The King Of Arsenal

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I Francesco got a toe on it — just enough — but the angle was narrow, and Neuer smothered it low. Still, the warning was fired. The 20th minute came and went with the scoreboard untouched, but both sides knew the game was already breathing fire.

The 21st through 26th minutes simmered like a kettle just before boil.

Francesco could feel the shift — not in the crowd, but in the players. The tightness in Bayern's press was loosening, just slightly. Their transitions took a breath longer. Their midfield rotations lagged a touch. Arsenal were drawing them into a rhythm — not frantic, not reactive, but deliberate. And Francesco was waiting for his moment like a hawk in the updraft.

Oxlade-Chamberlain had drifted wide right again, hugging the chalk line, stretching Bernat so far that the Bayern left-back glanced nervously over his shoulder toward the dugout. Cazorla and Kanté rotated well, switching pivots, controlling the zone just in front of the back four. Özil's body language was casual — but his eyes were constantly scanning, always a half-second ahead of the rest.

Then it came.

Minute 27.

Bellerín took a short throw-in to Özil, who released it with one deft touch into Cazorla. Santi turned, slipped, recovered — then fed a low ball to Oxlade-Chamberlain just as he hit full stride down the flank.

The Ox didn't hesitate. He didn't wait for overlapping support. He drove.

Bernat tried to jockey. Big mistake. The Ox used his frame, dipped his shoulder, and burst past him on the outside like a sprinter turning into the home stretch. The Emirates surged with him — a physical wave of noise, rising with every meter.

Alex looked up once and saw Francesco ghosting between Boateng and Alaba, right on the shoulder of Bayern's last line.

The cross came early, low, fizzing — just behind Boateng's heel.

That's all Francesco needed.

One quick adjustment of his stride, one flick of the toe to redirect it across his body — and Neuer was wrong-footed. The ball skidded into the far bottom corner, pinging off the inside post before settling into the net like it had always meant to be there.

The stadium erupted.

Not screamed — erupted.

A wall of sound crashed down from every tier of the Emirates. Flags waved, fists pumped, and the North Bank lost its collective mind. Wenger punched the air once, expression taut with rare emotion.

Francesco slid on his knees to the corner flag, arms out wide like wings, face lit with a grin so fierce it almost looked like a war cry. The Ox was already on top of him, tackling him in celebration, followed by Özil, Cazorla, and Alexis.

"That's how we do it!" the Ox shouted into his ear, laughing.

Francesco thumped his chest with his fist — once, twice — then pointed to the badge, to the crowd.

"For Arsenal," he mouthed, as the chants of his name thundered from every corner.

The scoreboard changed:

ARSENAL 1 – 0 BAYERN MUNICH (27')

Francesco Lee

But the job was far from done.

Bayern didn't crumble. They didn't lose composure. They responded with fury.

Vidal snapped into tackles like a wild dog, earning a warning from the referee after a studs-up lunge on Cazorla. Lewandowski dropped deeper, pulling van Dijk and Koscielny out of their shape. Costa tried again on the wing, but Bellerín had adjusted, timing his tackles now instead of diving in early.

Cech, though less busy, remained vocal. "Watch your line!" he barked. "Push when they turn!"

Then came the 35th.

And the moment that would be played on highlight reels for years.

It began innocently — a loose Bayern corner, cleared by Koscielny with a well-timed header. The ball fell to Kanté, who took a steadying touch and turned into space, drawing two Bayern midfielders toward him.

With ice in his veins, Kanté laid it off to Özil, who let the ball run across his body before flicking it forward with the outside of his boot into empty space.

And Francesco was already gone.

He wasn't sprinting yet — not quite. He was calculating.

Xabi Alonso was tracking back, trying to anticipate. Francesco angled his run slightly left, drawing Alonso that way — then with one brutal touch, he changed direction, swiping the ball to his right and cutting inside.

Alonso bit — and lost.

Francesco's boot passed a breath from Alonso's outstretched leg. The Spaniard spun, wrong-footed and out of the play.

Now it was Boateng.

But Boateng made the same mistake Alonso did. He lunged.

Francesco dropped a shoulder, dipped inside again — then outside. Boateng couldn't keep up. The big man turned with the stiffness of an ocean liner, and Francesco was through.

Alaba came flying over, desperate to cover.

Francesco chopped inside with a feint so sharp it drew a gasp from the crowd. Alaba skidded past like a man on ice.

And now it was him and Neuer.

One v one.

The world held its breath.

Francesco slowed just a fraction — just enough to make Neuer hesitate. His left foot shaped for a shot.

Neuer bit. Shifted his weight.

Francesco didn't shoot.

Instead, he rolled his boot over the ball, letting it drift left as Neuer lunged. A fake shot — devastatingly simple, devastatingly effective.

With Neuer sprawled and half a goal gaping, Francesco planted his right and slotted the ball into the bottom left corner with his left. No power. Just precision.

For a moment, time didn't exist.

Then the Emirates exploded again, louder this time. Deafening.

Wenger raised both fists toward the sky. Boulders of emotion rolled across his face — pride, relief, belief. Mertesacker stood from the bench, shouting and pounding his chest. Giroud leapt to his feet, clapping furiously.

Francesco didn't celebrate right away.

He stood still, back arched slightly, eyes wide, fists clenched at his sides.

Then he turned and sprinted toward the touchline, slamming both fists into the Arsenal crest on his shirt. The crowd was on their feet — all of them. Chanting, roaring, singing.

The scoreboard updated again:

ARSENAL 2 – 0 BAYERN MUNICH (35')

Francesco Lee (brace)

Commentators were already losing their voices.

"You are watching a masterclass in modern striking from Francesco Lee — this boy is writing his own Champions League fairytale tonight!"

Arsenal fans didn't want a fairytale.

They wanted history.

And Francesco was writing it, one step at a time.

Back on the pitch, Bayern looked shellshocked. Pep Guardiola stood at the edge of his technical area, arms folded but motionless, a man deep in thought. Lahm spoke to Alonso. Neuer slammed a boot into the ground in frustration.

But Arsenal didn't stop.

Francesco gestured to his teammates — palms down, slow down. "Keep control," he said. "Not over yet."

Wenger echoed it from the touchline: "Tempo. Breathe. Pick your passes."

The match had changed now. Arsenal weren't underdogs anymore — they were the aggressors, the dominators. Bayern had to push higher, had to chase, and that opened space.

Özil floated like a phantom in the half-spaces, linking with Alexis, who was growing bolder. Kanté intercepted again, dispossessing Thiago and setting off another counter.

Pep Guardiola barked orders from the touchline, gesturing wildly — palms turning outward, then chopping across his body in that familiar, urgent style. "¡Tempo! ¡Tempo!" he shouted in Spanish, then switched to German: "Bewegt euch schneller!" Move faster.

But the sharpness that defined Bayern's rhythm earlier was fading.

They weren't broken — far from it — but a 2–0 deficit on the road, at the Emirates, in a stadium that felt more like a cauldron now, was taking its toll. They were trying to respond, trying to quicken their press and regain control, but their transitions had dulled, their chemistry fractionally disrupted. Even Vidal's usual bite felt blunted by Arsenal's fluid movement and the sheer composure with which the Gunners were dictating play.

As the match approached halftime, Bayern tried to respond — a flicker of resistance against the momentum shift.

In the 44th minute, Lewandowski picked up the ball in a rare pocket of space some 30 yards from goal. Without hesitation, he adjusted his footing and let fly with a fierce right-footed drive.

The shot had venom.

But it swerved just wide of the post, slicing past Cech's outstretched glove but never troubling the net. The Czech keeper watched it carefully, then turned and barked orders to his back line. "Reset! Stay tight!"

Seconds later, the referee raised the whistle to his lips.

Halftime: Arsenal 2 – 0 Bayern Munich.

The crowd stood to applaud — not out of courtesy, but out of conviction. This wasn't a freak lead. It was earned.

The door swung shut behind them with a solid thud, and for a moment, only the sound of players pulling off shin pads and sucking water bottles echoed through the locker room. Francesco leaned against the wall, breathing deep but calm, his hair clinging to his forehead. Sweat beaded on his collarbones. He hadn't spoken since entering — just nodded at a couple of teammates, and exchanged a quick low-five with Özil.

Wenger waited until they were all seated, scattered around the room in varying states of fatigue and focus. Then he stepped forward, arms crossed behind his back, his voice calm but razor-sharp.

"We are halfway," he said. "Not finished. You've played like warriors. But the war is not won."

He paced once in front of them, his coat swaying.

"They will come at you like wild dogs for the first fifteen minutes of the second half. You know this. Guardiola will tell them to throw everything. Press. Push. Pull. Intimidate. We do not rise to it emotionally. We do not chase shadows."

He looked toward Koscielny and Van Dijk. "You two — no fouls in dangerous zones. Communicate. Let them come, then press as a unit."

To Kanté and Cazorla: "Stay close. No gaps. You two are the hinge — if you swing wrong, we fall open."

Then his eyes went to Francesco, who nodded slowly before the manager even spoke.

Wenger allowed a rare smile.

"We've stunned them. Now make sure they stay stunned."

He clapped his hands once. "First fifteen, we defend. We keep our shape. We frustrate them. And then — then — we hit."

There were a few mutters of agreement. Cazorla leaned forward, rubbing his hands. Alexis bounced slightly in place. The Ox, still full of energy, snapped his chewing gum and nodded.

Francesco finally spoke, his voice low but charged.

"Don't get pulled into their rhythm," he said. "We control the fight. Not them."

The teams returned to the pitch to a thunderstorm of noise. The Emirates wasn't just alive — it was electric. The fans sensed what was at stake. They knew this wasn't just a group stage match. This was a statement.

But Bayern were Bayern. And they didn't trail often — let alone by two goals.

Guardiola's halftime orders were immediately visible in the opening exchanges. Lahm pushed higher, almost as a second holding midfielder beside Alonso. Vidal and Thiago pressed like rabid terriers, snapping at every loose touch. Bernat and Alaba rotated feverishly on the flanks, trying to stretch Arsenal's shape.

The first ten minutes were relentless.

In the 48th, Costa darted down the left and whipped in a vicious cross. Lewandowski leapt, glancing the ball just inches wide of the far post. Cech was rooted.

In the 51st, Thiago danced through a gap, played a one-two with Vidal, and fired low — but Koscielny blocked with a heroic slide.

In the 54th, Alonso delivered a looping ball over the top toward Müller, who had drifted wide to drag Van Dijk away. The cross dropped perfectly — but Bellerín, sprinting back like a rocket, cleared it with a header under pressure.

Still Arsenal held.

Still they didn't break.

Every pass, every clearance, every interception — it was all deliberate. They were bending, yes, but never close to breaking.

Özil dropped deeper to help the pivot. Alexis tracked Lahm all the way back to midfield. Even Francesco retreated into his own half, barking instructions, waving arms, organizing.

And then — minute 59 — the turn.

Cazorla intercepted a lazy pass from Vidal, spun, and found Özil with a crisp ball into space.

And suddenly, Arsenal were gone.

The ball moved from Özil to Alexis to Oxlade-Chamberlain, who danced down the right and sent in a teasing cross.

Francesco rose — timed it beautifully — but Neuer, to his credit, launched like a spring and just managed to parry it wide with both hands.

The Emirates roared again. This time not in release — but in belief.

Then on the 65 minute, Wenger turned to Steve Bould and nodded.

Ramsey was ready.

Off came Cazorla, who left the pitch to a standing ovation, exhausted but smiling. He patted Ramsey on the back as they passed.

The change added fresh legs to Arsenal's midfield, and Ramsey immediately made his presence felt with a crunching tackle on Alonso, winning the ball cleanly and sending Francesco on another run.

Boateng had backed off now. His earlier mistakes still haunted him.

But Francesco wasn't forcing it. He held up play, waited, laid it off to Alexis, and reset.

Arsenal were mature now. This was no longer a team chasing goals — it was a team managing a result. Like veterans. Like champions.

Bayern made changes.Kimmich came on for Xabi Alonso. Rafinha for Vidal.

And for the next five minutes, the storm returned.

Costa struck the post with a curling effort in the 72nd. Lewandowski had a header cleared off the line by Van Dijk in the 74th. A speculative volley from Rafinha in the 75th forced Cech into a diving save.

But Arsenal — unbelievably, almost impossibly — still didn't concede.

The back four held like iron. The midfield clogged every channel. Francesco, who should have been exhausted, somehow found the energy to press Neuer on goal kicks, buying his teammates a few precious seconds of breath.

Then came the 76th minute. Arsenal were still holding firm under Bayern's constant pressure, but Wenger had seen enough — not panic, not fatigue, but the moment to twist the blade.

He stepped toward the fourth official with that trademark measured urgency, lips barely moving as he spoke to Steve Bould while pointing toward the right flank.

The board went up.

SUBSTITUTION – Arsenal:

OUT – Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain

IN – Olivier Giroud

A murmur of surprise flickered through the Emirates. Not disapproval — just curiosity. The Ox had been tireless, tormenting Bernat and dragging Alaba around for over an hour, but Wenger had something different in mind now.

Olivier jogged on, hair immaculate even under the stadium lights, boots glinting, his jaw set with purpose. Francesco clapped him on the shoulder as they passed each other in position.

Francesco — who had spent the match as the tip of Arsenal's sword — now shifted to the right wing, just ahead of Bellerín. He didn't protest. In fact, he gave Giroud a quick nod and a muttered, "Take the centre. Let's kill this off."

It was subtle, but tactical brilliance. Wenger knew Bayern had thrown everything at the center in their push. Aerial threat. Strength. Experience. And now Arsenal had Giroud in the box, Francesco wide to exploit tired legs, and Özil drifting like a ghost in between the lines.

The final act was about to begin.

Bayern were still pushing — not recklessly, but urgently, desperate to claw something back. Guardiola stood on the sideline now with his hands on his head, pacing in tight, nervous circles. His team had lost rhythm, lost the emotional control he prized so dearly.

And then…

Minute 80.

It began innocuously, as these things often do. A simple win of possession from Ramsey in the midfield — just a clean foot-in to poke the ball away from Thiago.

Ramsey found Özil.

Özil turned. Looked. Slipped a smart ball toward the flank.

Francesco had already started his run.

He exploded down the right side — first touch clean, second touch tighter. Alaba tried to track him but couldn't match the late burst of acceleration. Francesco glanced up once. Saw Giroud ghosting between Boateng and Kimmich at the near post.

And he whipped it.

A brutal, dipping cross — not floated, not curled — but driven with intent. A striker's cross. The kind of delivery you dream of.

Giroud didn't hesitate.

He attacked the space like a predator, leapt, and slammed the header downward. Neuer reacted — but it was too quick. Too sharp. Too perfect.

GOAL! Arsenal 3 – 0 Bayern Munich.

The Emirates exploded. People leapt from their seats. A woman in the front row screamed. A boy held his father in disbelief.

Giroud pointed toward Francesco, who had pulled up just outside the corner flag with both fists clenched and a roar ripping out of his throat. The two met near the byline with a thump of shoulders and brief, wordless celebration.

Arsenal were flying.

On the touchline, Guardiola stood still now. Silent. Arms crossed, eyes narrowed. He'd seen these moments before — rare, yes, but undeniable. When a team is feeling it. When belief becomes dominance.

Wenger didn't celebrate much. Just a pump of the fist and a word to Bould, likely something along the lines of: "Now we keep it. Now we finish it."

But the statement had been made. Arsenal weren't just winning — they were thrashing Bayern. And the scoreboard told the truth.

3–0.

Still, the Germans didn't quit. That's never been in their DNA. Lewandowski kept pressing. Costa kept dribbling. Even Müller, off the bench now, threw himself at every half-chance like it mattered.

But Arsenal had clicked into a gear not seen often at the Emirates in Europe.

They were resolute. Intelligent. Cold-blooded.

Francesco's movement down the right was tireless. He tracked Bernat when needed, overloaded the flank when Özil drifted central, and provided the outlet when pressure built too high.

Giroud, meanwhile, bullied Bayern's center backs. Without needing to be spectacular, he played the role to perfection — holdup, flicks, little battles for every inch.

And Özil…

Özil was dancing now.

The last ten minutes were his stage. He found Ramsey with the outside of his boot. He found Alexis with no-look passes. He sprayed short diagonals to Francesco, forcing Bayern to sprint laterally over and over again.

By the time stoppage time arrived, they were broken.

Three added minutes.

Some of the crowd were singing now. Loud, unapologetic songs. "We love you Arsenal, we do." Others just clapped in rhythm, unable to find words.

And still… one last scene remained.

90+3.

Bellerín won the ball deep in Arsenal's third. Bayern had committed almost everyone forward. There was no caution left — just blind hope.

But Bellerín didn't panic. He darted forward — one touch, two — then lifted his head.

Özil was already on his horse.

The pass came — perfectly weighted, in stride, curling away from the retreating Kimmich. Özil didn't even break pace. He glided forward like mist on a cold morning.

Inside the box now.

Neuer rushed out, arms flailing.

Özil didn't shoot right away. He waited. Waited a second more. Then opened his body, faked left — and slid it right, into the bottom corner.

GOAL! Arsenal 4 – 0 Bayern Munich.

The eruption was seismic. People hugged strangers. Flags waved. Flashbulbs lit the air.

Özil ran toward the corner flag with a grin so wide it seemed to stretch past his ears, arms outstretched like wings.

Bellerín caught him first, tackled him into a half-slide. Francesco arrived a second later, then Alexis, then Ramsey, then Van Dijk — a dogpile of red and white and disbelief.

Even Wenger couldn't hold back this time.

He allowed himself a smile that almost became a grin. Clapped once, then again, slowly, as if taking in the scale of what had just unfolded.

The whistle blew seconds later.

FULL TIME: Arsenal 4 – 0 Bayern Munich.

The scoreboard gleamed like a dream.

The players embraced in twos, threes, then all at once. The crowd stayed on their feet, soaking in the euphoria. They had seen many nights at the Emirates — some painful, some glorious — but few like this.

They hadn't just beaten Bayern.

They had battered them.

And not with luck. Not with flukes.

With control. With poise. With purpose.

As the players began walking around the pitch to applaud the fans, Francesco paused at the halfway line and just looked up. He took it all in — the cheers, the red scarves, the late October night sky. Then he raised both arms and clapped slowly, before turning to embrace Özil, who had joined him mid-circle.

"Legendary," Mesut murmured, shaking his head.

Francesco smiled, still breathing hard. "Just another night in London."

They both laughed.

And so, under the lights at the Emirates, Arsenal didn't just claim three points — they claimed reputation. They didn't just beat a European giant — they became one.

That night would echo for years.

And somewhere, in the back of the tunnel, the cameras flashed and the world buzzed, as he look at Francesco who under the interview of UEFA official, then were given MOTM award as he score 2 goal and 1 assist. Arsène Wenger allowed himself one long exhale — the look of a man who knew, perhaps more than anyone, what this night truly meant.

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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: 13

Goal: 22

Assist: 3

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