God Of football Chapter 1050: Early Unrest!

Before either could answer again, the fourth official stepped between them.

"Gentlemen."

Both captains nodded as the refereeing team moved into position at the front of the tunnel.

A marshal raised his arm, and then a moment later, the leading official beckoned the players forward.

"Let’s go," he said.

The roar waiting outside seemed to double the instant the players showed.

Every step toward the light made it louder.

Then suddenly...

The tunnel gave way to daylight, and almost without a shred of conscience, the AT&T Stadium exploded.

Flames burst upward along both touchlines, but that wasn’t the only thing.

Fireworks cracked above the giant video boards as the teams emerged side by side, their captains leading the way beneath a deafening wall of noise.

The giant screens flashed first Portugal’s crest, then Spain’s, before settling on Ronaldo and Izan walking shoulder to shoulder toward the halfway line.

The stadium announcer barely allowed the applause to settle before joining the hype!

"Ladies and gentlemen..."

His voice boomed around every corner of the arena.

"Welcome... to the FIFA World Cup Round of Sixteen!"

The response shook the stadium, and even in this, the fans of both sides tried to make a contest of their roars.

Back in the gantry, Tyldesley laughed louder than he’d expected.

"And there they are," he began as his partner, McCoist, folded his arms beside him.

"Look at that."

"It doesn’t get much bigger than this. It really doesn’t."

Tyldesley watched both teams spread across the pitch before speaking again.

"People often talk about destiny in football. They speak about moments that somehow feel inevitable."

"I don’t pretend to know what happens over the next ninety minutes...but I’d be very surprised if the winners of this tie aren’t lifting the World Cup in a few weeks."

"I couldn’t agree more," McCoist replied.

"These are two outstanding football teams."

"And yet only one gets to keep dreaming tonight."

Down below, the players formed their lines.

Portugal stood proudly in their traditional red while Spain faced them wearing the deep white-wine away strip that had quickly become one of the tournament’s defining images.

A moment later, Portugal’s anthem rang out first, and every Portuguese player sang, but none louder than Ronaldo, whose face showed the strain of how much passion he was singing with.

When the final note faded, applause swept around the stadium before Spain’s wordless anthem followed.

Its orchestral melody filled the arena while thousands of Spanish supporters supplied the missing lyrics with applause alone.

Once the formalities ended, both teams crossed paths.

Club teammates exchanged smiles and brief embraces.

Quiet and short jokes transpired as Bruno Fernandes clasped Rodri’s hand.

Vitinha shared a grin with Pedri while João Cancelo tapped Lamine lightly on the shoulder before both teams peeled away toward their own halves.

Away from the pitch and up in the gantry, Tyldesley glanced down at his team sheet before turning towards his mic.

"And these are the lineups. Let’s run you through Portugal."

"Diogo Costa starts in goal behind a back four of Nuno Mendes, Renato Veiga, Rúben Dias and João Cancelo."

"In midfield it’s João Neves alongside Vitinha, with Bruno Fernandes operating just ahead."

"João Félix starts from the left, Pedro Neto from the right..."

"...and, of course, Cristiano Ronaldo leads the attack."

McCoist nodded thoughtfully.

"That midfield battle could decide everything tonight."

"If Portugal can stop Spain controlling the centre of the pitch, they’ll fancy their chances."

After that, Tyldesley turned the page, moving onto the next.

"And Spain."

"Unai Simón keeps his place in goal behind Pedro Porro, Pau Cubarsí, Aymeric Laporte and Marc Cucurella, a defence that’s conceded just once all tournament."

"Rodri and Pedri anchor midfield while Dani Olmo plays ahead of them."

"For the front three, Alex Baena starts from the left, while Lamine Yamal mirrors him on the opposite flank!"

"And captaining Spain through the middle..." McCoist said with a smile, "...Izan Hernandez Miura."

By the time the two were finished, both teams had settled into position.

Izan tightened the captain’s armband once more before leaning toward Dani Olmo, who had crept up behind Izan.

The former seemed to mutter a final reminder that Izan nodded at before pulling away.

When he did, Izan picked his head up and across the centre circle, Cristiano Ronaldo rested his boot gently on top of the ball.

The referee checked with one assistant.

Then the other before he began checking on his equipment as the final checks began.

High up in the gantry, Tyldesley’s voice dropped almost to a whisper.

"Everything we’ve spoken about over these last few days..."

"Everything these two nations have built toward..."

"Everything Cristiano Ronaldo still dreams of..."

"And everything Izan Hernandez Miura is only just beginning to chase..."

"...starts now."

Down the pitch, the referee slowly lifted the whistle to his mouth.

And for the briefest of moments... ninety thousand people forgot to breathe or make a sound.

Like a flag at a race, the shrill sound of the whistle resonated across the pitch and in reaction to that, Cristiano Ronaldo breathed in finally.

"This is it," he muttered and then kicked the ball back with a sigh as a loud roar that could have shaken the foundations of the Great Wall sounded through the pitch.

Bruno Fernandes met it first time, opening his body before slipping a simple pass back into João Neves.

The instant the ball left Bruno’s foot... Izan lurched forward like a sin.

His form, if one studies keenly, looked like an eldritch horror that had just learned to run when he started.

A slight hunch of the shoulders, almost instinctive, like something ancient inside him had scented movement, but then he corrected, and when he did, he exploded.

"Immediately Spain press!" the commentator exclaimed.

"And immediately it’s Izan leading it!"

João Neves had barely taken his first touch before the teenager was on top of him.

The acceleration almost defied explanation.

There were quick footballers.

There were explosive footballers.

Then there was... whatever Izan possessed.