God Of football - Chapter 966
Chapter 966: Fluke Or Not?
[Kickoff]
In the opening minutes of the game, Arsenal looked settled and confident, knocking the ball around with patience, while Forest sat deep and waited, as most teams do when facing the current Arsenal team.
Nothing felt out of place or dangerous, and that was what made the first goal so jarring.
It came from a moment that barely registered as a chance.
A loose ball down Arsenal’s right saw Ndoye take a harmless-looking touch inside to cross Calafiori.
The Italian defender still coped and recovered well, but the former then fizzed a low cross across the six-yard box more out of routine than intent.
Timber running from the far end, tracked back on instinct, sliding in to cut it out before it could reach anyone in red.
He did everything right.
Got there first.
Opened his body and tried to guide it away as the ball spun towards him, but halfway through that motion, Chris Wood touched the ball onto his ankle, and the moment it did, Timber’s heart sank.
He watched as the ball, which was coming cleanly to his feet, spun away from him, skidding past Raya before anyone had time to react.
For a second, there was silence.
It was silence created by an unexpected thing happening, but soon, the away end found its voice as Chris Wood got to his feet, running towards the corner flag with his hand wrapped around his mates and taking credit for the goal even though he knew that it was probably going to count as an own goal.
Timber stayed on the turf, squatting a bit while muttering a few words, probably cursing his luck, before rising to his feet and kicking the turf in frustration.
Raya walked over, said something quick, and patted him on the shoulder.
No one could be blamed, except bad luck dressed up as a mistake.
Eventually, the game got back up and running.
Arsenal, like they had been doing before their little incident, forced Forest into their own half while intruding on the opponents’ ground.
Ødegaard demanded the ball more often, and Izan, reacting to it, drifted into space, but the ball just never seemed to find him, causing a bubbling sense of frustration in his chest even though he knew he could probably level the game in a few moments.
Then Gabriel went down in an anti-climactic man-on-man with one of the Forest players.
A clash of knees while stepping in to intercept saw him wince sharply, and suddenly he was sitting on the grass, signalling to the bench.
The physios were quick, but the message was clear that Gabriel needed a moment, and so the referee gave it, pointing towards the sides for Gabriel to be treated there while Arteta stood on the touchline with concern drawn all over his face.
Forest saw the advantage immediately and took it.
The press came in waves with Arsenal committing bodies forward, trying to pin Forest in and trying not to make the presence of the lost man be felt, but one loose pass broke the rhythm, and suddenly Forest were gone.
A long ball over the top, clipped early, turned Arsenal around.
With Gabriel off the pitch, the space between centre-back and full-back was just wide enough, and the counter was ruthless.
Hudson Odoi, with the ball, took a singular touch to carry it forward and then another to draw the defender before slipping a simple pass into the channel for Chris Wood to latch onto.
The finish wasn’t pretty.
A scuffed strike that bobbled off a leg, wrong-footing Raya as it crept into the corner, but a goal was a goal, no matter how ugly or lucky it looked.
By the time Gabriel was back on, strapping tightened, jaw set, the damage was done.
Arsenal gathered themselves again, all while glancing towards the touchline at Arteta, who stood in silence and that made it much harder for the players.
His shouting at them, they would have understood, but just that stare as if he was boring into their soul made them feel uncomfortable.
And so the game continued.
…..
[Current]
32′
“Man on,” someone shouted from the middle.
“Turn, turn,” came another voice, sharper, urgent.
Zubimendi showed for it, rolled the ball back inside as Ødegaard drifted across, pointing into space before the pass even arrived.
Calafiori pushed higher, clapping once as he demanded it down the line.
The movement was there, the intent too, but Forest had stayed compact up to the point, disciplined, forcing Arsenal sideways.
Izan, managing to go unnoticed, dropped off again, deeper this time, almost into defence.
He scanned once, twice, and reached for the ball, but the numbers he expected to follow him didn’t happen.
Their midfield line held its shape.
Instead, it was Chris Wood who followed.
The striker stepped out, long strides eating up the ground, and lunged as Izan took his first touch.
His boot clipped air and grass but not the ball as Izan nudged it away at the last moment, twisted his body through the contact, and burst forward.
Wood stumbled behind him, arms raised to show he hadn’t faulted, but he had been beaten.
“There he is,” the commentator cut in. “One of the few sparks in a dead Arsenal side so far this afternoon.”
Izan carried it into space, head up, drawing defenders toward him.
The Forest players just stared on, not approaching and just backing off, and it seemed like their coach condoned that because he wasn’t shouting on the touchline.
Since they weren’t going to do anything, Izan decided to prompt them into a mistake.
He drifted left, just enough to shift the back line and then slid the pass through with the outside of his foot.
“That’s a lovely ball,” came the call, rising.
“Eze’s in behind.”
Eze took it in stride and drove toward the goal, and for a second, it looked on.
But then he tried to beat one man too many, and the chance slipped away as a Forest boot poked it loose.
The ball splattered back into the chaos, with Forest’s Sangare sweeping it up, but so was Izan.
He slid in from the side, clean and precise, nicking it off Sangaré just as the midfielder set himself.
The tackle sent the ball spinning free, and Izan, still on the turf, hooked it up and forward in one motion.
“Outstanding work,” the commentary followed. “He’s not done yet.”
The cross arced high and teasing, curling away from everyone.
No Arsenal shirt reached it.
And no Forest shirt did either.
The keeper shuffled, waited for a header that never came, then reacted too late.
He launched himself at the last second as the ball bounced once and tucked itself into the bottom right corner under the unexpectant gazes of the Arsenal crowd at the Emirates.
Before, “GOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLL!!!!”
The Forest keeper, Matz Sels, lay on his side, staring back at the net as Izan sprinted toward it, scooping the ball up without a glance or much resistance from the Forest players before turning and running straight toward the halfway line.
“Fluke or not,” the commentator said over the roar, “it counts, and Arsenal are back in this with 35 minutes on the clock.”
As Izan crossed the centre circle, he finally looked up, spotting the scoreboard which glared back at him.
Arsenal 1.
Nottingham Forest 2.