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Francesco sat back, shoulders squared, hands folded loosely in front of him. He glanced once toward Wenger, who gave a near-imperceptible nod.
The nod was barely visible.
But it was there.
Francesco returned his gaze to the room as the first question was asked, the words washing over him in a blur of languages and accents. He answered when prompted, calmly, honestly, choosing his phrasing carefully without sounding rehearsed. Wenger did the same beside him, measured as ever, deflecting praise toward the collective, defusing any attempt to frame the night as a finished job.
When it was over, when the cameras finally powered down and the journalists began to pack away their equipment, the adrenaline ebbed at last.
They stood.
Hands were shaken.
A few polite smiles were exchanged.
Then they were back in the corridor again, the noise behind them replaced by the hollow quiet of concrete and steel.
"Good," Wenger said simply as they walked. "Now we move on."
And they did.
The days that followed slipped past in a familiar rhythm.
Recovery sessions. Light training. Tactical meetings. Media obligations. The hum of London returning around them as winter pressed in with its pale skies and biting mornings. The Bayern result lingered in the background, replayed endlessly on screens, dissected by pundits, celebrated by supporters but inside the training ground, it was already filed away.
There was work to do.
The FA Cup waited.
By the time February 20 arrived, the world felt very different from that electric night in Munich.
Smaller.
Closer.
Sutton.
Gander Green Lane.
No towering stands or Champions League banners. No sweeping bowl of concrete and glass. Just a compact stadium nestled into its surroundings, old-school and proud, hemmed in by streets and houses that seemed to lean toward it on matchdays.
The Arsenal bus rolled in slowly, escorted by stewards, the red crest on its side drawing curious glances from locals and clusters of supporters pressed up against barriers. Phones were raised. Scarves waved. A few chants broke out, raw and unpolished, echoing off brick walls.
Francesco sat a few rows back, headphones on but no music playing.
He watched through the window.
Kids in oversized coats. Elderly men with flat caps pulled low. A group of Sutton fans holding a hand-painted banner that read Dream Big. The pitch lights glowed against the grey afternoon, softer than the floodlights of Europe but no less inviting.
"Different world, huh?" Walker murmured beside him.
Francesco nodded. "That's the point."
The bus came to a stop.
Doors hissed open.
Cold air rushed in.
They stepped out one by one, boots crunching lightly against gravel, jackets zipped up against the chill. The smell hit him immediately that cut grass, damp earth, fried food drifting in from somewhere beyond the turnstiles.
Football stripped bare.
Inside, the dressing room was tighter than what they were used to. Benches packed closer together. Hooks instead of lockers. A whiteboard propped against the wall with magnets already arranged.
But it was still a dressing room.
And that meant it still mattered.
They changed quickly, efficiently. Training tops off, match kits laid out neatly. Ospina pulled on his gloves with practiced calm. Holding sat quietly, headphones in, eyes closed. Giroud adjusted his socks and boots with meticulous care, every movement deliberate.
Francesco moved to his place among the substitutes, hanging his jacket, slipping into his tracksuit bottoms, lacing his boots even though he wouldn't start. Habit. Readiness.
No assumptions.
They headed out to warm up together.
The pitch felt closer than most, the stands almost breathing down their necks. Supporters were already filtering in, their voices carrying clearly across the small ground. Every shout felt personal. Every cheer direct.
Francesco jogged lightly, stretching his legs, passing the ball back and forth with Oxlade-Chamberlain. The turf was slightly uneven, softer underfoot, the kind of surface that demanded attention.
"This'll be physical," Ox said, grinning. "Proper cup tie."
Francesco smiled. "Good."
They finished warming up and headed back inside, steam rising from their breath now as the temperature dropped further. Boots were retied. Shirts pulled on. Shin guards adjusted.
The red and white felt heavier today.
Not with expectation, but with respect.
Wenger stood at the front of the room, hands resting lightly on the edge of the tactics board. When everyone was settled, he spoke.
"Today," he said, "we play a team with nothing to lose."
He let that sink in.
"They will fight for every ball. Every second. This is their final. We must treat it as such."
He turned to the board.
"Formation is four-two-three-one."
His finger moved with each name.
"Ospina in goal."
Ospina nodded once.
"Defenders from left to right is Robertson, Holding, Mustafi, Bellerín."
They straightened, focus sharpening.
"Elneny and Ramsey," Wenger continued. "You control the rhythm. Stay disciplined."
Both men acknowledged him.
"Santi," Wenger said, turning slightly. "You lead us today."
Cazorla met his gaze, calm and steady. "Yes, boss."
"Iwobi left. Gnabry right. Giroud through the middle."
Giroud rolled his shoulders, eyes already distant, locked in.
"And the bench," Wenger added, glancing briefly toward them. "Be ready."
Francesco met his eyes for just a moment.
Understood.
"Respect the opponent," Wenger finished. "Impose yourselves. And enjoy the game."
The starting eleven stood.
The tunnel beckoned.
Francesco and the other substitutes followed, stopping short, peeling off toward the bench as the starters lined up to walk out. He sat down slowly, pulling his jacket tighter around him, eyes fixed on the pitch.
The whistle blew.
The game began.
The whistle cut through the cold air, sharp and final, and the noise rose immediately around Gander Green Lane.
Not a roar like Munich.
Not a wall of sound.
But something rawer. Closer. Voices stacked on top of one another, every shout distinct, every cheer personal. You could hear individual words, individual frustrations, individual hopes.
From the bench, Francesco leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on the pitch.
The first few minutes told him everything he needed to know.
Sutton United came out exactly as Wenger had warned with brave, aggressive, eager. They pressed in short bursts, flew into early tackles, tried to turn every loose ball into a moment. Their midfielders chased shadows with pride, their defenders stepped out quickly, trying to shrink the space before Arsenal could settle.
But Arsenal didn't rush.
That was the difference.
The ball moved calmly from Mustafi to Holding, across to Bellerín, back inside to Ramsey, then out again. Short passes. Safe passes. Passes with intent, not urgency.
Francesco felt a quiet satisfaction build in his chest.
This was control.
Not flashy. Not arrogant. Just patient, relentless possession that slowly drained belief from the opposition.
Sutton chased.
Arsenal waited.
From the bench, Francesco could see it unfolding like a slow tide. Each completed sequence forced Sutton a step deeper. Each recycle of the ball pulled them wider, stretched them thinner, made the pitch feel bigger than it actually was.
Cazorla was everywhere.
Not sprinting. Not forcing. Just drifting into pockets, receiving on the half-turn, caressing the ball into space like it was an extension of his foot. One touch to escape pressure. Another to shift the angle. A third to release someone else.
At one point, a Sutton midfielder lunged desperately, sliding in with everything he had.
Cazorla skipped over it without breaking stride.
The crowd gasped.
Then applauded, even some of the home supporters unable to help themselves.
"Different class," someone near the bench muttered.
Francesco nodded unconsciously.
On the touchline, Wenger stood still, arms folded, eyes sharp. No gestures. No shouting. He trusted the plan.
By the tenth minute, Sutton were already breathing harder.
Their press lost its shape. Gaps opened between lines. Arsenal's defenders stepped higher, compressing the pitch even more.
Elneny and Ramsey took turns anchoring, one sitting while the other advanced, always offering a passing option, always closing the door when Sutton tried to break.
From the bench, Oxlade-Chamberlain leaned toward Francesco.
"They're suffocating them," he said quietly.
Francesco didn't take his eyes off the pitch. "That's the idea."
The first real warning came at fourteen minutes.
Bellerín burst forward down the right, overlapping Gnabry at pace. Gnabry checked inside, dragging a defender with him, then slipped the ball perfectly into the channel.
Bellerín's cross flashed across the six-yard box.
Giroud slid.
Missed by inches.
The Sutton keeper scrambled, heart in mouth, as the ball skidded harmlessly out of play.
The home crowd roared encouragement, but there was nervousness in it now.
They could feel the door creaking.
Three minutes later, it opened.
It started, as so many Arsenal goals did, with patience.
Holding stepped out from the back, unchallenged, and fed Ramsey. Ramsey turned, saw no immediate pressure, and waited that just long enough to draw a Sutton midfielder toward him.
Then he slipped the ball sideways.
Cazorla.
Of course.
Santi received it between two red shirts, his body already angled, already thinking two steps ahead. A feint with his left froze one defender. A delicate touch with his right created half a yard.
That was all he needed.
Giroud had been wrestling quietly with his marker all afternoon, leaning, nudging, occupying space. The moment Cazorla lifted his head, Giroud peeled away, just a fraction, creating a sliver of space inside the box.
The pass was perfect.
Not hard.
Not flashy.
Just weighted with absolute trust.
Giroud met it first time.
A crisp, controlled strike.
The net rippled.
For a split second, there was silence.
Then the away end erupted.
Red shirts wheeled away. Arms went up. Giroud turned toward Cazorla, pointing at him emphatically before being swallowed by teammates.
From the bench, Francesco exhaled slowly, a smile tugging at his mouth.
1–0.
Earned.
He stood briefly, clapping, then sat back down as Wenger allowed himself a single nod on the touchline.
Sutton tried to respond.
To their credit, they didn't fold. They pushed forward in ones and twos, a long ball here, a hopeful cross there. Ospina dealt with it calmly, commanding his area, catching cleanly, slowing the tempo whenever he could.
Each Sutton attack seemed to take more out of them than it did Arsenal.
Possession returned.
Relentless.
By the half-hour mark, Sutton's legs were visibly heavier. Their midfield dropped deeper, their forwards isolated. Arsenal circulated the ball with increasing confidence, stretching the pitch horizontally, then probing vertically.
Iwobi and Gnabry began to enjoy themselves.
Iwobi drifted inside, linking with Cazorla, drawing defenders toward him before releasing the ball wide again. Gnabry hugged the touchline, then darted inward suddenly, testing reactions, forcing mistakes.
At thirty-five minutes, it paid off.
The move began on the left.
Robertson pushed up, overlapping Iwobi, who checked his run and held the ball just long enough to invite pressure. Two Sutton players closed him down, believing they had him boxed in.
Iwobi slipped the ball past them with the outside of his foot.
Robertson crossed early.
Low.
Fast.
The Sutton defender stuck out a boot, deflecting it slightly, but not enough.
The ball ran through to the far side of the box where Gnabry had timed his run perfectly, ghosting in behind his marker.
One touch.
Shot.
Goal.
2–0.
This time, there was no hesitation.
Arsenal's bench rose as one.
Francesco clapped hard, once, then again, the sound sharp against the cold air. He caught Gnabry's eye as the winger ran back toward his half, face alight, chest puffed out.
Confidence.
The most dangerous thing of all.
Sutton's heads dropped momentarily, then lifted again as their supporters urged them on, louder now, defiant in the face of the scoreline. They sang because that was what they had come to do that to witness, to resist, to believe.
And for the rest of the half, the game settled into something steadier.
Arsenal didn't force a third.
They didn't need to.
They kept the ball. Drew fouls. Let the minutes tick by. Sutton chased, harried, fought, but the gaps never truly opened again.
Francesco watched every movement, every pattern.
He noted how Elneny positioned himself when Arsenal recycled possession. How Ramsey adjusted his pressing angle. How Cazorla dropped deeper when Sutton tried to step out.
He wasn't on the pitch.
But he was in the game.
The halftime whistle blew, and the players jogged off.
Some Sutton players bent over, hands on knees, breathing hard. Arsenal walked, controlled, composed.
From the bench, Francesco rose and followed the rest inside.
The dressing room was quieter now.
Not tense.
Focused.
Players took their seats, water bottles passed around, towels draped over shoulders. Boots were loosened, shin guards shifted. Breathing slowed.
Wenger stood again at the front, waiting until the room settled fully.
"Good," he said simply.
No overpraise.
No theatrics.
"Possession is excellent. Tempo is correct."
He pointed at the board.
"But do not relax."
He looked directly at them now.
"They will come again. With pride. With long balls. With second balls. We must stay compact."
He gestured toward the midfield.
"Elneny, Ramsey, do not both go. One holds."
They nodded.
"Santi," he continued, softer. "You choose when to slow it. When to accelerate."
Cazorla smiled faintly. "Yes."
"To the wide players," Wenger said. "Be patient. The space will come again."
He paused, letting his eyes sweep the room.
"We are not here to entertain," he said. "We are here to advance."
A murmur of agreement.
From his seat among the substitutes, Francesco listened, absorbing every word. He knew his moment might come later or not at all. Either way, his job was the same.
Be ready.
Be sharp.
Be present.
As the players stood to head back out, Wenger added one final thing.
"Respect the game," he said. "Finish properly."
They filed toward the tunnel again.
Francesco took his place back on the bench, jacket zipped, hands clasped, eyes forward.
The second half awaited.
The second half began with a crisp whistle that cut across Gander Green Lane like a blade through fog.
Arsenal came out just as they had left the pitch that calm, collected, purposeful. The cold air hit them immediately, a reminder that they were not in a European palace of glass and steel but a small, intimate stadium, every sound close, every movement visible. The fans' voices were sharp, personal, carrying both hope and disbelief as they cheered or shouted instructions.
Francesco leaned forward slightly on the bench, fingers intertwined over his knees, watching intently. He had his tracksuit zipped up, but the faint warmth of the stadium and the adrenaline from the first half kept his muscles alert. Around him, his teammates shifted slightly, leaning in to see patterns, cues, and the movement of the ball.
Sutton United came out fighting. They had nothing to lose and tried to catch Arsenal in moments of transition. Their front three pushed forward quickly whenever they had a chance, pressing aggressively and attempting to force errors. It was obvious they were looking for the counterattack. Whenever they won the ball, they launched long balls almost immediately, hoping to catch the Arsenal defense flat-footed.
But Arsenal were ready. Holding and Mustafi read the angles perfectly, stepping up or dropping back as needed. Bellerín and Robertson pushed forward on the flanks, but always with the awareness of a safety net behind them. Elneny and Ramsey held the midfield with patience, containing the space and intercepting the inevitable long passes with quiet precision.
From the bench, Francesco noticed the subtle movements on how Ramsey would subtly guide an opponent with his body, how Elneny positioned his shadow just behind the attacking line to block a pass. Every detail was exacting, and it all added up to suffocating control.
By the 48th minute, that control bore fruit. The ball moved quickly down the right wing. Bellerín drew attention as he overlapped, but Gnabry held back, waiting, measuring. He released a perfectly weighted pass into Iwobi, who had timed his run to perfection. One touch to control, another to shift, and then a clean strike past the Sutton keeper.
3–0.
The bench erupted softly, not in wild celebration but in recognition of craft executed perfectly. Francesco clapped sharply once, letting the sound carry, a nod of approval more than a cheer. The away fans raised their voices, singing now with energy fueled by the third goal so early in the second half.
The Sutton players regrouped immediately, frustration evident in their eyes and movements. They pressed harder, pressed longer, but Arsenal's rhythm was not disrupted. Ramsey and Elneny remained disciplined, cutting off passing lanes, forcing predictable play. The defense stayed compact, not panicked, guiding Sutton into corridors of less danger.
By the 62nd minute, the margin had grown again. This time it was a combination of timing, intelligence, and instinct. A neat exchange through the midfield drew defenders out of position. Ramsey saw Giroud make his subtle diagonal run into the box. The ball arrived exactly when it needed to. One touch from Giroud, a crisp, controlled finish, and it was 4–0.
Francesco exhaled, leaning slightly back on the bench. This was the kind of dominance that could feel clinical. Clean. Precise. And yet it was still beautiful in its own understated way. The control, the patience, the understanding of each teammate's movement as it was all on display without extravagance.
At 68 minutes, Sutton's manager made his move. A triple substitution, three defenders bolted onto the pitch in a desperate attempt to plug gaps and slow Arsenal's relentless tide. They were retreating, reshaping, determined to salvage pride. The home supporters roared their approval, cheering every touch and rallying their newly fortified defense.
Wenger, standing now at the edge of the technical area, simply observed for a moment. His eyes swept the field, measuring, assessing. Then he made the call. Giroud, Gnabry, and Iwobi with three of his most effective starters for the day as they were withdrawn. The substitutions were smooth, purposeful.
Francesco was the first to step onto the pitch. He rose immediately from the bench, tying his laces tighter, slipping into his armband habitually, the captain's instinct taking over even as he prepared to enter as a substitute. He exhaled, adjusting his tracksuit top and then pulling it off as he stepped forward. Boots planted firmly, eyes scanning the field. He could feel the game, not just see it.
Walcott and Oxlade-Chamberlain joined him, completing the triple switch. The three of them moved as one, seamlessly integrating into the existing formation, aware that the first priority wasn't flair but it was control, patience, and maintaining dominance.
From the bench, the remaining substitutes and Wenger watched quietly. There was trust, not hesitation. Francesco's presence on the field brought a subtle shift. The team didn't need a speech. His calm energy radiated to those around him. The tempo didn't change, but the sense of purpose sharpened.
As Francesco settled into his position, he could see Ramsey exchanging a glance with him. Elneny nodded faintly. The ball was at Cazorla's feet, spinning slowly in a tight triangle with Oxlade-Chamberlain and Walcott now on the flanks. The width of the pitch was under control, the depth managed, and the pressure constant.
Sutton United tried again. They ran forward in spurts, hoping a lapse in concentration might give them a glimmer. But the Arsenal midfield anticipated, pressing, intercepting, cutting angles before they opened. Francesco was active in the channels, offering support, calling, guiding. Even without the captain's armband, the aura was there.
The crowd sensed it too. Every Arsenal pass seemed to flow naturally. The energy of the team was smooth and relentless. The whistle of the fans came in wavelets, rising and falling, responding to each small triumph: a recovered ball, a blocked counter, a neat combination in midfield.
And Francesco, moving constantly, subtly orchestrating, feeding the rhythm, felt it with the quiet but unmistakable feeling that the game had been wrested under control. It wasn't about goals anymore. It was about ensuring that the inevitable didn't slip away.
Minutes passed in a steady pattern. Arsenal's possession remained fluid, stretching Sutton horizontally, probing vertically. Every once in a while, Francesco drifted inside, offering a passing option, a threat in behind, or a pressing block on an opposing midfielder trying to break the line. His movement was intelligent, invisible yet impactful.
The crowd at Gander Green Lane could sense it. They weren't in a grand European stadium, but they could feel the superiority, the inevitability of the red shirts' control. Each time Arsenal completed a string of passes without threat, a soft murmur of approval spread like wildfire among the traveling fans.
The clock ticked toward the 75th minute. Wenger remained at the edge of the technical area, calm but vigilant, ready to adjust if necessary. Francesco's presence allowed some of the original starters a brief respite while maintaining absolute pressure on Sutton. Walcott darted past a defender on the right, Oxlade-Chamberlain pulled wide, opening space, and the movement was continuous, fluid.
Each touch, each pass, each run reinforced Arsenal's dominance. Sutton could not escape it. They tried desperately to clog spaces, to force turnovers, to challenge the rhythm but it was too late. Arsenal's possession, patience, and intelligence had created a self-reinforcing system.
Francesco noticed the tiredness beginning to creep into Sutton's legs. They were slower to press, slower to recover, slower to react. Arsenal recognized it too. The team maintained focus, moving as a unit, exploiting the smallest openings without rushing.
From the bench, Wenger allowed himself a small smile, acknowledging that the substitutions had worked perfectly. The game was methodical now, a demonstration of preparation, anticipation, and collective intelligence. Francesco, Walcott, and Oxlade-Chamberlain were perfectly integrated, augmenting the structure rather than disrupting it.
The minutes ticked on, the stadium alive with the rhythm of Arsenal's control. Francesco, now fully integrated into the team, felt the flow of the game like a living thing beneath his feet. Every movement was measured, every pass precise, every run designed to stretch the space, pull defenders out of shape, and keep Sutton chasing shadows. The cold February wind bit at exposed skin, but the warmth of purpose of being part of a cohesive, relentless machine that kept him sharp.
At 78 minutes, the moment he had been waiting for arrived.
It started on the left. Robertson had surged forward once again, drawing a defender and creating a seam that stretched from the touchline toward the box. The ball pinged into Oxlade-Chamberlain's feet with a clever little swivel, a subtle touch forward, a flick into Francesco's path.
Francesco could see the space open, a tiny gap between two defenders. He timed his step perfectly, heart quickening but mind completely clear. One touch to control, another to shift, and then the strike.
The net bulged.
5–0.
For a heartbeat, everything froze with the shouts from the away fans, the excited gasps of the home crowd, even the rush of players celebrating, but then the Arsenal bench erupted. Francesco raised a fist, grinning broadly, and turned toward Oxlade-Chamberlain, who was bounding over, hands in the air, sharing the moment of creation.
It wasn't just a goal. It was a confirmation. It was precision, patience, teamwork, and intelligence all coming together. It was every subtle movement of the past hour paying off in one moment of clean execution.
On the pitch, Sutton's players trudged back to position, faces flushed and frustrated. They had given everything they had, but it was clear: they were being outclassed. Arsenal's rhythm was too strong, their possession too unrelenting. The ball moved from Elneny to Ramsey, across to Cazorla, flitting to Walcott on the right, back into the midfield as it was a living organism, responding perfectly to any threat Sutton could muster.
At 84 minutes, Arsenal struck again.
A clever push up the right from Robertson, a sweeping cross that cut through the box, finding Walcott at the edge of the six-yard area. He didn't hesitate. One touch to control, a second to fire past the keeper, and it was 6–0.
The bench was jubilant, clapping, standing, cheering, but it was more than just the numbers on the scoreboard. It was the way Arsenal had methodically dismantled a team that came to fight, to dream, and had been forced to witness their vision executed so flawlessly. Francesco smiled quietly, absorbing the moment. It was beautiful, but not arrogant but it was disciplined, intelligent, deserved.
Sutton didn't give up. Even in the shadow of the scoreline, they chased, they harried, they fought for every second. They had one golden opportunity near the 88th minute with a breakaway, a gap that opened briefly, but Ospina was ready. The keeper came out decisively, cut the angle, and blocked the shot with perfect timing. The ball ricocheted harmlessly into the side netting, and the moment passed, leaving Sutton with only frustration and Arsenal with calm satisfaction.
Francesco watched the final minutes unfold, moving quietly, making himself available for any transition, guiding the rhythm, ensuring that no lapse could occur. Every touch of the ball, every movement of a teammate, every small defensive adjustment was a confirmation of the team's supremacy that day. The crowd sensed it too, applauding the intelligent control, the composed finishing, the demonstration of what disciplined football could achieve.
When the final whistle blew, the scoreline read 6–0.
The reaction was a mix of controlled elation and quiet pride. The starting eleven high-fived, clapped hands, exchanged smiles with the substitutes, and shared the sense of work completed perfectly. Francesco allowed himself a brief moment to stand, shaking hands with Oxlade-Chamberlain and Walcott, nodding to the starters, absorbing the energy of a team that had executed the game plan without a hitch.
The players made their way slowly back to the dressing room, careful not to slip on the damp patches of grass. The corridors smelled faintly of mud and sweat, a reminder that football in its purest form was a physical, human endeavor. Inside the dressing room, the atmosphere was lighter than it had been before kickoff, but still professional. Wenger stood near the front, observing his team as they settled, and then spoke in measured tones.
"Very good," he said simply. "Every phase executed with intelligence. Every run, every pass, every position maintained." He allowed a small pause, letting the words sink in. "Do not underestimate the effort. The result is excellent, but the discipline was the key."
Players nodded. Francesco, still sweating from exertion, felt the warmth of success settle in him as not just for scoring or being on the pitch, but for being part of a team that had understood and implemented a collective vision perfectly.
The celebrations were restrained, small smiles and quiet exchanges rather than boisterous shouts. Drinks were passed around, towels draped across shoulders, and the players allowed themselves to breathe fully, releasing the physical tension that had accumulated over ninety minutes.
Francesco leaned back, feeling the ache in his legs, the stiffness in his back, but also the satisfaction. He knew that in these moments with the controlled, methodical victories in the FA Cup, the intelligence and patience displayed that teams built character. They didn't just win matches. They learned how to dominate without arrogance, how to control without aggression, how to succeed as a cohesive unit.
Ospina came over briefly, a small grin on his face. "Good work today," he said quietly. "Not just the goals but you were everywhere, always thinking."
Francesco nodded, feeling the words settle comfortably. "We all played well," he replied. "Everyone kept the rhythm. That's what matters."
Wenger's presence remained quiet but unmistakable, a subtle nod here, a glance there. He had allowed the team to express itself within the framework, trusting the preparation, trusting the structure. And it had paid off, brilliantly.
As the players cleaned up, changed into tracksuits, and began trickling out of the dressing room, Francesco felt the lingering warmth of exertion, of concentration, of being fully immersed in the game. The scoreboard reflected the dominance, yes, but it was the process, the careful execution, the intelligence of the team that lingered in his mind.
6–0.
A perfect afternoon at Gander Green Lane. A victory that would be remembered not for spectacle, but for precision, patience, and purpose. And for Francesco, it was another step in understanding what it meant to be part of a team that thought collectively, acted decisively, and dominated intelligently on the pitch and beyond.
The players left the stadium slowly, stepping onto the bus where the February cold awaited again. Inside, laughter bubbled quietly among the team, recounting moments, subtle triumphs, clever passes, and near misses. Francesco settled into his seat, unzipping his tracksuit, stretching his legs slightly, and letting the satisfaction of a day done perfectly wash over him.
The bus hummed along, red crest gleaming faintly in the pale winter light, carrying a team united not just by talent, but by intelligence, discipline, and the quiet joy of knowing they had played football the right way.
______________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 18 (2015)
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, and Euro 2016
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 35
Goal: 55
Assist: 2
MOTM: 7
POTM: 1
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