Peter Drury is such an annoying commentator.
The Tottenham Hotspur Stadium, a fortress of ambition, where the roar of the crowd fuels dreams and destiny. A modern-day arena, where pride runs deep and the echoes of White Hart Lane still resonate.
As he stands here, on the very edge of immortality, the whispers of arrogance, the murmurs of delusions—they pierce him like a dagger through the heart, burning with every beat, coursing through his veins! Weeks, months, years... the weight of time bears down upon him, waiting for this moment—his moment. The moment to rewrite history, to turn back the hands of fate! The agony of that penalty miss, that crushing blow in the final, a torment etched into his soul! And now, as he stands on the shoulders of giants—great men who came before—he stares fear in the face. Every second feels like a century. Every heartbeat, a pounding drum of destiny. The stadium falls silent, the world holds its breath, as Bukayo Saka... steps up... to take a throw-in.