God Of football Chapter 1014: Opening Game

Displayed before them, the opening ceremony had commenced. Performers gracefully traversed the pitch, their formations meticulously arranged to create visually recognizable depictions of the flags belonging to the three host nations when viewed from above.

Initially, the music swelled with the grand, orchestral style characteristic of such events—a deliberate choice to amplify the magnitude of the already significant occasion.

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Pause

[Mid/AN: To ensure I don't inadvertently cause offense, I'll be omitting descriptions of the opening ceremony performance. Despite extensive online research for potential performers, FIFA has maintained a tight lid on this information, or perhaps, has yet to finalize their choices. Therefore, I encourage you to use your own vivid imaginations to fill in these details. I'm confident your creative minds are wonderfully expansive. (.﹏.). Now, returning to the narrative.]

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"Any predictions?" a voice called out from the rear of the room, prompting a moment of collective contemplation among the players.

"Regarding the ceremony?" Zubimendi inquired, his question eliciting chuckles from the rest of the group.

"What's so funny?" Lamine questioned, a slight smile playing on his lips as he gestured towards the screen.

"I mean for the match. Mexico versus South Africa. Who do you think will win?"

"Ah, I see," Zubimendi murmured, his focus returning to his meal.

"So, who wins?" Lamine pressed.

"Mexico," a significant portion of the table responded in near unison.

"It's a clear choice for Mexico," Pedri affirmed.

"They've got the home advantage, the opening match, and the Azteca stadium. I honestly believe South Africa stands no chance."

"Don't be so sure about that," Carvajal interjected.

"Games like this, especially with the host nation playing, are never as straightforward as they might seem."

A brief silence fell over the room, after which the predictions began to flow more earnestly.

"Mexico will win," Lamine stated definitively.

"A two-nil victory, with Lozano scoring one of those goals."

"Lozano has retired," Fermín chimed in, causing Lamine to stare at him as if he’d lost his mind.

"Since when?" Lamine demanded, but Fermín Lopez merely offered a shrug and returned to his meal.

"You..." Lamine hissed, realizing he had been skillfully provoked by Fermín's jest.

"I'm predicting a one-nil win," Nico offered.

"Perhaps a scrappy, late goal, followed by the stadium erupting in sheer ecstasy."

"That's remarkably specific."

"That's precisely the kind of drama these matches often deliver."

Huijsen, who had been quietly observing the ceremony while eating, spoke without lifting his gaze from the screen: "South Africa will win two-one, and they'll score the opening goal."

The table fell silent for a fleeting moment.

"South Africa scores first?" Pedri questioned, incredulous.

"At the Azteca. In the opening game."

"That would be—"

"Chaotic," Cubarsí finished the thought.

"Incredible," Lamine exclaimed simultaneously.

"It would be a complete nightmare for the hosts," Carvajal remarked. "Which, you know, probably means it’s exactly what will happen. It's football, after all."

Huijsen simply shrugged and resumed his meal.

Lamine finally turned his head to look towards the back, raising a finger to pose a question about a name.

"Izan?"

All eyes shifted down the table to where Izan was engrossed in the screen, his elbow resting on the table, his chin propped in his hand.

His gaze remained fixed on the unfolding spectacle.

"Mexico. Two nil."

"How predictable," Lamine scoffed.

"Or perhaps, accurate," Pedri countered.

"Those two aren't mutually exclusive, you know," Olmo added.

On the screen, the ceremony was building towards its planned climax.

Moments later, the cameras shifted between the pitch and the stands, capturing legendary figures like Michael Essien and Alex Morgan as they presented the World Cup trophy to a small podium erected before the cheering crowd.

Witnessing this on screen served as a potent reminder to the Spanish players of the ultimate prize and the reason for their presence in the tournament.

The ceremony concluded shortly thereafter, and as the teams emerged, the broadcaster's voice cut through the lingering atmosphere.

he said,

A hush fell over the dining room, and for a considerable time, no further words were spoken.

The match commenced ten minutes after the ceremony's conclusion. Within a mere thirty seconds, it became abundantly clear that South Africa had no intention of conceding defeat quietly at the Azteca.

Their approach was fiercely aggressive, yet remarkably organized.

Watching their fluid gameplay, it was evident they operated with a distinct strategy. This immediately injected a level of intrigue into the dining room that far exceeded the expectations of most of the Spanish squad.

"Alright then," Pedri commented.

"I can't help but recall a particular piece of commentary whenever South Africa plays," Olmo contributed.

Mexico struggled to find their rhythm initially.

The crowd roared with the characteristic fervor of the Azteca faithful. However, for the opening fifteen minutes, the home team appeared burdened by the immense pressure of eighty-seven thousand expectant fans.

South Africa consistently won back possession.

They executed swift transitions, forcing Mexico's defenders into confused exchanges. This performance caused some of the players in the squad, who had initially predicted an easy win for Mexico, to visibly falter.

"Carvajal," Lamine murmured, his eyes glued to the screen.

"No," Carvajal declared, shaking his head.

"I am merely stating facts—"

"Do not vocalize them," came the sharp reply.

Around the twenty-minute mark, the match ignited, transforming into a thrilling spectacle. The action became end-to-end, with neither team affording the other a moment's respite.

A Mexican winger skillfully cut inside, forcing a remarkable save from the opposing goalkeeper. Almost immediately, South Africa launched a swift counter-attack, creating a three-on-two situation, but their final shot narrowly missed the target.

Spectators who had been engrossed in their meals found their appetites completely forgotten, captivated by the unfolding drama.

Then, shortly before the half-hour mark, a corner was delivered from the left flank. Mexico's goalkeeper, rising to contest the ball, landed awkwardly and remained down, clearly in distress.

"Oh dear," Raya whispered, his knuckles disappearing between his teeth.

The on-screen visuals showed medical personnel rushing onto the pitch. The goalkeeper lay on his back, a hand shielding his face.

"That looks serious," Huijsen commented, his words met with a heavy silence, as no one felt compelled to add to the grim assessment.

One did not require medical expertise to interpret the goalkeeper's body language.

The way the physio urgently signaled to the bench, the goalkeeper's inability or unwillingness to rise, and the palpable concern reflected on the faces of the Spanish players shifting uncomfortably in their seats all painted a grim picture.

"It's never a good sight," Carvajal stated softly. "It makes no difference who the player is."

The fellow players around him offered solemn nods, fully comprehending the immense difficulty of being stretchered off the field during what was undeniably the pinnacle event of a footballer's career!