God Of football-Chapter 465 - Man Down
465: Man Down
465: Man Down
The sheer force of the movement caused Lookman to finally lose his grip.
He stumbled behind as Izan broke free, eyes now locked on the goal.
He reached the arc of the box, time condensing into a single breath.
Izan knew.
He didn’t wait for a prompt or a command.
He activated it himself, his muscles coiling with focus and control.
[Knuckleball Lv 3]
The word echoed like a thunderclap in his mind as his foot connected.
The strike was brutal—clean, flat, and full of unpredictable fury.
The ball left the ground with a hiss, slicing through the air with a venomous swerve.
It didn’t spin like a regular shot.
It wobbled mid-flight, a hovering bullet that danced in the air, swaying left, then right, before violently dipping.
The keeper barely moved.
Frozen.
Uncertain.
One wrong step and he was out of position.
Too late.
The ball smashed into the top corner with a guttural thunk, rattling the net and silencing the Gewiss Stadium for a split second before chaos unfolded.
Gasps erupted from the Atalanta end—some in awe, some in disbelief.
Arsenal’s traveling supporters screamed, leaping to their feet in utter rapture.
“ARE YOU SEEING THIS, MATE!?” one of them shouted, grabbing the shoulders of the stranger next to him.
Another pounded the air, red and white scarf raised, shouting toward the pitch, “We won.
We won this time!”
“That is outrageous.
Outrageous!
A goal from the heavens.
The power.
The precision.
And the audacity from a boy making his Champions League debut!” Steve McManamann roared excitedly from the gantry. freeweɓnovēl.coɱ
“He dragged Lookman across half the pitch like a broken seatbelt, carried three men with him, and then fired a shot that looked like it would even end up in the stands at one point!
Ronaldo would be happy about that?”
Back on the pitch, Izan stood still for a beat.
Chest heaving.
Shirt stretched.
His arms didn’t go up right away.
He just looked at the goal, the ball nestled there like it belonged nowhere else.
Then, with the calm of someone who had just posted a letter rather than sent a rocket into orbit, he turned and walked—not sprinted—toward the Atalanta corner flag.
He reached it slowly, amid a wave of whistles from the home fans and howls of celebration from the Arsenal contingent.
And then, like he was waiting for a bus, Izan leaned on the corner flag—one elbow resting lazily atop it, his body posture saying everything his lips didn’t need to.
Unbothered.
The cameras caught every frame of it.
“Oh come on now… He’s just leaning on the corner flag like he didn’t just turn Atalanta into a viral clip.
That is cheeky.
That is pure confidence!
Some kid we have on our hands.”
Back on the pitch, Izan finally turned to jog back toward the halfway line, only now being swarmed by teammates.
Saka reached him first, arms thrown around his shoulders from behind.
Ødegaard followed, laughing in disbelief, shaking his head.
“Bro, what was that?” Martinelli grinned as he jogged over, eyes wide with a kind of admiration reserved for witnessing something rare.
Izan just smiled, still catching his breath.
“A knuckleball.”
Saka blinked, panting slightly.
“From there?”
“I felt like trying,” he said simply, adjusting the rubber band tying his hair.
The Gewiss Stadium was now on fire, the Italian crowd responding with an even louder roar, banging drums, waving scarves, chanting with renewed fury, trying to breathe fire back into their team.
Whistles rained down from the Curva Nord, furious at the disrespect, furious at the brilliance.
The restart came swiftly after the celebrations faded into memory, the Gewiss Stadium alive once again with a surging mix of defiance and hope.
Atalanta kicked off, eager to wrestle the match back into their hands.
The ball was moved with urgency—quick exchanges between De Roon and Ederson, then central to Retegui, who looked to push Arsenal back with a fast diagonal toward Lookman.
But Arsenal were glued to their men.
Not a shadow of space went unchecked.
Ødegaard pressed the midfield pivot, Rice patrolled the channels like a sentry, and Izan—now drifting between the lines—stalked the press like a hound waiting to strike.
Atalanta persisted.
De Ketelaere dropped deep to find the ball and spun Ødegaard with a deft flick before threading a quick pass into Ruggeri, who dummied and released Lookman down the left.
Cheers erupted from the curva behind the goal as Lookman accelerated, one-on-one with Ben White now.
A dip of the shoulder, a stepover, and he got half a yard back before following through with a tight-angled shot towards the far post.
But Raya was there—strong wrists, clean catch.
“Well, that’s a statement stop.
Raya won’t get the headlines, but that’s a massive intervention.”
And already, Arsenal were in motion again.
Raya’s throw was quick, angled wide to Zinchenko, who took a single touch before finding Jorginho.
It was slower now, calculated, pulling Atalanta forward.
Jorginho turned into space—and there was Izan.
He checked his shoulder, saw the oncoming pressure, and took the ball on the half-turn.
In one fluid motion, he skipped away from Ederson and Deketelaere both, slaloming through the midfield into open territory.
The pitch opened up.
Saka was wide right, Martinelli darting diagonally from the left.
Izan lifted his head, faked the through ball toward Martinelli, then spun back inside.
But it cost him—the Atalanta midfield collapsed on him like a vice.
Izan charged, but Scalvini met him with a sliding interception, causing Izan to forfeit the ball.
But even then, before Scalvini could rise, Izan was on top of him, body over body, shielding, recovering.
His left boot dragged the ball free again and rolled it back into space, and when he turned, Martinelli was sprinting down the left.
He didn’t need telling twice.
Izan bent the pass low and clean into his path—perfect weight.
Martinelli took it in stride, cutting inside, looking to shoot—but Carnesecchi was alert, diving low to parry the strike wide.
Arsenal’s fans rose once more in song, this time led by the far corner where a cluster of red and white were bouncing now in rhythm.
Under the haze of floodlights and adrenaline, the Gewiss Stadium pulsed with urgency as the clock edged toward the halftime break.
Arsenal, now fully settled into their rhythm, worked with machine-like coordination, but with artistry threaded through it.
Izan, always lurking in the half-spaces, found the ball at his feet after a well-timed interception by Rice.
He feinted running with the ball, throwing de Roon off before dragging the ball back and scanning for his mates.
Then a perfectly measured pass—curving, inviting, soft as a whisper—slid in behind Atalanta’s defensive line.
Straight into Bukayo Saka’s stride.
“He’s played him in—Saka, on his left!” shouted Darren Fletcher in the gantry, rising with the moment.
But just as Saka shaped to strike, the grass behind him exploded—Zappacosta’s challenge was desperate and razor-timed.
The Italian defender threw his body across and nicked the ball away with a crunch of boot on leather.
It spun out to Carnesecchi, who gathered it quickly but then…
paused.
Too long.
He looked upfield, delaying the clearance, perhaps hoping for a better outlet.
But in doing so, he invited Arsenal’s press back upon him.
Carnesecchi finally booted the ball long—high into midfield, spinning in that awkward zone between timing and judgment.
Ødegaard was already tracking it, backpedaling slightly as Ruggeri rose beside him.
“Come on, Martin,” Rice murmured under his breath from midfield, eyes lifting to the ball.
Ødegaard leapt.
So did Ruggeri.
Their shoulders clashed mid-air, and then everything changed.
Ødegaard’s body twisted slightly off-balance.
The landing wasn’t clean.
His right boot caught the turf, and the torque of the fall bent his left ankle at an unnatural angle.
A sickening thud, a twist—and then a frozen beat of silence.
“Uh-oh,” Darren Fletcher muttered grimly.
“He’s down.
That…
that didn’t look good at all.”
Ødegaard immediately curled up, clutching his ankle.
Ruggeri scrambled to his feet, waving toward the referee even before Arsenal’s bench could react.
The whistle came quick, shrill and urgent.
Izan froze, halfway through a sprint, turning sharply as the play was halted.
He saw it—Martin down, unmoving, surrounded by players in red and yellow and black.
The visiting Arsenal fans stood as one.
No singing now.
Just worried faces and hands on heads.
“Oh no,” one muttered.
“Please don’t be bad,” another said.
Gabriel and Saliba reached Ødegaard first, both kneeling beside him.
Rice followed, dropping to his haunches, speaking quickly into the captain’s ear.
But Ødegaard didn’t get up.
Arteta, who had been pacing his box like a chess master all night, now stood still.
Frozen.
He looked toward Carlos Cuesta beside him, then toward the bench.
“Get the medics to check on him.
Fast,” he muttered.
The medical team was already moving, sprinting toward midfield as Arteta’s mind worked in overdrive—was it just a knock?
Or had they lost their playmaker for the rest of the match…
or worse?
Izan jogged toward the group, heart thudding harder than it had after his goal.
Martinelli stood just behind the huddle, biting his glove.
“He said it twisted bad,” he muttered to no one in particular.
Izan’s jaw tightened.
One bad turn—and everything could unravel.
A/n: Hello guys author here.
I hope the pacing is okay.
If you have any suggestions, tell me in the comments.
I like reading and replying to your questions.
Okay, first chapter of the day.
Have fun reading and I will see you in a bit with the second chapter of the day.
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Art233
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