God Of football

"Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen and like one Italian journalist likes to say, Here we go!" Alan Smith's voice carried across the Sky Sports broadcast, steady yet laced with the electricity of the night and a certain chuckle.

"A massive evening in North London and it's Arsenal, going against Paris Saint-Germain, two clubs built on ambition, one chasing their long-awaited goal of triumph at Europe's very summit, and the other, not very far off, as they are also desperate to turn dominance at home into triumph abroad and put a step forward into the final. It doesn't get bigger than this!"

Beside him, Alan McInally leaned closer to his mic, his tone rising with weight.

"Yeah, and the stakes couldn't be clearer. Arsenal, back in the semi-finals since 08-09, are finally rubbing shoulders with the very best again. Paris, loaded with talent, loaded with expectation, but every year the same question hangs over them—can they deliver when it really matters? These ninety minutes could tilt either season into glory or despair."

The broadcasting cameras cut to the entrance of the tunnel, where the home team, in their training gear, were emerging, faces rid of any doubt and eyes glued forward with only one purpose on the night.

Clinch the win.

Already out on the pitch and in the process of their warmups were PSG, who had already emerged a few moments ago, their navy kits glinting faintly under the Emirates' floodlights.

The travelling supporters, corralled high in one corner of the stadium, found their voices in defiance, banners unfurled, their tifos and chants, with the latter noise bouncing down toward the pitch.

It was loud, hostile, but compared to what awaited, it was only a ripple before the wave.

Because when Arsenal got to the pitch, when the players broke into the light of the evening and the roar came down, it was something else entirely.

A wall of sound.

The Emirates erupted, a raw and rising thunder that seemed to make the very steel and glass tremble.

Flags whipped, scarves raised, a chorus of thousands drowning out the night, showing why it was called home advantage for a reason.

And then, from within that chorus, a name began to separate itself.

A chant that grew until it was no longer just a chant but a force in the air, carried by throats and hearts:

"Izan! Izan! Izan!"

The young Spaniard jogged onto the pitch with the rest of the squad, head tilted slightly as though he hadn't expected the sheer volume of it.

He wasn't in the eleven tonight, almost every fan had seen the lineup by now, had scrolled their screens or squinted at the stadium graphic and realised his name wasn't there in the 11, but that didn't matter.

The people wanted him, the people missed him, and they let him know with every syllable.

Alan Smith, picking up over the din, found a softness to his voice as if acknowledging the moment.

"You can hear it, can't you? They've missed him, these Arsenal fans. A seventeen-year-old lad who's already given them so many memories, and they would love to see him out there tonight, front and centre. But it seems, at least for now, they'll have to wait."

"Yeah," McInally added, his voice carrying a note almost poetic in its cadence, "sometimes football isn't just about the men on the team sheet, it's about the names the crowd can't stop singing. And you can sense it."

"Arsenal supporters are desperate for him to be more than a figure in the warm-up, desperate for him to write another chapter tonight. But Arteta's played it cool. He's left him on the bench, maybe to keep Paris guessing, maybe to protect him. We'll find out as the night wears on."

The shot widened, both teams now stretching out across their halves of the pitch.

Paris already looked sleek, passing crisply in triangles, while Arsenal fans roared louder for every red shirt that touched the ball in warm-ups.

And in the middle of it all, Izan, just jogging, stretching, adjusting his training bib, felt like the axis around which the crowd turned.

"Arsenal versus PSG. Semi-final football. The kind of night this competition was built for. And you get the feeling we're in for something unforgettable." Smith summed it up neatly, his words riding the echo of the crowd as commentary insight ended for now.

With that gone, the cameras drifted down to the touchline where the CBS panel were huddled beneath the floodlights, framed by the buzzing atmosphere of the Emirates.

The roar of the crowd carried behind them, swelling and dipping like a restless tide as Kate Abdo, poised as ever, leaned slightly toward the camera with that knowing smile of hers.

"Well," she began, "you can probably hear the energy in this stadium—it's special tonight. But there's one name that's already been sung louder than any other, and he's not even in the starting eleven: Izan Miura Hernández."

Thierry Henry chuckled under his breath, nodding almost knowingly.

"'The UCL, The League and the League cup, he is going to win them all.' That's what the Arsenal fans are saying, and I don't doubt them at all. He's not in the starting lineup, but I hope we get to see him come on and do what he does best, and that is to win."

Jamie Carragher leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk.

"Yeah, but let's be honest, Thierry, there are two ways this can go. You bring him on and he changes the game, that's one headline. Or you keep him waiting, and every minute the crowd gets louder for him."

Micah Richards broke into his trademark grin, shaking his head.

"Look at him! He's walking out like he's just stepped into his local park game. Cool as ice. Honestly, I'd back him in a street five-a-side in the Favelas right now. He just has that aura. And trust me, if Arsenal are chasing it later, he's the one they'll be looking to."

Kate nodded, smoothing the transition with her practiced ease.

"And that's the intrigue, isn't it? He's there, he's ready, but he has to wait. Patience is part of the journey, even for players who look destined for the very top or even are at the very top."

For a moment, the four of them allowed the camera to soak in the noise of the Emirates, chants pulsing across the stands.

Then Kate turned back to her colleagues with a small laugh.

"Actually, before we throw it back upstairs, we forgot to do something, didn't we? Like we always do, it's prediction time, and this one is quick-fire. Let's go."

Thierry was first, smiling slightly as he looked toward the pitch.

"Arsenal two–one. Tight game, decided late."

Carragher leaned back, considering it, then smirked.

"Paris to sneak it, one–nil. They've set themselves up like a fortress tonight, and I think it pays off."

Micah, without hesitation, said, "Three–one Arsenal. And I'm saying it, if Izan comes on, he'll be involved in the decisive moment."

Kate rounded it off, measured as always.

"I'll go Arsenal two–nil. The balance is right, they'll find their way through. But whichever way it goes, the story of the night might just come down to a teenager waiting on the bench. Back to you, Alan"

....

The warmups wound down with the usual rhythm, short sprints, final stretches, and players pinging one last ball off the crossbar for luck.

The pace of it all softened, players drifting into smaller groups, catching their breath and laughing off the tension with light touches of conversation.

A few Arsenal substitutes gathered near the halfway line, juggling the ball between them with one-touch flicks, while across the pitch, PSG players were doing much the same.

Familiar faces soon gravitated toward each other, the sort of reunions that happen quietly but catch the eye for those who know the stories and among them was Izan, who made his way over to Fabian Ruiz.

His fellow Spaniard gave him a firm pat on the shoulder, their words drowned out by the noise of the stadium, but their gestures animated enough to show genuine respect.

A laugh from Ruiz, a grin from Izan.

It was the kind of exchange that said everything about football's strange duality: rivalry for ninety minutes, camaraderie for the rest.

The crowd loved it, a reminder that while the stakes tonight were high, the fraternity of the game ran deep.

"Always fascinating to see these little reunions before kick-off, isn't it?" Alan Smith's voice returned, wrapping around the scene as cameras swept across the pitch.

"There's real history between some of these lads, international teammates, old league rivals, friends from youth setups. They know what's coming, though once that whistle goes, it's all business."

With that, the scene began to shift.

Players peeled away from their brief conversations, turning in unison toward the tunnel as the substitutes and starters alike moved with more focus now.

The Arsenal squad disappeared one by one down the tunnel, followed by the Parisians, the camera lingering around for a moment.

It was Game On.

A/N: This is the first of the day. Okay, gotta sleep now guys. Bye for now.