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Francesco bent over briefly, hands on knees, sucking in air. He glanced toward the Arsenal end — a wall of red and white, scarves aloft, chanting his name. He straightened, wiped the sweat from his brow, and jogged back into position.
The minutes ticked forward like stones dropped into water, each one sending ripples through the contest. Arsenal had steadied after Palace's early flurries, but the game still teetered on that knife's edge where one mistake or one moment of brilliance could tilt everything. Francesco could feel it in the tautness of his muscles, in the urgency of Özil's movements, in the way Alexis barked instructions with every restart.
Then came the 27th minute.
It started with something simple — a clearance from Van Dijk, who rose above Connor Wickham and nodded firmly into midfield. The ball dropped at the feet of Cazorla, who always seemed to have a second more time than anyone else. The little Spaniard cushioned it with his instep, spun away from Cabaye's closing boots, and threaded a pass with the precision of a surgeon's scalpel.
The pass carved through Palace's midfield, slicing between Jedinak and Puncheon, releasing Walcott into a pocket of space on the right channel. Theo, whose pace had been buzzing like static all game, burst onto it with the electricity of a man who knew this was his moment. Francesco, sprinting to offer support, saw it unfolding just ahead of him — the lines of defenders narrowing, Hennessey leaning ever so slightly toward anticipating a cross.
But Theo wasn't thinking cross.
He took one touch to steady, another to glide inside just past Delaney's trailing boot, and then with the calm ruthlessness that had so often deserted him in these big games, he struck. The shot was low, precise, curling just beyond the reach of Hennessey's outstretched fingers, thudding into the bottom corner of the net.
For a heartbeat, Wembley froze.
And then it erupted.
The Arsenal end detonated into a storm of noise — red shirts leaping, scarves twirling, voices breaking with unbridled joy. Walcott wheeled away, arms outstretched, sliding across the grass with that familiar grin split wide across his face. Teammates mobbed him — Alexis, Özil, Cazorla piling in, Francesco grabbing Theo by the shoulders and shaking him like a brother who'd just broken through the barrier of self-doubt.
"YES, THEO! YES!" Francesco roared over the din, his voice raw, his chest pounding with shared pride.
The cameras caught Wenger on the touchline, clapping firmly but with that ever-present composure, his eyes already calculating the next phase. On the opposite side, Alan Pardew's jaw clenched, his arms folded tightly across his chest, though the twitch in his brow betrayed frustration.
1–0 Arsenal. Twenty-seven minutes gone. A foothold, but nothing more.
Palace, stung, responded in kind. If Arsenal thought the goal might sap their spirit, they were mistaken. From the restart, the men in blue and red surged forward with renewed fire. Bolasie, always dangerous, began to push higher, drifting inside to test Van Dijk and Koscielny directly. Zaha on the opposite flank mirrored him, tormenting Monreal with darting runs. The midfield trio of Cabaye, Jedinak, and Puncheon tightened their grip, snapping into every tackle, forcing Arsenal to play quicker than they wanted.
Francesco felt it immediately — Palace weren't backing off. They were doubling down.
By the half-hour mark, the game had swung back into that exhausting, breathless rhythm. Sánchez fired just wide after an Özil dummy left Ward sprawling. Cabaye returned fire with a long-range daisy-cutter that skidded wickedly off the turf, forcing Cech into another sprawling save.
The noise inside Wembley rose and fell with each swing of momentum — chants colliding in mid-air, whistles and cheers blending into a singular roar that pressed down on the players like gravity. Francesco could feel it in his bones: every duel mattered, every touch was magnified.
Then, the 37th minute.
It began innocuously — a free-kick won by Palace after Jedinak had gone to ground under pressure from Kante. The ball was floated into the Arsenal box by Cabaye, aiming for Dann. Van Dijk rose and headed clear, but only as far as Delaney, lingering on the edge. The Palace defender didn't panic. He cushioned the ball on his thigh and, rather than lashing at goal, he spotted Bolasie ghosting into space near the corner of the box.
Delaney fed him, and suddenly the threat sharpened.
Bolasie's first touch was heavy, almost clumsy, but it worked to his advantage, dragging the ball away from Bellerín's lunge. His second was cleaner, setting it perfectly into stride. Francesco, tracking back with lungs burning, saw the space opening in front of the winger. Too much space. Too much time.
Bolasie unleashed.
It wasn't the most powerful strike, but it was clever — drilled low, bouncing just before reaching Cech, that awkward half-volley trajectory keepers loathe. Cech dove, sprawling low, gloves extended, but the ball skipped wickedly, slid beneath him, and smacked into the net.
The Palace end exploded. Blue and red flares, arms in the air, Pardew punching the air on the touchline like a man possessed. Bolasie sprinted toward the fans, sliding on his knees, his face twisted in triumphant defiance. Teammates piled on, lifting him, shouting into his ear.
Arsenal's defenders regrouped quickly, clapping each other's shoulders, urging focus, but the sting was undeniable.
1–1. Thirty-seven minutes. The final reset.
Francesco pressed his palms against his thighs, forcing air into his lungs, staring at the Palace players celebrating in the corner. He could hear the sudden hush ripple across the Arsenal half of Wembley, the nervous murmurs beginning. He clenched his jaw, shook his head once, and turned back toward the center circle.
"Come on, come on," he muttered under his breath, loud enough for Sánchez to catch, who nodded fiercely.
The equalizer had rattled Arsenal, and the minutes that followed were like trudging through heavy mud. Every step forward demanded more effort, every flicker of opportunity seemed to fade before it could spark. The game, for all its volatility in the opening exchanges, settled into a tense stalemate as the first half wound down.
Palace grew emboldened after Bolasie's strike. They weren't reckless—Pardew had drilled them better than that—but they carried themselves with a confidence that made every second ball theirs, every fifty-fifty challenge tilt slightly in their favor. Arsenal, on the other hand, moved cautiously, as though measuring each pass against the fear of another mistake.
Francesco found himself in that limbo strikers loathe: too deep to trouble the backline, too high to help the midfield. He hovered, watching Özil glance left and right, trying to pull strings that kept tangling in Palace boots. Sánchez, fiery as ever, darted inside to take matters into his own hands, but his shots found only the resilient frame of Scott Dann, who blocked like a man throwing himself into traffic.
The Arsenal fans, who had sung themselves hoarse after Walcott's goal, grew quieter with every Palace surge. There wasn't panic, not yet, but there was tension—an unease that clung like damp air.
When the referee's whistle finally cut through it all, signalling halftime, the players trudged toward the tunnel, sweat slick on their brows, jerseys clinging tight.
Inside Wembley's belly, the Arsenal dressing room was a crucible of competing emotions. The thud of boots against the floor, the hiss of water bottles opening, the short, sharp exhales of players trying to steady themselves—it all blended into a restless hum.
Francesco slumped onto the bench, chest heaving, his forearms resting on his thighs. He replayed the goal in his mind—the way Bolasie had found that pocket of space, the way the shot had skidded cruelly. It was avoidable. All goals were avoidable, he told himself, but that didn't make them less real.
Wenger entered a moment later, calm as ever. His presence alone seemed to anchor the room. He didn't raise his voice, didn't storm in with theatrics. He simply walked to the center, arms folded lightly, eyes moving across each of his players in turn.
"Listen," he began, his French accent soft but his tone carrying weight. "It is 1–1. A final is not decided in one half. You know this."
The players looked up—Bellerin with his hair damp and sticking to his forehead, Monreal rubbing his calves, Koscielny already rewinding mistakes in his head.
"We scored first because we moved quickly, decisively. Because we trusted each other," Wenger continued. "And then we lost control because we allowed them space. You cannot allow this against a team like Palace. They are not afraid of us. They will not stop running. If you wait for them to make mistakes, you will wait until it is too late."
Cazorla nodded slowly, chewing on the words.
Wenger's gaze shifted to Francesco. "And you. Keep moving. Keep dragging them. You make them chase you, you create the gaps. Do not wait for the ball—demand it."
Francesco, sweat dripping down his temples, gave a firm nod. He had wanted that challenge.
Then Wenger spread his hands, drawing the whole team in. "Second half, we attack. But with intelligence. Press them high, win the ball back early. And when we lose it—immediately, immediately recover. Compact, disciplined. This is about control. The better team will win if we play as we are meant to play."
There was no roar of agreement, no chest-thumping. Instead, there was a quiet conviction that settled in the room like iron setting in stone. Players exchanged brief nods. Alexis clenched his fists, Özil tugged at his socks, Kante whispered something to Ramsey. The unspoken message was clear: this wasn't over.
When they emerged for the second half, the stadium noise hit them like a wave—red on one side, blue on the other, both halves of Wembley alive with nervous energy.
From the restart, Arsenal came alive. The ball zipped between red shirts with a rhythm that had been missing before the break. Özil, in particular, seemed to find space where there shouldn't have been any, drifting between Palace's midfielders like smoke. He threaded one pass through to Walcott, whose pace again shredded Souaré down the flank, but the cross skidded agonizingly beyond Francesco's outstretched boot.
Two minutes later, Cazorla let fly from distance, the ball swerving dangerously before Hennessey's gloves pushed it wide. Arsenal pressed higher still, suffocating Palace's attempts to break free. Monreal surged forward, combining with Sánchez, who cut inside and rifled one just over the bar.
For ten minutes, it was all Arsenal—a storm of red waves battering against blue walls. Every touch was urgent, every run aggressive. Francesco nearly connected with a looping Özil free-kick, only for Dann to muscle him away at the last second.
The Arsenal fans roared with every attack, chanting louder, urging their team to turn dominance into destiny. Francesco felt the energy thrumming in his veins, the scent of a second goal so close he could almost taste it.
But in football, pressure without precision is a fragile thing.
And in the 58th minute, that fragility was punished.
It began with what looked like another Arsenal surge. Cazorla swung a ball toward the edge of the box, but it was intercepted by Jedinak, who wasted no time clearing his lines. The ball fell to Souaré on the left, who, instead of hoofing it long, carried it forward with intent.
Arsenal, still high from their offensive push, were slow to react. Bellerín had drifted forward, leaving a pocket of space behind him. Souaré spotted it, and with one powerful stride after another, he burst into that channel, eating up the grass.
Wickham peeled off Koscielny, timing his movement perfectly. Francesco, sprinting back desperately, saw it unravel in cruel slow motion—the cross arcing from Souaré's left boot, Wickham rising above Van Dijk, the thump of forehead to ball.
The header was clean, brutal, unstoppable. It arrowed downwards, bouncing once just inside the far post before nestling into the net.
2–1. Crystal Palace.
The Palace end of Wembley detonated with sound. A thousand voices crashing down like thunder, limbs flailing, scarves waving, Pardew sprinting down the touchline before remembering himself and slowing to a sharp clap. Souaré was engulfed by his teammates, Wickham punching the air with raw, unfiltered joy.
On the Arsenal side, silence. Then groans. Then that low, dreadful murmur of disbelief.
Francesco bent double, hands braced on his knees, lungs heaving. He closed his eyes, trying to blot out the sight of Palace celebrating, trying to will the sting out of his chest. Around him, Sánchez barked at teammates to lift their heads, Koscielny clapped his palms together furiously, Özil jogged back toward the center circle, jaw tight.
The sting of Wickham's header was still raw when Arsenal reset at the center circle. The scoreboard above Wembley told a story no Gunner wanted to read: Crystal Palace 2, Arsenal 1. The FA Cup final wasn't slipping away—not yet—but it was teetering, like a glass balanced too close to the edge. One wrong move and the whole season's dream would shatter on the turf.
Francesco looked across at Alexis Sánchez, who stood with fists pressed to his hips, eyes narrowed and burning. The Chilean's chest rose and fell like a caged lion's. Özil was calmer, but that calm was brittle, as if it could crack at any moment. Koscielny barked at Van Dijk and Monreal to hold the line tighter, to not give Wickham another inch.
And then, quietly, the fourth official raised the board. Numbers lit up in red and green.
64 minutes.
Theo Walcott's number came first. The man who had scored Arsenal's opener jogged off, applause following him, though tinged with the sting of what the game had become. Walcott looked disappointed, almost pleading with Wenger for a second chance, but he clapped the fans and trotted off. In his place—finally, after months of questions, setbacks, and whispers—came Jack Wilshere.
The roar that greeted him wasn't just joy; it was relief, defiance, the sound of a fanbase remembering what hope felt like. Jack's socks were pulled high, his gait bouncy despite the rust of absence. His eyes flicked around Wembley, then to Francesco, then to Sánchez, and finally to Özil. He gave a nod, small but resolute, as if to say: I'm ready. Give me the ball, and let's make this right.
But Wenger wasn't done. He turned to his bench again. Santi Cazorla—Arsenal's heartbeat, their rhythm—was next to be withdrawn. The Spaniard jogged off with a rueful smile, understanding the call. Into the fray came Francis Coquelin.
With two quick changes, Wenger didn't just alter the personnel; he altered the geometry of the game. Arsenal shifted into a 4-2-3-1. Kante and Coquelin formed a double pivot—steel and sweat, bite and balance. Ahead of them, Özil floated in the pocket, freed from deeper burdens. Sánchez moved wider, Francesco became the central spearhead, and Wilshere slotted into the right half-space, his natural instinct to drive forward, to carry the fight.
The fans sensed it immediately. Arsenal weren't giving in. They were reshaping the battle.
Alan Pardew, though, wasn't blind. The man in the tailored suit knew Wenger's gambit could tilt the momentum. He clapped his hands sharply and summoned his own soldiers.
Bolasie, off. Puncheon, off. Both had run themselves ragged, had given Palace their surging width and bite. In their place: James McArthur and Bakary Sako. McArthur to plug, to harry, to wrestle in midfield. Sako to give a fresh set of legs and muscle in transitions. Pardew wasn't chasing a third; he was guarding the second. He wanted Arsenal to come, to risk, to leave themselves open.
And so the game evolved—like two chess masters trading pieces, seeing three, four, five moves ahead.
The ball rolled again, and immediately Arsenal looked different. There was more bite in the middle, more structure. Kanté and Coquelin prowled side by side, snapping at heels, cutting off supply lines. With them as a shield, Bellerín and Monreal pushed higher, daring Palace to leave space behind.
But the difference—the spark—was Wilshere.
On his very first touch, he demanded the ball from Özil, turned sharply under McArthur's pressure, and drove forward. The crowd rose with him, a collective breath catching in their throats as he surged, head low, legs pumping. He laid it off to Sánchez on the left, who danced inside and let fly. The shot was blocked, but the statement was made: Wilshere was not here to coast. He was here to turn the tide.
Francesco, who had spent too much of the first half in limbo, suddenly had life around him. He darted diagonally, dragging Dann wide, freeing space for Özil to ghost into. He pointed, shouted, demanded. The ball didn't always come, but the intent was there.
And then came the moment.
67 minutes.
It began in Arsenal's own half. Coquelin snapped into a tackle on Sako, winning the ball clean. He fed it quickly to Kante, who turned like a swivel and immediately sought out Wilshere. Jack took it on the half-turn, one fluid motion that left McArthur flat-footed.
He drove again, that old, unmistakable Wilshere drive—hips low, strides quick, the ball glued to his instep. Red shirts moved with him, drawn by the gravitational pull of his courage. He slipped it left to Özil, then kept running, demanding the return. Özil obliged, feathering a perfectly weighted ball back into his path.
The Palace defense, compact but backpedaling, couldn't decide—close him down, or hold the line? Jack exploited the hesitation. Near the edge of the box, he shifted slightly right, opening the angle, then stabbed a pass through a tiny corridor of legs.
And there was Alexis Sánchez.
The Chilean had ghosted in from the left, his run so sharp it cut the grass. He met the ball in stride, one touch to steady, the next to strike. His right foot lashed it low, quick, merciless.
Hennessey dived, stretching fully, fingertips grazing air. The ball kissed the far corner of the net.
2–2.
Wembley erupted. Red flares of noise thundered from the Arsenal end, bodies leaping, scarves spinning. The Arsenal bench spilled forward, Wilshere sprinted toward Sánchez, and the two collided in a fierce embrace. Jack's face was alight—not just with relief, but with vindication. His assist, his vision, his return.
Francesco was there too, thumping Sánchez's back, shouting something wordless into the roar. Özil jogged over, pointing at Wilshere with both hands as if to tell the fans: This man, this man is why we're back.
On the touchline, Wenger simply adjusted his tie, but the faint smile betrayed him. He had gambled, and it had paid off.
On the other side, Pardew's face twisted, a cocktail of frustration and defiance. He barked at McArthur to close faster, at Jedinak to tighten the midfield box. He clapped at Sako, demanding energy. Palace had been so close to smelling the finish line; now they were back in the trenches.
The equalizer had ripped the game wide open. Sánchez's strike was more than just a goal—it was a declaration, a roar in the face of doubt, a reminder that Arsenal weren't going to surrender the FA Cup on this pitch without clawing and bleeding for it. But football, cruel as it is, doesn't give you time to dwell.
The ball was back on the center spot. Palace kicked off again. And in that heartbeat, both teams seemed to understand the reality before them: twenty-plus minutes to etch themselves into history.
For Palace, this was about defending a dream. Ninety minutes at Wembley, a shot at silverware that generations of their supporters had never dared to imagine. For Arsenal, it was about protecting an identity. They were the holders, the kings of the FA Cup, a club that had built legends on these green blades. Francesco felt that weight every time he glanced up into the stands—thousands of red shirts, thousands of voices, each one carrying its own prayer.
From 70 minutes onward, the game turned into something tight, almost suffocating. The equalizer had emboldened Arsenal, but it had also hardened Palace. Pardew dropped his midfield deeper, almost a box in front of the defense, daring Arsenal to break through. Every time Özil drifted into pockets, McArthur or Jedinak was there, shadowing him like a hunter. Every time Francesco tried to peel off Scott Dann, the Palace captain tugged his shirt, bumped him, whispered little words meant to gnaw at him.
The crowd felt the tension too. Every Arsenal pass was met with anxious murmurs, every Palace interception with groans that rolled through the red half of Wembley like thunderclouds.
Francesco kept working, though. He dropped deeper at times, linking with Wilshere and Kanté, trying to create overloads. He spun wide, dragging Dann with him, opening channels for Sánchez. He sprinted into the box, sometimes too early, sometimes just a fraction late. But still he searched, because that was what strikers did—they searched, over and over, until the opening came.
At 74 minutes, it nearly did.
Wilshere again was the catalyst, weaving between McArthur and Ward before slipping a disguised pass into the channel. Francesco read it, darting into the gap, and for a split second he was clear. He lashed at it first time, left-footed, the ball screaming toward the near post.
Hennessey flung himself down, strong wrist behind it, and the rebound skidded away before Özil could pounce. The Arsenal fans roared at the chance, but the sound quickly turned into frustrated gasps. Francesco slapped his palms together, forcing himself not to dwell. He jogged back, jaw tight, promising himself: next time.
Palace weren't without their moments either. In the 78th minute, Sako surged down the right, bulldozing past Monreal. His cross was low, dangerous, and for one horrible heartbeat Wickham was there again, stretching. But Koscielny—towering, unyielding—threw his body in front of it, hacking the ball away with a desperate clearance that drew a guttural cheer from the Arsenal end.
The clock ticked. 80 minutes. 82. 85. The game had become a knife fight, every tackle greeted with howls, every foul with outstretched arms and fury from the managers. Wenger prowled the technical area, his tie loosened now, his arms waving instructions. Pardew clapped furiously, his voice hoarse but relentless.
Francesco felt the fatigue dragging at his legs, but also the fire pushing him past it. His lungs burned, his thighs ached, yet still he pressed, still he chased. He knew these moments—when legs failed and hearts had to carry the weight—were where finals were won.
And then came the 88th minute.
It started with Özil. It always seemed to start with him, quiet genius that he was. The German had been shadowed all game, smothered by Palace's shape, but true artists only needed one brushstroke.
Coquelin broke up another Palace foray, snapping into a tackle on Sako. The ball squirted loose, and Kanté was there first, shuffling it into Özil's path.
What Özil did next looked so simple, so understated, yet it was devastating. He lifted his head, saw Francesco peeling off Dann's shoulder, and instead of rushing the pass, he paused—just half a second, long enough to let the Palace line step forward, long enough to make them think he had hesitated. And then, with the gentlest flick of his left foot, he threaded the ball through the gap, bending it around Dann like a whisper.
Francesco's instincts screamed at him: Go.
He darted between Dann and Ward, shoulders pumping, the roar of Wembley surging into his ears. The ball rolled into his stride, perfectly weighted, and suddenly the world shrank. It was just him, the ball, and Wayne Hennessey.
Time slowed.
He remembered all those hours at London Colney, finishing drills until his calves cramped, Arsène whispering about composure, about ice in the veins. He remembered his boyhood, scoring in cages back home, dreaming of nights like this. And he remembered the success and pain of last year, the doubts, the headlines, the whispers that he will carry Arsenal.
This was his answer.
One touch to steady. Another to draw Hennessey out. Then, with his right foot, he opened up and slotted it low, curling just beyond the keeper's reach, kissing the inside of the post.
The net bulged.
For a split second, silence. And then, chaos.
Wembley erupted.
Francesco tore away toward the corner flag, arms outstretched, face split with disbelief and ecstasy. His teammates thundered after him—Sánchez leaping onto his back, Wilshere screaming into his ear, Özil jogging behind with that serene little smile, as if he'd always known.
The Arsenal end was a sea of limbs, scarves whirling, strangers clinging to strangers. The noise was primal, tidal, a sound that shook the arch above Wembley.
On the touchline, Wenger finally lost his composure, pumping both fists, his thin frame shaking with joy. Behind him, the bench exploded—Cazorla bouncing, Walcott shouting, even the physios hugging.
Francesco dropped to his knees near the flag, arms raised to the sky, his chest heaving. He could barely breathe, barely think, but in that moment he didn't need to. He had done it. He had dragged Arsenal back from the brink, into the light, into the final.
There were still minutes left, of course. Palace threw everyone forward, desperation etched on every pass, every hoof into the box. Dann and Wickham camped in Arsenal's penalty area, the ball sailing toward them again and again.
But Koscielny and Van Dijk stood tall, heading clear, booting long. Coquelin and Kanté scrapped for every second ball, throwing themselves into challenges like men possessed. Even Özil tracked back, his slender frame pressing Jedinak, forcing him sideways.
And Francesco—legs leaden, lungs on fire—chased, harried, bought precious seconds.
The fourth official raised his board. Four minutes.
The Arsenal fans groaned, prayed, shouted themselves hoarse. The Palace end urged their team, voices desperate, pleading.
One minute gone. Two. Three.
And then, in the fourth, McArthur lofted one last ball into the Arsenal box. Wickham rose, crashing into Van Dijk, the ball looping awkwardly. For a heartbeat, danger.
Then Bellerín, the sprinter, the warrior, soared. He met it with his forehead, sending it clear, sending it spiraling away toward the halfway line.
The referee's whistle blew.
Full time.
Arsenal 3, Crystal Palace 2.
Wembley shook.
Francesco collapsed to the turf, arms spread, chest heaving, eyes closed. Around him, red shirts poured in, teammates embracing, staff running onto the pitch. The Arsenal end was pure madness—songs, flags, tears, everything poured out in one uncontainable flood.
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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: 55
Goal: 75
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