God Of football

Morata took his final breath, eyes locked on the ball.

Behind him, the rain fell in sheets, weaving silver threads across the emerald pitch.

Sommer shuffled on the line, gloves twitching, reading every muscle in Morata's stance.

Then came the whistle.

And Morata struck it.

Not with brute force, not with flair but with conviction.

The ball sliced through the air like it knew where it belonged—bottom left, low, and curling just outside Sommer's reach.

The Swiss keeper had guessed right but was a fraction too late.

GOAL.

The net rippled. The red away end erupted.

Morata didn't celebrate wildly. He turned, arms outstretched and pointed to Izan, who was already jogging toward him, grinning like he'd known the outcome all along.

Rain blurred the moment, but the emotion cut through like a blade.

Spain were level. 1–1.

The players swarmed their captain, their movements soaked in urgency.

There was no time for basking. They'd clawed back into the match but they weren't done.

"Equaliser! Álvaro Morata, cool as you like! And what a picture that is—pointing right back at the kid who gave him the ball. You love to see it. Spain are back in this!"

The game restarted almost instantly. Switzerland, visibly rattled, tried to keep their composure by playing a few short passes but it wasn't long before Spain forced them to knock it long

But Rodri was waiting—of course, he was—and calmly nodded it down to Pedri, who had dropped deeper now to influence the tempo.

Spain didn't rush. They passed with confidence, short and sharp at first, then Rodri disguised a pass and bent it around Freuler into Merino's stride.

Merino didn't hesitate—he swept a diagonal ball toward the right, where Yamal had dropped wide.

The pass skipped across the wet grass like a stone over water, right into his path.

The latter didn't take a touch and just let it run before he swung a first-time ball across the face of the goal.

It screamed through the six-yard box but this time Elvedi cleared before he could connect.

"Spain turning the screw again—and look at Yamal too! That ball was begging to be finished. Spain are hurting Switzerland on the wings and we are all here for it"

The ball was quickly recycled from the throw, and Spain played almost 50 passes without a Swiss intervention or tackle.

Eventually, a mistimed run saw Morata go offside after Izan split the Swiss defense causing the ball to change hands.

Spain didn't press immediately.

Instead, they backed off a few yards, settled into shape… and let Switzerland feel safe.

Then they pounced.

Yamal.

Out of nowhere, surged forward, not from the wing—but centrally—cutting off the passing lane with a sudden sprint.

Akanji panicked and sent the ball away.

A Backpass.

Sommer tried to keep calm but the onrushing Yamal caused him to rush it leading to a bad clearance.

Straight to Cucurella near the halfway line, who controlled it off his thigh, then volleyed it into space—and took off.

No overlap. He drove inward.

A one-two with Yamal, then another with Merino, then suddenly Cucurella was at the top of the box.

He poised himself to take a shot before faking it and cutting inside, before rolling it laterally across the Swiss backline to —

Le Normand?!

The center-back, yes. He'd ghosted forward while everyone focused on the others.

The Atletico Madrid man met the ball with a one-time left-footed strike, its quality far surpassing a shot by a defender but Yann Sommer outdid himself and saved the shot, keeping the game level.

The rebound spilled into the air—Izan came flying in for a bicycle kick but his shot was off by a bit as it whistled past the post, the Swiss defense rooted to the spot.

But the crowd stood.

Spain weren't just dominating—they were inventing.

Switzerland's manager, Murat Yakin, stood on the touchline roaring at his men to hold steadfast and it seemed to work as Amdouni got the ball on the edge of Spain's penalty box after a well-worked sequence.

But before he could take a shot, Rodri, slid in from behind nudging the ball out of Amdouni's range and causing him to stumble.

The latter raised his hand for a foul but the referee waved play on.

Yamal approached the ball and so did Frueler but the ball pinballed off the two pairs of legs before dropping to Pedri, who—this time—ignored Merino.

Instead, he chipped it backward to Unai Simón.

Unai Simón took a touch, dragged a Swiss forward out, then slid a disguised ground pass—not to Rodri—but to Laporte, already jogging into midfield like a libero.

He drove forward.

Swiss players didn't close.

So Laporte just kept going.

Getting to the halfway line, he pinged a flat ball across to Yamal, who stopped it dead with the top of his boot.

He turned, feinted inside, and then… spun away toward the right corner.

This wasn't the normal wide stuff. He was luring defenders to him.

And when three came?

He backheeled it.

Pedri.

The latter ran from the deep, sliding into the right half-space before he burst forward—without a touch, letting the ball roll across him before unleashing a low, dipping strike near-post.

Sommer parried it out for the umpteenth time in the match sending the ball out for a corner.

Cucurella stepped up to take it this time., whipping in a rare outswinger that curled back toward the top of the box.

Morata let it go, as Yamal caught it on the volley.

BOOM.

It screamed through a wall of bodies—deflected—and barely skimmed past the post.

Another corner.

This time, Izan jogged over.

He didn't rush. He looked around and held up a finger.

Something was coming.

He whipped it toward the back post—but low. Not lofted.

A Swiss head flicked it away, but only to Pedri, who trapped it and laid it off short to Le Normand—still lurking like a striker.

The latter curled it but it was blocked by a teammate in Morata.

The latter stretched and took hold of the loose ball and now, Morata, ten yards out, faked a shot, dragged it left, and let it fly!

Shot again—denied by Sommer with a boot save.

Gasps all around.

The loose ball was claimed by Switzerland—but not cleared.

Their winger took a heavy touch in transition, hoping to break into space, but Mikel Merino surged in, sharp and decisive.

He poked the ball away with a stretched boot, and suddenly it was back at Pedri's feet again.

"Pedri again… how many times has he just absorbed the chaos tonight?"

He turned smoothly, shifted his weight, and zipped a short pass to Merino-one touch to control, then a quick layoff to Yamal, stationed out wide.

The move slowed—but not for long.

Yamal took a second. One shimmy. Then reversed it to Rodri, who spotted something others didn't: Izan, not near the box, but deeper—hovering in the half-space, untouched, unnoticed.

"This is dangerous now—look at the room Izan has. This is very dangerous."

Rodri fed it to him.

26 meters out.

One touch to set.

And then—

Bang.

A rising strike, drilled with venom and spin, the ball slicing through the rain-slick air.

It didn't wobble.

It didn't curl. It drove, pure and straight, like a lance toward the bottom-left corner.

Yann Sommer dove.

Fast. Alert. But the ball was too heavy to cleanly gather.

He got down—but couldn't hold it.

It bounced out of his gloves like a bar of soap.

And Morata was there.

Right place. Right moment.

First touch—no hesitation, his left toe poking it home.

Spain 2 – Switzerland 1.

"GOOOOOAL! MORATA AGAIN! But that… that goal starts with one name: Izan.

What a strike. What power. Sommer does his best—but you cannot spill that against a striker like Morata. You just can't."

The Spain bench erupted. De la Fuente raised both arms.

Players poured toward the corner flag where Morata turned, fists clenched, eyes blazing with relief and adrenaline.

"And how about that for the youngest player on the pitch? Izan's not just dancing tonight.

He's dictating. That strike wasn't hopeful—it was intentional. That's the evolution we're seeing. He's no longer asking questions. He's writing answers."

[Okay, this is just too much but I love writing it]

The camera panned across the Swiss defense—heads dropped, shoulders slumped.

You could almost hear the shift in the atmosphere.

From anxious to electric.

The Spanish end roared—"¡ES-PA-ÑA! ¡ES-PA-ÑA!"—while Morata jogged back to the center of the pitch, pointing at Izan again, shouting something only the cameras could guess at.

"Spain lead just before the break. And what a time to do it. The Swiss fought—fought hard—but the weight of red just kept building. Pressure. Precision. And finally… the crack."

Halftime.

Spain 2 – Switzerland 1.

But it wasn't just a lead.

It was momentum. Swagger. Belief.

And as both sides disappeared down the tunnel, it was clear—

Spain hadn't peaked yet.

A/n: I am really tired but we still have to read. Have fun and i'll see you in the morning. Byee.