God Of football Chapter 1003: Could Be Today!

A gentle, persistent curtain of rain draped itself over North London.

It wasn't the sort of downpour that empties stadiums or sends people scrambling for shelter, but rather a light shower sufficient to make the steel edges of the Emirates glisten and impart a painted sheen to the grass.

Yet, the floodlights pierced this watery veil, sharp as white lances against the evening sky.

And from somewhere high above, a familiar commentary voice began, weaving itself into the broadcast like the opening notes of a somber melody.

"Three nights ago," Peter Drury commenced, his words floating through the airwaves, "a young man in this very city reached the milestone of eighteen years."

Within the commentary booth, the rain intensified its soft drumming against the microphones, a gentle tapping on plastic and glass that did little to diminish the commentator's voice.

"Eighteen," he echoed. "A number that typically signifies potential, not yet achievement. It's an age when most are just embarking on their journeys, not yet at this elite level, yet he has distinguished himself as a rare exception."

As the camera panned slowly across the bowl of the stadium, spectators raised their scarves, their faces illuminated by the floodlights, and banners swayed in the night breeze.

"Tonight," Drury continued, "the vibrant energy and intense spirit of Bavaria have made their way westward. Traveling from Munich... to North London."

For those watching on broadcasts or millions of screens worldwide, the camera's gaze shifted to the players assembling in the tunnel.

Bayern Munich, clad in their striking black away kits, wore expressions honed by countless similar high-stakes evenings. Opposite them, Arsenal stood in their traditional home colors, their shoulders set, their boots already darkened by the persistent rain.

"The formidable FC Bayern Munich," Drury mused softly, "has arrived to challenge the burgeoning force now making waves across European football."

His voice deepened momentarily, a thoughtful pause settling in.

"But allow me to guide you back in time before this moment. A narrative, perhaps fourteen years ago... when a legend named Lionel Messi inscribed an unforgettable chapter into the annals of the game."

The screen briefly flashed with archival footage: Messi, in the iconic Barcelona red and blue, arms outstretched, a rapturous crowd behind him on their feet.

"Ninety-one goals," Drury declared with reverence. "In a single calendar year."

He allowed the magnitude of the number to resonate.

"At the time, it seemed almost beyond belief."

"Spectacular. Astonishing. Nearly unimaginable, yet he achieved it."

The rain created a shimmering sheen on the pitch as the players began to emerge from the tunnel's mouth.

"And the world reacted to it precisely as it always does when confronted by something too grand to fully comprehend."

Drury's tone softened, tinged with a sense of nostalgia.

"They proclaimed that football was evolving. Becoming quicker. More demanding. More regimented. More physically intense."

He released a gentle breath into the microphone.

" They asserted that records like his... would never be surpassed again. And in their own way, they were correct."

"However," Drury’s voice returned, the single word carrying significant weight, "they failed to anticipate... the child who was merely five years old when Messi was achieving such feats."

"A five-year-old who was growing."

"And absorbing knowledge."

"And patiently waiting."

A brief silence stretched, taut before Drury's voice resumed, now lowered in intensity.

"Today, he has blossomed into something of a phenomenon. He has become a force that dismantles opposing teams, a silent bringer of despair to rivals. And if you find yourself still questioning his identity, perhaps this sport is not for you."

"But for clarity's sake, and for the benefit of the very few still unaware, his name is Izan Hernández."

As if the stadium itself, in its unawareness, had been holding its breath for this very revelation—

The sound erupted.

It wasn't a gradual swell.

No, it exploded forth.

A roar so immense it sounded less like applause and more like an ancient, untamed force erupting from the very ground.

Tens of thousands of voices merged into a single, colossal sound that swept around the Emirates like thunder confined within steel walls.

It was akin to a chant.

Even better, a fervent plea.

And through the falling rain, through the bright floodlights, through the vibrating microphones—the recipient of this immense sound, Izan, stepped onto the pitch.

The vibrant neon green captain's armband stood in stark contrast against the white fabric of his sleeve.

He walked at the head of the line, exuding an aura of calm and unhurried confidence, a presence that amplified the unnerving nature of the roar for the few thousand Bayern supporters who had traveled from Bavaria.

This was not entirely unfamiliar territory for them, but the sheer volume of sound reverberating through the Emirates at that moment made even the legendary 'Yellow Wall' of their fiercest rivals in Dortmund seem inadequate in comparison.

"Observe how they call out to him..." Drury's voice resurfaced, now softer, laced with palpable astonishment.

The camera lingered on the vast expanse of faces turning upwards to welcome him.

"...as if he were a deity in his own right."

Izan paused just long enough to cast his gaze upward towards the stands, the falling rain tracing paths across his hair, which possessed a silvery sheen the spectators couldn't quite perceive.

"Since the dawn of 2025," Drury's voice resonated, ascending once more, "he has achieved ninety goals."

"Merely one more goal to equal Messi's record, and two to surpass it. This will not be a simple feat, especially facing Bayern Munich, a team he has never encountered before."

"However," he stated softly, "if anyone is capable of achieving this, it is him, and tonight... tonight might be the very night he breaks the record."

The downpour persisted as the customary pre-game rituals unfolded.

After a brief interval, Drury concluded his commentary with an declaration of certainty, the kind that only the unpredictable nature of football can occasionally provide.

"And he most certainly will."

The Arsenal players began to drift toward their own half of the pitch, while across the field, the Bayern Munich squad formed a tight-knit circle.

Drops of rain streamed down their jerseys, yet not a single player moved away from the huddle.

At the epicenter stood Manuel Neuer, the captain's armband a vivid contrast against his sleeve.

He surveyed each face within the circle before commencing his address.

"Do you hear that?" he inquired, gesturing subtly toward the spectator stands.

"They aim to make it feel as though we are strangers in a hostile territory," Neuer continued in a measured tone. "As if we are already being dominated before the match has even commenced."

A few players subtly shifted their eyes toward the immense, reverberating stadium walls surrounding them.

Neuer offered a single, decisive shake of his head.

"We know better than to fall for such theatrics."

He firmly planted his boots into the damp turf.

"We establish our home on the pitch, regardless of where we play."

His words hung in the air, palpable between them, their exhaled breaths faintly misting in the cool atmosphere.

Neuer leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a more intimate level.

"And that young man..."

"He should not use us as the stepping stone to break that record."

Fleeting smiles appeared amongst the players, a reflection of their shared pride, not overconfidence, for they all understood the immense pressure of competing at their elite level, especially at such a young age, while simultaneously dominating the sport.

"Perhaps he will," Neuer conceded, his hands gesturing outward in a slight arc. "Football does not always adhere to our intentions."

"But should he succeed..."

"...we will ensure his triumph carries a bitter taste."

The fleeting smiles vanished, replaced by a more somber resolve.

"If he breaks the record tonight," Neuer concluded, "it will be in the midst of a defeat."

The Bayern players acknowledged his statement with a near-simultaneous nod.

The circle then disbanded.

At the center of the pitch, the ball lay stationary on its mark. On the opposing side, Viktor Gyökeres stood just behind it.

A step further back, Izan observed the grass beneath his cleats.

Moments later, Harry Kane advanced for Bayern, placing his foot beside the ball.

The referee raised his whistle, drawing a sharp blast the instant the crowd's intensity momentarily subsided, and Kane then nudged the ball forward, initiating the night's contest.