The King Of Arsenal

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Francesco felt it in his lungs—the fire, the freedom. His touches were clean. Every time he received the ball near the sideline, two defenders pressed, but he handled it. One spin. One feint. A burst. A cutback. Every movement carved deeper into the rhythm of the game.

Then at the 10th minute, something happened in a blink.

Firmino's first goal didn't come from a masterstroke or a build-up of brilliance. It came from chaos—controlled, cultivated chaos, the kind Liverpool had made their signature under Jürgen Klopp. The pressure was relentless, the kind that didn't give defenders time to think, let alone breathe.

Arsenal had just been on the front foot—a lovely, sweeping move down the left involving Francesco and Nacho again, a low cross cleared at the near post. But the clearance hadn't gone far. Just outside the box, Emre Can got to it first, and in three sharp passes—Can to Lallana, Lallana to Milner, Milner square—it all unraveled.

Firmino was there. A red blur shifting into space.

The Brazilian took one soft touch to set it, another to shape his body. His foot wrapped around the ball like silk.

And the net rippled.

Cech didn't move. Couldn't. The shot had been too clean, too placed. Far corner. Right foot. A striker's finish from a player who didn't even consider himself one, not in the traditional sense.

Anfield erupted. It wasn't just noise—it was emotional combustion. The kind of sound that echoed in your chest cavity, like the world had just cracked open.

1–0.

Francesco found himself frozen at the halfway line, lips parted, brow furrowed.

He didn't look at the scoreboard. He didn't need to.

The sting of conceding early was familiar—but it still burned. Especially here. Especially now. At Anfield, a one-goal lead for the home team wasn't just a number. It was fuel. It made the red machine purr harder, faster, louder.

But Arsenal didn't crumble.

They didn't retreat.

There was a look that passed between Ramsey and Francesco as they jogged back to the center circle. A brief glance, nothing more. But it said enough.

Let's go again.

The restart was sharp. A tap from Giroud. Ramsey's first touch positive. And already, Francesco was peeling wide, testing Clyne again, seeing if the fullback's legs had begun to feel the wear of sprints.

This time, the ball didn't come to him. It cycled through the middle. Koscielny to Kanté. Kanté, ever the quiet executor, side-footed it into Özil's orbit. The German pivoted away from Henderson, space opening.

And then Francesco moved.

It wasn't a sprint. It was a read. A hunter following scent rather than sound.

Özil saw him. Of course he did.

A perfectly weighted pass curled toward the left channel, spinning like a planet on an axis.

Francesco collected it with his right foot, touched it forward with his left. The control was feathered, almost lazy-looking in how natural it came. But there was urgency beneath it. His eyes scanned as he reached the edge of the box.

Theo was darting in. Giroud hovering at the far post. But it was Ramsey—the one trailing, the one forgotten by Can—that made the timing perfect.

Francesco cut inside Clyne again, dragged Sakho with him just enough, then tucked a pass square.

Ramsey didn't hesitate. One step. Strike.

Low and to the left. Mignolet got a touch, but fingertips aren't enough.

1–1.

Francesco didn't celebrate right away. He watched the net billow like sails on a ship. Then he grinned—wide, toothy, alive.

Ramsey was already sprinting toward him, arms out, and Francesco met him in stride. They bumped chests, and for a second, nothing else existed. Just teammates. Just rhythm. Just retaliation.

The away fans, crammed in their upper corner, exploded in red and white. Fists in the air. Scarves whipping like battle flags. Arsenal's bench stood, hands raised, shouting into the void that separated them from the pitch.

And Anfield? It quieted. Just for a moment. A breath.

Francesco jogged back toward halfway, patting Özil's shoulder on the way, then giving a short clap toward Nacho.

They'd answered.

But the game hadn't stopped roaring.

The response from Liverpool was volcanic.

Klopp had already left his technical area—arms wide, barking orders with that intensity that made even neutral spectators sit up straighter. His players responded in kind.

The press came faster. Harder. The midfield turned into a minefield, with Ramsey and Kanté fighting tooth and nail to hold their shape. Özil was swarmed. Giroud barely got a second on the ball. Even Francesco, who'd been so slippery just minutes ago, felt Clyne's shoulder crash into his ribs like a linebacker.

It was still football. But it had morphed into trench warfare.

Then came the second blow.

19th Minute

A miscue.

It started with a harmless backpass from Bellerín to Koscielny. The French defender, usually ice-calm, took half a second too long. Lallana pounced, pressured him into a poor clearance—straight to James Milner.

Milner didn't do anything fancy. That was never his way.

A touch forward. A glance up.

And then—slide-rule perfect—a pass into Firmino's stride.

He wasn't marked. Koscielny was still recovering, and Virgil had stepped too far toward Benteke. The gap opened like a wound.

Firmino took it in stride, didn't slow down.

One touch.

Two.

And then—a curling finish with the inside of his right boot, over Cech's outstretched hand.

The sound Anfield made wasn't joy. It was hunger.

2–1. Firmino again. A brace before twenty minutes had passed.

Francesco closed his eyes as the replay echoed across the big screen.

Not because he was angry—though he was.

But because he needed a moment to breathe. To reset. To not drown in it.

He opened them again as Virgil retrieved the ball from the back of the net, jaw tight, handing it without a word to Ramsey.

Arsenal jogged back into place.

But the mood had changed.

Not panic—but pressure. Real pressure.

And Francesco felt it in every part of him.

Not fear.

Just the knowledge that there could be no margin for error. Not here. Not now.

Arsenal tried to calm the storm.

They passed. Possessed. Kanté started dropping deeper, forming a pseudo-back three when needed. Özil drifted wider. Francesco alternated between hugging the sideline and cutting in like a false nine.

But Liverpool's energy hadn't faded. Lallana, Can, Henderson—they weren't just chasing shadows. They were creating traps.

The pitch, slick with drizzle, played tricks on the ball. One touch too heavy, and possession vanished. One half-second too long, and Firmino or Benteke was there.

Francesco saw Wenger on the touchline—stoic but sharp-eyed, jaw clenched. He wasn't calling for subs. Not yet. He trusted this XI.

Then at the 25th minute, the ball pinged between red and white shirts like it couldn't make up its mind. Giroud was wrestling Sakho for every long ball, Özil floated like a chess piece between lines, and Francesco drifted between winger and shadow-striker, reading where the cracks might come.

And then it happened.

Not a bolt of brilliance.

But a collective breath, synchronized and perfectly exhaled.

It started with Kanté, intercepting a careless pass from Lallana near the center circle—just a toe-poke and turn, but it opened the field like someone had pulled back a curtain. The Frenchman immediately released Ramsey, who didn't pause or panic. He carried the ball at pace, his boots eating the damp grass with each stride, before threading the ball between Henderson's trailing leg and Toure's static position.

Giroud read it. Like a center forward should.

He arced his run, peeled between the two center-backs, and met the pass on the half-bounce.

The touch wasn't clean. Not perfectly sculpted.

But it was enough.

One bounce. Then a swivel. Left foot.

A cannon shot through mist and noise.

The ball clipped the inside of the post and went in. No spin. Just force. Precision born of instinct.

2–2.

The Arsenal fans behind the goal detonated. Flags snapped, bodies surged forward, voices cracked from sudden euphoria.

On the pitch, Giroud let out a roar—raw and unfiltered—before pointing at Ramsey in thanks, then kissing his fingers and looking skyward.

Ramsey jogged over, a quick grin exchanged.

Francesco didn't join them.

He stood back at the edge of the box, hands on hips, letting his heart catch up to the game's pulse. His shirt clung to his chest, soaked through already. He could feel the condensation in the air sticking to his skin. The match had become a storm—and they were no longer trying to find shelter.

They were trying to dance in it.

Liverpool didn't collapse.

They reloaded.

Klopp clapped on the touchline, not in frustration, but in demand. His shouts carried through the evening fog, sharp and guttural. "Press! Press now! Regain! Regain!"

And regain they did—throwing bodies forward with the aggression of a boxer after taking a clean hit. Can moved higher. Moreno began bombing down the left like a man possessed. Milner played more centrally now, covering for the gaps Moreno left behind.

But Arsenal had found their rhythm.

Their passing was no longer cautious—it was defiant. Bellerín started overlapping more. Kanté grew more vocal, directing Özil and Ramsey with flicks of his hand. And Francesco?

Francesco had started drifting further inward, abandoning the touchline to exploit that soft underbelly between Can and Henderson.

In the 28th minute, he nearly broke the game again—collecting a pass from Özil on the turn, dipping past Henderson with a sharp feint, and curling a shot just over the bar. Mignolet scrambled, hands raised, watching it fly like a man praying rather than reacting.

Francesco didn't look disappointed.

He looked hungry.

The pace didn't drop. It just changed colors.

Now the match was a blade fight in a narrow corridor. Every touch came with pressure. Every clearance came with consequence. Virgil van Dijk showed his class with a perfectly-timed sliding tackle on Jordon Ibe that earned a nod even from the Liverpool bench. Nacho Monreal and Moreno clashed twice in a row, shoulder to shoulder, neither backing down.

Twice, tempers flared—once when Can bundled over Ramsey just after he released the ball, and once when Walcott went flying after Sakho leaned into him too hard during a counter.

But the referee kept his whistle holstered. This was Anfield. This was war. And war had its own rhythm.

Francesco drew another foul in the 39th minute, this one near the left corner flag after Moreno clipped his ankle. He stayed down for a second, chest heaving, staring up at the dark sky. The rain had turned into a fine mist now, more a presence than precipitation.

Ozil took the free kick. Giroud nearly nodded it in—his header just inches wide.

The crowd groaned. Arsenal's bench applauded.

The match refused to settle.

The final five minutes of the half were like two armies testing shields.

Liverpool surged once—Firmino turning beautifully past Ramsey before unleashing a shot from 25 yards that Cech palmed away with both hands. Then Arsenal answered with a counter led by Walcott, who blazed down the right before whipping in a low ball that Toure barely intercepted before it reached Francesco ghosting in at the far post.

And then came the whistle.

Half-time.

Not a second too soon.

The players jogged off—not strutting, not trudging, but pulsing with adrenaline. Shirts stuck to skin, lungs aching, eyes wide.

Francesco took one last glance at the scoreboard before descending into the tunnel.

Liverpool 2 – 2 Arsenal.

And it was only halftime.

Inside Arsenal dressing room inside Anfield was cramped. A chamber of white walls and red trim, benches lining each side, water bottles rolling across the tiled floor, steam rising from soaked jerseys and steaming breath.

It wasn't chaos. But it wasn't calm, either.

Some players sat still—Cech, eyes closed, water bottle pressed to his temple. Others stood—Ramsey, pacing in a slow loop, boots clicking on the tile. Kanté whispered something to Özil in French. Bellerín leaned against the wall, towel over his head.

Francesco pulled his jersey off and sat down heavily, back hunched, elbows on his knees. His chest rose and fell like waves on a restless tide. He was drenched. Not just in sweat—but in the effort of the half. In the weight of Anfield.

Then the door swung open.

Wenger entered.

He wasn't yelling. He wasn't smiling. He walked slowly to the center of the room, expression unreadable, and clasped his hands behind his back.

He waited for silence.

It came quickly.

Then he spoke.

"Bon."

A single word. Sharp, clipped. French for "good."

The players glanced at each other.

"First," Wenger said, eyes sweeping the room, "we showed something. After 1–0. After 2–1. We answered. Twice."

He stepped closer.

"But listen—this is not the game we came here to draw. Not if we believe we are real contenders."

His voice didn't rise. But the steel in it sharpened.

"We need more tempo."

He looked at Ramsey.

"You are doing well. But push it harder. Every transition. They don't like it when we run at them with speed."

Then his gaze moved to Walcott.

"Theo. You have the pace. So use it. Get behind Moreno. He's not defending. He's chasing. He'll leave gaps."

Then—

He looked at Francesco.

"And you."

Francesco sat up straighter.

"You've been dangerous. But now I want you to cut inside more. Don't stay wide unless Nacho overlaps. Come between Can and Henderson. Neither of them can match your acceleration. Turn and go at them. Always."

Francesco gave a tight nod, throat dry, heart still beating loud.

"But—" Wenger held up a finger. "Watch out for Moreno and Clyne. They will follow. If you lose the ball, we get countered."

He clapped once, loudly.

"Be smart. Be brave. Be faster."

A beat of silence.

Then he looked at the whole room.

"And don't forget—this is Anfield. If you want to win here, you must go and take it. No one will hand it to you."

He turned, nodded to Steve Bould, and walked back toward the bench.

"Drink. Breathe. You have five minutes."

The tunnel air was hot, thick with sweat and the ghost of adrenaline.

Francesco emerged from it with a towel slung around his neck and his boots clicking like flint against concrete. He gave a quick tap on the back to Walcott, who nodded, face tight with focus. Bellerín adjusted his shin pads. Ramsey took one last gulp from a bottle and tossed it aside.

Then came the swell of Anfield again—raw, unfiltered, alive.

The crowd hadn't lost its voice. They never did here.

But Arsenal hadn't lost its courage, either.

The second half started with a thrum. Not the bang of kickoff, but the kind of controlled fury that comes after a coach's words have burned through your doubts. The first two minutes were probing, patient. Liverpool pushed high, Arsenal pressed back. Henderson barked orders. Özil signaled for calm. And then, the third minute of the half—the 48th minute—broke the tension like a stone through glass.

It began with Monreal winning a throw-in off Clyne after a short tussle near the halfway line. He tossed it in quick to Kanté, who one-touched it square to Ramsey, who rolled it up to Özil.

The German didn't hesitate. Not even a heartbeat.

His first touch opened his hips. His second sent the ball forward like a guided missile—right between Toure's legs and just wide of Sakho's outstretched boot.

And Francesco?

Francesco was already running.

He had seen it. Felt it. Not with his eyes—but with that sixth sense strikers are born with and midfielders envy.

He slipped through the seam, timing his run like clockwork, and let the ball arrive into stride, soft as a whisper.

He didn't take another touch.

He didn't need to.

Left foot. Quick release. Low and deadly.

The ball zipped under Mignolet's glove, kissed the wet turf, and rattled the back of the net with a thud that was nearly lost in the roar behind it.

3–2.

Francesco tore away, arms outstretched, face lit by a wild, uninhibited joy. He slid on his knees in front of the traveling Arsenal fans, fists clenched, mouth open in a triumphant yell.

Özil ran to him first—smiling, quiet, serene in the way only Mesut could be even after delivering magic. They shared a quick bump of foreheads before being swarmed by red shirts.

Ramsey. Bellerín. Walcott. Even Cech jogged halfway up the pitch to shout his approval.

The away section was vibrating. Literally. You could see the metal railing shake with the jumping bodies, the flag-waving, the limbs thrown skyward like praise to the heavens.

And on the touchline, Wenger simply nodded—calm, composed, but with that spark behind his eyes that only his players knew how to read.

Francesco jogged back, chest rising and falling, adrenaline pulsing behind his ears. He glanced at the scoreboard.

Liverpool 2 – 3 Arsenal.

It looked beautiful.

But the job wasn't done.

Liverpool came again, angry now—Firmino leading the line with teeth bared, Milner snapping into tackles, Moreno galloping forward. They pushed Arsenal deeper. For three minutes, the red tide pressed and prodded.

Then Arsenal hit them again.

This time, it was brutal. Clinical.

The 55th minute. A transition born of defiance.

Kanté stripped Milner clean at midfield and immediately fed it forward to Özil. But instead of pausing, Özil reversed it, spinning a pass behind the pressure to Walcott.

Theo ran.

Oh, he ran.

Blistering down the left flank now, he flew past Sakho like he was running past a traffic cone. One glance up. One cutback.

Giroud arrived at the near post like thunder.

His first touch controlled the ball, his second unleashed fury—a left-footed strike that cannoned past Mignolet with such venom it nearly tore the net off its moorings.

4–2.

Anfield fell silent. Not completely, but for a few seconds, you could hear the hum of disbelief.

Arsenal, away from home. Against Liverpool. And now leading by two.

Giroud was mobbed by teammates, grinning wide, kissing the badge, pointing at Walcott.

And Francesco? He stood near midfield, grinning too, nodding, a hand raised to salute Theo.

He wasn't scoring that time—but he was watching it unfold like someone who understood what it meant.

Momentum.

Belief.

Control.

But football has a way of reminding you that control is temporary. It's an illusion you earn—but never own.

And Jürgen Klopp wasn't about to let the game drift away.

On the 66th minute, the changes came.

Ibe off. Emre Can off.

On came Christian Benteke, all muscle and menace, and Joe Allen, the industrious Welshman with a midfielder's mind and a street fighter's soul.

Klopp wasn't just changing players. He was changing the shape of the battle.

And Wenger? He responded too.

Giroud came off to a standing ovation from the away end, the brace hero clapped toward the fans.

In his place came Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain.

Not a like-for-like.

Not by a long shot.

It was a tactical shift.

Theo moved to the left wing. Chamberlain slotted on the right. And Francesco?

He stepped into the eye of the storm.

Striker.

Number nine.

No more drifting wide. No more hiding between lines.

He was now the tip of the spear.

And he welcomed it.

Francesco stood at the center circle now, tugging at his sleeves once, then resting his hands on his hips as Benteke trotted onto the pitch at the far end. The Belgian was all bulk and presence, his frame alone altering the rhythm of Liverpool's intent. Joe Allen followed closely behind, jaw tight, hair already damp from a hurried warmup. Lallana and Can made their way off to respectful applause, Klopp offering each a slap on the back and a quick word.

Arsenal, in their own way, were matching the moment.

Giroud had handed Francesco the striker's burden—along with a parting clap on the back—and now the younger man carried it alone. Walcott had shifted to the left, Chamberlain on the right, and the midfield triangle sat deep and organized, Kanté and Ramsey doing the running, Özil floating like a silk thread still tying the chaos together.

The tempo, if anything, had gotten sharper. Both sides knew the next goal would define the narrative.

At 68 minutes, Liverpool nearly carved it.

Firmino ghosted wide to receive from Allen, then snapped a low pass across the box that fizzed untouched past both Benteke and Milner. A warning shot. Benteke clapped once, frustrated, and reset.

Francesco, meanwhile, wasn't waiting for Liverpool's next mistake. He was making his own threat felt every minute.

At 70', he dropped between the lines, pulled Sakho with him, and then spun back toward goal as Ramsey clipped a bouncing ball over the top. The touch was almost perfect—almost. The bounce kicked high, and Mignolet charged to smother it before he could shoot.

But the pattern was forming.

Francesco wasn't just occupying defenders now.

He was bending them.

By the 72nd minute, Clyne had stopped venturing forward altogether. Sakho was shouting more than moving. Even Toure had begun pointing instead of chasing. Francesco saw it all, absorbed it like sunlight to a solar panel.

And then, Wenger made his next move.

Minute 75.

The board went up: 14 WALCOTT ➡ 45 IWOBI and 11 ÖZIL ➡ 8 ARTETA.

Theo clapped as he jogged off, sweat darkening every inch of his kit. Özil followed behind, looking spent but satisfied, his contributions already etched into the storyline of the match.

Iwobi entered with the energy of youth—eyes wide, ready, desperate to prove he belonged. Arteta, older, slower, but wiser, jogged on like a conductor coming in to control the final act of a symphony that had threatened chaos but now longed for closure.

Wenger didn't shout instructions.

He simply pointed at Arteta, then at Allen.

The message was clear: snuff the spark.

As Liverpool restructured, Klopp made his final gamble.

Off came Lallana.

On came Steven Caulker.

A center-back?

No. A battering ram.

Klopp had done it before—throwing the defender forward in desperate moments, like pulling a goalie in hockey. He didn't want structure anymore. He wanted carnage.

The game's final phase was less football, more siege.

Liverpool threw everything.

Benteke backed into Koscielny. Caulker played off Van Dijk like a bizarre strike partner. Crosses rained in. Corners curled viciously. The noise grew again. That Anfield kind of noise—the primal surge that made opponents misstep and teammates run harder than their lungs should allow.

At 80 minutes, Francesco found himself defending a corner. Not watching from halfway—but tracking Benteke at the back post, using every ounce of strength to deny the Belgian a clean jump. The header still came. Cech still saved it. But it mattered.

Every touch mattered.

Arsenal didn't park the bus—but they narrowed the road.

Kanté dropped beside Arteta. Bellerín stopped overlapping altogether. Iwobi came deep to double up on Moreno. Chamberlain, in the 83rd, chased down Milner from behind and earned a throw-in that felt like a miniature victory.

And Francesco?

He chased.

Pressed.

Held up long balls and waited for fouls that never came.

In the 85th, he dribbled toward the corner flag with Allen and Clyne draped on him, and when they finally dispossessed him, the ball went out for an Arsenal throw. He didn't celebrate. Just stayed crouched, hands on knees, gulping air like a man lost at sea.

Wenger shouted now. Not tactics—encouragement. "Encore! Hold them!" Steve Bould paced like a soldier waiting for the last charge.

Klopp, by contrast, was a storm—bellowing from the edge of his technical area, arms waving like a man possessed.

Liverpool surged again.

86th—Caulker's flick-on found Benteke—header looped just over.

87th—Milner lashed a shot from 25 yards—wide.

88th—Allen broke through the midfield—but Arteta slid in, clean and crisp.

And then the 90th minute came.

The moment.

The noise returned with teeth.

It began with a Clyne cross—not perfect, but high and deep. Benteke rose, clattered into Koscielny, and the ball dropped loose at the edge of the area.

Allen was there.

Francesco was tracking back, but he was half a step behind. The Welshman caught it on the half-volley—a precise hit, not powerful, but placed.

Cech dove.

He stretched.

But it wasn't enough.

The ball nestled into the bottom corner, just past his glove.

4–3.

Anfield erupted.

Not joy—hope.

One goal. Three minutes of added time to go.

Francesco didn't sag. Didn't pout. He simply grabbed the ball from the net himself, handed it to the ref, and shouted, "Let's finish this."

What followed was madness.

Liverpool threw seven men forward. Benteke and Caulker both stationed in the box. Milner and Moreno kept pumping crosses in. But Arsenal didn't fold.

Francesco, despite his exhaustion, chased every loose ball. Chamberlain broke forward once on the counter but smartly turned back, played Iwobi, and killed time. Bellerín cleared a corner in the 92nd. Arteta fouled Allen softly at midfield in the 93rd and walked away with his hands raised.

The final whistle came at 93:47.

It sounded like salvation.

Francesco collapsed to his knees.

Cech pumped both fists.

Ramsey turned to the fans, arms lifted.

Liverpool 3 – 4 Arsenal.

Francesco and Arsenal are continue their superb unbeaten run with defeating Liverpool, as they take their sword to push forward on winning the Premier League Title.

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Name : Francesco Lee

Age : 17 (2015)

Birthplace : London, England

Football Club : Arsenal First Team

Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, and 2015/2016 Community Shield

Season 15/16 stats:

Arsenal:

Match Played: 29

Goal: 43

Assist: 7

MOTM: 5

POTM: 1

England:

Match Played: 2

Goal: 4

Assist: 0

Season 14/15 stats:

Match Played: 35

Goal: 45

Assist: 12

MOTM: 9