With ten minutes remaining, Juventus maintained their sustained pressure, yet Arsenal's defensive line stood resolute.
The Gunners were determined to deny their opponents even the slightest opportunity. Ten years after narrowly missing the chance to lift the Champions League trophy, they were resolved not to repeat the same mistake.
As the match approached the 80-minute mark, the intensity on the pitch escalated further. Juventus continued their assault with unyielding urgency in pursuit of an equaliser, while Arsenal reinforced their defensive shape, retreating at times into their own penalty area.
Although such deep defending contradicted the club's traditional attacking philosophy, the significance of the occasion superseded all other considerations.
This was the Champions League—the ultimate prize that countless players and fans could only dream of attaining. Arsenal would not lower its guard; they were fully committed to securing the title.
"Hold firm!"
"Hold firm!"
"Behind you!"
Le Kai's voice had grown hoarse, each command emerging with a raw, rasping quality. Physically, he was nearing complete exhaustion. Extra time was not a scenario they wished to entertain. Arsenal had neither the desire to grant Juventus such an opportunity nor the physical reserves to endure an additional thirty minutes. The contest had to be settled within the remaining time.
Both sets of players were now battling extreme fatigue. After eighty minutes of the highest-intensity football witnessed all season, every individual had given their utmost. Arsenal protected their lead through disciplined organisation, while Juventus fought desperately to restore parity and keep their hopes alive.
"Don't lose heart. Keep pushing! Score!"
"For the glory of The Bianconeri. Find the net!"
"Come on! Get a goal!"
In contrast, Arsenal had committed wholly to a defensive strategy. Their supporters, meanwhile, had reached a state of fervent frenzy.
In more than a century of history, the club had never won the Champions League. Tonight, they stood on the threshold of a historic achievement, and the fans were determined not to let the moment slip away.
"Hold on!"
"Stay strong!"
"Gunners!"
Billy's voice had become almost entirely hoarse after nearly eighty minutes of continuous shouting, his vocal cords clearly strained. Nevertheless, he persisted with unrestrained passion. Though his cries were now faint and barely audible, his enthusiasm remained undiminished. If not now, then when?
Meadows' face was flushed bright red. Every Juventus attack filled him with dread. He could not accept the prospect of a late equaliser or a heartbreaking reversal.
His sole hope was that Arsenal would preserve their lead until the final whistle, allowing the club's glory to reach its European pinnacle—the moment he had anticipated above all others.
His gaze remained fixed on Le Kai. That dishevelled, sweat-soaked figure battling on the pitch was no longer a boy but a man—the captain of Arsenal.
No previous leader had ever evoked such profound respect in him. This was the embodiment of what an Arsenal captain should represent.
Meadows recalled that evening four years earlier when Billy had first introduced the young Le Kai at the Oak Tree Bar.
No one could have foreseen that this same player would one day wear the number 4 shirt and captain Arsenal in a Champions League final, with victory now within reach. A wave of excitement surged through him.
What an incredible talent Billy brought us, he reflected. This man is guiding Arsenal toward the Champions League title.
. .
"Hold on, Gunners!"
The collective roar reverberated throughout the stadium, yet the players on the pitch could scarcely register the sound.
Even if they had, they possessed no energy to respond. Every remaining second demanded total focus, and every ounce of strength had to be reserved for the match itself.
"Run! Run!" Le Kai shouted, observing that several teammates were struggling to maintain their movement. With no margin for error remaining, he continued to urge them forward, refusing to allow any lapse in concentration.
There could be no room for even the slightest lapse in concentration.
Pereira gained possession and shaped to deliver a dangerous pass. Kai, glancing across, noticed Sagna retreating too slowly. Without hesitation, he sprinted forward. If Pereira managed to get in behind the defensive line, the consequences could be fatal.
Pereira spotted the approaching challenge. Just as he swung his foot to release the ball, Kai made contact. The force of the collision sent Pereira tilting and falling to the left, while Kai tumbled to the right.
Damn it… I can't hold on much longer.
Kai felt a wave of anxiety as his legs weakened upon impact. The challenge had left him vulnerable to losing balance entirely. Fortunately, the loose ball landed only a short distance away. Yet in the next instant, he saw Pogba charging towards it from deeper positions.
Le Kai assessed the situation—Pogba, then the ball—and made an immediate decision. He scrambled forward desperately on all fours. The two players arrived at the ball almost simultaneously. While Pogba prepared to strike, Le Kai remained low in a crawling position.
In that critical moment, two options presented themselves: abandon the attempt for safety, or risk everything to clear the danger.
Le Kai's eyes widened. With every muscle straining, he thrust his body forward.
Bang!
He met the ball firmly with his head, directing it away from goal. Immediately, he registered Pogba's foot rushing dangerously close to his head.
A sharp rush of air brushed his face as he watched the boot draw closer.
At the final instant, Pogba managed to lift his leg.
"Are you crazy?!" Pogba exclaimed in shock, staring down at him.
Kai offered a weary grin.
Crazy? I guess you could say that. I am crazy for football.
"Kai! Danger!" Martin Tyler gasped, his body tensing involuntarily at the sight. The clearance had been extraordinarily hazardous. Yet, a moment later, Le Kai emerged unscathed, having successfully relieved the pressure.
The commentator exhaled deeply, leaning back into his seat and gesturing with his hand.
"That was an extremely risky manoeuvre to escape a tight situation. We do not recommend imitating it, but we must commend Kai's spirit. This is the essence of a true Champions League moment—an unexpected goal, a fearless clearance. These are the defining actions that pave the way to European glory."
Arsenal fans reacted with a surge of excitement tempered by apprehension. Their captain had risked serious injury—potentially his professional future—for the sake of the team.
The relief was palpable when he rose unharmed. They could not afford to lose such a leader. Even supporters in the Juventus section offered reluctant sighs of respect; there was no honour in mocking such wholehearted determination.
. . .
. .
.
"Guys! Ninety minutes have passed!"
The cry spread rapidly through the stands. Arsenal fans looked up in surprise at the giant screen, which displayed 90:05.
Their attention shifted to the fourth official, who stood holding the electronic board displaying a prominent 3. Three minutes of added time had been indicated.
These were the final three minutes—the closest Arsenal had ever come to Champions League triumph. All that remained was to maintain their lead. In just three minutes, the Champions League would belong to Arsenal.
. . .
Inside a residence in Manchester, Sir Alex Ferguson sat on the sofa, watching the Champions League final with a nostalgic gleam in his eyes.
Although he had stepped away from football management two years earlier, he continued to follow the game with keen interest.
Arsenal's rise had been inevitable. Even Alex Ferguson had acknowledged that this squad comprised an exceptionally talented group of players.
The defining factor was their championship spirit—a quality that could manifest in many forms. The Manchester United side he had once led embodied bravery and fearlessness. This Arsenal team, by contrast, displayed remarkable resilience, mental fortitude stronger than steel, and an unyielding will to win.
This spirit and ambition formed the core of the side, which Arsène Wenger had meticulously refined into a genuine Champions League contender.
Sir Alex Ferguson held deep admiration for Wenger. Despite their contrasting philosophies, both were outstanding coaches.
Over the years, their interactions had featured moments of friction, born from differing viewpoints and club loyalties. Setting aside professional rivalries, they might have struggled to maintain a friendship; a conversation between them would likely turn into a debate within minutes.
"Hey! You promised you would only watch half the game."
An elderly woman with white hair entered the room. It was Cathy, Sir Alex Ferguson's wife.
Sir Alex looked at her with an innocent expression. "I'm completely absorbed in it. Let me finish watching."
"Really," Cathy replied, shaking her head helplessly. She remained deeply concerned about her husband's health.
She sat beside him, and the two continued watching the broadcast together. The camera shifted focus to Arsène Wenger on the touchline.
Wenger could no longer remain seated. He stood steady with arms crossed, his brow furrowed in concentration.
"Arsène looks quite composed," Cathy observed.
Sir Alex laughed heartily. "He is extremely nervous."
"How can you tell?" Cathy asked, puzzled.
Sir Alex pointed at the screen. "Look at his fingers tapping against his arm. That is his tell. He crosses his arms not for style or comfort, but to conceal his anxiety. When nervous, his fingers tap uncontrollably—the greater the tension, the faster the tapping."
Cathy's eyes widened in understanding. "Similar to how you chew gum?"
"More or less," Sir Alex nodded with a smile.
"This time, Arsène should finally win the Champions League," Cathy said warmly.
Sir Alex turned to her. "You want him to win?"
"Of course," she replied. "He is an excellent coach and a true gentleman with considerable charm."
Sir Alex scoffed lightly. "You have never heard him swearing on the touchline." After a brief pause, he chuckled. "Nevertheless, he certainly deserves this Champions League."
Their attention returned to the screen, where Wenger's fingers were now tapping his arm at an even quicker pace. Sir Alex could not suppress another laugh. "What did I tell you?"
. .
On the pitch, Wenger's tension was evident. He tapped his arm rapidly while his toes lightly drummed the ground.
The other coaches and substitutes had risen to their feet. In the stands, Arsenal fans stood anxiously, their eyes darting between the action and the clock.
Three minutes of stoppage time remained, yet each minute felt interminably long. Only one had passed, and supporters glanced at the timer every few seconds, muttering under their breath.
Juventus's attacks intensified. Even goalkeeper Buffon had advanced to join the offensive effort. This was a genuine life-or-death struggle. Failure to score would end their hopes.
Suddenly, Pirlo delivered a precise lob into the penalty area. The ball dropped between Koscielny and Morata. Koscielny misjudged the flight, allowing Morata to seize the opportunity. He struck the ball goalwards.
For a moment, every Arsenal player held their breath, hearts pounding. The shot flew toward the net—only for a pair of fists to appear and powerfully head the ball clear of the danger zone.
Pirlo regained possession and immediately looked up, preparing a long-range strike. However, just as he swung his leg, a figure surged in from the side, tackling both player and ball in a decisive challenge.
Pirlo cried out and crashed to the ground, landing heavily on Kai, who released a muffled groan.
Foul
The Juventus fans roared in protest. The referee issued Kai a yellow card and awarded Juventus a free kick.
Unwilling to waste time, Pirlo rose painfully and prepared to take the set piece. Kai quickly retreated to help form the defensive wall.
On the Juventus side, nearly every player—including Buffon—pushed forward in anticipation of a header. The Arsenal players stood in palpable tension. Having already conceded one free-kick goal, they feared another.
Goalkeeper Navas adjusted the wall repeatedly, licked his lips nervously, and clapped his hands.
"Come on!" he urged.
Pirlo began his decisive run-up.
It was another lofted free kick, curling through the air directly towards Le Kai.
Not again.
This time, however, Le Kai was prepared. He stretched his neck slightly and deflected the ball with his scalp, altering its spin. The ball, which should have dropped sharply, instead flew straight towards the crossbar. With a sharp clang, it rebounded off the woodwork and fell back into the crowded penalty area.
Chaos erupted inside Arsenal's box. Players from both sides scrambled desperately for possession. Morata managed a touch, adjusted his stance, and prepared to shoot, only for Kai to hook the ball away at the final moment.
As Kai attempted to clear it, Pereira suddenly poked out a foot. The ball squirted through the tangle of bodies and emerged at the feet of Jack Wilshere, just outside the penalty area.
Wilshere stood momentarily stunned. He had been anxiously watching the chaos in the box when the ball suddenly appeared before him.
The Juventus players' eyes burned with intensity, as though they wished to tear him apart.
"Jack!" Kai roared. "Run! Open goal!"
Wilshere jolted into action. He pulled the ball forward, turned sharply, and launched into a powerful sprint.
Buffon immediately shouted, "Back! Get back on defence! Stop him!"
The remaining Juventus players with any energy gave chase. Wilshere surged up the pitch, dribbling at speed.
The pursuers closed in rapidly. Though fast, Wilshere began to lose momentum as he crossed the halfway line, his legs heavy with exhaustion. The Juventus players continued to gain ground.
At that critical moment, Wilshere lifted his head and fixed his gaze on the unguarded Juventus goal, approximately forty metres away. This would be his final act of the match.
He made a subtle adjustment, turned his body slightly, and struck the ball with the inside of his foot in a smooth, passing motion. Bonucci caught up and slid in with a tackle, bringing Wilshere to the ground. But it was too late.
All eyes followed the ball's trajectory through the air. Buffon sprinted back relentlessly. The ball bounced near the penalty spot and rolled towards the goal. Buffon lunged desperately into his own penalty area, arms outstretched, and threw his body forward in a full-length dive.
In mid-air, he extended his arms fully, fingertips straining to hook the ball away. He made contact and flicked hard, but the ball slipped past his reach. Buffon's face turned pale as he watched helplessly while the ball nestled into the net.
At thirty-seven years of age, Gianluigi Buffon would once again be denied the Champions League.
Bang!
He landed heavily on the turf, yet the physical impact paled in comparison to the pain in his heart.
We've conceded again.
Arsenal had scored once more, extending their lead to 4-2.
For Juventus, hope had finally evaporated. Arsenal had delivered the decisive blow in the dying moments.
Wilshere lay on the grass, watching the ball settle in the goal. His tense body slowly relaxed. He rolled onto his back, gazing up at the sky, and stretched both hands upward as if to touch the moment itself.
A smile spread across his face, growing into laughter that soon gave way to uncontrollable tears.
"We are—" Wilshere roared with everything he had left, "Champions!"
"A decisive blow!
Wilshere!
Wilshere has done it!"
Martin Tyler roared into the microphone.
His voice thundered across the stadium and through television screens around the world, igniting every Arsenal supporter watching that moment unfold.
"In the dying moments of the final, Jack Wilshere delivered the goal that would crown Arsenal kings of Europe.
The Old Lady has no way back."
With less than a minute remaining, scoring twice against this Arsenal side was impossible.
Everyone inside the stadium understood it now.
Arsenal were about to become champions of Europe.
A new king had risen.
Arsenal stood at the top of European football.
"Oh, my God! It's in! We've won! We've finally won!"
Billy leapt from his seat, his face soaked with sweat and tears. Around him, countless Arsenal fans broke down in joy.
More than a century of waiting.
Generations of hope, heartbreak, and disappointment.
For so many years, Arsenal supporters had dreamed of this moment. Now, that dream was finally becoming reality.
The Arsenal end exploded.
The cheers swept across the stands like a storm.
Fans jumped into each other's arms, screaming, crying, laughing. Some collapsed to their knees. Others simply stared at the pitch in disbelief.
This was the Champions League.
The trophy that had always escaped them.
Different from every league title, every domestic cup, every past achievement.
Tonight, Arsenal wrote history.
And every supporter inside the stadium had become part of it.
On the touchline, Arsène Wenger and his coaching staff erupted from the bench.
The usually composed Wenger completely lost control of his emotions. He clenched his fists and roared toward the sky, releasing years of pressure, frustration, and longing in a single moment.
The coaches and substitutes were desperate to charge onto the pitch, but the match had not officially ended yet.
They could only wait.
Every pair of eyes remained fixed on Referee Çakır.
Out on the field, Le Kai pulled Wilshere back to his feet and wrapped an arm around his shoulder.
"I told you you could do it!"
He kept patting Wilshere on the back, unable to hide his excitement.
This was the Champions League.
The greatest dream in club football.
And for Arsenal, this was the first in the club's history.
At that moment, Kai felt an overwhelming sense of pride.
Still, he forced himself to stay focused.
There was barely any time left, but Arsenal could not afford even the smallest mistake.
As it turned out, his caution was unnecessary.
Juventus had accepted defeat.
The Italian players stood frozen in place, their faces filled with despair. Some lowered their heads. Some stared blankly into the distance. A few were already in tears.
Football had always been cruel.
The winners celebrated.
The losers suffered.
The referee glanced down at his watch.
Every Arsenal fan inside the stadium held their breath.
Alan Smith's voice rose once more.
"Ladies and gentlemen, get ready! We are about to witness a brand new chapter in football history!"
"For more than a hundred years, Arsenal have been one of England's great clubs. League titles, domestic trophies, unforgettable players, they've had all of it. But Europe was always the missing piece."
"In the 2005-06 season, Arsène Wenger led a brilliant Arsenal side all the way to the Champions League Final. Henry, Vieira's legacy, that generation came within touching distance of glory."
"But in Paris, Barcelona broke their hearts."
"They were only one step away from immortality."
"That defeat haunted Arsenal for ten long years."
"And now, they are back!"
"This time, they will not let the trophy slip away!"
The referee slowly raised the whistle to his lips.
Martin Tyler continued from his partner, stretching his voice to the limit.
"The match is about to end! Everybody, shout it with me!"
"Arsenal! Champions of Europe!"
Beep! Beep! Beeeeeep!
. . .
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