God Of football Chapter 1015 - 6th World Cup!

Minutes later, a stretcher emerged, and the crowd at the Azteca offered their applause as the player was carried off, a fitting gesture.

Then, the scoreboard changed, displaying a number that caused a stir among the diners.

"It truly is him," Nico murmured.

"Ochoa," Pedri confirmed.

Indeed, it was Guillermo Ochoa. He entered the game in the thirty-first minute of the 2026 World Cup opener. At forty years old, he pulled on his gloves and jogged towards the goal. The Azteca greeted him with the warmth reserved for a returning hero, like a cherished church welcoming back a long-absent congregant.

Lamine leaned forward, curious. "How many World Cups is that for him?"

"Six," Carvajal replied.

The table fell silent for a moment, contemplating the revelation.

"He was playing in World Cups," Cubarsí said, his voice tinged with disbelief as he did the mental math, "before I was even born."

"Before I was born," Lamine echoed.

"Before Izan was born," Pedri added, his gaze sweeping across the table.

Izan, who had been observing the scene with his chin resting in his hand, gave a single nod.

"That's," Fermín interjected, his tone one of utter astonishment, "actually ridiculous."

"Six World Cups," Nico repeated, shaking his head in amazement.

On the screen, Ochoa was now in position, bouncing lightly on his feet. He spoke to his defenders with a composure that only a player of his immense experience could possess.

The roar of the Azteca chanting his name seemed to settle the Mexican team instantly, as if they had collectively taken a breath they didn't realize they were holding.

Then, the game resumed.

Within ten minutes of Ochoa's entry, Mexico regained possession in the midfield. A swift pass through the lines found Raúl Jiménez, thirty-four years old, still sharp from his time at Fulham. He controlled the ball adeptly about twenty yards from goal, shrugged off a challenge, and fired a low shot into the corner.

The Azteca erupted.

In the dining room, a spontaneous, slightly sheepish round of applause broke out.

"Now that's a proper goal," Olmo commented, as eyes turned towards those whose earlier predictions had already proven incorrect.

South Africa pressed on in the second half, striving to break down the Mexican defense. However, Mexico remained compact, and Ochoa behind them was simply Ochoa. The few opportunities South Africa managed to create were handled with the characteristic calm and flair that defined Ochoa's play.

Time seemed to stretch and compress, depending on where one's allegiances lay.

The match remained close, and Mexico understood the importance of protecting their lead.

In the eighty-fifth minute, they launched a counter-attack from a South African corner. It was a three-on-two situation, and unlike South Africa's earlier attempts, this goal was all but assured before the ball even crossed the line, making it two-nil.

The dining room acknowledged the scoreline. The Spanish players began to stretch and check their phones, a natural unwinding as the outcome of the game seemed decided.

Lamine turned to Izan. "How did you know that?"

Izan offered a slight smile but remained silent, only repeating his earlier prediction. "Two nil."

"Alright, since you seem to be some kind of oracle..." Lamine began.

"Spain's first game," Pedri interrupted, gesturing towards Lamine.

"He's going to ask you about Spain's first game."

"I was actually going to ask," Lamine stated without apology, "what the score of Spain's first game will be, so I can let my friends know beforehand."

"Absolutely not," Carvajal declared instantly.

"I just—"

"Lamine."

On the screen, the fourth official raised his board, indicating four minutes of added time.

Some of the players began to clear their plates.

The game seemed settled, but then, unprompted, Izan spoke: "Actually—I want to change my prediction."

Several heads turned towards him, wondering at the sudden shift in his stance.

"South Africa might score," he said.

Pedri looked at him, then at the screen, and back at Izan again. "The game is in the ninety-first minute."

"I know."

"We're three minutes from full time."

"I know."

A brief silence fell over the table.

Then, Olmo said, "Okay," with the resignation of someone accepting the unpredictable nature of life.

The game slowly progressed through the added time.

Ninety-one.

Ninety-two.

And in the ninety-third minute, South Africa earned a free kick near the edge of the box – a potential chance.

The Spanish players who had returned to their seats were now coming back into view.

The initial free kick was partially cleared to the edge of the area, but the ball fell to a South African midfielder who struck it first time from the same spot.

The Mexican players lunged to block, but the ball weaved through them, grazed Ochoa's gloves, and trickled agonizingly, almost comically, over the line.

Two to one.

For a full two seconds, the Azteca Stadium was engulfed in a hush. Then, the jubilant South African crowd erupted, finding a genuine cause for celebration.

Inside the dining room, a moments' silence followed.

Slowly, Lamine turned his gaze towards Izan.

"What," he began, "will be Spain's final score against Cape Verde?"

Before Izan could even utter a word, Carvajal was already on his feet, his voice echoing.

"Luis!" he called out towards the corridor. "Luis, get in here – Lamine's attempting to place bets on our matches!"

"I am not betting; I am merely inquiring—"

"He's asking Izan for the score so he can inform his friends to wager money on it—"

"That is an entirely different matter—"

"Luis!"

Lamine surveyed the table, a look of profound misunderstanding etched on his face, as if the world perpetually failed to grasp his intentions.

Meanwhile, on the screen, the final whistle blew.

Mexico two, South Africa one.

"Well, that concludes the match. Mexico, the hosts, have secured victory in their opening game against South Africa. We sincerely hope both teams provide us with more thrilling moments in their upcoming fixtures during the next round," the commentator's voice faded from the screen as the players' focus began to shift.

Their own matches were just four days away, and despite the underlying nervousness, a palpable excitement overshadowed any apprehension!