The King Of Arsenal

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As the match pressed on, Arsenal's intent sharpened. Giroud held the ball up better, dragging defenders with him. Özil ghosted into pockets of space between lines. Francesco and Alexis switched flanks briefly, trying to unbalance Spurs' shape.

The whistle had barely restarted play when Arsenal surged again, blood up and crowd behind them.

The midfield triangle of Kanté, Cazorla, and Özil began to spin, circulate, and rotate with new venom. Spurs, shaken by Lamela's booking, looked jittery in possession, hesitant in the tackle. Francesco, now back on the right flank, drifted into half-spaces with calculated menace, timing his runs off Özil's passes like clockwork. Every time the ball neared him, the crowd lifted. A single touch could draw a collective inhale from the Emirates. That was how keyed in they were to his rhythm.

Then came the 24th minute.

Cazorla picked up the ball just inside the halfway line, slipped a pass to Özil, who checked his shoulder and found Francesco already in motion on the right. Francesco didn't even break stride. He took the pass with one touch and immediately surged down the wing.

Vertonghen came to close the angle, but Francesco didn't take him on directly. Instead, he leaned inside, fainted a cut, then zipped down the outside with a sudden burst that left the Belgian a step behind. Just before the ball crossed the byline, Francesco whipped in a cross—his weaker left foot, but struck with so much whip and pace it felt like a pass from a script.

The ball curved through the air, dipping toward the penalty spot, where Olivier Giroud was already airborne.

Between Vertonghen, who was scrambling to recover, and Alderweireld, who had mistimed his jump, Giroud rose like a statue pulled from the earth. Arms out, neck snapped forward, the connection was clean, thunderous.

Lloris flung himself left—but it was already too late.

The ball rocketed past him, burying itself in the back of the net.

1–0.

The Emirates detonated.

Francesco didn't even celebrate at first. He stood there, fists clenched, chest heaving, watching Giroud wheel away toward the corner flag with arms wide and eyes wild. Then he sprinted after him, joining the dogpile of red that enveloped their number nine.

Van Dijk and Koscielny came thundering up the pitch. Cazorla kissed both hands toward the crowd. Kanté gave a short, satisfied nod—his contribution buried in the buildup but vital all the same.

And on the touchline, Wenger pumped a rare fist in the air.

Back at the halfway line, Spurs players regrouped slowly, tight-lipped and angry.

But Arsenal?

They looked like men possessed.

And it only got hotter.

Just four minutes later, the fire flared again.

Sánchez had just taken down a switch pass from Özil on the left, isolated one-on-one with Kyle Walker. The Chilean dipped a shoulder, flicked the ball past Walker's right hip, and exploded toward the byline.

Walker, caught off-balance, flailed—and caught Sánchez full on the ankle with a sweeping leg.

The Emirates howled in fury.

Sánchez went flying, spinning once before landing heavily on his side near the advertising boards.

The whistle blew sharply.

But the red shirts weren't waiting for the referee.

Francesco was the first to arrive, sprinting across the pitch from the right flank.

"What the hell was that?!" he shouted, shoving Walker back a step, his face flushed with fury.

Giroud and Debuchy weren't far behind. Kanté too, normally the calmest on the pitch, had his hands raised in protest, barking in his quiet but intense manner.

Walker, face defiant and arms spread in a mock gesture of innocence, shouted back. "It was a tackle!"

"Oh, was it?" Giroud snapped, chesting into him. "Looked like an assault!"

Within seconds, Spurs players poured in—Vertonghen grabbing Walker's shoulders and dragging him back, Dier stepping between Debuchy and Alderweireld, who had his fists clenched at his sides.

Sánchez was still on the ground, wincing but already trying to sit up.

Özil stood over him, arm outstretched, calling for the physios.

Pushing began. Hands slapped hands away. Eriksen tried to play mediator but got shouldered aside. Lloris sprinted upfield, waving his arms at his own players, shouting to get back.

And once again, Francesco was in the thick of it.

"Back up! He's on the ground, damn it!" he shouted, physically pulling Giroud away from the fray. "Let the ref handle it!"

But the ref was already there, furious.

He blew his whistle three times in rapid succession, sharp enough to slice glass.

"ENOUGH!"

His voice cracked like a whip as he stepped between the sea of players, arms wide.

"Both teams—back to your halves! NOW!"

It took a few seconds, but the storm began to ebb.

Vertonghen tugged Walker away, shaking his head. Lloris herded his defenders back with hands on their backs like a schoolteacher breaking up a fight. Wenger, on the sideline, stood stock still, arms crossed, eyes burning into the center of the pitch.

Sánchez was now upright, limping slightly as he waved off the medics. "I'm good," he muttered, eyes on Walker.

Francesco caught his eye. "You sure?"

"I've taken worse from Chilean league games."

Francesco almost smiled.

The referee pulled Walker aside.

"You're on thin ice," he said sternly, tapping his own chest. "This is a final warning. You pull something like that again, and you're off."

Walker didn't argue. He just nodded and walked away, still fuming but smart enough not to push it.

The Arsenal players finally settled back into shape. But the tone had changed again.

This was no longer just football.

This was territory, pride, legacy.

It was red blood and white fury, and the line between the two was vanishing fast.

Wenger's voice cut through the sideline: "Control! Control!"

And Francesco knew what he meant.

"Head in the game!" he called to the others as he jogged back into position.

Because the derby was only a third through.

The energy hadn't fully settled after the scuffle. Arsenal's shape had returned, yes, and their players had resumed position. But the anger was still there, flickering under the skin like a controlled burn. It was in Debuchy's stare, still glancing over at Walker with narrowed eyes. In Giroud's jaw, clenched and twitching. In the way Francesco jogged back into formation—head turning to check on Sánchez again, muttering something under his breath.

And it lingered in the crowd too. The Emirates had been electric, but now it crackled. There was a sharpness to the noise—a whistling, murmuring edge of indignation still hanging in the air. The fans weren't just cheering now. They were demanding. Wanting vengeance. Wanting control.

But the problem was… Arsenal weren't quite ready.

Their lines were restored, yes. Their discipline? Not yet.

And Tottenham knew it.

The moment the ball was in play again, Danny Rose surged forward with a hunger that hadn't been there earlier. He exchanged a quick one-two with Eriksen and danced down the flank, sprinting with that wiry-legged grace he had. Debuchy stepped to him, too high up the pitch, and left space behind. Cazorla tried to plug it, but he was seconds too late.

In the space of two passes, Spurs had snapped Arsenal's shape open like a cracker.

Rose didn't hesitate. He reached the edge of the final third, looked up, and saw Kane peeling off Van Dijk's shoulder. Koscielny was still backpedaling, watching the winger—but too late to cover.

Rose curled in a low, fast cross. Perfect weight. Right in that corridor of uncertainty between Čech and the back line.

And Harry Kane?

He lived for those.

The number 10 timed his run to perfection, stepped ahead of Van Dijk, and met the ball with the inside of his right foot just before it could skid past him.

Čech had no time.

The ball zipped under his arm and into the bottom corner.

1–1.

The away end exploded.

White shirts sprinted to the corner flag. Kane, fist pumping, turned and roared at the crowd as if he were silencing ghosts. Eriksen clapped his hands once and jogged over to hug him. Dier raised both fists, shouting skyward. Walker—still public enemy number one—stayed back, pointing toward the halfway line like he'd already moved on.

On the touchline, Mauricio Pochettino pumped his fist once and nodded, then immediately turned and shouted instructions—he knew the moment was theirs.

And Arsenal?

They looked like they'd been sucker punched.

Not from the move—no, from their own lapse.

Francesco knew it the moment the net rippled. He didn't even glance at the bench. He turned on his heel and shouted, sharp and furious:

"Get your heads back!"

His voice pierced through the haze. "They're not going to stop just because we're angry! Focus!"

Cazorla, chest heaving, nodded. Özil stood near the center circle, looking toward Wenger for a beat before shaking his head and clapping his hands once—urgently.

Van Dijk retrieved the ball from the net. No complaints. No protest. Just silent fury.

Because they all knew.

They'd let Tottenham back in. Not with brilliance—but with distraction. With hearts running hotter than heads.

The match resumed, but the rhythm was no longer smooth. It was stuttering, halting. Spurs pressed high. Arsenal adjusted slowly. And though the crowd remained loud, it was no longer celebratory. It was anxious.

By the 36th minute, Wenger had stepped to the touchline for the first time in ten minutes.

"Calm it down!" he shouted toward Cazorla and Kanté. "Settle! Keep the ball!"

They did. Gradually.

Pass by pass, Arsenal reasserted a grip on the game. Not total control, but tension without chaos. Özil began to drop deeper, helping circulate possession. Francesco moved infield slightly, letting Debuchy run past him on the overlap, giving Spurs something to think about. Sánchez, to his credit, was still buzzing—more focused than ever, perhaps spurred by pain.

At the 39th, Giroud nodded a ball down for Özil just outside the box, and Özil flicked it to Francesco, who tried a curling shot—but it skidded wide.

Close, but not close enough.

Then the minutes ticked toward halftime.

Forty-one.

Forty-two.

Wenger turned toward Steve Bould and muttered something. Likely already thinking about what he'd need to say during the break.

But then—Arsenal struck.

The 43rd minute began quietly.

A throw-in deep in their own half. Monreal to Kanté. Kanté to Özil.

Özil turned once. Looked. Turned again. Still nothing vertical.

He didn't panic.

He dribbled back toward his own half, drawing Lamela with him, then spun and sprayed a diagonal switch—one of those quiet, perfect passes only he would dare attempt under pressure.

It dropped out of the sky and met Francesco's chest with a pillow-soft landing.

He touched it down, turned, and clipped a short ball back into midfield, where Cazorla picked it up, and just as the Spurs midfield pressed, he snapped it right back into Özil's feet.

One-two. Fluid.

And this time, Özil didn't hesitate.

He turned and saw Sánchez already making his run across the shoulder of Dier.

The pass? Pure silk.

It curved in behind, just tight enough to beat the trap, just slow enough for Sánchez to reach it in stride.

And Sánchez?

He was limping fifteen minutes ago.

Now he was flying.

He took the ball in stride, cut once past Vertonghen's attempted lunge, and bore down on Lloris.

There was no flick, no flair—just ferocity.

He smashed it low and hard into the near corner with his laces, and the net bulged like a sail catching wind.

2–1.

The stadium ignited again—but this time, it wasn't explosive joy. It was catharsis. Relief and fury and pride and adrenaline in one singular noise.

Sánchez slid on his knees toward the corner flag, arms raised, fists clenched, teeth bared in something between a smile and a war cry. Özil jogged over, tapping his chest and pointing back at him. Francesco was right behind, thumping the Chilean's back once, then lifting both fists to the crowd.

And this time, there was no retaliation. No cheap shot. No afters.

Only football.

Pure, brilliant football.

Spurs, for all their fire, had been undone by the quietest killer on the pitch—Özil. And the fiercest—Sánchez.

As the teams reset for kickoff, the scoreboard beamed red.

Arsenal 2. Tottenham 1.

Francesco jogged back to his position, exhaling deeply. He turned to Kanté and Cazorla. "Keep it tight till the break."

Kanté nodded, already adjusting his position.

And as the 44th minute turned to the 45th, Arsenal finally looked calm again. Not complacent—but controlled. Purposeful.

The remaining seconds of the half ticked down with patient possession. Spurs pressed but couldn't find a gap. Lamela chased, Eriksen chased, but every channel was covered.

And when the fourth official's board went up—two minutes—the crowd exhaled again.

Arsenal just needed to ride the wave in.

They did.

Then the whistle blew.

Halftime.

The roar of the Emirates was still echoing off the rafters as the players trotted toward the tunnel, sweat-slicked and breathless, but now with the weight of momentum restored on their shoulders. Spurs players marched off with tight jaws and darting eyes, frustration etched across their faces. Kane muttered something under his breath as he passed Özil. Vertonghen shook his head, tossing his wrist tape into the tunnel with a snap.

But Arsenal?

They walked in together.

Shoulders brushing. Breaths slowing. Hearts thudding.

And at the front of that line, Wenger stood waiting.

He didn't pace. He didn't bark. He just stood there, arms folded, face unreadable. The moment they stepped through the dressing room door, it began.

"Sit," he said simply. "And listen."

No one hesitated.

The door shut behind them, and suddenly the noise of the stadium—the buzz, the chants, the murmurs—faded like a dimmed frequency. All that remained was the hum of adrenaline and the rasp of breath as shirts were peeled off and water bottles cracked open.

Wenger stepped forward.

"That was a good first half," he said, finally breaking the silence. "But it was not perfect."

His gaze swept across the room, sharp and unwavering.

"We lost our discipline after the foul on Alexis. We let them back in. We let anger override structure."

His tone wasn't scolding. It was instructive. Calm. Cold. Focused.

"But then we fought. We responded. And we did it the right way—with the ball."

He gestured to Sánchez, who sat forward slightly, wrapping a bandage tighter around his ankle, nodding once.

"I need more of that. Less noise. More purpose."

He turned now to the midfielders—Cazorla, Özil, and Kanté.

"They're going to push harder in the second half. Eriksen and Alli will press higher. They'll try to catch you out in transition. So what do we do?"

"Keep the triangles," Cazorla muttered.

"Move quicker between the lines," Özil added, brow damp.

"Don't get isolated," Kanté said quietly.

"Exactly," Wenger nodded. "We stay compact. We rotate. You three—switch zones if they man-mark. Make them chase ghosts."

Then he turned to the defense.

"Van Dijk, Laurent—Kane is going to drop deeper. Don't follow. Pass him on. Let N'Golo handle the pocket."

The two center-backs gave tight nods.

"And up top—"

He didn't need to finish.

Francesco sat perched at the edge of the bench, not even resting back. He looked alive, tuned in, muscles still thrumming with the energy of that first half. His eyes flicked to Wenger's, and there was a moment—silent but sharp—where everything passed unspoken.

Wenger simply said, "You'll know when to go."

Then he turned and wrote the number 60 on the whiteboard behind him.

"By the hour mark, I want us out of sight. We kill this match before they can change it."

No more words were needed. The second half awaited.

⸻

The tunnel buzzed again as they emerged—Spurs already lined up, determined but desperate.

And when the referee's whistle restarted the derby, Arsenal didn't hesitate.

They took control again.

It wasn't wild, rushing dominance—it was the calm suffocation of a team dictating pace. Özil and Cazorla pinged passes with effortless accuracy. Kanté prowled and pounced, snapping up second balls, pressing Alli backward whenever the youngster dared surge forward.

And Francesco? He drifted. Quietly. Cleverly. He was on the right one minute, tucked inside the next. Always available. Always a threat.

But Tottenham had adjusted too.

Alli and Eriksen doubled down in midfield, pushing tighter to the ball, trying to deny time. They began to wrestle back momentum—inch by inch, like a tide coming in.

By the 52nd minute, they had Arsenal pinned deeper. A low cross forced Van Dijk into a desperate clearance. A blocked shot from Eriksen skidded wide. Kane called for a penalty after tumbling under pressure from Koscielny—but the referee waved it away with a sharp shake of the head.

Still, the pressure was building.

And then—it cracked.

But not the way anyone expected.

It was the 56th minute when it happened.

Arsenal had just cleared their lines again, a hopeful punt from Čech finding its way to Kanté near the center circle. He chested it down and poked it sideways to Francesco—nothing special, just a routine pass to keep things moving.

Except Francesco didn't just keep it moving.

He exploded.

He turned, eyes scanning, and suddenly he was off—accelerating like a match had been struck inside his boots.

The first to come at him was Alli.

Francesco dropped a shoulder and skipped past him with a feint so quick it left Alli swiping at air.

Then it was Dier, who tried to step across him, body leaning. But Francesco toe-poked the ball forward at the last second and darted around the other side, retrieving it like a ghost slipping through walls.

Now he was in Spurs territory proper.

The crowd began to rise. Not in cheers—yet—but in a hush. A sharp, breath-held silence.

Vertonghen tried to close him. But Francesco chopped the ball right, then left, rolling it between his feet like it was tied on a string. Vertonghen lunged—too late. Beaten.

Three players down.

Still he ran.

The pitch opened up in front of him, Eriksen and Walker closing in from either side. Francesco cut inside, then outside again—fluid, reactive, like water changing shape as it poured through hands.

Walker reached out—too aggressive—and Francesco took the contact, rolled his body with it, and stayed on his feet. The ref waved play on.

He was past them now.

Only Alderweireld stood between him and Lloris.

Giroud was screaming for the ball on the left. Sánchez sprinted through the middle, calling for it.

But Francesco didn't look up.

Not once.

He shifted the ball onto his right, shaped to shoot—and dragged it left instead. Alderweireld went the wrong way.

And now—it was just him and Lloris.

The keeper rushed out, fast and wide.

Francesco took one last touch.

Then he lifted it.

A chip. Soft. Calm. Precise.

The ball sailed over Lloris's left shoulder, arced gently—and dropped into the net, kissing the bottom corner like it was always meant to find home there.

The Emirates exploded.

This time—no confusion, no delay, no hesitation.

The entire stadium rose in one thunderous, shattering, euphoric roar.

People were hugging strangers. Beer was spilled. Seats were kicked. Hands flailed skyward. It was bedlam.

And Francesco?

He didn't even smile.

Not at first.

He jogged to the corner, arms loose by his side, chest heaving. Then he turned—slowly—and looked back at the run he had just made. At the six Spurs players he'd left scattered behind him like broken furniture in a storm.

Only then did the grin crack his face—feral and boyish and wild.

He raised both hands to his ears.

The noise doubled.

His teammates crashed into him seconds later—Sánchez leaping onto his back, Cazorla grabbing his neck, Giroud punching the air like he'd just been crowned king.

Wenger?

He just stood there.

Hands on his head.

Mouth open.

As if he'd just seen something not from this earth.

Steve Bould kept whispering, "What did I just watch? What did I just watch?"

The replay rolled on the jumbotron above.

Six players. One man. One run.

One goal.

Arsenal 3. Tottenham 1.

And the Emirates was ablaze.

The Emirates was still vibrating from the aftershock of Francesco's wondergoal.

The stands hadn't settled, the chants were still echoing, and even the broadcasters were scrambling to keep up with the replays. Six Tottenham players left in the dust, a pitch-length run, a chip over one of the best keepers in the league—people would be talking about it for years.

But on the touchline, the mood had fractured.

Mauricio Pochettino stood with his arms stretched out, palms open in disbelief, as if asking the heavens—or his players—how they could possibly allow that to happen. Behind him, Jesus Pérez barked instructions nobody heard, while goalkeeping coach Toni Jiménez stared at the pitch like he was watching a crime scene.

Tottenham weren't just stunned. They were unraveling.

Lloris retrieved the ball from the net slower than usual, his eyes cast low, expression unreadable. Walker slammed his fists against the turf once before jogging to position. Vertonghen was shouting something at Dier—furious, disjointed shouts of blame or desperation. Alderweireld, cheeks flushed red, just kept shaking his head.

From the sideline, Pochettino had to act.

Almost reflexively, he turned and grabbed Lamela by the shoulder. "Son. Warm up," he barked, not even looking at the Argentine, who stalked off toward the bench in a sulk.

Next: "Alli, off. Mason in." Alli looked stunned as the board went up. He jogged off slowly, jaw clenched.

And finally—perhaps the clearest sign of resignation—he subbed Eriksen, Tottenham's best technician, for young Josh Onomah. A roll of the dice. A prayer.

Wenger, in contrast, watched calmly. Eyes scanning the pitch. Lips pursed.

Steve Bould leaned in. "Do we respond?"

Wenger nodded slowly. "We maintain balance. Santi—he's given everything."

The call went out: Cazorla off, Flamini on. Energy. Simplicity. Solidity.

Cazorla clapped hands with Arteta and Flamini on the touchline, taking a long swig of water before sitting. No complaints. He knew the match had shifted into a different phase.

On the pitch, the tempo had cracked.

Not in intensity—but in rhythm. That goal hadn't just bruised Tottenham's pride. It broke their tempo.

Francesco's brilliance had rewired the game. There was a weight now, like every player felt the pressure of not making a mistake rather than creating something. The match entered a different gear. Slower. Heavier. Tense.

Arsenal moved with patience—Kanté ever reliable, Özil drifting deep to draw markers, Sánchez rotating left and right to keep Spurs guessing.

Tottenham responded with effort, but not clarity. Son made a couple darting runs—energetic, but too often isolated. Mason tried to bring tempo, pressing Flamini with wild eyes, but Arsenal's shape had grown more mature. More stubborn.

By the 69th minute, Wenger made his next move.

Debuchy, who had run himself into the ground—and nearly into a fight—was replaced by Kieran Gibbs. The left-back slid into his natural side, and Monreal swapped flanks temporarily to cover. It was a defensive shift, yes, but it also gave fresh legs against Son, who had just begun to probe that flank with more urgency.

A few minutes later, Özil jogged toward the sideline, exhausted.

The crowd gave him a standing ovation—appreciation not just for the assist, but for the artistry. Arteta came on in his place, slipping quietly into that midfield triangle, allowing the rest to breathe, to anchor. The captain brought a different kind of calm. Not flashy, not fast, but assured.

And the game settled.

Like sediment drifting to the bottom of a glass.

The final twenty minutes became a chess match.

Tottenham pushed, but without conviction. Kane had one curling shot from distance in the 73rd—Čech saved comfortably. Son cut inside and struck low in the 77th—deflected off Van Dijk for a corner.

Onomah had a brief moment in the 80th, wriggling free on the edge of the box after a clever one-two with Mason—but Koscielny closed it down before he could pull the trigger.

And Arsenal? They managed it.

Every time Spurs surged, they stepped back. Every time Spurs overcommitted, they countered with pace but not recklessness. Flamini cleaned up scraps. Arteta gestured constantly, organizing, shepherding.

In the 83rd minute, a brief moment of electricity sparked again—Francesco picked the ball up near the halfway line and began to accelerate, and the crowd collectively gasped.

But this time, Spurs didn't bite.

They held their line. Francesco, recognizing the trap, pulled up and turned back, playing it safe.

It earned him applause anyway.

Because the crowd knew—the damage was done.

In the final ten minutes, Arsenal slowed the match further. Possession triangles returned. Passes between Monreal, Arteta, and Flamini became deliberate. Every touch was a countdown.

Even Spurs seemed to accept it. Kane began to drop deeper, almost as if conceding that his role had shifted from savior to extra body. Mason stopped charging. Son looked to the sideline after every pass, as if asking for a new idea that wasn't coming.

The board went up—four minutes added.

Wenger barely glanced at it.

He stood still, arms folded, watching his team see it out. A few final instructions. A nod to Bould. Then silence again.

Tottenham had one last chance—a looping ball from Dier toward Kane in the box. Van Dijk rose, chest to chest, and headed clear with authority.

The ball fell to Onomah. He struck it first time.

Over.

Way over.

And with that, the referee glanced at his watch.

A whistle.

Full-time.

Arsenal 3, Tottenham 1.

The roar that followed wasn't frantic. It was proud. Triumphant. Like a crowd that knew they hadn't just won—they had passed a test. Overcome a storm. Played through emotion and fought through fire.

Francesco dropped to his knees, just for a second. Not out of exhaustion—but release. Flamini hauled him up, grinning wide, shouting something in French and ruffling his hair.

Giroud bear-hugged Sánchez. Arteta jogged to the officials, shaking hands with quiet dignity. Koscielny clapped his hands toward the North Bank.

And Wenger?

He turned, finally, and walked back toward the tunnel. Unhurried. Composed.

The press would have their narratives. Francesco's goal would be everywhere. Özil's assist would be clipped and retweeted a million times. But for him, for now—this was enough. As three points at the derby day, was a statement that they are the on a great form.

________________________________________________

Name : Francesco Lee

Age : 16 (2014)

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: 17

Goal: 26

Assist: 5

MOTM: 2

POTM: 1

England:

Match Played: 2

Goal: 4

Assist: 0

Season 14/15 stats:

Match Played: 35

Goal: 45

Assist: 12

MOTM: 9