God Of football - Chapter 441

Chapter 441: Strong Response
The stadium came into view now, rising from the grey like a lit beacon, every corner of it buzzing.

Up front, Lamine Yamal leaned back with headphones on, one leg bouncing to a rhythm only he could hear.

Nico played with a stress ball while defensive leader, Le Normand was jotting something in a notebook again—maybe a prayer or maybe a reminder.

“Spain’s young stars have been front and center this campaign,” the broadcast continued.

“Izan especially—after his game-changing cameo against Serbia—is under the spotlight again tonight. But so is Lamine Yamal. So is Nico. Pedri. Rodri. There’s a spine forming here… and tonight will test just how strong it really is,” the host ended.

The bus slowed.

Fans pressed up against the barriers lining the road, some holding signs, others just phones. Flash after flash blinked against the windows.

A group chanted Izan’s name before breaking into song—his name stretched into melody, “Izaaan, Izaaaaan…” as the engine died.

Then the hiss of the door opening.

One by one, Spain’s players stepped into the rain.

……………

“And with that stirring welcome, we thank our gracious hosts here in Geneva and now hand over coverage to our broadcast team. A very good evening to those of you joining us from Spain, across Europe, and beyond,” the commentator took over.

“Wherever you are, you’re just in time for what promises to be an electric UEFA Nations League clash. We are live from a rain-soaked Stade de Genève as Switzerland take on Spain in what could be a decisive fixture in Group A4.”

The camera panned across the tunnel, where the players stood shoulder to shoulder, rainwater still clinging to their boots and the hems of their jackets, faces calm but focused.

Outside, the Swiss crowd roared, but in the heart of it all, the Spanish anthem played, unwavering. The red kits gleamed beneath the floodlights, their golden trim a quiet promise of pride.

“And as both sets of players make their way onto the pitch, just listen to the atmosphere—Geneva absolutely bouncing, the drizzle only adding to the drama tonight.”

“The Swiss fans, understandably, have packed the house here, but don’t let that fool you—Spain’s supporters are here in good numbers too, their voices slicing through the night air.”

Flags waved wildly behind the goals as the teams lined up for handshakes. Coaches exchanged nods. Captains tossed the coin.

“Luis de la Fuente’s selection tonight sees a few tweaks from the side that battled to a 2–0 win over Serbia. Let’s walk you through the Spanish eleven.”

The graphic appeared on the screen. A 4-3-3 formation shimmered under the raindrops, crisp and bright:

“Unai Simón retains his spot between the posts. In front of him, a bit of rotation—Cucurella comes in at left-back, just as Balde started in Belgrade.

In central defense, Robin Le Normand continues, but it’s Aymeric Laporte who partners him tonight, with the young Pau Cubarsí getting a breather. On the right side of the defense, it’s Oscar Mingueza—a solid presence both going forward and in recovery.”

The camera caught Unai tapping the crossbar, then flicked to Cucurella, nodding as the whistle drew near.

“In midfield, de la Fuente has gone with a trusted core—Pedri starts again, flanked by Spain’s heartbeat Rodri in the six role. Mikel Merino also slots in, offering a bit more aerial presence and industry than Fabián Ruiz did in the previous match.”

The shot swept across the center of the pitch where Pedri stood with arms crossed, his face unreadable, while Merino adjusted his armband and boots. Rodri stared ahead with that same cool intensity.

“And now, up front—this is where the magic has been lately. Lamine Yamal takes up his familiar role on the right, the teenage prodigy’s confidence growing with each cap.

On the opposite flank, Izan starts tonight—yes, that man, whose impact off the bench against Serbia changed the tide of the game. This time, he begins the battle from the opening whistle, looking to continue his superb form.”

Izan jogged in place, lips tight in focus. Even with the rain misting off his curls and the soaked turf beneath him, he looked loose. Ready.

“And leading the line, the ever-reliable Álvaro Morata. The captain. Always willing to make the selfless runs, always drawing defenders, and still a threat in front of goal. That completes the front three.”

As the referee gathered both captains, a gust of wind shook the corner flags. Fans leaned forward. Commentary hushed for a heartbeat.

“So here we go. Switzerland. Spain. Rain falling. Stakes rising. We’re all set in Geneva.”

The whistle pierced the air.

And the game began.

The first pass zipped backward from the center circle. And just like that, the hosts wasted no time.

Switzerland didn’t inch their way in. They came storming.

From the opening touch, it was clear: they were going direct.

No settling in. No, feeling it out. The ball was sprayed wide to the right flank, where Ndoye took off like a bullet, splitting between Cucurella and Merino, pushing the tempo before Spain could set their shape.

“Well, well, look at that—Switzerland looking to go vertical early. Here’s Ndoye with space down the right. Merino tracking, Cucurella trying to close—” the commentator tried to say.

The winger chopped the ball inside with a vicious feint, dragging Cucurella just enough before releasing a clever reverse ball behind the line.

Spain hadn’t even completed a pass yet, but the ball was already in their final third.

Amdouni darted into the channel, pulling Laporte with him after seeing Ndoye’s idea.

“This is dangerous—Amdouni in behind! First-time ball across!”

The crowd inhaled as the ball skipped across the wet turf.

And then it happened.

Dan Ndoye had never stopped running. And neither had Remo Freuler, who arrived late on the edge of the area like a thunderclap.

Yamal and Rodri, both caught in the scramble of recovery, were a step slow.

Freuler didn’t need a second touch. The ball bounced once, kissed the rain-slicked grass, and he met it flush.

“FREULER—HITS IT!”

A deafening crack as boot met ball. A clean strike—low, swerving, skipping just past the fingertips of a diving Unai Simón.

“OH MY WORD! WHAT A START! REMO FREULER FOR SWITZERLAND. JUST FORTY SECONDS ON THE CLOCK AND SPAIN ARE ALREADY BEHIND!”

The stadium exploded.

Red smoke surged from the ultras behind the goal. Flags thrashed in the stormy air.

The Swiss bench was on its feet. The Swiss coach, Murat Yakin, clenched both fists and pumped one in the air toward the stands.

And in the Spanish dugout, Luis de la Fuente stood motionless for a beat, arms folded as he watched his opponents celebrate.

“You couldn’t have written it. Spain caught ice cold—Switzerland with a masterclass of a first move. One. Touch. Football. Ruthless execution. And listen to this place!” the commentator roared, a bit too energetic for his frail frame.

The broadcast cut to the fans. The Swiss end was a sea of white and red, drenched but delirious.

And in contrast, the Spanish section stood still.

Not quiet—but stunned.

A few had their hands on their heads as flags waved more slowly now, surprise etched on the faces of the fans.

Others just watched, the kind of silence that only comes from being completely blindsided.

Forty seconds into the match. You expect a sparring session. Maybe a couple of minutes of back-and-forth. Instead, it’s Switzerland delivering a haymaker before Spain’s even touched the gloves.”

Yamal clapped his hands in disbelief, already calling for the ball back from the restart.

Rodri huddled briefly with Merino, pointing at zones, gesturing in clipped, focused bursts.

Izan stood near the center circle, arms resting on his hips, chest still heaving from his opening sprint. He didn’t look shaken—just locked in.

“And now the challenge: Spain have to respond. It’s early—very early—but there’s no denying the punch that goal packed. This is a proper test of character.”

Morata walked up, placed the ball on the center dot, then turned to Izan and Yamal.

“Well, guess we should also score now,” he said, firm but calm.

The two youngest nodded as the referee blew his whistle again.

Spain kicked off.

Rodri played it short to Pedri, who turned on the wet turf like he was born in the rain, glancing over his shoulder once before switching play to the left.

Izan.

He was already dropping deep, boots sending up tiny sprays of water as he angled his run toward the ball.

It skidded on the soaked grass, but his touch killed it instantly, like silk.

A flick of his head, a pause of breath. Then the trivela.

Outside of the boot, lashed with purpose and elegance, the ball arced across the pitch like a brushstroke on a wet canvas.

It looped over midfield traffic, curling out wide where Yamal was already sprinting down the right, eyes fixed, heart charging.

“Oh, that switch! That is a gorgeous switch from Izan! Trivela with the left… and look who’s running into it—Yamal!”

The ball dropped perfectly into Yamal’s stride—no break in motion, no stutter.

He dragged it back with a deft toe, dancing just inside the onrushing Swiss fullback like a boy ducking under laundry on a line.

There wasn’t much space. Not anymore. But Yamal didn’t need much.

He took one touch, then a second.

And then he let it fly.

The curl was vicious. It soared with a devil’s bend, aimed for the far post—high, rising, swerving.

For a split second, it felt like the rain had paused. Every pair of eyes followed the ball. Even the home fans stopped their chants.

The keeper dived full stretch, gloves out, body suspended in a horizontal leap.

It wasn’t enough.

The ball raced past him, beating hand, beating air—

—Clang!

The sound was merciless.

It hit the post flush, bouncing back across the face of the goal like a pinball shot with fury before it was cleared.

“OFF THE POST! OH MY—what a response from Spain! And Lamine Yamal was inches away from leveling the match inside two minutes!”

In the away section, Spanish fans rose like a wave. Gasps and groans mixed with wild applause.

On the touchline, Luis de la Fuente turned back toward the bench, a half-smile on his lips despite the near-miss.

That was the response he wanted. That was how you punched back.

Yamal was already jogging back, frustrated but locked in. Izan clapped his hands from the far wing, fingers dripping with rain, his eyes sharp and visible despite the splash on his face.

The two exchanged a glance as if to say, That was close. But next time? Next time it’s in.

The Swiss defenders were yelling now, gesturing frantically, shaken by how fast Spain had torn them open.

And the crowd knew it.

They knew the storm wasn’t just falling from the skies anymore—it was brewing in the boots of Spain’s youngest, boldest stars.

“That post is still shaking, folks. Spain might be down, but you can feel it. The fire’s lit. And Izan… what a way to set it all up. That trivela pass is worth a highlight reel on its own.”

Play continued, but it was clear now: Switzerland’s early strike had woken something up.

And it wasn’t going back to sleep.