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By the time the clock ticked past the 20-minute mark, the scoreboard still read 0–0, but the Emirates was already buzzing with the sense that this was going to be a night to remember.
The first twenty minutes had been an exercise in discipline and reflexes. The Emirates crowd could feel it — both teams trading blows without finding the knockout punch. And then, just as Arsenal were starting to settle into a rhythm, the sucker punch landed.
It came in the 25th minute.
Atlético worked it the way they do best: patiently, like they were chipping away at a locked door. The ball moved across their midfield in tight triangles, pulling Arsenal's shape one way, then the other. Koke found a pocket of space near the halfway line, turned, and threaded the kind of pass that seemed to slice the pitch in half. It split Koscielny and Monreal, curling into the channel.
Fernando Torres — still with that instinct that had made him one of Europe's most feared strikers in his prime — was already on the move. He timed his run perfectly, just on the shoulder of Van Dijk. One touch to steady himself, another to open up his body, and then a precise, side-foot finish past the onrushing Cech.
The net rippled, the away section erupted, and Torres wheeled away toward the corner flag with that old, familiar swagger.
1–0, Atlético.
For a moment, there was that hush in the stadium, the kind of silence that isn't really silent — it's filled with sharp breaths, muttered disbelief, and the thrum of frustration.
Francesco clenched his jaw, jogging back to the centre circle. He'd been tracking Torres' run from further up the pitch, helpless to get back in time. The goal wasn't his to prevent, but it still sat wrong in his stomach. He glanced toward the VIP box, as if to reassure himself that Leah and their families were still there, still watching. If anything, it gave him something sharper to play for.
Arsenal didn't panic. They tightened their shape, moved the ball faster. Every pass had a little more purpose now, every run a little more bite. Özil started to drift into half-spaces, pulling Atlético's midfielders out of position.
Then, in the 34th minute, the moment came.
It started with Ramsey snapping into a challenge just inside Arsenal's half, nicking the ball away from Saúl and immediately shifting it to Kanté. The Frenchman didn't hesitate — one quick turn to evade Gabi's pressure, then a darting forward pass into Özil.
Özil, with that almost lazy elegance, looked up and saw Francesco darting between Hernandez and Godín. The timing had to be perfect. It was.
The ball slid through the tiniest gap, Francesco taking it in stride with his left foot. He didn't even break his run — one touch to set it, then a low, drilled shot with his right across Oblak's body. The Atlético keeper got a hand to it, but the strike had too much power and precision.
The net bulged. The Emirates roared back to life.
Francesco didn't go for an over-the-top celebration — just a short, fierce fist pump and a glance up toward the VIP box. Somewhere up there, Leah was probably grinning, his dad maybe trying to play it cool, her brother Jacob already shouting something half-incoherent.
1–1. Game back on.
The equaliser lit a fire under both teams. The tackles got sharper, the pressing tighter. Arsenal wanted to ride the momentum into halftime with another goal, but Atlético, stung by conceding, started to play with that nasty edge they're known for.
By the 41st minute, it boiled over.
Sánchez was chasing down a loose ball near the halfway line, his body angled to shield it from Koke. The Atlético midfielder came thundering in, studs up, a split second late. The crack of boot-on-shinpad echoed unnervingly.
Sánchez went down instantly, clutching his leg. Francesco was the first to react, sprinting over with a shout that wasn't exactly polite. Ramsey was there too, and suddenly Van Dijk, Monreal, Godín, Gabi — a crowd swelling around the flashpoint.
Pushing, shoving, arms out to hold people back. The noise from the stands swelled into a wall of whistles and jeers.
The referee, face set in a scowl, waded into the middle of it all. He pointed firmly at Koke and pulled out the yellow card, holding it high.
Atlético's players protested, Koke raising his hands as if to say he'd gone for the ball, but the replay on the big screen got a chorus of boos from the Arsenal faithful — it had been reckless, no question.
Sánchez got to his feet after a moment, flexing his ankle, giving a quick nod to the physio that he was fine to continue. But the mood had shifted. The air felt charged, like static before a storm.
Francesco jogged back into position, exchanging a quick glance with Sánchez. No words, just a mutual understanding: this was no longer just a technical battle. It was going to be a fight in every sense.
The first twenty minutes had been an exercise in discipline and reflexes. The Emirates crowd could feel it — both teams trading blows without finding the knockout punch. And then, just as Arsenal were starting to settle into a rhythm, the sucker punch landed.
It came in the 25th minute.
Atlético worked it the way they do best: patiently, like they were chipping away at a locked door. The ball moved across their midfield in tight triangles, pulling Arsenal's shape one way, then the other. Koke found a pocket of space near the halfway line, turned, and threaded the kind of pass that seemed to slice the pitch in half. It split Koscielny and Monreal, curling into the channel.
Fernando Torres — still with that instinct that had made him one of Europe's most feared strikers in his prime — was already on the move. He timed his run perfectly, just on the shoulder of Van Dijk. One touch to steady himself, another to open up his body, and then a precise, side-foot finish past the onrushing Cech.
The net rippled, the away section erupted, and Torres wheeled away toward the corner flag with that old, familiar swagger.
1–0, Atlético.
For a moment, there was that hush in the stadium, the kind of silence that isn't really silent — it's filled with sharp breaths, muttered disbelief, and the thrum of frustration.
Francesco clenched his jaw, jogging back to the centre circle. He'd been tracking Torres' run from further up the pitch, helpless to get back in time. The goal wasn't his to prevent, but it still sat wrong in his stomach. He glanced toward the VIP box, as if to reassure himself that Leah and their families were still there, still watching. If anything, it gave him something sharper to play for.
Arsenal didn't panic. They tightened their shape, moved the ball faster. Every pass had a little more purpose now, every run a little more bite. Özil started to drift into half-spaces, pulling Atlético's midfielders out of position.
Then, in the 34th minute, the moment came.
It started with Ramsey snapping into a challenge just inside Arsenal's half, nicking the ball away from Saúl and immediately shifting it to Kanté. The Frenchman didn't hesitate — one quick turn to evade Gabi's pressure, then a darting forward pass into Özil.
Özil, with that almost lazy elegance, looked up and saw Francesco darting between Hernandez and Godín. The timing had to be perfect. It was.
The ball slid through the tiniest gap, Francesco taking it in stride with his left foot. He didn't even break his run — one touch to set it, then a low, drilled shot with his right across Oblak's body. The Atlético keeper got a hand to it, but the strike had too much power and precision.
The net bulged. The Emirates roared back to life.
Francesco didn't go for an over-the-top celebration — just a short, fierce fist pump and a glance up toward the VIP box. Somewhere up there, Leah was probably grinning, his dad maybe trying to play it cool, her brother Jacob already shouting something half-incoherent.
1–1. Game back on.
The equaliser lit a fire under both teams. The tackles got sharper, the pressing tighter. Arsenal wanted to ride the momentum into halftime with another goal, but Atlético, stung by conceding, started to play with that nasty edge they're known for.
By the 41st minute, it boiled over.
Sánchez was chasing down a loose ball near the halfway line, his body angled to shield it from Koke. The Atlético midfielder came thundering in, studs up, a split second late. The crack of boot-on-shinpad echoed unnervingly.
Sánchez went down instantly, clutching his leg. Francesco was the first to react, sprinting over with a shout that wasn't exactly polite. Ramsey was there too, and suddenly Van Dijk, Monreal, Godín, Gabi — a crowd swelling around the flashpoint.
Pushing, shoving, arms out to hold people back. The noise from the stands swelled into a wall of whistles and jeers.
The referee, face set in a scowl, waded into the middle of it all. He pointed firmly at Koke and pulled out the yellow card, holding it high.
Atlético's players protested, Koke raising his hands as if to say he'd gone for the ball, but the replay on the big screen got a chorus of boos from the Arsenal faithful — it had been reckless, no question.
Sánchez got to his feet after a moment, flexing his ankle, giving a quick nod to the physio that he was fine to continue. But the mood had shifted. The air felt charged, like static before a storm.
Francesco jogged back into position, exchanging a quick glance with Sánchez. No words, just a mutual understanding: this was no longer just a technical battle. It was going to be a fight in every sense.
The tunnel was a furnace when they stepped back out. The roar from the stands hit them like a wall, a sound that felt bigger than the stadium itself. For a moment, Francesco let it wash over him — the smell of fresh-cut grass, the flash of red-and-white scarves in the crowd, the faint tang of smoke from a flare somewhere in the away section. This was the kind of noise you could feel in your ribs.
Atlético were already waiting on the halfway line, their posture taut, eyes sharp. There was something about the way Simeone's sides came out after halftime — as if they'd been refueled with pure defiance. Their warmup sprints hadn't been for show. This was going to be ugly.
Wenger's voice still echoed in Francesco's head: They will try to provoke. Do not give them the reaction they want.
The whistle blew, and right from the kick-off, Atlético tore into them.
Not with a flurry of passes or dazzling dribbles — no, their weapon was pressure, the kind that felt like it came with teeth. Every time an Arsenal player got the ball, there was an Atlético shirt arriving at full speed, not just to win it, but to leave a mark.
The first warning shot came barely a minute in. Lucas Hernández closed down Francesco near the touchline. The ball was gone, played inside to Özil, but Hernández didn't stop — his shoulder caught Francesco square in the ribs, sending him stumbling toward the boards. The whistle went, and the yellow card came out almost instantly. Francesco forced himself back upright, brushing dirt from his shorts, refusing to give Hernández the satisfaction of a glare.
Three minutes later, it was Filipe Luís on the other flank, flying into Bellerín with both feet scissoring through the air. He caught the ball — barely — but the follow-through took out Bellerín's shin. The Emirates howled, Wenger threw both arms up, and the referee had no choice. Yellow card number two for Atlético.
If anything, that just emboldened them.
Kanté was next in the firing line. Griezmann came sliding in late after the ball had already been played back to Cech. It was cynical — not even an attempt to win possession, just a "let you know I'm here" tackle. The referee's patience was visibly thinning, and when the yellow card came out again, Griezmann tried the classic innocent look. It fooled no one.
The noise from the stands swelled with every crunch, every whistle. The Emirates was alive now, the crowd alternating between jeers for the away side and surging encouragement for the men in red and white.
And then, in the 59th minute, the one that made Francesco's blood truly heat — Fernando Torres, again. This time he came in high, studs flashing, catching Coquelin (who was warming up but had stepped close to the touchline) with a late swipe in the follow-through. The tackle wasn't just dangerous, it was late enough to feel deliberate. Another yellow. Four in fifteen minutes.
Wenger was out of his seat now, coat flapping as he gestured sharply at the fourth official. His message was clear: If you don't control this, someone's going to get hurt.
By the time the 64th minute rolled around, Wenger had seen enough to know the rhythm needed changing.
Theo Walcott had been drifting on the right, looking for space behind Filipe Luís, but with Atlético playing this physical, direct style, the game was crying out for a different kind of presence up front — someone who could hold the ball, bring others into play, and absorb the hits without losing shape.
The board went up: 14 – WALCOTT OFF. 12 – GIROUD ON.
Francesco caught the signal as he jogged toward the sideline for a quick sip of water. Wenger grabbed his arm briefly as he passed.
"You go right," he said, voice low but deliberate. "Use your pace on the break, but track Filipe. He will keep coming."
Francesco nodded. It wasn't his first-choice position, but he understood the move. Giroud's arrival meant Arsenal could have a focal point, and he could drift between the wing and the half-space, looking for those diagonal runs.
Almost immediately after, the second change was made: Ramsey off, Coquelin on. It was a statement. Ramsey had been tireless, but Wenger wanted fresh legs to bite into midfield duels and cut off Atlético's channels.
Diego Simeone, ever the duelist, responded within moments.
Carrasco, who had been buzzing but increasingly isolated, was called to the bench. On came Augusto Fernández — a deeper-lying midfielder, more combative, tasked with matching Arsenal's increased bite in the centre.
But the bigger shock was the second switch: Griezmann, Atlético's golden boy, hooked off for Thomas Partey. The move was met with audible disbelief from parts of the away end. Griezmann had looked frustrated, sure, but taking him off for a midfielder signaled a shift — Simeone was moving to a more solid, physical approach. He wanted to dominate the centre, crowd Arsenal's creative outlets, and rely on Torres up top to chase scraps.
The first few minutes in his new role were like stepping into a different match entirely.
From the left in the first half, Francesco had been able to cut inside, find Özil, and run at Godín. Now, on the right, his world was narrowed. Filipe Luís was right there, breathing down his neck, every touch shadowed by the Brazilian's quick feet and quick fouls.
But Francesco had an edge — he knew Atlético would expect him to keep wide. So he didn't. Instead, he drifted inside when Giroud dropped deep, letting Bellerín bomb forward to provide the width. Twice in quick succession, they almost carved something open — once with a threaded ball from Özil that just clipped Filipe's heel, and once with a long diagonal from Monreal that Giroud nodded down into Francesco's path, only for Hernández to hack it clear.
The ball had barely stopped moving for the next ten minutes. Atlético, bolstered by the physical presence of Augusto and Partey, were now snapping at Arsenal's ankles every time they crossed the halfway line. The match had taken on the feel of a knife fight in a crowded alley — space was tight, the air was tense, and every mistake threatened to cut deep.
Francesco was adapting quickly to his role on the right. Every time Giroud came short, he'd dart diagonally into the channel, knowing that a single accurate ball from Özil could turn the game on its head. But Atlético's back line, bruised and bruising, were holding their line just well enough to avoid being carved open again.
Still, there was a sense in the air — Arsenal were close. Every attack seemed to get one step closer to breaking the door down.
It began in their own half. Coquelin, fresh-legged and sharp, won a meaty 50–50 against Partey, the ball squirting loose to Kanté. Without hesitation, Kanté zipped it forward to Özil, who was already scanning the pitch like a chessboard.
Giroud, back to goal, had dropped between Godín and Hernandez. Özil fired it into his feet, and Giroud did what Giroud does — held off his marker, nudged the ball sideways to Sánchez, and spun into the box.
Sánchez looked up. Just for a heartbeat, the pitch opened — Filipe Luís had been drawn too high, and the gap between him and Godín was yawning. Sánchez needed no second invitation. His cross wasn't floated or hopeful; it was a whip-crack delivery, curling away from Oblak and into the perfect pocket.
Giroud's run was timed to perfection. He launched himself at the ball, meeting it with the full force of his forehead. The connection was clean, brutal, unstoppable.
The ball thundered past Oblak into the top corner.
3–1 Arsenal.
The Emirates detonated. The sound was almost physical, a wave of noise slamming into the players. Giroud wheeled away, arms spread, face split in that familiar wide grin as he sprinted toward the corner flag. Sánchez chased him down, leaping onto his back in celebration, and Francesco arrived a heartbeat later, clapping both men on the shoulders.
In the technical area, Wenger's reaction was controlled but telling — a single clenched fist pump, the barest hint of a smile. Across the line, Simeone clapped his hands in a sharp, almost sarcastic rhythm, barking instructions in rapid-fire Spanish. He wasn't giving up the tie, but the advantage was tilting hard in Arsenal's favour.
With the clock slipping toward the final ten minutes, both managers reached for their last changes.
Wenger called Sánchez over. The Chilean, who'd taken more than his share of hits over the ninety minutes, jogged across with a mix of reluctance and respect. Wenger spoke to him quietly — likely part praise, part reminder to recover for the second leg — before pointing toward the bench.
The board went up: 17 – ALEXIS SÁNCHEZ OFF. 45 – ALEX IWOBI ON.
Iwobi, young and hungry, sprinted on with that bright-eyed energy of someone desperate to make their mark. He slotted straight into the left wing, Francesco holding his spot on the right.
Simeone answered immediately. Saúl Ñíguez, who'd been running hard in midfield but showing signs of fatigue, was withdrawn. On came Ángel Correa — a nimble, inventive forward, tasked with giving Atlético some late spark and possibly snatching a goal that could change the complexion of the tie.
The changes shifted the mood slightly. Atlético pushed Correa up alongside Torres, trying to press Arsenal's back line higher. But Arsenal, smelling blood, weren't content to sit back entirely.
The last ten minutes were not calm. Atlético, desperate to narrow the gap before the return leg, pushed bodies forward. Torres was making constant diagonal runs, trying to exploit the half-step between Koscielny and Monreal. Correa, quick and slippery, darted into pockets, hoping for a through ball from Partey or Augusto.
But Arsenal's shape held.
Coquelin was a wall in midfield, twice cutting out dangerous passes before they reached the edge of the box. Kanté covered every blade of grass, intercepting, tackling, and — on one occasion — sliding in to block a shot from Correa that had looked bound for the far corner.
Francesco's role in these final minutes became as much about discipline as attack. He tracked Filipe Luís all the way back to Arsenal's defensive third, snapping into tackles when needed and springing forward when the ball was turned over. One counterattack nearly turned into a fourth goal — Bellerín released him down the right, he skipped past Hernández, and his low cross toward Giroud was only just cut out by Godín's desperate slide.
The clock ticked toward ninety. The fourth official signaled +3 minutes. The Emirates, sensing the finish line, rose in a rolling chant that washed over the pitch.
When the referee's whistle finally blew, it was like a release of held breath. Players dropped to their knees, hugged, or simply stood still for a moment, letting the atmosphere hit them. The scoreboard glowed in the evening light:
ARSENAL 3 – 1 ATLÉTICO MADRID
(Arsenal lead 3–1 on aggregate)
The Emirates was buzzing — not the chaotic, shocked buzz of an upset, but the deep, satisfied hum of a job well done. A two-goal cushion for the second leg. Against Atlético Madrid. It was the kind of advantage that could define a season, but also the kind that demanded respect. Everyone in red and white knew the job was only half done.
Francesco walked toward the North Bank, clapping the fans, his shirt clinging to him with sweat. He caught sight of Leah in the VIP section, standing and applauding, Jacob leaning over the railing to shout something he couldn't quite hear over the roar.
Wenger shook hands with Simeone — a brief, businesslike exchange between two men already thinking about the next ninety minutes in Spain.
As the players headed down the tunnel, Francesco felt the familiar cocktail of exhaustion and adrenaline. They had fought for every inch tonight. They had been kicked, shoved, and tested. But they had also scored three, defended as a unit, and given themselves something precious: belief.
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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: 47
Goal: 67
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