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By the twentieth minute, both keepers had made four saves apiece, each one a reminder that this match was balanced on a knife-edge. The noise inside the Calderón was relentless, but in the spaces between the chants, Francesco could hear his own breath, feel the pounding of his pulse in his ears.
The 27th minute felt like the moment the match cracked open.
It happened almost without warning, the kind of goal that seemed born from the rhythm Arsenal had been building without quite breaking through. Ramsey had been buzzing between Atlético's lines, looking for that half-second where a marker's attention slipped. This time, it was Augusto Fernández who hesitated — just enough for Ramsey to slip into space, receive the ball from Kanté, and pivot toward the left edge of the box.
Francesco drifted wide, dragging Godín with him, which left a channel. Alexis saw it instantly. He ghosted in from the flank, timing his run perfectly. Ramsey didn't overcomplicate it — one clean, angled pass threaded through the crowd.
Alexis didn't need a touch to set himself. He struck it first time with his right boot, the ball skimming low past Oblak's fingertips and kissing the inside of the far post before nestling into the net.
For a split second, the Calderón's noise faltered — a hitch in the roar, like the air being sucked out of the stadium. Then, from the far corner where the away fans had been penned in, came a wave of red-and-white chaos. Flags whipped in the cold Madrid air, scarves whirled overhead, voices belted out songs as if volume alone could carry them the rest of the way to London.
Francesco turned and sprinted toward Alexis, arms wide. The Chilean's face was a mask of pure fire, teeth bared in triumph as his teammates swarmed him. Ramsey was buried under a pile of bodies before he could even catch his breath.
On the scoreboard, the numbers shifted: Atlético 0 – 1 Arsenal. And underneath: Aggregate: 1 – 4.
It wasn't just a lead. It was a statement. An away goal, in this fortress, against a side that prided itself on choking the life out of opponents.
Francesco clapped Ramsey hard on the back. "Perfect weight on that pass, mate."
Ramsey grinned, still breathing hard. "Alexis did the rest."
But as they jogged back to their positions, Francesco's eyes scanned the Atlético players. Godín's jaw was set tighter than before. Gabi was barking instructions, hands waving. And Simeone, on the touchline, had already inched forward from his technical area, his black coat swirling as he gestured furiously.
It didn't take long for the backlash to hit.
By the 36th minute, Atlético had their answer.
It began deep in their half — nothing flashy, just a steady build-up that drew Arsenal forward an inch too far. Gabi switched the play wide to Juanfran, whose quick ball down the flank found Saúl Ñíguez in stride. Saúl's first touch took him past Monreal, his second shifted the ball onto his left foot, and with the third, he sent a curling cross toward the edge of the six-yard box.
Griezmann, ever the predator, slipped between Van Dijk and Koscielny. The ball met his forehead cleanly, and though Cech got a glove to it, the power was too much. The net rippled, and the Calderón erupted like a struck match.
Red-and-white shirts rushed toward the corner flag, Griezmann's arms wide in that signature, almost nonchalant celebration. The scoreboard blinked again: Atlético 1 – 1 Arsenal. Aggregate: 2 – 4.
Francesco exhaled through his nose, turning toward the centre circle. He'd felt the shift in momentum as soon as Saúl had gotten that step of space. In matches like this, leads weren't walls — they were glass. One crack, and everything could shatter.
The rest of the half was a grind.
Atlético's midfield tightened its grip — Gabi snapping at ankles, Augusto Fernández sitting deep, Saúl drifting between lines, and Koke dictating from the right half-space. They didn't just press; they suffocated, cutting off angles before Arsenal could even look up.
But Arsenal's response wasn't to panic. Özil, drifting deeper than usual, began linking with Kanté to play through the first wave. Ramsey added legs, darting into pockets before laying the ball off quickly. Every time Atlético tried to swarm, Arsenal's midfield trio found a way to breathe, even if it meant retreating and recycling possession.
Francesco kept working the channels, pulling Savic and Godín into awkward positions, giving Theo and Alexis little corridors to attack. There were no clear chances — not after those two goals — but the control was enough to stop the match from tilting fully toward the home side.
By the time the fourth official lifted the board for two minutes of added time, the pace had settled into a tense stalemate.
When the whistle went, there was no lingering on the pitch. Arsenal's players exchanged brief nods, claps on the back, and made their way toward the tunnel. The noise followed them — the home fans trying to roar their side into the second half, the away supporters still singing despite the drop in volume.
Inside the dressing room, the air was thick — the kind of heavy warmth that came from a first half played at sprint pace. Shirts were damp, tape peeled from shins, water bottles drained in long gulps.
Wenger stood by the whiteboard again, jacket unbuttoned, one hand resting lightly on the table. He waited until the last player had settled before speaking.
"You handled their press well," he began, his tone even. "We expected they would come like this. You've shown you can break it, and you've scored the away goal."
He tapped the board with his marker, a quick, deliberate tap-tap.
"But they have shown they can punish a single mistake. We must respect that. In the second half, we stay compact. No gaps between the lines. N'Golo, Aaron — one of you always stays when the other goes. Mesut — keep drifting, keep pulling them out of shape. That's when the space will come."
His eyes moved to Francesco. "Keep making those diagonal runs. You pull Godín and Hernandez where they don't want to go, the others will find the holes."
There was no panic in his voice, no raised pitch. Just instructions, measured and calm, the way Wenger always preferred in the middle of a storm.
Finally, he stepped back and looked at the group as a whole. "Forty-five minutes. We are closer to the semifinal than they are. Let them chase. And when they overcommit…" — he allowed himself the faintest smile — "…you punish them."
The players nodded, boots tapping lightly on the floor as they leaned forward, ready to go again. Francesco pulled the captain's armband tighter around his bicep, the elastic warm now from his skin.
When the teams re-emerged from the tunnel, the Calderón was a wall of sound again — flags snapping in the breeze, chants rolling from one end of the ground to the other. Francesco took a deep breath, not because of nerves, but because he knew exactly what was coming.
Simeone had almost certainly spent the break lighting a fire under his players, and Arsenal's two-goal aggregate cushion meant only one thing: Atlético would come flying out, all teeth and claws.
The whistle blew, and the second half didn't so much start as it detonated.
Within seconds, Griezmann and Carrasco was snapping at Van Dijk and Koscielny heels, Koke was darting between Monreal and Alexis to intercept a pass, and Saúl was hammering forward from midfield like a man trying to run through a locked door. Every Atlético touch had intent, every run a knife toward Arsenal's back line.
Francesco dropped deeper than usual, helping connect passes just to relieve the pressure. Even with that, it felt like every clearance barely bought them ten seconds before another red-and-white wave crashed into them.
In the 48th minute, a cross from Filipe Luís came swinging in, wicked and dipping toward the far post. Cech read it perfectly, stepping out and punching through traffic, the kind of punch where the follow-through sends bodies scattering.
Arsenal tried to hit back in moments — quick counters sparked by Kanté snapping into tackles. One such break saw Özil thread a ball into Theo's path, Theo blazing down the right touchline. But Hernandez slid in with perfect timing, sending the ball ricocheting out for a throw before Theo could cut inside.
The match had become a chessboard on fire. Every move carried risk.
And then came the tackles.
Atlético were never shy about making their presence felt, but now they added that extra edge — the kind that tests the referee's limits. In the 53rd minute, Koke lunged into Ramsey from behind, clipping his heel and sending him sprawling. The crowd roared approval, but the ref was already reaching for his pocket. Yellow card.
Koke barely glanced at the official, muttering under his breath as he jogged away. Ramsey, to his credit, bounced up quickly, though he gave the Spaniard a look that promised the conversation wasn't over.
A few minutes later, Gabi joined him in the book. This one was nastier — Özil had turned beautifully past him, a little drag-back and pivot that left Gabi half a step behind. Instead of letting him go, the Atlético captain swept Özil's legs with a cynical trip, earning another sharp blast of the whistle and a card brandished high.
The referee's gestures were clear: next one of that kind, and it's red.
Wenger's voice carried faintly from the touchline, urging calm, urging them not to get dragged into the scrap. But the pitch felt like a cauldron, every challenge and clearance met with a roar from one set of supporters or the other.
Cech saved them twice in quick succession around the 60th minute — first from Griezmann, whose curling shot toward the top corner was clawed away at full stretch, and then from a Saul header that seemed destined for the net until the keeper's big left hand shoved it over the bar.
The counterattacks were there if Arsenal could just breathe for long enough to spring them. In the 63rd minute, one finally looked like it might break through — Alexis nicking the ball off Juanfran, feeding Francesco, who spun and lofted it toward Theo. But Oblak was out like a sprinter from the blocks, sliding to smother it just outside his box before Theo could make contact.
By the 65th minute, both sides looked like they'd been through twenty rounds already. Shirts clung heavy with sweat, breaths came in sharp bursts, and yet neither team let up an inch.
The roar never stopped.
It wasn't just noise anymore — it had texture, weight. It pressed on your chest, got into your lungs, vibrated in your bones. The Vicente Calderón in full voice was something Francesco had experienced before, but never like this. Atlético weren't just attacking — they were swarming, a thousand wasps in red-and-white shirts, each one committed to stinging Arsenal until something gave.
Cech had already been Arsenal's savior more times than he cared to count in the last twenty minutes, and the clock still had an eternity left on it. Every block, every clearance felt like holding back a tide with a sandcastle.
But the thing about a tide — it always leaves space when it pulls back. And Arsenal, for all the pressure they'd absorbed, still had enough teeth to bite.
The 67th minute began like so many of the others had — Atlético in possession, working the ball across the halfway line. Gabi shifted it left to Saúl, who tried to slip a ball into Griezmann's feet. Kanté read it like a children's book, stepping in with that deceptively simple little poke he'd perfected, and suddenly the whole field tilted the other way.
The interception wasn't just a turnover — it was a spark.
Kanté popped the ball toward Özil, who was already glancing upfield before it even reached him. That was Mesut's gift: seeing possibilities two or three steps before anyone else. Francesco had been tracking back moments earlier, but now he pivoted, pushing forward into the half-space on the right. Özil saw him instantly — a single, elegant touch to control, and then a weighted pass that bent around Gabi's outstretched leg and rolled perfectly into Francesco's stride.
Time slowed in that heartbeat.
Francesco could feel the space ahead of him, see Juanfran closing in from his left, Oblak's shape shifting as he read the danger. But Francesco had already made his decision — not a dribble, not a touch to set himself, but a first-time strike.
His right foot came through clean, the connection crisp and pure. The ball arced, low and fast, skimming just above the grass before it snapped past Oblak's fingertips and into the far corner.
Goal.
It wasn't just a goal — it was a gut punch to Atlético's lungs.
Francesco's roar as he sprinted toward the corner flag was half joy, half defiance. The Arsenal bench erupted, Wenger pumping both fists in that rare moment where his professorial reserve vanished completely. Özil was on him in a second, grinning, hands on Francesco's shoulders as they were mobbed by Alexis, Theo, and half the team.
The scoreboard flickered: Atlético 1 – 2 Arsenal (Aggregate: 2–5).
That two-goal cushion from the first half had just ballooned to three again. In a tie where every inch was being fought over, that was a mountain for Atlético to climb.
The Calderón noise didn't stop — if anything, it got louder, but now there was a different edge to it. It was anger, frustration, the kind of volume that tried to will the home team back into the game by sheer force.
Francesco barely had time to catch his breath before Wenger was signaling from the touchline. The old man was decisive now — not reactive, but proactive.
70th minute.
Ramsey's night was done. He'd worked himself into the ground, taken hits from all angles, and still kept Arsenal's midfield ticking. But this was the point where legs and lungs needed preserving. Coquelin came on — fresh energy, fresh grit.
Walcott was also withdrawn, and with him went Arsenal's purest counter-attacking pace. In his place came Giroud, all muscle and aerial presence, the kind of player who could pin Atlético's center-backs and turn every high ball into a duel. Francesco shifted to the right wing, a role he knew well enough — it meant more defensive work tracking Filipe Luís, but also the freedom to drift inside when Giroud occupied the middle.
On the other bench, Simeone reacted with the same ruthlessness. Carrasco was gone, replaced by Ángel Correa — a smaller frame but electric with the ball at his feet. And Lucas Hernández, who had been under siege all evening, was replaced by Stefan Savić, a move meant to add bite and strength to Atlético's back line.
Simeone didn't sit back down. He prowled the edge of his technical area like a caged animal, barking instructions, clapping furiously, urging his men to believe.
The game after the changes had a different feel. Arsenal, with Coquelin now patrolling in front of the back four, had a little more steel in midfield. Every time an Atlético player thought he had space to turn, Coquelin was there — nipping at heels, jostling shoulders, forcing the play sideways instead of forward.
On the right, Francesco adjusted quickly to his new responsibilities. His sprints were shorter now, sharper — pressing Filipe when he received the ball, then snapping back to help Bellerín double up when Atlético tried to overload the flank.
But defending wasn't all he was there for. In the 73rd minute, Arsenal won a throw deep in Atlético territory. Francesco darted toward the ball, received it from Bellerín, and instantly played a one-two with Özil that took two defenders out of the equation. A cut inside, a feint to shoot — Savic bit, lunging to block — and Francesco slipped a disguised pass toward Giroud. The big striker's header was clean, but Oblak was there again, smothering it low to his right.
The Arsenal fans in the away section didn't care — they were in full voice now, singing over the home crowd in bursts, their chants carrying across the stadium like flares in the dark.
Simeone doubled down on the aggression. Gabi pushed higher, almost level with Saúl, leaving space for Arsenal to counter if they could find the passes. The match became a knife fight in a phone booth — every duel a clash of wills, every loose ball chased like it was the last oxygen tank on a sinking ship.
In the 76th minute, Correa nearly made his mark. Slipping between Monreal and Koscielny, he latched onto a clever chipped ball from Koke. His first touch was perfect, but his second was too heavy, and Cech was there, sliding in with that big, commanding frame to snuff out the danger.
By the 80th minute, sweat was pouring off everyone. Shirts clung to skin, socks were heavy with water and mud, and yet neither side's intensity dropped. Wenger, arms folded but eyes sharp, knew what was at stake. He urged his players to keep the ball, to kill the clock in smart, deliberate ways — passing triangles, quick switches, dragging Atlético's midfield across the pitch until their legs begged for mercy.
Atlético's fans didn't give mercy. They whistled every Arsenal touch, booed every delay on a throw-in, and roared at every fifty-fifty.
The longer the game stayed at 2–1, the more desperate the home side became. That desperation was a double-edged sword. In the 83rd minute, it almost cut Arsenal — Saúl broke free on the right and whipped in a cross that Griezmann met with a diving header. For a split-second, it looked destined for the bottom corner. Cech, again, had other ideas — diving full length, one palm strong enough to turn the ball just wide.
By the 85th minute, the match had become pure attrition.
Not just football anymore — this was willpower stitched into every movement, stubbornness in every clearance. Arsenal's legs were heavy, Atlético's attacks relentless, and yet the scoreline still held.
The away fans were already tasting the semifinal, their voices shaking the cold Madrid air. But in matches like this, three minutes could feel like an hour, and all it took was one lapse.
That lapse came in the 88th minute.
It wasn't a dramatic collapse — just a flash of misfortune. Atlético were pushing in numbers now, their back line practically at the halfway line, their midfield flooding forward. Koke switched the ball wide to Filipe Luís, who shaped for the cross. Arsenal's box filled with bodies — Van Dijk wrestling with Griezmann, Koscielny tracking Saúl, Coquelin dropping deep to cut off the space at the near post.
The cross came in, fast and dipping. Coquelin rose to meet it, but as he twisted mid-air, the ball clipped off his forearm. It wasn't deliberate, but in this atmosphere, with the home crowd howling and half the Atlético team raising their arms, the referee didn't hesitate. Whistle. Point to the spot.
The Calderón erupted — a roar of hope, defiance, and sheer demand.
Griezmann stepped forward, calm in the middle of chaos. He tucked the ball under his arm, placed it carefully on the spot, and stood with that measured, almost casual body language that made it hard to read him.
Cech, meanwhile, went to work.
He walked to the post, tapped it with his glove. Stretched his arms. Adjusted his socks. Then he started talking — not shouting, just a low stream of words, eyes locked on Griezmann. He pointed to one side, gesturing, inviting him to shoot there. Classic mind games.
Griezmann didn't blink.
The whistle blew. He ran up in that quick, economical stride of his and struck clean — low, hard, and just beyond Cech's reach into the bottom right corner.
2–2 on the night. Aggregate: 3–5.
The stadium roared like it had life again, but even in the celebration there was a clock ticking too loud to ignore. Two minutes plus stoppage time wasn't much, not against an Arsenal side now digging trenches in their own half.
Wenger didn't bark instructions — he simply made a flat-palmed gesture: calm. Arsenal's shape tightened instantly, two banks and no gaps. Every clearance was sent high and wide, every touch forward carried toward the corners.
Atlético threw everything at it. Correa drove into the box only to be crowded out by three shirts. Saúl tried a hopeful shot from range that flew into the stands. Even Oblak came up for a last-minute corner, but Cech rose through the tangle of bodies to claim it, clutching the ball like he'd sooner let go of his gloves than the lead.
The final whistle wasn't so much heard as felt. It cut through the noise like a blade, and then it was swallowed by the explosion from the away end. Players in yellow and blue collapsed to their knees, fists pumping, arms raised. Francesco turned toward the travelling fans, chest heaving, and thumped the badge on his shirt.
Arsenal had done it.
The Vicente Calderón, fortress of so many European nights, had been breached — not just once, but twice — and Atlético were out. Arsenal's 5–3 aggregate win meant they were bound for the Champions League semifinals.
The other match had already been ended yesterday, so they knew exactly what was coming next: Bayern Munich. A giant in their own right, as ruthless as they were technical.
Francesco walked off with Özil's arm around his shoulder, both of them still breathing hard but smiling now. "Bayern," Özil said with that knowing grin.
Francesco just nodded. "One mountain down. One more waiting."
And as they disappeared down the tunnel, the away fans were still singing — not just for Madrid, but for Munich, and for the chance to make this campaign something truly unforgettable.
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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: 49
Goal: 69
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