God Of football - Chapter 1037

Chapter 1037: Akron Interlude!

Back inside the Akron, the answer was still unfolding, but when the match official glanced at his watch, all knew that the break was upon.

One final Spanish attack broke down on the edge of the area, and right after Uruguay cleared long, the referee took his whistle into his mouth and let the shrill sound invade the pitch.

Following that, the release around the stadium was almost physical.

Players exhaled, and the supporters did too.

Both sides came to a halt as the ball crashed against the grass and began bobbling out of play.

A second later, both sets of players began drifting towards the tunnel, still deadlocked.

Nobody had won the half, and though one side looked particularly pleased about it, the other didn’t.

“What a fascinating forty-five minutes,” Drury said as the cameras followed the players off.

“Spain have controlled long spells, created the clearer opportunities and, on another evening, may well already be out of sight.”

“They might,” Moreau agreed, “but football doesn’t work on what should have happened.”

He watched Muslera disappear down the tunnel before his eyes shifted to Araujo.

“Honestly, Peter, this first half has felt less like Spain against Uruguay and more like Izan Hernandez Miura against Fernando Muslera… with Ronald Araujo refusing to let either man win.”

Hearing that, Drury smiled.

“I think that’s a fair assessment.”

“The problem for both sides,” Moreau continued, “is that those duels can’t carry the match forever.

Uruguay need more from the players in front of them, and Spain need someone besides Izan to also start asking difficult questions.

Otherwise this becomes a battle of attrition between three footballers playing some extraordinary football today.”

The broadcast camera lingered one last time before finding Izan, right as he disappeared beneath the tunnel, while behind him Araujo and Muslera walked side by side to a standing ovation from the Uruguayan end.

….

The fifteen-minute break disappeared faster than it felt.

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Most of the Spanish players had settled into their usual spots by now, all doing whatever it was they did to relax during breaks, but one thing they had in common was the way their eyes drifted towards the dressing room door that never opened, even after 10 minutes of the 15-minute break had passed.

Pedri eventually checked the wall clock before glancing toward Rodri.

“…Is the mister coming?”

At that, Rodri shrugged.

“Maybe he’s making us think.”

Hearing that, Lamine snorted.

“Well, it’s working. Look at Nico, he’s so tense!”

A few laughs broke the silence, but they faded quickly.

The room settled again, everyone waiting for footsteps that never came.

Eventually, Izan pushed himself off the bench.

He dragged both hands through his hair, trying to slick it back until every strand disappeared.

The result was spectacularly unsuccessful.

Half of it sprang straight back up while the other half clung stubbornly to the side of his head.

Fermín burst out laughing while pointing towards Izan.

“You look like an angry egg. Don’t ever do that again.”

“Yeah bro,” Lamine affirmed.

Even Pedri couldn’t help smiling as Izan abandoned the experiment with a sigh.

“Well… there goes my coaching career. I wanted to see if I could pull off the bald look.”

A few more chuckles rolled through the room before he leaned back against one of the treatment tables.

“I guess the mister’s disappointed enough that he’s decided not to waste his breath.”

Hearing that, the room descended once more into the silence it was before all the laughs.

They all knew the first half hadn’t been what Spain expected.

While they kept their heads down, Izan folded his arms.

“They’re going to keep collapsing onto me every time I touch the ball. They’ve made that pretty clear.”

After that, his eyes travelled across the dressing room as heads picked up.

“So here’s what we’re going to do.”

…

Across the corridor, Marcelo Bielsa’s dressing room looked nothing like Spain’s.

The whiteboard had disappeared beneath arrows, names, zones and illustrations one wouldn’t really see on a football field.

It resembled the blueprint of a machine rather than a football match.

Bielsa paced in front of it without stopping once.

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“If Izan drops…”

He drew another arrow.

“…Don’t follow.”

After that, he drew another line.

“If he receives here…,” he said as he continued to circle.

“…He is already too late to stop. If Muslera catches the ball or faces an attack, we have already failed.”

All around him, the players barely moved.

By the time Bielsa finally stopped speaking, there wasn’t an untouched section of the board left.

Before he could utter another word, a knock came at the door.

He turned towards it as one of the stadium officials leaned inside and then nodded towards Bielsa with a wry smile, like he was doing his best not to face the brunt of the man’s seriousness.

“Coach… it’s time.”

Bielsa looked once at the board before turning toward his players, seemingly ignoring the staff.

“They’ve already qualified. We have too. But first place changes everything for us. It does things placing 2nd or 3rd can’t do, so let’s do our best.”

After that, he turned and finally acknowledged the staff before moving forward and opening the door.

The players stood immediately and began filing out.

Valverde adjusted the captain’s armband as they stepped into the tunnel, only to find Spain already disappearing toward the light ahead.

The noise waiting outside reached them before the pitch did.

The Spanish supporters had spotted their players first.

Red and gold rose together, thousands of voices swelling until the sound rolled down into the tunnel itself.

Then the Uruguayan supporters answered when they saw their shirts invade the pitch once more.

Within seconds the Akron was roaring again.

“Welcome back,” Drury said as the broadcast returned.

“The first forty-five minutes somehow gave us everything except the one thing both sides were chasing.”

“A goal,” Moreau replied.

“And I still don’t think we’ve seen the last twist.”

The players of both sides crossed into opposite halves, lingering around as the match official seemed to fiddle with some of his equipment.

After a while, they began showing up to their respective positions as the match threatened to begin.

2Nd Summoning!