God Of football-Chapter 319: Halfway Through Glory

The ball was placed back at the center circle, but the weight of the moment lingered.

Spain’s players jogged back to their positions, their celebrations still ringing in the stands, but on the pitch, their focus was unwavering.

England, however, had no time for mourning. They gathered at the halfway line, Rice clapping his hands, Walker speaking urgently to Stones.

Bellingham, standing with his hands on his hips, exhaled slowly, his mind already finding ways to break down the Spanish setup.

"And so, Spain lead in Berlin. A goal struck with the audacity of youth, with the elegance of a player far beyond his years.

Izan, the boy from Alboraya, the boy who dreamt under Valencian skies, has placed his nation in front. But now, now we see what England are made of."

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Peter Drury’s voice carried the weight of history as the English players readied themselves.

The whistle blew and play resumed.

England didn’t hesitate. The ball was knocked back to Stones, who immediately swept it to Walker.

Spain pressed high again, but England had adjusted. This time, Walker didn’t hesitate.

He launched it long toward Kane, seeking to bypass Spain’s suffocating midfield.

Kane leapt trying to get to Walker’s pass and Rodri leapt with him. Two warriors in mid-air.

The two went for the header but the ball ricocheted off Rodri’s shoulder and fell to Foden.

A touch to settle, and then a turn to face forward. The Manchester City magician darted through a gap, weaving past Pedri, his movement liquid, his intent clear.

"And now England look to respond! Foden, eyes up, driving at Spain’s lines—" Alan Shearer leaned forward in the commentary booth.

Foden drove forward with intent but then a flash of red.

Dani Carvajal lunged in, a veteran’s timing, sweeping the ball cleanly from Foden’s feet.

The England winger stumbled but stayed upright, looking for the referee, yet No whistle.

Carvajal was already moving, flicking the ball wide to Lamine Yamal, who controlled it with a velvet touch.

And suddenly, Spain were flying again.

Lamine darted forward, Saka backpedaling. The English winger, so often the tormentor, now found himself tormented.

Yamal danced, feinted right, then left but Saka stayed disciplined, arms out, mirroring his every step.

Then, a quick dart inside which saw Yamal thread the ball to Izan, who had peeled away from Rice.

"It’s Izan again! The boy is in the mood tonight!" Drury called.

A turn, a shift in weight, a sudden burst and he was away, skipping past Rice with a ghostly elegance.

Morata called for it, arms waving, but Izan saw something else.

A fraction of space.

A half-second window.

He went for it.

A curling strike from the edge of the box—pure, deadly, precise.

Stones threw himself in the way, the ball smacking off his outstretched leg, changing course, wobbling dangerously toward Pickford’s goal.

The England keeper reacted—fast, desperate. A leap, a stretch—fingertips brushing leather.

The ball clipped the crossbar.

Gasps.

A collective shudder ran through the Olympiastadion. Some fans had already leaped to their feet, certain it was in.

Alan Shearer exhaled sharply.

"That was nearly two. That was inches. That was—bloody hell."

Peter Drury’s voice followed, softer, yet no less profound.

"Football… a game measured in the finest of margins, where inches hold destinies, and here, here is proof. Spain are relentless. England are surviving."

The English defenders regrouped, shaking off the scare. Pickford yelled at his backline, his voice hoarse, his frustration clear.

But there was no time to dwell. The game refused to breathe. Spain’s corner was taken quickly with Yamal passing to Pedri before the latter whipped in the cross.

The Spanish players in the box rose high but none were higher than the hands of Pickford.

The latter fell to the ground with the ball before standing up abruptly and launching England forward once more.

The ball found Bellingham.

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And here, now, the young king of England took the reins.

A touch, a turn, a storming run straight through the middle. His legs ate up the ground, his power on full display as he brushed past Rodri like a man moving through reeds.

The Spanish midfield recoiled—Pedri scrambled to intercept, but Bellingham shrugged him off.

Cucurella came flying in from the side, but Bellingham cut across his path, absorbing the contact and emerging unscathed.

The English crowd rose as one.

"Go on, Jude!" Shearer urged, his voice rising.

Bellingham neared the box. Kane peeled away, Foden ghosted into space, and Saka sprinted wide. England had options. Many options.

The Spanish defense braced. Le Normand took a step forward, trying to close the angle.

Bellingham lifted his head.

Then—

He fired.

A strike, low and venomous, skipping off the turf like a skipping stone.

Unai Simón reacted late, unsighted. His gloves met air.

But—

The ball smacked against the post.

Clang.

A sound that sent tremors through the entire stadium.

The rebound spun wildly, dangerously—

Kane lunged—

But Carvajal was faster.

A desperate clearance.

Spain had survived.

The game was now breathless, furious, teetering on the edge of madness.

Peter Drury’s voice soared.

"And now, Berlin shakes! England, a whisper from equalizing! A battle of inches, a war of hearts! Spain hold on, but for how long?!"

The clock ticked.

35 minutes.

Both teams felt the weight of the moment.

The pace didn’t slow.

Saka found himself in a footrace with Cucurella, their arms tangling as they sprinted down the right.

Saka won the duel, whipping in a cross, but Le Normand rose high to nod it away.

Izan, dropping deep to help, gathered the clearance.

And then he was off again.

A darting run, a flick past Walker, another burst past Rice. The English midfield couldn’t contain him.

Stones stepped up.

Izan saw it—too late.

A thudding collision.

The Spaniard hit the turf, rolling once before springing up, wincing but refusing to show pain.

The referee let play continue.

Bellingham seized the loose ball, sized up his options, and sent the ball away.

Straight to Kane.

Kane held it up, nudged it left to Foden, and ran into space.

A quick one-two, Kane received it again at the edge of the box.

One touch to settle and then-

Boom!

Kane’s shot rippled as it zoomed towards the Spanish goal. Unai Simon tensed, getting ready to meet the shot but-

Blocked—Pedri threw himself in the way, the ball cannoning off his thigh and bouncing to Rodri.

Spain’s captain wasted no time.

A quick pass to Izan.

And just like that—another counter.

The match was a heartbeat, an erratic, relentless pulse.

Spain surged forward again—Yamal sprinting wide, Nico breaking through the left, Izan in the center, Morata dragging defenders.

Izan saw the space.

A final push before halftime.

One last move before the whistle.

A flick to Nico.

Nico cut inside, ghosting past Walker, and followed through.

A shot—

Pickford saved, parrying it wide. Yamal got the ball on the byline but before he could cross, the whistle sounded.

Halftime.

An exhale. A moment of reprieve.

Players walked off, some shaking their heads, others clenching fists. The English fans roared encouragement.

The Spanish supporters waved scarves, knowing the battle was far from won.

"Forty-five minutes remain. Forty-five minutes to carve names into history. Spain lead by one.

England chase shadows of redemption. The war resumes soon, and in this grand theater, heroes will rise… or fall."

...…..

BBC Punditry Booth –

Host: "And there you have it. A grueling half which saw Spain lead at the break, but my word, that was played at an absolutely relentless pace.

Peter Drury called it a battle of inches, and Jeff, it really does feel like that. Spain lead 1-0, but England have had their moments."

Jeff Shreeves: "Absolutely. It’s been a proper heavyweight clash, and neither side is holding back.

Spain got their goal through Izan, and what a strike that was—pure instinct, pure quality.

But since then, it’s been a war. England have had their chances. Jude Bellingham, my word, he was a whisker away from leveling it.

That strike off the post… you could hear the whole stadium hold its breath."

Rio Ferdinand: "Yeah, it’s those little moments that decide games at this level.

England haven’t been bad at all, they just haven’t had that final bit of luck.

Kane had a couple of half-chances, Foden has looked sharp, and Jude—he’s carrying so much of this team’s attacking intent.

But Spain, they’re so well-drilled. Rodri, Pedri, and Carvajal—these guys know how to kill momentum.

And then there’s Izan. You can’t keep him quiet. The kid’s a star, and England need a plan to stop him."

Gary Lineker: "Yeah, he’s been electric. He’s playing with a confidence beyond his years.

But England aren’t out of this, not by a long shot. One goal changes everything. The second half is going to be massive."

Host: "Well, the stage is set. 45 minutes remain. Will Spain hold on, or can England fight back? We’ll find out soon."