Harbinger Of Glory

"Haaah..." his shoulders sank as the air left his lungs, and in that moment, it was the only reaction Kevin De Bruyne could conjure and that more than told the story.

He sat slightly apart from the other Belgian players at their camp, one arm resting across the back of a chair to his left as the television continued showing the Portugal-Spain match.

The rest of the squad were gathered in front of the screen after their own victory over the United States, but nobody was celebrating anymore.

They were watching.

They had seen Cristiano Ronaldo’s header, and they had seen whatever it was that Izan had done.

Despite watching it 4 times, De Bruyne still didn’t get what was happening.

"How nice it would have been to play with him," he muttered to himself as he thought about a few things.

He had played against Ronaldo.

He had played against Spain.

He knew what world-class football looked like.

He also knew how quickly a match could become difficult when the players involved were operating at a level beyond everyone else.

But this was different.

The two goals and two moments that looked like they belonged to completely different eras of football.

The first had come from a forty-one-year-old who had somehow risen above a group of defenders as though the years between his first World Cup and this one had never existed.

The second had come from an eighteen-year-old who had looked at a bouncing ball and apparently decided the safest thing to do was throw himself into the air and kick it past the goalkeeper.

De Bruyne shook his head once more, but before his thoughts could thrum again, a hand settled on his shoulder.

He turned to find his manager standing over him without anyone noticing.

"Still watching?" Rudi Garcia asked as De Bruyne looked back at the screen.

"Apparently."

The coach smiled faintly before pulling the chair beside him.

For a few seconds, neither spoke.

Ahead of them, the Belgian players remained scattered across the room.

Some sat with their arms folded.

Others leaned forward with their elbows on their knees, with the television being the only thing holding everyone’s attention.

A moment later, Kevin De Bruyne heard a heavy sigh escape the manager.

"I’ll tell you something," Rudi Garcia said as De Bruyne glanced at him.

"What?"

"Whoever we get next...you know, like out of these two," the coach paused, "I’m not sure we can beat them."

De Bruyne, hearing that, stared blankly before looking away, his eyes settling on the screen and refusing to leave.

He didn’t want to agree.

But he knew exactly what the man meant.

Belgium had just won their own Round of 16 tie.

They had done what they needed to do and were through.

And yet, watching Spain and Portugal fight like this, that achievement suddenly felt less reassuring.

De Bruyne leaned back and then shook his head, not admitting his coach’s words.

"Let’s see how it finishes."

Rudi Garcia nodded, meaning further forward.

"That’s what I plan on doing."

On the television, the camera returned to the field where the score remained level on the scoreboard.

PORTUGAL 1-1 SPAIN.

At AT&T Stadium, the clock had moved beyond the thirty-ninth minute.

The game had barely had a chance to settle when Clive Tyldesley’s voice returned over the noise.

"We are now ten minutes beyond the half-hour mark, and somehow, we’re still level."

He paused.

"Although I’m not entirely sure anyone here has quite worked out how we’ve arrived at one-one."

Ally McCoist laughed beside him.

"I think that will be the same for all those watching at home and reading.....ahem...."

He looked down toward the pitch.

"If somebody had shown me those two goals before the game and told me they were from the same match, I’d have assumed they were trying to wind me up."

Tyldesley chuckled.

"I think I’d have assumed they were clips from a film."

"Absolutely."

"And yet..." Tyldesley glanced toward the players.

"...here we are."

Back on the pitch, the ball was already moving again.

Spain worked it across their back line before Pedro Porro received possession on the right.

Portugal immediately closed the space as Porro looked inside.

There was nowhere obvious to go, but still, he waited a fraction longer and forced the pass into the middle, but that was because he knew who was on the receiving end of the ball.

Izan was surrounded.

Three Portuguese shirts converged almost immediately as the ball zoomed towards him.

Bruno came from behind, João Neves stepped across his left, and Vitinha closed the other side.

The pass reached Izan anyway, and despite the thoughts of the onlookers, he didn’t touch it.

He let the ball roll between his legs to the sheer dismay of the Portuguese players who had been looking to reap the ball from him, but before they could think again, Izan spun.

The ball had gone beyond them, but he was already moving.

Neves reached for him, Izan slipped away.

Bruno tried to lean across his path, but the Spaniard lowered his shoulder and kept going.

Tyldesley’s voice rose with him.

"Izan’s away from the pressure..."

The captain didn’t look down.

His eyes were already moving.

He glanced once towards the centre and then glanced toward the left.

That was where it was for Izan.

Without another step, he sent the ball bending around Viega and far off onto the left flank where Baena was already accelerating into the space.

The pass rolled ahead of him, and Baena didn’t need telling twice.

He chased it down near the left flank as João Cancelo closed rapidly.

The Portuguese full-back stretched an arm across Baena’s body, trying to slow him without giving away a foul, but it was hard to do without Baena running.

Cancelo reached again, but just as it looked like he’d catch up, Baena knocked the ball forward and escaped the contact, the spanish crowd cheering him on as his legs pumped whatever was left of his sprint go get him to the ball!