God Of football Chapter 1013: Start Of Summer Fever!

The clock had just passed half-past eight, and the oppressive heat of Tennessee was already making its presence felt.

Despite the rising temperature, the football pitches were kept in immaculate condition.

Baylor School had clearly fulfilled all their obligations, and perhaps even exceeded them, as the perfectly manicured grass gleamed under the morning sun, appearing almost too pristine for play.

For the players, the challenging weather served as a stark reminder that their journey ahead would be anything but easy.

"Damn, I might need to take a trip to Norway just to balance out my melanin after this," one player joked.

"That sounds like quite the undertaking. Why not try England instead? After all, Izan is still kicking around there," Pedri responded to Nico Williams's comment. Lamine Yamal, trailing slightly behind, had been searching for the opportune moment to inject some humor, but the circumstances weren't quite providing the right opening.

Luis de la Fuente and his coaching staff were already present on the field when the players emerged.

De la Fuente, sporting his cap and sunglasses perched on his forehead, was engaged in a discussion with his assistant.

Once the entire group had assembled, De la Fuente began to address the team.

"Alright people, this marks our first training session in this country. Take a look around," he instructed. "We're at a World Cup, and you're the ones who got us here."

A smattering of applause and whistles, likely initiated by players like Lamine and Cubarsí, rippled through the group but failed to gain momentum, resulting in a momentarily awkward silence after De la Fuente paused.

"The winning strategy that led us to the Euros two years ago," he continued, "wasn't solely based on raw talent. Every team competing in a tournament possesses sufficient talent to be there. Our success stemmed from our intense focus on ourselves – on our own game, rather than fixating on what any other individual or team was doing."

He scanned the faces before him.

"And that is precisely the approach we will be adopting for this tournament as well. There's an old saying: if it isn't broken, don't fix it. However, we must remain adaptable. So, aside from our video sessions and tactical analyses, I do not want to hear any talk about 'This player is doing that' or 'This team has achieved so-and-so.'"

"For some of you, this is your very first major international tournament."

Cubarsí gave a subtle nod, and the player next to him, Huijsen, followed suit, along with several others who felt the remark resonated with them.

"That's perfectly fine. More than fine, in fact."

Then, almost as an afterthought, he added,

"The last time we competed in a final, we had a 16-year-old and a 17-year-old starting in the lineup."

A few of the players chuckled, finding amusement in the amusing truth of the statement.

Others laughed as well, recalling that some of them had been teammates with those exceptionally young players back then and still hadn't quite fully processed the reality, even after they had reached adulthood.

"The championship title is ours for the taking," De la Fuente declared.

"We simply need to show up and claim it."

De la Fuente gave a single, decisive nod, as if punctuating his statement, and announced: "Let's get to work."

The team dispersed, and the pitch soon buzzed with activity – shouts calling out positions and the familiar setup of a rondo drill beginning to form near the center circle.

Izan remained at the edge of the field, diligently tying the laces of a new, unreleased pair of boots sent by Adidas for testing.

De la Fuente approached and stood beside him, his gaze falling upon the footwear.

They were striking: entirely new, featuring white uppers with vibrant red soles, and adorned with what appeared to be a scythe motif on each side.

"Those are some sharp boots. The artwork on the sides is quite distinctive," De la Fuente commented as Izan looked up, a faint smile touching his lips.

"Fancy a pair?"

De la Fuente gestured to his own feet, revealing a pair of black Mizuno cleats. "These are perfectly adequate for me."

Izan stood up, and the two stood in comfortable silence for a moment, observing the ongoing training session.

The practice was finding its rhythm.

The rondo drill was in full swing.

And Lamine was already chattering away.

De la Fuente then said, "You're going to have to lead."

Izan let out a soft sound, something between a breath and a suppressed laugh.

He glanced sideways at De la Fuente, realizing the coach wasn't speaking figuratively.

De la Fuente's gaze was fixed on the pitch, his expression a mixture of entreaty and firm expectation, as if he too were waiting for Izan to come to the same realization.

After a moment, Izan looked back at the field before bending down to remove his shin guards, which had started to feel uncomfortably itchy.

"You know, I was fifteen back then," he stated, straightening up. This prompted De la Fuente to turn his attention towards him.

"What was that?" he inquired, as Izan met his gaze.

"When we won the Euros, I was fifteen, not sixteen," Izan clarified. Before he could elaborate further, Lamine's voice boomed from the rondo circle.

"Izan! Are you coaching from the sidelines or actually playing?"

"He can be both," De la Fuente replied, momentarily taken aback by the corrected information.

Laughter erupted from the drill as someone playfully told Lamine to get back into position.

By this time, Izan was already making his way towards the rondo.

"Get in the circle—" Pedri playfully nudged him with his foot as Izan approached.

"Out, out, you're out—"

Izan stepped into the circle, and the drill immediately closed in around him.

......

The period preceding the tournament possessed a distinct atmosphere. It felt akin to a period of rest, despite the profound exhaustion that was the prerequisite for affording such a respite.

As the week progressed, the training regimens escalated in intensity. Coach De la Fuente's sessions transformed from their initial relaxed and experimental nature on that first morning to a demanding regimen with a palpable edge by the third day. The mounting pressure coincided with a surge in intensity, reaching a point where Cubarsí could execute drills even in his sleep. Huijsen, his roommate, could attest to this, noting it was becoming a significant issue.

The training complex adopted an almost sacred rhythm. Breakfast was served at eight, followed by the training session at half past nine. Video analysis commenced at two in the afternoon. The evenings were reserved for personal activities, often involving games, massages, or crucial extra rest. Some players also began making calls home, but soon, June 11th arrived with fervent anticipation.

The opening ceremony was scheduled for three in the afternoon, Chattanooga time. By half past two, the majority of the squad had congregated in the main dining hall, plates before them, and the large screen on the wall tuned to the live broadcast. On screen, the Estadio Azteca was filling in real-time with approximately eighty-seven thousand spectators, and every face caught by the camera conveyed an indescribable sense of awe.