God Of football

The noise inside MetLife began as a low hum and then built into something that felt alive, a restless, swelling sound that wrapped around the stands and pulsed under the evening sky.

The lights above burned through the misty drizzle, cutting sharp streaks of white over the green pitch.

And from the tunnels, the first players began to emerge.

A ripple went through the crowd as they recognised players they had followed for a while and for the past season.

A boy in the front row near the halfway line clutched his father's sleeve and shouted, "Dad, that's Saka! That's actually Saka!"

His father smiled, phone already up to record as the Arsenal players trotted onto the pitch in their maroon training tops, laughter and chatter mixing with the sound of balls being rolled and clipped around.

"Listen to that," one of the ESPN commentators said on the broadcast, his voice steady but tinged with excitement.

"I never knew Arsenal had quite the fanbase in the US. They have really turned up for this one. You'd think we were at the Emirates."

His co-commentator laughed lightly.

"Some are in the states, but most travel, mate. Always have. And this crowd just feels more different, doesn't it? Both fans, even though from their respective homes back in London, have the crowd turning up and making the stands rumble."

Back on the pitch, the Chelsea players followed, their blue Nike drill tops glinting faintly under the floodlights.

A murmur of mixed reactions rippled through the stands: applause, jeers, a few playful chants.

A cluster of Arsenal supporters near one corner started a sing-song of "North London forever," voices rising until even some neutral fans clapped along.

Further up in the stands, a small group of American fans wearing Arsenal scarves leaned over the railing, trying to catch a glimpse of Izan as he jogged onto the field.

"There he is!" one of them said, pointing.

"Number Ten. Bro, he's unreal. I went to Philadelphia with Tommy, not knowing much about him, which even earned me a few stares from that football head, but after the game, I couldn't stop watching his highlights. I finally understand why Tommy looked at me like that after I said I do not really know him."

"Yeah, Tommy's like that", another replied, grinning.

"He also told me about him a few months ago, telling me to watch a few games. I told him it never interested me, but I gave it a go, and I could tell he was doing something different when he came into the game against that team from France that used to have Mbappe."

Back in the thick of it, Izan was laughing with Martinelli as they exchanged a few quick passes and a second later, the feed cut to him as the commentator filled the silence.

"And that's the young man everyone's been talking about, and by Everyone, I mean 'Everyone'. Izan Hernandez. Seventeen years old, and already looks right at home among the big boys."

The broadcast then shifted to a wide shot, showing the players scattered across the pitch.

Across the halfway line, Chelsea were setting up for finishing drills, their assistant coaches tossing balls to the edge of the box as the forwards practised shooting under pressure.

From one of the nearby rows, a group of Chelsea supporters began a chorus of chants, trying to drown out the Arsenal songs.

"Gotta love it though," one of the commentators chuckled on air.

"Even three thousand miles from home, London finds a way to divide itself right down the middle."

"Exactly," the other replied. "It's like a slice of the Premier League here in New York, only this is the Club World Cup. You've got Arsenal fans on one side, Chelsea fans on the other, and since we are almost close to a full house, we have somewhere in between, about 80,000 people just here to see good football."

Down on the touchline, Arteta and his staff were watching closely, clipboards in hand, talking quietly as the players shifted from jogging to short possession drills.

Every now and then, he'd call out to a player, offering a word or a gesture of correction.

On the Chelsea side, Maresca looked equally focused, hands in his pockets, nodding as his players finished their shooting routines.

Then, as the clock neared the hour mark before kickoff, the sound system gave a cue, a short, rising tone that signalled the end of warmups.

Gradually, players began pulling off their training tops, exchanging handshakes and nods before drifting back toward the tunnels.

Izan was one of the last to leave the field.

As he turned toward the tunnel, he stopped and gave a small wave towards a particular section of the stands, with some of the fans erupting at his sudden gesture.

Then, with just a smile, he left for the tunnel.

...

Up in the upper stands, Hori leaned over the railing, hand half-raised as Izan disappeared into the tunnel.

Komi was still waving like a proud mother who hadn't seen her son in months.

"You can stop waving now, you know," Hori said, her voice playful but teasing.

"He's gone. Tunnel and all."

That earned her a sharp look from her mother.

From behind them, Olivia tried to stifle a laugh and failed halfway through, snorting out loud before covering her mouth.

Miranda joined in immediately, trying to turn her laugh into a cough but doing a terrible job at it.

Komi turned her glare on them next, one brow lifted, the other furrowed in silent authority.

The laughter died in seconds.

Only Hori, standing there with a small, guilty grin, dared to look her in the eyes.

"Bathroom," Hori said quickly, already standing.

"I need to, uh... yeah."

Komi didn't respond and just gave her daughter that look, the kind of look that said "You're not fooling anyone."

Hori shrugged and walked off, hands shoved into her back pocket, muttering something under her breath as she disappeared toward the aisle.

Komi exhaled softly, her eyes drifting back toward the pitch where the players were supposed to gather for kickoff.

Shethen lowered herself into her seat, brushing a stray bit of hair behind her ear.

Olivia and Miranda glanced at each other, still fighting the urge to laugh, before turning their attention to the field as well.

.....

Down below, the stadium had settled into a steady, rising hum as steady checks were done away with.

The formalities were over now.

The handshakes, the coin toss, the team photos, all done.

The players had taken to the field and their respective positions and now looked ready.

Across the vast green expanse of the MetLife, two lines of elite footballers faced each other, Chelsea in their deep royal blue, Arsenal in their striking red and white.

The drizzle that had teased the pitch earlier still lingered, leaving the grass slick and shining beneath the floodlights.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the PA voice thundered, almost drowned by the surrounding noise, "welcome to the FIFA Club World Cup, the Semi-Final! It's Chelsea versus Arsenal, London meets London, right here in New York City!"

The roar that followed shook the place.

The chants of both fanbases clashed midair, a duel of noise as fierce as what was about to unfold on the pitch.

Liam Delap stood at the centre circle, one boot planted beside the ball, his focus absolute.

Across from him, Joao Pedro crouched slightly, ready to burst forward when needed.

The referee glanced around, hand raised.

For a heartbeat, all was still, then came the sharp blast of the whistle.

Delap tapped the ball back to Joao Pedro, who, as the game took its first breath, switched the ball over to Cucurella at left back.

"And we are underway," the commentator's voice came alive over the broadcast, tight with excitement.

The camera pulled back, catching the full sweep of movement, twenty-two players in motion, the hum of 80,000 fans behind them, as football, pure and heavy with meaning, began under the New York lights.

"And Chelsea wasting no time here, straight on the front foot," the commentator's voice sharpened as blue shirts surged forward.

Joao Pedro darted infield, linking with Enzo Fernández, who immediately looked to thread a pass through the lines.

The tempo was high, the crowd already reacting with every feint and flick.

Chelsea moved it quickly, triangles forming on the right, Palmer dropping deep, Nkunku drifting between spaces, Arsenal holding their shape but backing off a step.

"Chelsea looking confident early on in possession," came the follow-up.

"They're trying to stretch Arsenal early, force them out of that compact block."

And as they did, Enzo fizzed a diagonal ball toward Nkunku at the edge of the Arsenal third, but before it could reach him, Izan read it perfectly.

He stepped across, quick and precise, sliding on the ground, and clipping the ball towards space before getting up quickly and rolling the ball past Andrey Santos.

"Ah, that's brilliant from Izan," the commentator exclaimed.

"Timed it perfectly and now Arsenal can have their first real touch of the ball here."

Izan spun out of the press, slipping it back to Rice, who guided it to Ødegaard.

One, two, three passes, calm, patient, measured and Arsenal's shape unfolded like muscle memory.