Chapter 477: The Etihad Eulogy

Chapter 477: The Etihad Eulogy

The players were bunched, scattered in no particular order, chatting in short bursts or just staring out into the glowing bowl of the Etihad.

Out first came Jurrien Timber, bouncing slightly on his heels, his fingers twitching with readiness.

He squinted into the lights above the pitch, then turned back to slap hands with Declan Rice, who emerged with an elastic stretch of his arms and a grin that was more a grimace.

Behind them, Izan Hernandez stepped out.

Focused. Head lowered slightly. Hands on his hips.

The crowd volume surged just as his boots touched the turf again, waves of booing from the City fans who had just endured a first-half masterclass at their team’s expense.

He barely flinched.

Beside him, Saka jogged out and nudged his shoulder with a grin.

“You hear that?”

Izan smirked.

“Music.”

City’s squad followed, much less vocal.

Kyle Walker barked something back to Ederson—loud, clipped—while Haaland swatted the side of the tunnel with his palm before striding forward with that unmistakable bounce.

Ruben Dias was deep in conversation with Gvardiol, gesturing as though drawing a shape in the air with his hand—some marking instruction, maybe, or a run they’d mistimed.

Bernardo Silva emerged yawning.

It wasn’t fatigue—it was his nervous tick, that thing he did before almost every second half.

Sávio jogged ahead of him, fists clenched, teeth gritted, hyper-locked in.

On the Arsenal side, Calafiori gave Gabriel a low five, his other hand pressed to his lower back after a physical first half.

Gabriel Martinelli bent down to retie his boot, only to have Kai Havertz flick his ear with a grin and whispered a word in badly pronounced Portuguese that made both of them chuckle before they focused up again.

In the midst of it all, the officials moved like traffic cops—ushering players to opposite sides, managing the flow but not controlling it.

The fourth official tapped at his headset.

A steward clapped twice to get a wayward ball boy’s attention.

Even Guardiola appeared briefly at the tunnel mouth, shouting, “Focus! Focus now!” before disappearing back to his bench.

The referee turned and jogged toward the center circle.

The whistle blew sharply, clear against the buzz of the crowd—and with a gentle tap from Kai Havertz back to Declan Rice, the second half of the heavyweight clash between Manchester City and Arsenal roared back into life.

Peter Drury wasted no time.

“Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen, to what’s already been a blistering affair at the Etihad Stadium. Arsenal lead Manchester City by two goals to one, and if the first half gave us fire, then this second promises an inferno.”

Beside him, Jim Beglin let out a quiet whistle before adding:

“And that fire, Peter, is burning bright on both sides. No Rodri. No Odegaard. Just raw chaos, dripping tension, and two managers who know this could shape their entire season.”

The ball was immediately worked wide—Jurriën Timber sliding it out to Martinelli on the left, who took off like a lit fuse, bursting past Walker with his first step.

“And it’s Arsenal straight out the blocks again!” Drury cried, rising.

“Martinelli with that raw burst—he’s got Saka arriving far side! Could this be a repeat of the first-half miss?”

Martinelli cut inside sharply before releasing the pass centrally to Izan this time, with the latter letting it roll across his body with a fluid grace that made it seem like he was always one touch ahead.

Beglin jumped in: “You can just see it in Izan’s movement—so much confidence, he’s threading chaos into City’s lines.”

Izan shifted gears with a sudden burst—one touch to evade Gvardiol’s bite, another to glide away from Akanji—before sliding it right into the path of Bukayo Saka on the right wing.

Saka didn’t hesitate.

He shaped his body, left foot ready—and curled one deliciously toward the far post.

The away end held its breath—so did the Arsenal bench.

Even Ederson, tensed, before he twisted, diving full stretch—

CLANG.

The ball kissed the outside of the far post with a painful ring before skidding wide and out.

Roars. Groans. Cheers. Cries.

Drury again, voice breathless:

“Again, again, a whisker! A whisker away from a third! And City live to fight another minute.”

Fans in red and white held their heads, stunned by the near miss.

Behind the goal, Arsenal supporters were already out of their seats—and sat down again in one sweeping motion of agony.

Beglin chuckled through an exhale. “That’s how thin the line is, Peter. A few inches the other way, and Arsenal are dancing in dreamland. But now—it’s still game on.”

And just like that, City prepared for the goal kick—shaken, but not sunk.

The Etihad rumbled again.

…….

“We’ve been solid all game,” a Gooner in the away stand said to a friend, “But I can’t help thinking about us losing the lead,” he added, his mate nodding like a lizard.

The game had reignited with fury—City, stung, storming forward like wounded beasts desperate to reclaim lost pride.

The Etihad buzzed with urgency, fans on both ends leaning in, sensing something coming with the movements their team was showing.

“That’s the bloody city I know,” an overweight man in City’s sky blue said as Gvardiol made a darting overlap before he slid the ball inside to Bernardo Silva, who followed the move with a weighted cross whipped near the penalty spot.

Haaland was there, rising with that hulking presence, body arching midair, an ambitious side-footed volley snapping toward goal.

The tension cut like ice.

But it was wild.

The ball veered sharply, spinning like a stubborn meteor, curling away from the frame and into the advertisement boards with a dull thud.

The Etihad groaned.

Haaland stared after it, jaw clenched, the scent of redemption lost in the sky.

“That was nearly poetry from Haaland…” Peter Drury’s voice carried over the sound of a thousand held breaths.

“But it finishes as a footnote. And now, Arsenal… are turning defence into fire.”

Raya had already sprung forward, snatching the ball as it bounced back into play.

No time wasted—his arms arced like a quarterback, hurling the ball out wide to Timber on the right flank.

But before Timber could explode forward, Haaland came crashing back into frame like a bulldozer in reverse.

No finesse, just raw presence—body blocking, legs stamping, Arsenal’s transition moment momentarily smothered.

“That’s extraordinary commitment from Haaland!” exclaimed Jim Beglin.

“He just missed at one end and now he’s a wrecking ball at the other!”

Timber twisted. He cut inside, then reversed, waiting for reinforcements.

And there, deep in his own half, came Izan, drifting lower, more playmaker than predator now, scanning, calling, dictating.

A triangle formed—Timber to Rice, Rice to Izan—then another, and another.

Like stars connecting in motion, Arsenal were sketching constellations across City’s pressure map.

Izan was everywhere.

Middle third, then right channel, now left again.

He flicked it to Martinelli and received it back through a gap between Rodri’s stand-in, Mateo Kovacic, and Akanji.

Every touch was silk, but there was thunder beneath it.

“Look at the movement!” Peter Drury gasped. “Forming triangles with his mates like he was made in La Masia. The irony of it against a team like Pep’s.”

Then came the moment.

At the edge of the City box, Izan peeled into a pocket.

He drew in Gvardiol, tempted Dias to shift too far, and laid it cleanly to Saka out wide—an open runway now.

The roar rose. Saka against Gvardiol.

The crowd now stood on the edge of their seats, literally as they prepared for the face-off.

Saka feinted, then drove toward the byline.

Gvardiol met him stride for stride, pressing hard.

Saka paused, shaped to cross, and lashed it way into the box.

It was behind everyone.

Or so they thought.

Because then, out of nowhere, Izan re-entered the picture.

Not from the center, but ghosting in diagonally, like lightning arriving late to the storm.

He twisted mid-sprint, let the ball fly past his planted left leg, and launched his right leg into the air, horizontal to the turf.

A scissor kick.

Not the kind that scraped and hoped, but one, timed with the elegance of a dancer and the ferocity of a fighter.

It connected clean. Sliced. Snapped.

The net billowed and rippled violently as the ball crashed in just inside the right post.

For a beat—nothing. Just open mouths. Frozen limbs.

The stadium held its breath, suspended in stunned silence.

Then the red corner detonated.

Limbs everywhere. Scarves thrown to the heavens.

Men and women leaping over seats, beer flying like champagne in a title parade.

A single scream turned into a chorus—raw, breathless, animal. Flags were torn from poles and waved like war banners.

A woman in the third row collapsed to her knees, tears streaming, arms raised like she’d witnessed divinity.

The Etihad had become a cathedral, and Izan had just performed a miracle.

He strutted.

One slow, measured step after another toward the seething cauldron of Arsenal faithful.

His eyes never blinked. His chest never stopped rising.

And when he reached the corner flag, he stopped, turned, and bowed.

Once.

Mocking? No. Theatric? Undeniably.

But he had earned it.

Behind him, Martinelli was hammering the badge on his chest.

Saka pointed to Izan with both hands like a preacher declaring his savior.

Rice and Saliba were already jumping into him, arms wrapping his shoulders, voices lost in the din.

And on the touchline, Arteta went ballistic.

Fists punching air. A guttural roar.

He kicked a water bottle and sent it tumbling down the line, then laughed like a man possessed before he was pulled back by Carlos Cuesta for fear that the former might be punished for misconduct.

“OH. MY. GOODNESS!” Jim Beglin exploded into the mic.

“He’s done it! A scissor-kick goal of outrageous technique—and it’s the bow afterward that’ll live forever! Izan at the Etihad shows Haaland how it’s done.”

Peter Drury’s voice dropped an octave.

“Composure. Contortion. Genius. You talk about moments that live longer than matches… This is one.”

The camera cut to the City end—fuming. Middle fingers, furious boos, heads in hands.

One man tore off his jersey and flung it to the ground.

A child beside him simply whispered, “Wow.”

Guardiola stood rooted. Not pacing.

Not ranting. Just… still. Like someone watching their own reflection crack.

A/N; Had to wake up mid-sleep and write this as today will be a busy day for me. Anyways have fun reading and I’ll see you tomorrow or today evening if i am able to get things out of the way.

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