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The Allianz itself was stunned. Tens of thousands of red-clad fans sat frozen, their chants swallowed, their flags limp. Bayern players collapsed onto the turf, faces buried in hands. Neuer sat cross-legged, staring blankly. Boateng kicked the post in rage. Guardiola stood motionless, his jaw tight, his genius undone. Arsenal had done it. They had marched into Munich and emerged not just alive, but triumphant.
The final whistle hadn't just ended a match—it had unleashed an earthquake.
The Allianz Arena was shaking under the weight of Arsenal's euphoria. Red-and-white shirts clung to one another in disbelief, their voices soaring in drunken choruses of joy. On the touchline, Arsène Wenger looked up to the night sky, as though he were whispering a thank-you to something higher, before vanishing into a tidal wave of his celebrating players. Coaches leapt, substitutes sprinted, and even the normally stoic Petr Čech was pumping both fists, screaming like a man ten years younger.
This was it. Arsenal—Arsenal!—were going to the Champions League final.
For the men in white, it was triumph beyond reason. For the men in red, it was devastation.
As the Arsenal half of the stadium cracked the Bavarian silence with their roars, Francesco's chest heaved. He had run more than he thought his body could bear, sweat dripping from his hair, his legs trembling with exhaustion—but none of it mattered. His lungs burned, but his heart was ablaze with something purer, something eternal. They had done it. They had slain giants in their own fortress.
Yet amid the chaos, he caught sight of the other side.
The Bayern players hadn't moved. They were statues of grief, scattered across the grass. Jérôme Boateng sat cross-legged, head bowed into his shirt. Arturo Vidal punched the ground once, then stayed kneeling, his shoulders trembling. Philipp Lahm—captain, warrior, the man who had given everything—stood upright but hollow-eyed, staring into the distance like he couldn't quite believe what had happened. And Manuel Neuer, the great wall of Munich, sat frozen on his haunches, staring blankly at the goal that had just been breached.
Francesco's breath slowed. The smile faded from his lips. He could hear his teammates screaming, the fans howling, but all he felt was the gravity of those broken figures in red.
Football had taught him something early: victory meant nothing if you couldn't respect the fallen.
So he walked.
Step by step, through the storm of red-and-white bodies colliding in celebration, he threaded his way toward the men in despair. Giroud grabbed at his shoulder, trying to drag him into another bear hug, but Francesco shook his head gently, patting him back before moving on.
First, he reached Boateng. The defender had been monstrous all game, his body battered from blocking Francesco's earlier runs, his lungs spent from marking Sánchez and Giroud. Now he looked like a man who had lost a war.
Francesco crouched in front of him, resting a hand lightly on Boateng's shoulder. "Hey," he said softly, his voice almost lost in the roar. "You were immense. You fought to the end. Respect."
Boateng lifted his head, eyes glassy, then let out a bitter laugh, shaking it. "Not enough."
Francesco squeezed his shoulder once, firmly. "It's never about enough. It's about leaving it all here. And you did."
Boateng exhaled, nodding slightly. That was all Francesco needed. He rose and moved on.
Next, it was Lahm. The captain was still standing, though his body betrayed fatigue in every line. His jaw clenched when Francesco approached.
"Philipp," Francesco said, extending his hand. "You're a legend. Tonight doesn't change that."
Lahm studied him for a moment, then clasped his hand. His grip was iron, but his eyes betrayed the sting of defeat. "You earned it," Lahm admitted. "Enjoy it. Finals don't come easy."
Francesco nodded, respect flowing both ways. "I'll remember that."
Finally, he turned toward Neuer. The giant was still hunched, his gloves dangling uselessly at his sides. For a man so invincible, the weight of failure seemed almost surreal.
Francesco approached slowly, not wanting to intrude. He bent slightly at the waist, speaking low. "You're the best in the world, Manuel. One goal doesn't change that. None of this does."
Neuer tilted his head up, his expression caught between pride and anguish. "Then why," he muttered, "does it feel like it does?"
Francesco knelt fully now, meeting his eyes. "Because you care. That's what makes you great. But greatness doesn't vanish in ninety minutes—it's written over a career. You'll be back. We both know it."
For the first time, Neuer's lips twitched upward, a ghost of a smile. He reached out and shook Francesco's hand, his massive glove nearly swallowing it whole.
"Respect," he said simply.
Francesco rose from the turf after Neuer, his heartbeat still heavy but steadier now. Around him, the celebration thundered on like a storm that had no intention of stopping, but he remained rooted in something different — a quieter truth, one that lived in the silence between triumph and heartbreak.
His eyes scanned the pitch again until they found him.
Franck Ribéry.
The Frenchman was standing near the halfway line, hands on his hips, his face a mixture of rage and sorrow. He hadn't sat like some of the others, hadn't broken entirely. No — Ribéry stood tall, defiance carved into his features, but the lines in his face betrayed the years, the pain of a warrior who had fought one too many battles to fall easily into acceptance. The Allianz Arena lights caught the sweat on his forehead, shining like cold tears.
Francesco knew he couldn't just leave him there.
He made his way across the pitch, weaving between teammates leaping with joy and photographers already circling for the perfect shot. Ribéry barely noticed him approach at first; his eyes were somewhere far away, perhaps reliving the missed chances, perhaps cursing fate. But then Francesco stopped in front of him.
"Franck," he said softly.
Ribéry blinked, pulling himself back to the present. His eyes narrowed briefly, suspicion mixed with fatigue. He was a fighter — even in defeat, he didn't like pity.
Francesco, sensing that, didn't offer pity. He offered respect.
"You were incredible tonight," he said. "Every time you had the ball, we were worried. You're still one of the hardest players to face. Always."
The Frenchman's jaw tightened, and for a moment, it seemed like he would brush the words aside. But then, slowly, his shoulders dropped. He gave a weary smile, the kind that carried more sadness than joy.
"I'm getting old, frère," Ribéry murmured, shaking his head. "These nights… they slip away from you. And then suddenly, there are fewer ahead than behind."
Francesco felt those words sink deep. He thought of his own journey, his own hunger to seize everything before time could rob him of it. He placed a hand on Ribéry's arm, steady and sincere.
"Maybe," Francesco said. "But tonight showed everyone you've still got fight. You gave us hell. I'll remember that."
Ribéry studied him, his gaze softening. Then Francesco hesitated, taking a breath before speaking again.
"I know this isn't the time, but… it would mean a lot to me if we could exchange jerseys. You've been one of my inspirations. Watching you play all those years — Marseille, Bayern, France — it made me believe I could do this. I'd be proud to keep your shirt."
For a second, Ribéry just stared at him, his chest rising and falling with the exhaustion of battle and the ache of defeat. But then something shifted. The hardness in his expression cracked, giving way to something more vulnerable — the kind of quiet recognition that one warrior gives another.
Without a word, Ribéry tugged at the hem of his red Bayern shirt. He pulled it over his head, his movements slow, deliberate. He extended it toward Francesco, who accepted it with both hands like it was more than fabric — like it was history itself.
Then Ribéry reached out for Francesco's own shirt.
"You've got something special," Ribéry said, his voice low, almost swallowed by the noise around them. "Don't waste it. Don't ever waste it."
Francesco peeled off his sweat-soaked Arsenal kit and handed it over. Their hands brushed briefly as they swapped, and in that brief touch, there was no winner or loser — just two men bound by the same love, the same sacrifice.
They hugged, quickly but firmly. Ribéry pulled back first, giving him a small nod before turning away toward his own teammates. Francesco watched him go, the red jersey clutched in his hands, before finally turning back toward his own.
The celebrations swallowed him whole this time. Giroud came crashing into him, lifting him off his feet. Alexis grabbed his head, shouting something in Spanish he barely caught. Wenger's face appeared somewhere in the chaos, a grin so wide it almost looked out of place on his normally reserved features. The noise, the lights, the weight of what they'd achieved — it was almost too much to take in.
But even as he joined the huddle, arms thrown around shoulders, Francesco kept glancing down at the shirt in his hand. Ribéry's number, the Bayern crest, damp with sweat and heavy with meaning.
This wasn't just a souvenir. It was a reminder.
A reminder that greatness comes not only in lifting trophies, but in respecting those who had paved the path before you — those who had carried the fire long enough for you to see the way forward.
And Francesco, in that moment, silently promised himself: he would honor it.
The pitch was mayhem, but eventually order was forced upon it. Security teams cleared space for the presentation of the "man of the match" award. Cameras buzzed, microphones multiplied, and the UEFA officials hovered with clipboards, all business in the middle of ecstasy and despair.
The call came almost like a ripple breaking through the madness. Francesco barely heard it the first time — a distant announcement from the UEFA staff who were moving with all the urgency of people trying to herd lions in the middle of a storm. His name floated above the chaos, muffled by chants, swallowed by songs, but it kept repeating until finally Giroud slapped his shoulder and barked a laugh in his ear.
"Eh, Francesco — they want you! Man of the Match, mon frère!"
Francesco blinked, the words cutting through the haze of adrenaline. Man of the Match. It took a moment to register. He looked down again at the Ribéry shirt still clutched in his fist, then toward the officials waving at him near the touchline, their suits so sharp and clean they looked out of place on a night like this.
He let out a slow breath, tucked Ribéry's jersey carefully into his shorts — not hiding it, but holding it safe — and started walking toward them. The roar of the Arsenal supporters above him grew louder as they realized what was happening.
Francesco Lee. MOTM. At the Allianz Arena. Against Bayern.
It was one of those surreal truths that felt like it belonged in someone else's story, not his. Yet here he was, boots caked in grass and mud, body aching from ninety minutes of combat, heart still racing like a drum, and they wanted to hand him a glass award in the middle of it all.
A young official, maybe no older than Francesco himself, stepped forward and pressed the sleek, crystal-shaped trophy into his hands. Cameras flashed instantly. Francesco caught his reflection in the surface — sweaty, flushed, eyes alive with something between disbelief and hunger. The weight of it felt strange. Heavy, yet hollow compared to the shirt folded against his ribs.
The interviewer was already waiting for him, headset glinting under the floodlights, smile sharp but professional. The microphone came up between them, and Francesco instinctively straightened. Behind the interviewer's shoulder, the screen showed the highlights: his run, his goal, his tackles, the way he drove Arsenal forward.
The first question came quick, crisp.
"Francesco, congratulations. Man of the Match in a Champions League semifinal, scoring against Bayern Munich in their own fortress — what does this mean to you?"
Francesco swallowed, tasting salt on his lips. He didn't want to give a rehearsed line, because the moment didn't feel rehearsed. So he spoke honestly.
"It means everything," he said, voice a little hoarse but steady. "I came here tonight knowing what Bayern represents — their history, their strength, their fans. To score here, to help Arsenal reach the final… it's the kind of night you dream about as a kid. But it's not just me. Every player out there gave everything. Alexis, Mesut, Héctor — everyone fought like brothers. This trophy," he lifted the glass slightly, "it's for the whole team."
The interviewer nodded, leaning closer, sensing the sincerity. "It was a tough, physical game. We saw you exchange shirts with Franck Ribéry at the end. What did that mean to you?"
Francesco hesitated only a second, his thumb brushing against the hidden fabric by his side. "Franck is… he's one of the legends. I grew up watching him — the way he played with courage, with flair. To stand on the same pitch as him, to battle against him, and then to share that respect… it's special. I'll keep that shirt forever."
The interviewer smiled, clearly pleased with the answer. Then came the question that the entire footballing world was waiting for.
"Arsenal are through to the final of the Champions League. And waiting for you there… is Real Madrid. They beat Manchester City yesterday, 1-0 on aggregate. Are you ready to face them?"
The words seemed to hang in the air. Real Madrid. The name itself carried weight, like a drumbeat that everyone recognized. Thirteen European Cups. Ronaldo, Bale, Benzema, Modrić. The kind of names that didn't just play football — they defined eras.
Francesco's lips parted, but for a second he didn't answer. His mind replayed the thought: Arsenal versus Real Madrid. Him, standing on that stage. Ninety minutes away from immortality.
He finally exhaled, the corner of his mouth twitching into a half-smile. "Ready?" he repeated, as though tasting the word. "You're never ready to face a team like Madrid. They're giants. They've been here more times than we can count. But… we didn't come this far just to be scared. We respect them, of course. But we'll fight. We'll give everything. And if we play with the same heart we showed tonight, I believe we can beat anyone. Even Real Madrid."
The crowd of Arsenal fans who had stayed clustered in their section erupted at that, their cheers carrying down into the pitch and bleeding into the microphones. The interviewer grinned, sensing the drama of it all.
"Bold words, Francesco. A final against Real Madrid — perhaps the biggest test of your career so far. What will it take?"
Francesco adjusted his grip on the glass award, looking down at it briefly before lifting his gaze again. His voice came steadier now, stronger, almost like he was speaking not just to the reporter but to his teammates, to the fans, to himself.
"It'll take everything," he said. "Not just talent. Not just tactics. It'll take sacrifice. Running when you don't think you can anymore. Trusting each other when it feels impossible. Staying calm when the whole world is watching. Nights like these… they're decided by inches, by moments. We can't waste a single one."
The interviewer gave a final nod, clearly satisfied. "Francesco Lee — Man of the Match, and heading to the Champions League final with Arsenal. Congratulations again."
The microphone lowered, but the noise didn't. Photographers swarmed, teammates clapped him on the back as they passed, and the Arsenal fans continued to chant his name into the Munich night.
Francesco stood there for a second longer, breathing it all in — the roar of victory, the sting of sweat in his eyes, the hum of destiny pulling him forward. He looked down at Ribéry's shirt once more, folded tight against his heart, and then at the gleaming glass in his hand.
The moment the interview ended, Francesco slipped away from the bright lights and back toward the tunnel. The cold Munich air clung to his skin, mixing with sweat that hadn't yet dried. His boots echoed against the concrete, each step heavier than the last, but the sound of laughter, cheers, and chants from deeper down the corridor pulled him forward.
The dressing room. His sanctuary, their fortress.
As soon as he pushed the door open, he was swallowed in chaos — the good kind, the kind that smelled of triumph and adrenaline. Jerseys were half-stripped, champagne bottles had already been popped despite no one admitting who smuggled them in, and music blared from someone's speaker in the corner. Alexis Sánchez was dancing with his shirt off, his grin stretched wide enough to split his face. Özil sat back in his chair, quieter, smiling with a knowing calm, sipping water like he'd been expecting this all along. Giroud was at the center of it all, roaring with laughter, splashing whatever drink was in his hand at anyone unlucky enough to pass.
"Eh! Man of the Match!" Giroud bellowed the second he spotted Francesco. He charged forward, wrapping his massive arms around him and lifting him off the ground like he was a child. The glass award nearly slipped from Francesco's grip, but he held on, laughing despite himself.
The others quickly piled in, clapping him on the back, shouting his name, teasing him in a dozen different accents. The air was thick with it — camaraderie, relief, pure unfiltered joy. For a moment, Francesco let himself sink into it. The Munich night, the Ribéry shirt pressed against him, the weight of history — all of it melted into the present, into the rhythm of celebration.
Per Mertesacker, their towering captain, eventually called for quiet, his German accent cutting through the noise. "Lads, lads! Wenger is coming!"
Instantly, the room shifted. The music was turned down, the shouting dulled into chuckles, though the grins stayed plastered across every face. The door opened, and Arsène Wenger stepped in, hands folded behind his back, his long coat still buttoned, glasses catching the fluorescent light.
He didn't smile, not immediately. He let his gaze sweep over them first — at the bottles, at the sweat-soaked kits, at the glowing faces of men who had just done the unthinkable. His silence alone was enough to sober the atmosphere slightly.
Then, finally, his lips curved into the faintest of smiles.
"Congratulations," he said softly, but it carried across the room. "Tonight… you have made history again. To beat Bayern here, in their home, in a semifinal — it is something very few teams in the world can say."
Cheers erupted, but Wenger raised a hand, and the room hushed once more. His eyes narrowed slightly, his tone shifting.
"But… do not let tonight deceive you. This is not the end. This is not the trophy."
His words landed heavy, cutting through the haze of champagne and laughter. Francesco felt them settle like stones in his chest. Wenger stepped further into the room, now pacing slowly, his coat brushing against the benches.
"We face Real Madrid in the final," he continued. "A team that knows this stage, that breathes it, that has conquered it again and again. They will not care what we did here. They will only care about crushing us."
The room was silent now, the weight of Madrid's name sinking in like a cold shadow. Wenger's voice sharpened.
"If we celebrate too much now, if we lose focus, then everything we fought for tonight… it will mean nothing. Understand that. Tonight is one victory. One step. Nothing more."
His gaze shifted, first to Sánchez, then to Özil, then to Giroud, and finally it rested on Francesco. For a brief second, Francesco felt like the professor's eyes pierced straight through him — testing him, challenging him.
"And it is not only Madrid," Wenger pressed on. "The Premier League is not finished. You all know what is at stake. We are close — closer than we have ever been since 2004. Another Invincible season. Another chance to write your names in history forever. But it is not done. Not yet."
He stopped pacing and planted himself firmly at the center of the room. His voice lowered, but the intensity doubled.
"So I say this to you: enjoy tonight, but do not let it blind you. Tomorrow, we prepare again. We recover, we focus, we work harder than ever. Because if we want to be champions of England and of Europe, we cannot afford to lose one ounce of concentration."
The players shifted in their seats. The champagne fizzed softer now, glasses were set down, and the music that had been paused never resumed. Wenger had stripped the moment down to its bones, reminding them that glory was not yet theirs.
Then, almost as if he could sense the tension tightening too much, he allowed a small smile to return. "But for tonight… be proud. Very proud. You deserve it."
The room finally broke again — not into chaotic laughter this time, but into a steadier, more grounded joy. The players clapped, some nodded firmly, and Francesco felt something deeper settle inside him: not just happiness, but hunger.
He leaned back against his seat, Ribéry's shirt still pressed close, the MOTM trophy glinting under the fluorescent light beside him. His teammates joked and celebrated around him, but Wenger's words rang louder than anything else in his head.
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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: 53
Goal: 73
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