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And Arsenal intended to arrive not as champions content with what they had already achieved, but as champions determined to show exactly why they had earned that title.
Matchday arrived beneath a pale Manchester sky that threatened rain without ever quite delivering it.
Long before Arsenal's coach turned onto Sir Matt Busby Way, Old Trafford had already awakened.
Thousands of supporters filled the streets surrounding the stadium, wrapped in red and white scarves despite the mild spring air. Vendors called out from every corner, selling programmes, half-and-half scarves and cups of steaming coffee to supporters who had travelled from every part of England.
The sound never truly settled.
Manchester United songs rolled from one end of the street.
Moments later they were answered by chants from nearly four thousand Arsenal supporters gathered behind police barriers, proudly waving red-and-white flags of their own.
As the team coach slowly approached the stadium entrance, camera flashes erupted almost continuously.
Supporters pressed against the barriers.
Some applauded.
Some simply held their phones high, hoping to capture a glimpse of the newly crowned Premier League champions.
Inside the coach, however, the atmosphere remained remarkably calm.
Most of the players had headphones on.
Others quietly looked out of the windows.
Francesco sat near the front beside Van Dijk, watching the sea of supporters drift past.
Old Trafford never lost its ability to impress.
Its towering stands seemed to rise directly out of the surrounding streets, commanding respect before a ball had even been kicked.
Walker leaned across the aisle.
"I still get goosebumps coming here."
Robertson smiled.
"That's because you spent too many years trying to win here."
"And now?"
Walker looked toward the enormous stadium.
"Now I still get goosebumps."
Several teammates laughed.
The coach rolled beneath the players' entrance before finally stopping.
Security staff opened the doors.
Immediately the noise outside became much louder.
One after another, Arsenal's players stepped onto the pavement.
Francesco adjusted the strap of his backpack before looking briefly toward the supporters gathered behind the barriers.
Several young Arsenal fans shouted his name.
He smiled, raised a hand in acknowledgment, and continued walking into the stadium.
Inside, everything became quieter.
The familiar concrete corridors carried only the footsteps of players, coaches and stadium staff moving with practiced efficiency.
Equipment bags had already arrived.
Each shirt hung neatly inside the dressing room.
Every boot had been polished.
Every towel folded perfectly.
The Arsenal crest decorated one wall.
Opposite it stood the tactical board Wenger had already prepared earlier that morning.
Nobody spoke much at first.
There was never much need.
The routine had become instinctive.
Players unpacked their boots.
Medical staff applied tape where necessary.
Goalkeepers disappeared first to begin their own preparations.
Within minutes, the room gradually filled with conversation.
Walker pulled a fluorescent orange training top over his head before glancing toward Francesco.
"You ready to make another stadium quiet?"
Francesco grinned.
"I thought Old Trafford was never quiet."
Walker winked.
"It can be."
Alexis laughed while tightening his boots.
"I've heard it."
"So have I."
A few lockers away, Giroud stretched comfortably before looking toward Saka.
"You'll enjoy watching this one."
Saka smiled.
"I intend to."
"You'd better."
Giroud chuckled.
"You'll probably be needed later."
The substitutes understood their role.
Every one of them wanted to play.
Every one of them also knew preparation never depended on whether their name appeared in the starting eleven.
A match could change in seconds.
Opportunity often arrived unexpectedly.
Steve Bould poked his head through the doorway.
"Five minutes."
Immediately conversations became shorter.
Training tops were zipped.
Water bottles collected.
The squad walked together through another corridor before emerging into the famous Old Trafford tunnel.
The roar that greeted them grew louder with every step.
Then they walked out.
The pitch stretched before them in immaculate condition.
Freshly cut grass reflected beneath the afternoon sunlight that had finally broken through the clouds.
The Stretford End already bounced with anticipation.
High above the opposite stand, nearly four thousand Arsenal supporters exploded into applause the moment their players appeared.
Francesco glanced toward them instinctively.
Red and white flags waved proudly.
Songs echoed around the stadium.
For a few moments, the rivalry between both sets of supporters blended into something uniquely English—competitive, passionate, yet deeply respectful.
The warm-up began almost immediately.
Fitness coaches arranged cones across one half of the pitch.
Passing squares formed quickly.
Kanté, Xhaka, Özil and Francesco exchanged crisp one-touch passes that increased in speed with every sequence.
"Quicker," Bould encouraged.
"Move after every pass."
The ball zipped effortlessly between them.
Özil barely seemed to need more than a single touch.
Francesco drifted naturally into pockets of space before releasing first-time passes into runners.
Walker and Robertson joined separate overlapping drills, repeatedly sprinting forward before delivering crosses into the penalty area.
One after another.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Inside the box, Alexis and Gnabry attacked every delivery with sharp movement.
Sometimes Alexis finished first time.
Sometimes Gnabry volleyed spectacularly.
Occasionally Francesco arrived late to meet crosses with controlled finishes that drew appreciative applause from the travelling Arsenal supporters.
At the opposite end, Čech prepared separately with goalkeeping coach Gerry Peyton.
Powerful shots flew toward him from close range.
Low saves.
Reaction stops.
Cross collection.
Distribution.
Every movement looked smooth.
Every catch secure.
Nearby, David Raya worked through an equally demanding routine before exchanging a smile with Čech after one particularly athletic save.
"Trying to show me up?" Čech asked.
Raya laughed.
"Just making sure you're awake."
Meanwhile, Giroud, Ramsey, Cazorla, Holding, Mustafi, Bellerín, Smith Rowe, Saka and Nketiah completed their own exercises alongside another coach.
Small-sided possession games kept their intensity high.
Quick transitions followed.
Finishing drills ended with laughter after Giroud somehow managed to strike the crossbar from barely six yards.
Walker couldn't resist.
"Save some goals for training, Oli."
Giroud spread his arms dramatically.
"I was demonstrating precision."
"You demonstrated gravity."
Even Wenger allowed himself a brief smile from the touchline.
As the final shooting exercise concluded, Francesco collected one loose ball nearly thirty yards from goal.
Without hesitation he struck through it.
The shot dipped violently before crashing against the underside of the crossbar and bouncing into the net.
Even sections of the home crowd applauded.
Francesco simply jogged away.
Training was over.
The squad acknowledged the away supporters with applause before disappearing back inside the stadium.
Warm bodies met hot showers.
The tension that naturally built before kickoff eased slightly beneath the steaming water.
Conversations remained relaxed.
By the time everyone returned to the dressing room, fluorescent training gear had been replaced by Arsenal's familiar home strip.
Red shirts.
White sleeves.
White shorts.
Red socks.
Francesco tied the captain's armband around his left arm before quietly taking his seat.
One by one, the players settled.
Wenger walked to the centre of the room.
Silence followed naturally.
He looked around before speaking.
"We return to our league eleven."
His eyes moved across the room.
"Petr."
"Kyle."
"Virgil."
"Laurent."
"Andrew."
The defenders nodded.
"N'Golo."
"Granit."
Then the attacking unit.
"Mesut."
"Alexis."
"Serge."
"Francesco."
The captain met Wenger's eyes and nodded once.
The manager then turned toward the remaining players.
"Olivier, Aaron, Santi, Bukayo, Emile, Eddie, David, Rob, Shkodran, Héctor… and the rest of you."
"You begin on the bench."
"Remain mentally prepared."
"You may decide this football match."
Every substitute acknowledged him immediately.
Nobody looked disappointed.
That professionalism had become one of Arsenal's greatest strengths.
Wenger turned the tactical board around.
Manchester United's shape appeared immediately.
"They will play their usual 4-2-3-1."
He pointed carefully.
"David De Gea."
"Ashley Young."
"Victor Lindelöf."
"Chris Smalling."
"Antonio Valencia."
"Ander Herrera."
"Nemanja Matić."
He tapped the space ahead of them.
"Paul Pogba."
Then the front three.
"Marcus Rashford."
"Henrikh Mkhitaryan."
"Romelu Lukaku."
The players studied every magnet.
"They will remain compact."
"They will wait for mistakes."
"They want transitions."
He paused.
"So we deny them."
"The ball must move quickly."
"When we lose possession, we press together."
"When we defend, we remain compact."
He looked toward Özil.
"Find the spaces behind their midfield."
Toward Walker and Robertson.
"Choose your moments."
Then finally toward Francesco.
"Patience."
"The opportunity always arrives."
Francesco answered quietly.
"It always does."
Wenger smiled.
"Exactly."
He clapped once.
"Gentlemen."
"Enjoy yourselves."
The room erupted into applause before everyone rose together.
The walk toward the tunnel felt strangely peaceful.
No music.
No shouting.
Only focused faces.
As Arsenal reached the tunnel entrance, something unexpected caught their attention.
Manchester United's players were already waiting.
Antonio Valencia stood at the front.
Beside him were De Gea, Smalling, Pogba, Lukaku and the rest of Mourinho's team.
Then, as Arsenal stepped forward…
United formed two lines.
A Guard of Honor.
For a brief second, nobody moved.
Even Francesco looked surprised.
Then Wenger nodded respectfully.
One by one, Arsenal walked between the lines as Manchester United applauded the newly crowned Premier League champions.
Old Trafford responded beautifully.
The home supporters rose to their feet.
Many applauded warmly.
Others continued singing.
It became one of those rare football moments that transcended rivalry.
Walker quietly whispered,
"That's class."
Van Dijk nodded.
"It is."
When Arsenal reached the end of the line, Francesco turned.
Without hesitation, Arsenal's players applauded Manchester United in return.
Respect acknowledged respect.
Even Mourinho offered Wenger a brief nod from near the technical area.
The moment ended naturally.
Competition returned.
Both teams lined up beside the refereeing crew.
Handshakes followed.
Officials first.
Then every opponent.
Francesco exchanged smiles with Valencia.
"Good luck."
"You too," Valencia replied.
The official pre-match photograph came next.
Arsenal stood shoulder to shoulder.
Francesco held the match ball while Čech crouched in front.
Camera shutters clicked rapidly before everyone dispersed.
Only the captains remained.
Francesco and Valencia walked together toward the centre circle.
The referee produced the coin.
It spun high into the Manchester air.
Valencia called correctly.
"We'll take that end."
The referee nodded.
"Manchester United kickoff."
Both captains shook hands once more before jogging back into position.
The whistle sounded.
Old Trafford erupted.
United began aggressively.
Herrera immediately closed Xhaka.
Matić screened Özil.
Pogba searched constantly for Rashford's runs behind Walker.
For the opening minutes, neither side controlled possession for long.
Challenges flew in honestly.
Every loose ball became a contest.
Lukaku battled physically with Van Dijk.
Koscielny anticipated intelligently beside him.
Kanté covered impossible distances.
Gradually, almost imperceptibly, Arsenal's rhythm emerged.
Passes became cleaner.
Movements sharper.
United's pressing began arriving half a second too late.
Özil drifted elegantly between midfield and defence.
Francesco constantly changed positions, dragging Smalling and Lindelöf into uncomfortable decisions.
Martin Tyler's familiar voice echoed across television broadcasts.
"Arsenal have settled beautifully after a lively opening."
Alan Smith agreed.
"They're moving Manchester United around now."
"The champions are beginning to dictate the tempo."
The breakthrough arrived in the eighteenth minute.
It started deep inside Arsenal's own half.
Kanté intercepted a forward pass before immediately finding Xhaka.
One touch.
Forward.
Özil received between Herrera and Matić.
He turned effortlessly.
Francesco instantly recognised the opening.
He curved his run behind Smalling.
Özil waited.
Just long enough.
Then delivered a perfectly weighted through ball that dissected United's defence.
Francesco reached it in full stride.
De Gea rushed from his line.
For one split second the stadium held its breath.
Francesco opened his body before calmly lifting the finish beyond the Spanish goalkeeper.
The ball kissed the inside of the far post.
Goal.
The away end exploded.
Scarves flew into the air.
Supporters embraced complete strangers.
Francesco sprinted toward them before being swallowed by teammates.
Alexis jumped onto his back.
Walker arrived shouting triumphantly.
Van Dijk simply smiled before wrapping an arm around his captain.
Martin Tyler's voice rose above the noise.
"Wonderful football!"
"The champions strike first at Old Trafford!"
Alan Smith couldn't hide his admiration.
"That's absolutely magnificent."
"The movement from Francesco is world-class, and Mesut Özil's vision is simply outstanding."
"This Arsenal side hasn't come here to admire the trophy they've already won."
"They've come to win another football match."
United attempted to respond immediately.
Pogba drove through midfield.
Rashford twice tested Walker's pace.
Lukaku forced Čech into an excellent save with a powerful header.
Arsenal never panicked.
Every attack was met with organisation.
Every regain became another patient passing sequence.
By the thirty-first minute, their control had become unmistakable.
Walker intercepted Mkhitaryan near halfway.
Instead of recycling possession, he accelerated.
Herrera couldn't catch him.
Young retreated desperately.
Walker burst into the penalty area before cutting a low pass across goal.
Alexis timed his run perfectly.
One controlled touch.
Second touch.
Finish.
De Gea had no chance.
2-0.
This time Alexis celebrated with both fists raised before pointing gratefully toward Walker.
The full-back laughed.
"I told you I'd still get goosebumps."
Manchester United continued fighting.
Pogba's passing remained dangerous.
Rashford's speed threatened constantly.
Lukaku battled for every cross.
Yet Arsenal looked composed.
Confident.
Every transition carried purpose.
Every possession drained a little more belief from the home side.
Deep into stoppage time, Arsenal struck once again.
Forty-five minutes had already passed.
Then came another flowing move.
Robertson found Xhaka.
Xhaka switched play brilliantly toward Özil.
Özil instantly released Alexis down the left.
Instead of forcing the cross, Alexis waited.
Francesco dragged both centre-backs toward the near post.
Space appeared behind them.
Alexis squared intelligently.
Gnabry arrived perfectly.
One clean strike.
The net rippled.
Three.
Nil.
The Arsenal supporters celebrated wildly once more.
The home crowd fell almost silent.
Only isolated applause remained from those who could appreciate outstanding football regardless of allegiance.
Gnabry embraced Francesco before pointing toward Alexis.
"Great ball."
"You finished it."
The referee glanced at his watch.
Moments later, his whistle echoed around Old Trafford.
Half-time.
Arsenal walked calmly toward the tunnel.
There was satisfaction, certainly.
But no wild celebrations.
Inside the dressing room, Wenger waited until everyone had taken their seats.
He looked around quietly before speaking.
"Outstanding."
The single word carried genuine pride.
"You controlled the match."
"You moved the ball exactly as we discussed."
"You defended together."
He paused deliberately.
Then his expression became more serious.
"But nothing is finished."
The room fell completely silent.
"They are Manchester United."
"They have quality."
"They will respond."
"So we remain calm."
"Keep possession."
"Be patient."
"No complacency."
"Respect your opponent."
"Manage the game intelligently."
He looked directly at Francesco.
"A champion's standard does not change because the score does."
Francesco nodded.
"It won't."
Wenger smiled once.
"Good."
"Now…"
He clapped his hands together.
"Let's finish this properly."
Then the applause inside Arsenal's dressing room faded naturally.
No one mistook encouragement for satisfaction.
The first half had been outstanding, but forty-five minutes remained against a Manchester United side managed by José Mourinho. Experience alone was enough to remind every player that a comfortable lead could disappear if concentration slipped.
The players rose almost together.
Čech adjusted his gloves one final time before exchanging a brief nod with Van Dijk.
Walker bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, rolling his shoulders loose.
Robertson tightened the tape around his left wrist.
Francesco stood in the middle of the room, pulling his shirt straight before looking around at every teammate.
"We start again," he said quietly.
"Zero-zero."
Nobody argued.
That mentality had become part of Arsenal's identity.
They did not protect scorelines.
They respected them.
The walk back through the tunnel carried a different energy from before kickoff.
Old Trafford had found its voice again.
The home supporters refused to accept defeat, filling every corner of the stadium with renewed determination.
As Arsenal emerged, whistles mixed with applause.
Manchester United followed moments later to an enormous roar from the Stretford End.
Near the technical areas, Mourinho was already in animated conversation with his coaching staff, gesturing repeatedly toward Arsenal's left side before pointing aggressively into midfield.
Across from him, Wenger remained composed, hands in his coat pockets, speaking only briefly with Steve Bould.
The fourth official checked both benches.
The referee glanced at his watch.
Then the whistle sounded.
Manchester United immediately showed their intentions.
Rather than sitting inside their own shape, they pushed nearly twenty yards higher than they had during much of the opening half.
Rashford pressed Walker before the full-back had fully controlled the ball.
Mkhitaryan chased Robertson relentlessly.
Pogba stepped onto Xhaka whenever possession entered midfield.
Behind them, Matić squeezed forward while Herrera hunted Özil with renewed aggression.
Mourinho's voice echoed almost continuously across the touchline.
"Press!"
"Higher!"
"Again!"
"Keep going!"
His arms never stopped moving.
Every successful tackle drew applause from the home supporters.
Every Arsenal clearance was greeted as though it were a goal.
For the opening five minutes of the second half, United controlled territory.
Yet Arsenal never looked rushed.
Exactly as Wenger had instructed, they accepted periods without the ball.
They defended in two compact banks.
When possession returned, they slowed the tempo instead of forcing attacks.
Čech calmly rolled the ball toward Van Dijk.
Van Dijk waited.
Lukaku approached.
Only then did he pass across to Koscielny.
United stepped forward.
Another pass.
Robertson received.
Back to Xhaka.
Across to Kanté.
Five passes became ten.
Ten became fifteen.
Manchester United continued chasing.
Their lines stretched a little further each time.
Francesco drifted between Smalling and Lindelöf, rarely touching the ball but constantly changing their positioning.
Walker noticed immediately.
"They're opening."
Francesco nodded.
"Keep moving them."
Arsenal circulated possession patiently, drawing United farther away from their defensive shape before occasionally accelerating through midfield with two or three sharp combinations.
Every spell with the ball quietened the stadium a little.
Then another wave of United pressure arrived.
In the fifty-third minute Rashford burst beyond Walker before delivering a dangerous cross toward Lukaku.
Van Dijk rose magnificently to head clear.
The second ball dropped to Pogba.
His volley flew narrowly over the crossbar.
Old Trafford responded with renewed belief.
Mourinho clapped furiously.
"More!"
"That's it!"
Two minutes later Mkhitaryan forced Čech into another excellent save from outside the area.
The Czech goalkeeper pushed the shot around the post before immediately organising his defenders.
"Stay compact."
"Second ball."
United sensed opportunity.
Corners arrived one after another.
Crosses continued pouring into Arsenal's penalty area.
Koscielny blocked one effort.
Robertson intercepted another.
Walker sprinted forty yards to recover possession near the byline.
Still United came.
Eventually the pressure told.
The clock showed fifty-seven minutes.
Matić recovered possession deep inside Arsenal's half before quickly finding Rashford.
The winger drove inside, attracting both Walker and Kanté.
Instead of shooting, he slipped the ball toward Pogba, who had continued his run through the middle.
The French midfielder controlled with his left foot before striking firmly across Čech.
The ball nestled inside the far corner.
3-1.
Old Trafford exploded.
The Stretford End came alive once more.
Scarves rose into the air.
Supporters who had remained seated only moments earlier now believed again.
Near the technical area Mourinho punched the air repeatedly before turning toward the crowd, urging even more noise from the stands.
"Come on!"
"Again!"
"We're still here!"
The stadium responded instantly.
Arsenal gathered calmly inside the centre circle.
No frustrated gestures.
No complaints.
Just composed faces.
Walker looked toward Francesco.
"They've got momentum."
Francesco smiled reassuringly.
"Then we take it away."
He clapped his hands once.
"Keep the ball."
"No rushing."
"Our football."
Kanté nodded.
"Our football."
The restart reflected exactly those words.
Arsenal completed nearly twenty consecutive passes without entering the final third.
United chased tirelessly.
Herrera sprinted after Özil, as he drifted effortlessly into spaces behind him.
Every completed pass frustrated the home supporters a little more.
Gradually the urgency inside United's press began creating gaps.
In the sixty-first minute Francesco received possession with his back to goal just outside the penalty area.
He turned sharply between Smalling and Matić.
Smalling recovered desperately before clipping his standing leg.
The referee's whistle sounded immediately.
Free kick.
Approximately twenty-five yards from goal.
A dangerous distance.
David De Gea carefully organised his wall.
Five red shirts stood shoulder to shoulder.
He adjusted them twice.
Then once more.
The stadium became strangely quiet.
Everyone knew who would take it.
Martin Tyler spoke softly.
"This is Francesco territory."
Alan Smith answered almost immediately.
"If there is anyone in world football you'd choose from here…"
"…it's him."
Francesco placed the ball carefully on the turf.
He stepped backwards.
Once.
Twice.
Three measured steps.
He looked at the wall.
Then at the top right corner.
Nothing else existed.
The referee blew his whistle.
Francesco began his run.
His right foot wrapped beautifully around the ball.
It climbed effortlessly over the wall.
For one breathtaking moment it seemed too high.
Then it dipped violently.
The strike curled perfectly into the top corner.
De Gea never moved.
He simply watched.
The net rippled.
Silence and then followed instantly by an explosion from the away end.
Arsenal supporters erupted.
Scarves spun overhead.
Players sprinted toward their captain almost before the ball had settled inside the goal.
Walker grabbed Francesco around the shoulders.
Alexis arrived laughing uncontrollably.
Even Van Dijk covered almost the entire length of the pitch to join the celebration.
Martin Tyler could barely contain himself.
"Oh, that is extraordinary!"
"Absolutely extraordinary!"
"The captain answers Manchester United in the most magnificent fashion imaginable!"
Alan Smith shook his head in admiration.
"That is genius."
"Pure technique."
"Pure confidence."
"The wall couldn't stop it."
"David De Gea couldn't even attempt it."
"That is exactly why Francesco is recognised as the finest footballer in the world."
"It is another masterpiece from the reigning Ballon d'Or winner."
Francesco accepted the embraces with a smile before gently urging everyone back toward their own half.
"Still work to do."
Walker laughed.
"You score goals like that…"
"…and you're still thinking about shape."
"Always."
The two-goal swing inside five minutes drained much of the belief that had briefly swept around Old Trafford.
Arsenal settled immediately back into their rhythm.
Possession flowed smoothly between defence and midfield.
Kanté continued recovering loose balls with astonishing consistency.
Özil dictated play elegantly whenever space appeared.
Manchester United still searched for opportunities, but Arsenal controlled the pace once again.
As the match entered the seventy-first minute, Wenger glanced toward his bench before making his decision.
Three players rose together.
Alex Iwobi.
Santi Cazorla.
Shkodran Mustafi.
The electronic board illuminated.
Alexis Sánchez.
Mesut Özil.
Laurent Koscielny.
Applause followed each departing player.
Alexis embraced Iwobi before jogging from the field.
"Enjoy yourself."
"I will."
Özil shook Cazorla's hand warmly.
"Keep them running."
The Spaniard smiled.
"Gladly."
Koscielny exchanged a brief embrace with Mustafi.
"Stay switched on."
"Always."
The substitutions made perfect sense.
Alexis and Özil had worked tirelessly throughout the afternoon.
Koscielny had won countless aerial duels against Lukaku.
Fresh legs would preserve energy while ensuring Arsenal remained balanced during the closing stages.
Almost simultaneously Mourinho responded with changes of his own.
Romelu Lukaku walked off looking frustrated.
Ander Herrera followed.
Jesse Lingard was also withdrawn.
On came Anthony Martial.
Marouane Fellaini.
Juan Mata.
The home crowd applauded enthusiastically.
Mourinho was gambling.
Fellaini immediately occupied advanced positions near Van Dijk.
Martial stretched Arsenal's defensive line with direct running.
Mata searched cleverly for pockets between midfield and defence.
The match developed a slightly different rhythm.
United attacked more directly.
Arsenal answered with longer spells of possession.
Iwobi's energy immediately became noticeable.
He carried the ball confidently through midfield, drawing fouls and relieving pressure.
Cazorla slowed the tempo beautifully whenever Arsenal needed control, turning gracefully away from challenges before finding simple passes that forced United to chase again.
Mustafi settled comfortably beside Van Dijk, communicating constantly with Walker and Robertson.
The visitors never appeared rattled.
Still, Manchester United refused to surrender.
With nine minutes remaining they earned another reward.
Mata's corner curled dangerously toward the near post.
Fellaini escaped his marker for a split second.
His powerful header flew beyond Čech before crashing into the roof of the net.
4-2.
Old Trafford celebrated once again.
Not with the belief that had followed Pogba's goal earlier.
More with appreciation for their team's persistence.
Fellaini pointed toward Mata before jogging back toward halfway.
Mourinho immediately demanded the ball for the restart.
"There is time!"
"Go!"
Francesco gathered Arsenal's players together once more.
"No gifts."
"Simple."
"We finish properly."
Every response came immediately.
"Yes, skip."
The remaining minutes reflected the maturity Wenger had demanded at half-time.
There were no unnecessary risks.
Walker resisted overlapping when the situation didn't require it.
Robertson recycled possession rather than forcing ambitious crosses.
Van Dijk and Mustafi defended their penalty area with complete authority.
Kanté intercepted almost everything that entered midfield.
Cazorla's composure repeatedly drew applause from the Arsenal bench as he escaped pressure with graceful turns that seemed to ignore both age and fatigue.
Whenever Manchester United pressed, Arsenal answered with intelligent passing triangles.
When they needed to defend, they defended together.
When they needed to slow the game, they slowed it without appearing negative.
Francesco remained the first defender, pressing tirelessly from the front even in the closing minutes.
His work rate inspired everyone around him.
Ninety minutes approached.
Then ninety-two.
The fourth official indicated three minutes of added time.
The away supporters had already begun singing long before the final whistle.
Champions again.
Champions again.
The sound rolled proudly around Old Trafford.
Wenger finally allowed himself to glance toward the stadium clock.
Steve Bould smiled beside him.
"I think we've done it."
Wenger answered quietly.
"They've done it."
One final Manchester United attack broke down inside Arsenal's half.
Kanté recovered possession before calmly finding Cazorla.
The Spaniard carried the ball toward the corner flag, waited for support, and retained possession.
The referee checked his watch.
Then…
One long blast of the whistle.
Full-time.
Manchester United 2.
Arsenal 4.
For a heartbeat, nobody moved.
Then Arsenal's bench emptied.
Giroud led the charge, sprinting onto the pitch with Saka, Smith Rowe, Ramsey, Holding, Bellerín, Nketiah, Raya and every substitute close behind.
They surrounded the starting eleven in a sea of embraces, laughter and joyous shouts.
Walker jumped onto Van Dijk's back.
Alexis returned to hug Francesco despite already sitting on the bench for twenty minutes.
Čech wrapped both arms around Wenger, who laughed quietly before embracing one player after another.
There was no wild loss of control.
Instead, there was deep satisfaction.
Months of relentless consistency had been rewarded once again.
Around Old Trafford, thousands of Manchester United supporters remained inside the stadium.
Many stood and applauded.
Their own team had been beaten by a better side that afternoon.
More importantly, they recognised they were witnessing history.
The Arsenal supporters answered with deafening songs of their own.
Red scarves stretched high above their heads.
Many supporters wiped away tears.
Some simply stood in disbelief.
Four consecutive Premier League titles.
No club in Premier League history had ever achieved it.
Now Arsenal had.
Francesco stood quietly for a moment in the centre circle, looking slowly around Old Trafford.
His teammates celebrated all around him.
Supporters sang his name from the away end.
High above, the afternoon sun finally broke completely through the Manchester clouds, casting golden light across the famous stadium.
History had not arrived through one spectacular afternoon alone.
It had been built across countless training sessions, difficult victories, painful setbacks, relentless standards, and an unwavering refusal to accept complacency.
This victory simply completed the story.
Arsenal were Champions of England once again.
For the fourth consecutive season.
And on one unforgettable afternoon at Old Trafford, they had achieved something English football had never seen before.
______________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 19 (2017)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, 2015/2016 Community Shield, 2016/2017 Premier League, 2015/2016 Champions League, Euro 2016, Premier League Champion 2016/2017, 2016/2017 Champions League, and 2017/2018 Carabao Cup.
Season 17/18 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 54
Goal: 69
Assist: 6
MOTM: 7
POTM: 0
England:
Match: 4
Goal: 4
Assist: 1
MOTM: 2
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 55
Goal: 87
Assist: 5
MOTM: 14
POTM: 1
England:
Match: 1
Goal: 1
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 60
Goal: 82
Assist: 10
MOTM: 9
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Euro 2016
Match Played: 6
Goal: 13
Assist: 4
MOTM: 6
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9