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In the Arsenal technical area, Wenger gave one more clap. But still no smile. His arms folded again. His eyes shifted down the pitch—not to the players celebrating, but to the three who hadn't: Kante, Özil, and Monreal, already shifting into formation. Already preparing for the next ten minutes.
Then the game continued fiercely—as if the pitch had been set on fire.
Tottenham, rattled and embarrassed, responded the only way they could: with ferocity. No more half-measures, no more caution. The crowd, stunned only moments ago, found its breath again in a kind of collective desperation, urging their team forward with guttural chants that sounded less like support and more like pleading.
But it wasn't quite football now—it was something messier, something raw.
Dier and Dembele surged higher. Eriksen and Alli stopped floating and started demanding. Kane, fuming from the earlier dispossession by Mertesacker, dropped deeper to find touches, to feel the ball again, to drag the match back into his gravitational pull. Spurs' fullbacks stretched themselves dangerously high, nearly to Arsenal's box, leaving oceans of space behind them—but they didn't care. They needed a goal. Needed to narrow the bleeding.
But Arsenal? They didn't retreat. Not fully.
They adapted. Bent, but didn't break.
They tucked in tighter. Özil dropped ten yards deeper to sit near Ramsey. Alexis stopped darting forward and began drifting into pockets—so when Spurs' midfield tried to carry the ball forward, they were greeted by walls. Walls of red, timed and shifting, always one step ahead.
By the 38th minute, it wasn't just the Gunners' attack making statements—it was their resilience.
Tottenham tried. Oh, they tried.
Eriksen managed to slip a ball between the lines to Kane, who turned Mertesacker just outside the box—but before he could release, Kante was already there, gliding across like a ghost to poke it off his boot.
A minute later, Lamela found space wide and tried to cut inside Monreal. He was met with a shoulder that belonged in a brick wall, not a footballer, and the Argentine went tumbling into the turf while Monreal jogged away like it hadn't even registered.
White Hart Lane hissed. Booed. Screamed.
But the red shirts never flinched.
Then came the 41st minute—and it nearly cracked open. A hopeful ball from Rose, whipped fast and low across the face of goal. Kane darted in front of Van Dijk and got a toe to it—an ugly deflection, spinning wickedly toward the bottom corner.
Francesco, from his halfway perch, felt his chest seize. Even Wenger flinched.
But Cech didn't.
The Arsenal keeper, broad and composed, flung himself left—not like a man guessing, but a man who knew. He didn't parry. He caught it. Pulled the ball into his chest, absorbed the momentum, and stayed on the ground for an extra two seconds—just enough to sap Spurs' momentum. Just enough to make sure everyone in the stadium remembered: Arsenal had a wall too.
Cech stood slowly, rolled the ball to Monreal, and the game flowed again.
It was that kind of moment. The kind where you saw heads drop on the Spurs side—not in surrender, not yet, but in that first flicker of disbelief. The kind of disbelief that starts whispering maybe it's not our day.
In the technical area, Pochettino was a storm. Gesturing wildly, barking at his midfield to press higher, pushing Eriksen forward. His coat flared behind him with every step. His assistant tried saying something, but he swatted it away like a fly. He wanted blood. A goal before the half. He knew the math.
One goal before halftime would change everything. One goal would make the tunnel feel like possibility instead of punishment.
But Arsenal? They refused.
They weren't just sitting on their lead—they were defending it like a birthright. Like they'd carved it into the stone of the stadium itself.
In the 43rd minute, another Spurs attempt—this one a whipped corner from Eriksen. The delivery was vicious, dipping toward the near post where Wimmer had risen above Alexis. But Van Dijk timed his leap like a man seeing the future, and met it cleanly. His header wasn't just clearance—it was domination. He outmuscled three players in the air and sent the ball soaring 30 yards out.
Francesco tracked the clearance with his eyes from the halfway line, then turned and clapped. Hard. Once. Twice. A subtle nod toward Van Dijk. That was the kind of clearance that didn't show up on stat sheets—but the kind that made players believe in one another.
Then came the 44th. Kane again, desperate now. He dropped deep to collect and drove toward the heart of Arsenal's defense. He weaved past Özil, sidestepped Ramsey—but just as he was about to pull the trigger from 20 yards, Bellerín came flying in from nowhere. A crunching slide tackle—clean, timed to the millisecond—and the ball cannoned off Kane's shin and out for a throw.
It felt like a goal. Not for the scoreboard, but for the soul.
And White Hart Lane didn't know how to react anymore. They clapped, they groaned, they whistled—it was all jumbled. All confused. Arsenal had taken their breath again.
The fourth official signaled one minute of added time. Spurs tried to rally for one last push. Dier lumped a ball forward. Lamela chased it. But the whistle came before anything could happen.
Halftime.
And somehow, it was still 2–0.
As the players trudged toward the tunnel, the difference in body language was brutal.
Spurs looked like they were being pulled by invisible strings—backs tight, heads down, feet dragging just slightly more than they should.
Arsenal? Arsenal walked like kings.
Not cocky. Not grinning. But composed. Focused. The kind of walk that said: This is our day, and we know it.
The changing room smelled of adrenaline and damp polyester. The moment the door swung shut behind them, the sound of White Hart Lane vanished, replaced by the hollow acoustics of steel lockers, squeaking boots, and the heavy rhythm of lungs pulling in air after forty-five minutes of war.
Francesco sat down, legs splayed, his hands gripping the hem of his shorts as he bent forward, letting the sweat drip from his jaw. His heart was still racing. Everyone's was. But it wasn't fear. Not anxiety. This was fire. Controlled, but still roaring.
Cech leaned against the wall, sipping water. Van Dijk and Mertesacker were seated beside each other, already deep in quiet conversation about positioning and set-piece marks. Alexis, shirt off, paced like a caged animal. Özil, towel draped around his neck, knelt in front of his boots, adjusting his laces like it was the most important task in the world.
Wenger walked in last. No shouting. No clapping. Just presence.
He didn't need to raise his voice. The players were already tuned in.
He looked around, his eyes brushing over each of them like a teacher taking silent attendance. Then he spoke, calmly, but firmly. The kind of tone that meant every word was measured, every breath part of a plan.
"They're going to come hard," Wenger said, his French accent soft but unmistakable. "Especially in the first ten minutes."
No one needed telling. They'd seen the look in Tottenham's eyes at the end of the half—the desperation, the edge of chaos in their movements. The white shirts weren't going to wait and see. They were going to swing.
"They'll press higher. Take more risks. Dier, Alli, Eriksen—they'll surge into the pockets behind you, N'Golo," he added, nodding at Kanté, who nodded back without a word. "Their fullbacks will go almost as wingers."
He took a step forward.
"You must keep your shape. Stay compact. But," he raised a finger, "if the ball breaks… if you win it in transition and there's space—" he turned slightly, eyes on Özil, then Ramsey, then Francesco—"I want you to go for the third."
Francesco felt something shift inside him. Not pressure—permission.
Wenger continued. "They will throw everything. But that means they will leave gaps. Gaps we can kill them with."
A pause. His eyes found Bellerín and Monreal.
"Fullbacks, I need you disciplined. No overlapping unless we have control. Theo, Alexis—be smart. Track their runs. But if you see the opening—don't hesitate. You break."
He turned again, this time facing the whole group.
"If we score the third, this game is over."
No theatrics. No slogans on the wall. Just clarity.
He stepped back. "Drink. Stretch. We go again in five."
The room broke into smaller movements. Bottles passed, muscles rubbed, boots re-laced. Ramsey walked over to Francesco, crouching beside him.
"If they push that high, you're going to get space in behind," Ramsey said.
Francesco nodded, wiping his face with a towel. "And you'll have space to find me."
Ramsey grinned, bumping fists with him before heading to the physio for a quick quad rub.
Özil came next, silent, as he usually was, but when he looked at Francesco, there was something like a smirk under the calm exterior.
"You run," Özil said, "I'll find you."
Francesco gave a breath of a laugh. "I know."
Moments later, the fourth official knocked gently on the dressing room door. Time.
The Arsenal players stood as one.
They didn't roar or slap chests. They didn't need to.
The noise would be waiting for them upstairs.
The tunnel was colder than before. Narrower. Or maybe that was just the change in tone. Spurs were already lined up, eyes forward. Kane, face flushed, didn't even glance sideways. Eriksen bounced on the balls of his feet, muttering under his breath. Alli cracked his neck twice, then rolled his shoulders.
Francesco stood beside Mertesacker near the front. The tall German glanced sideways, then bent his head slightly.
"First ten minutes," he muttered. "Hold. And then kill."
Francesco didn't respond.
He didn't need to.
The whistle blew. The second half began.
⸻
46' – Immediate Storm
It was exactly as Wenger predicted.
The moment the ball rolled, Tottenham erupted. Every player in white surged forward as though the pitch had been tilted toward the Arsenal goal.
Alli, full of legs and spite, charged through the middle with Dier backing him like a drumbeat. Eriksen floated left, then darted right. Kane began dragging defenders across like bait on a hook. Rose and Walker pushed so high they were almost standing on Alexis and Walcott's toes.
The first two minutes were a blur. Spurs pressed like their lives depended on it.
Cech was called into action twice—once to punch away a wicked inswinger from Lamela, and once to smother a half-chance Kane tried to stab home after a pinball in the box.
Francesco barely touched the ball.
That was the point.
Arsenal were braced like a ship in a storm—no fancy sails now. Just iron bolts, gritted teeth, and faith in their own solidity.
Özil dropped so deep he was almost in the defensive line. Kante, godlike in his anticipation, intercepted three passes in two minutes. One of them even drew applause from the Spurs fans—though it sounded more like disbelief than respect.
By the 50th minute, the pressure hadn't stopped—but something else had shifted.
Spurs were overextending.
Their midfield triangle had widened, leaving space behind. Their center-backs were stranded on an island. And when Walker tried to surge forward again—leaving the entire right channel exposed—Francesco saw it.
A bad pass. A ricochet. A bounce into Özil's feet.
That was all it took.
Özil didn't look up. He didn't need to. He knew.
His left foot rolled the ball gently into open grass—and Francesco was already moving.
Like a whisper through smoke, he peeled off Wimmer's shoulder and burst into the channel, already ten yards ahead before the center-back even turned.
White Hart Lane gasped.
It wasn't panic yet—but it was close.
Francesco had nothing but green in front of him.
Lloris started to step forward, but hesitated. That was all Francesco needed.
One touch to bring it close. Another to steady. Then—cool as a shadow—he opened his body and bent the ball low toward the far corner.
It beat Lloris.
It beat the post by inches.
The groan was seismic.
Francesco dropped his head, exhaling hard, hands on his hips.
That would've ended it.
Tottenham took that miss like smelling salts.
Instead of deflating, they surged again. But this time, it wasn't desperation—it was anger.
They pressed harder. Hit faster.
And finally, they broke through.
At the 55th minute, it started with a crunching challenge from Dier on Ramsey—legal, barely. The ball spilled wide. Eriksen collected. Slipped it to Lamela. One touch inside.
Then came Kane.
Van Dijk moved to meet him—but Kane didn't hesitate. A step to the right. A shot through the legs.
The net rippled.
2–1.
The stadium exploded.
Not just with noise—but with belief.
Francesco turned, biting his lip. He looked toward the bench. Wenger wasn't panicking. He was already barking instructions. Motioning to Ramsey. To Özil. Calm, but urgent.
There are goals you concede, and you forget them by the next corner kick. And then there are goals that feel like a crack in the hull of something much bigger.
This was the second kind.
It happened fast—but not unexpectedly. You could feel it coming, like pressure building behind a dam. Arsenal had weathered the storm for nearly twenty minutes of the second half, absorbing waves of Tottenham pressure. But some storms don't end by easing. They end by breaking something.
Erik Lamela had been everywhere since the restart—flickering, sharp, spitting challenges and ghosting into dangerous spaces. His footwork had just enough venom to keep Monreal guessing, and just enough intent to draw fouls that weren't quite fouls.
And then, in the 64th, he didn't try to beat anyone.
Instead, he waited.
Spurs had forced a corner, then another. Then a throw-in, deep on the left flank. It was the kind of moment where tired legs make one wrong step, where a heartbeat skipped is enough.
Lamela took the short throw, played it back to Eriksen, then spun to receive the return pass just outside the box. Ramsey got to him—late, half a step slow. Kante shifted across but couldn't close the gap.
And Lamela, with almost disinterested calm, chipped it.
A shallow arc.
Alderweireld rose at the edge of the six-yard box—ghosting past Van Dijk. Not with speed, but with timing. A center-back's stealth. A predator's drift.
And then—contact.
Clean, vicious, unstoppable.
Cech didn't even dive.
The net bulged.
2–2.
The roar this time wasn't noise—it was a declaration. White Hart Lane exploded like it had been waiting all match to scream. Flags. Fists. Faces twisted with vindication.
The entire Spurs bench surged to its feet. Pochettino punched the air like a man trying to break something invisible.
On the touchline, Wenger didn't move. Not immediately. His arms were folded again, but the twitch in his jaw betrayed the storm brewing beneath.
Francesco stood on the halfway line, hands on hips, his mind scrambling to process what had just happened. From two-nil to two-all in less than ten minutes.
Momentum wasn't shifting anymore. It had shifted.
He looked to Mertesacker, who shouted across the backline. Urging composure. Van Dijk was already clapping his hands, calling for focus, calling for shape. Alexis kicked the turf once in frustration before jogging back into position.
But it was Özil who moved first.
He didn't shout. Didn't wave. Just gathered the ball from the net and walked it to the center spot like he was delivering something sacred.
Francesco met his eyes.
There wasn't panic there.
Just fire.
And maybe that was what Arsenal needed now—not control, not calm, but defiance.
On the 67th minute, Pochettino didn't hesitate.
As Arsenal reset, Spurs made their move. Two changes—no ceremony.
Off came Lamela, whose work was done. Rose too, whose legs had started to flag in the face of Walcott's tireless runs.
On came Ryan Mason, injecting fresh legs and energy into the midfield, and Ben Davies to stabilize the left flank.
It was tactical—but also psychological.
Pochettino was signalling: We're not settling for the draw.
He wanted the win.
And the stadium roared its approval.
Wenger responded with a gesture to Bould, a word to Flamini warming near the bench, but no immediate change. It was a risk. But it was also belief—in the XI who'd gotten them this far.
Francesco, standing near Ramsey as Spurs prepared to restart, felt the adrenaline rise again.
The game had changed.
Now it wasn't about who had the better tactics.
It was about nerve.
The next five minutes were chaos in a different form.
Not the organized chaos of Spurs' pressing or Arsenal's counters—but the emotional kind. The fear that one mistake could define everything. The electric tension that wraps itself around every pass, every touch.
Twice, Özil found space—but his final ball was just an inch short of perfect. Once, Kante intercepted Mason brilliantly but had no passing lane. And once—just once—Walcott broke in behind Davies but miscontrolled the touch, and it skidded out for a goal kick.
On the bench, Wenger rose.
He turned to the staff. Flamini stood ready. A change was coming.
But it never happened.
Because in the 75th minute, something beautiful happened instead.
It started with nothing special.
A clearance from Mertesacker. A duel won by Ramsey. Then the ball to Bellerín, still just inside his own half.
Francesco was half-expecting the Spaniard to play it safe—maybe recycle possession, calm the tempo.
But Bellerín didn't.
Instead, he took a touch forward.
And another.
And then he was off.
No shout. No signal. Just motion. That unmistakable surge when a full-back sees grass and believes in his engine.
Francesco widened his run instinctively, dragging Davies toward the wing. Walcott dropped to pull Wimmer the other way. And right there, in that ripple of movement, came the window.
Alexis saw it too.
The Chilean started slow. Jogged. Drifted.
And then, like a matchstick to gasoline, he burst into the half-space between Davies and Wimmer—one sharp diagonal run.
And Bellerín, full tilt now, didn't overthink it.
He whipped the ball in—not floated, not lobbed. A driven cross. Waist height. Skimming, menacing.
And Alexis? Alexis didn't break stride.
He let the ball come across his body, pivoted slightly, then met it with his right foot—laces open, balance perfect.
The shot wasn't powerful.
It was precise.
And Lloris, frozen for a split-second, couldn't adjust. The ball bent low, around his shoulder, and kissed the inside of the far post before nestling in the back of the net.
3–2.
The away end detonated.
Pure chaos.
Alexis ran, arms stretched, a roar tearing from his throat as he slid across the turf—fist pumping, heart screaming. Bellerín caught him mid-slide and lifted him in the air like a feather. Özil arrived second, then Ramsey, then Francesco.
They piled around him—not just in celebration, but in relief. In defiance.
This was their answer. Their answer to the comeback. To the noise. To the pressure.
To the doubt.
Francesco's voice cracked as he shouted something wordless—just sound, just triumph.
In the corner of his vision, the red shirts were pulling back into shape again, already thinking ahead.
But for those few seconds, it was freedom.
Spurs didn't collapse.
They couldn't afford to.
Pochettino didn't throw more attackers on. Instead, he instructed Mason to push further. Alli was told to tuck tighter to Kane. They weren't going to panic—but they were going to push.
When the stadium clock flicked past 80 minutes, the air had grown heavy with tension again. Arsenal led 3–2, but Spurs hadn't folded. They kept coming. Every misplaced pass from Arsenal, every hurried clearance from Bellerín or Van Dijk drew a collective gasp from both sets of fans. The referee's whistle sounded more frequently—muffled collisions, searches for extra time. Every second felt monumental.
On the bench, Wenger spoke quickly in hushed tones to Bould and the physio. When Arsenal shouldered the ball back into midfield, the manager finally made his move.
Three substitutions. Immediate, decisive:
• Ramsey came off, huffing, sweat-soaked, replaced by Francis Coquelin—the midfield destroyer Arsenal needed now.
• Mesut Özil withdrew as well—quiet engineer of the comeback—and Mohamed Elneny came on beside Kante, packing the midfield.
• The final slot: Theo Walcott, who had started wide right but drifted through the second half, made way for Danny Welbeck—not to chase the game, but to offer defensive discipline and hold-up cover in case Arsenal were caught on the break.
In a heartbeat, the midfield transformed:
From creativity—Ramsey and Özil—to combative structure: Kante – Coquelin – Elneny.
Arsenal's shape became more cautious, more conservative. Their three central midfielders now leaned low, sitting deep, keeping shape more than starting attacks.
At the same moment, Pochettino responded swiftly:
He replaced Mousa Dembélé—who'd offered calm in the earlier stages—with Son Heung-min, fresh legs, pace, threat down the right channel, and renewed urgency.
The boos from the home crowd were drowned by the roar of Arsenal's away supporters. They knew what Wenger was doing. They sensed the message: "You lead now. You defend."
Coquelin dropped in front of the back four like a shield. Elneny tucked inside Kante, ready to intercept. Welbeck, playing wide right, shadowed Rose closely, making sure there were no free runs.
The switch was evident instantly. Spurs pressed again—they had momentum, the crowd, and numerical advantage in attack. But Arsenal didn't crumble. Instead, they warped their shape into a low block.
Subs on the touchline clapped and shouted encouragement. Wenger simply watched—hands behind his back, eyes laser-focused.
Now Spurs had to chase the game with organization—and organization demands structure. But urgency propels errors. Without Dembélé's holding presence, Mason had to ringfence the midfield, Alli had to drop deeper to build, and Son had to provide width—but lacked support from tired teammates.
Spurs launched wave after wave of assault:
• A cross from Son to the near post flicked off Kane's forehead—straight into Van Dijk's chest.
• Five minutes later, a clever short corner routine worked its way back to Eriksen, who forced Cech into a partial save, and Elneny slid in to push it off the line.
• In the 88th minute, Alli deceived Coquelin and slipped a shot from outside the box—but Kante slid across to block it with his thigh: grit, judgment, sacrifice.
At the same time, Arsenal began trying to relieve tension. They countered with Bellerín's surging runs down the right, then slipped Welbeck into space for a potential long-ball break—but his first touch let him down, and Lloris collected securely.
Each clearance, each interception reverberated like confirmation.
Tottenham refused to relent.
In stoppage time, they sent Son wide, forced Welbeck to chase, while the rest of Spurs shifted. Dier floated inside, Alli twisted, Eriksen probed.
Wenger's men slid like oil through water. Kante and Coquelin compressed the midfield, forcing play wide. Van Dijk and Mertesacker stood like sentries—unyielding.
Then, 90+2—a Tottenham break.
Lamela, intruding from the bench, was finding space. He drove diagonally left, cut inside Elneny—but as he pulled the trigger, Kante slid in. Scuffed the touch—still dangerous—but Mertesacker recovered behind him to head wide.
Spurs' final corner came in 90+4, swung with whip into the six-yard box. It dropped. Lloris rose. Met it with a head—but the flick was half-hearted. Coquelin cleared bravely through the crowd, Monreal shepherded it wide.
Whistle.
It was over.
Full Time: Tottenham 2 – 3 Arsenal
The moment the final whistle blew, the red shirts behind the goal erupted again.
Not in controlled celebration—but relief. Release. Collective exhale.
Wenger raised a hand once, then dropped it. For him, this was work—not poetry. But for the players? It was a baptism. Proof that Arsenal could endure.
Francesco, who'd played the full ninety, who scored and drifted and fought, sunk to one knee, chest heaving. His shirt soaked through, cleats dug into turf. For a second, he swore he might pass out.
________________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 17 (2015)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, and 2015/2016 Community Shield
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 41
Goal: 61
Assist: 10
MOTM: 7
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9