty of time for something dramatic, or maybe both sides shake hands and share the spoils."

On the pitch, there was no shaking hands.

Hudson-Odoi received it wide, boots kissing the chalk on the sidelines.

Timber squared up to him, low stance, arms out as he threatened to claim the ball, but after spotting the space behind him, "Inside!" Timber shouted.

Nwaneri heard it and slid across, closing the gap, and for a moment, it looked boxed in.

Hudson-Odoi nudged it past Timber’s outstretched foot and burst forward anyway.

Still, Arsenal recovered.

Mosquera came across hard and clean, sliding through the ball and sending it skidding out for another throw.

Every red shirt dropped inside their half, closing every angle.

Forest had bodies everywhere, but no room to toss the ball.

After standing there and looking for a while, Savona took the throw flat.

Hudson-Odoi tried to shield it, back to right back, but Timber reached from behind, toe hooking the ball just enough.

It bounced once and clipped Anderson’s shin.

And then it hung there for a fraction of a second.

It looked harmless until a red flake moved amongst the bodies.

Anderson, seeing the red rushing out of the corner of his eye, tried to step between, but it was almost like the red dot had gained a speed boost because in that split second, Izan was already ahead of him.

"Fuck!" was what Anderson spat because as his hand wrapped around Izan’s midsection, Izan did the same too, only, he wrapped his leg around the ball in one sharp motion, almost violent in its speed.

There was a sound when his foot met the ball.

A crack.

Like leather snapping tight.

Even the crowd nearest to the players, heard the snap before the ball ripped away from him, rising fast.

The commentary stumbled, voices scrambling to catch up.

"And Izan has hit that... wait... he’s gone for goal..."

The ball towered in the skies, moving towards the Forest goal where Matz Sels, unthreatened by the Arsenal team for a while, had gotten comfortable enough to drift a few metres away from the penalty box.

All he saw was his teammates fighting for the ball with the Arsenal players, and then suddenly, the ball was moving towards him, like a heat-seeking missile.

He backpedalled, three steps, then launched himself, arm stretched, eyes wide.

But he was never close.

The ball sailed over his glove and smashed into the net with a hollow thump that echoed around the stadium in that loud silence, just before the Emirates exploded.

The broadcast camera found Izan first, who stood still, chest rising, surrounded by Forest players who had dropped to their knees or lay flat on the grass, staring at nothing.

"Unbelievable. Well and truly unbelievable. What is his limit? What does he see in those moments? From there? From beyond the centre line?"

"We’ve seen everything from him," the commentator went on. "Free kicks. Solo runs. Last-ditch clearance. And now this. Right on top. A cherry placed neatly on it."

Izan finally turned, the armband bright against his sleeve, before he felt his teammates crashing into him, sending him tumbling onto the ground as the groans of and gasps of the Forest crowd praised him.

"From our forefathers, to us. This is why we adore this game. This is the lifestyle that we live. This air that we breathe, and this is the religion that we have chosen to follow. And, he is becoming a god of it!"