"OH MY WORD—HE'S DONE IT! IZAN! FROM A WORLD ONLY HE SEEMS TO SEE! IS THERE ANY DOUBT AT THIS POINT? ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?"
Chairs flipped shut.
Arms launched.
Grown men grabbed strangers.
Every fan who had held their breath through the shot now erupted like they'd never exhaled.
On the bench, Arteta fell to his knees.
His assistants were in the air, hugging, shaking each other by the collar like they couldn't believe it either.
Izan ran, towards the sideline, tearing his shirt off before showing the name behind it to the fans as if to show them who had made the difference.
And they all knew who it was.
Izan turned away from the chaos behind him, the net still rippling like it hadn't accepted what just happened.
His shirt, crumpled in his hand, hung like a banner. The fans weren't done.
They leaned over the rails, shouting his name, throwing their arms into the air not in praise, but in disbelief.
They had seen a miracle. And now they wanted to hold it.
