God Of football Chapter 1019: Thin Lines!

Telmo Arcanjo, the right winger from Cape Verde, seized the ball on the right flank. His skillful control was so evident that no commentator was needed to announce his blistering speed to the roaring stadium.

In a fraction of a second, he surged past Cucurella, who hadn't even managed to stabilize his position. Arcanjo's advancement wasn't a product of complex maneuvers, but rather pure power that overwhelmed the Chelsea player's defenses. Suddenly, he found himself at the byline with the ball, presented with several options.

Without hesitation, he delivered a cross with his very first step into the penalty area.

Panic began to spread among the Spanish players.

While some positioned themselves strategically to intercept any threatening passes, others had different intentions entirely.

Cape Verde's Ieltins Camões, standing at an imposing six foot two, launched himself at the cross with the focused intensity of a tall striker aiming for a header. He had executed his move perfectly, but at the last possible moment, Rodri moved across to challenge him.

Suddenly under immense pressure, the ball deflected off the contact and spilled towards the edge of the box.

Pedri was positioned there.

The instant Pedri gained possession and looked up, a palpable shift occurred on the field.

Cape Verde had committed heavily to their aggressive, early attacking strategy.

Their defensive line was positioned high, nearly on the halfway line, leaving an immense expanse of space behind them.

This gaping void was impossible to miss, and Pedri didn't need any prompting when his eyes met Izan's, who had turned and was now facing the Cape Verde goal, a staggering sixty yards away.

There was only one conceivable outcome, and without a moment's delay, Pedri struck the underside of the ball with his foot.

It soared in a high, arcing trajectory over the halfway line, soaring above the Cape Verde defense who were desperately scrambling to retreat. The ball descended into the vast space behind them, but Izan was already anticipating its arrival.

Cape Verde players who attempted to track him would later recount, with varying degrees of bewilderment, that they simply hadn't seen him move.

One moment he was behind their defensive line.

The next, he had surged past them, the distance between him and the closest defender widening as if an unseen force had torn them apart.

Their goalkeeper, Bruno Varela, had advanced off his line in anticipation of the ball's trajectory. However, upon witnessing the unfolding situation, he froze, re-evaluated, and began to scramble backward.

From his perspective, the situation seemed straightforward.

The vast space available for Izan's run was certainly anticipated. But as Izan drew nearer and nearer to the ball, he unexpectedly decelerated.

It was this deceleration that perplexed everyone. At full sprint, bearing down on goal, the natural expectation would be to continue running at top speed, strike the ball first-time, and let momentum carry the play forward.

Instead, he slowed his pace, meticulously prepared himself, and planted his left foot beside the ball with the deliberate precision of someone who had already made up their mind. His right foot then swung through to strike.

Bruno Varela took two more hesitant steps back, and by then, he was utterly helpless.

From a position just beyond the halfway line, the ball torpedoed past him as if it had a crucial appointment elsewhere, slamming into the back of the net and remaining there.

"QUEEEEE GOOOOOLLLLLLLLLLLAAASSOOOOOO—"

Seventy-one thousand spectators, every single one leaping to their feet simultaneously, erupted. Though their reasons differed greatly, the resulting sound was nothing short of devastating.

"OOOOOOOOHHHHH MY WORD!!!

FROM THE HALFWAY LINE!!!

FROM THE HALFWAY LINE!!!"

"WHAT DID WE EXPECT???? THERE’S A THIN LINE BETWEEN INSANITY AND BEING THE GENIUS IZAN HERNANDEZ IS. WHAT DO WE EVEN DO WITH THIS BOY!"

"FIRST TOUCH IN THE WORLD CUP AND IZAN HAS JUST CREATED THAT. BELIEVE ME WHEN I TELL YOU THIS, BUT HE IS EXACTLY WHO HE THINKS HE IS. WHAT A BELTZER," the co-commentator exclaimed, unable to contain his excitement.

On the field, the Spanish players stood stunned, hands clasped to their heads.

Ferran Torres's mouth hung agape, while Lamine was already sprinting towards the corner flag.

Upon reaching the corner flag, Izan slid across the grass on his knees, his jersey becoming marked by the Atlanta pitch. He rose back to his feet without looking around, arms outstretched, his gaze fixed somewhere high above the throngs of fans.

Behind him, his teammates converged like a surging tide, engulfing him in their arms and chests, playfully ruffling his tied hair until the bun came undone. He, however, didn't seem to mind the affectionate chaos.

In the VIP section, the quartet had just arrived.

They were in the process of locating their seats when the goal was scored, and the roar of the crowd reached them before they could see the action.

By the time they reached the glass viewing area and looked down onto the pitch, Izan was already celebrating with a slide near the corner flag.

Komi walked to the glass, stood directly in front of it, and gazed down at her son. Arms outstretched, his teammates celebrating around him, the entire stadium was in a state of delirium.

Her son thrived on the intense energy of matches, and the scene unfolding below was perfectly fitting.

She leaned forward slightly, placing one hand on the cool glass, and offered a slow nod in his direction on the field.

"Of course, it had to be him," she uttered softly, a broad smile gracing her lips.

Her eyes welled up with emotion as she remained by the glass, watching him, uttering no further words.

"¡Viva Izan! ¡Viva Izan!

¡Viva Izan y su gol!"

"Long live Izan! Long live Izan!

The roar of the crowd, chanting