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And belief, Francesco knew, was something you earned with each touch, each challenge, each run — not by shouting, but by showing. He jogged forward slowly, placed his boot over the ball at the center circle, and waited for the referee's signal.
Then on the 28th minute, Bayern doubled their lead.
It happened with such fluidity that it almost didn't seem real — as if Arsenal had stumbled into a preordained sequence choreographed by Bayern in training a thousand times. And maybe they had. Maybe this wasn't just execution, but ritual.
It began down the left, where Kingsley Coman had been buzzing like an angry wasp around Bellerín's ankles all match. The young Frenchman had been relentless — not just with pace, but with intent, that forward-driving purpose that made defenders doubt their footing and question their angles.
This time, he didn't cut inside. He didn't stop. He burst past Bellerín on the outside, skipping a desperate toe-poke tackle, and rode the touchline like a surfer on a perfect wave. The ball was tethered to him — not loosely, not with improvisation, but with the control of someone who knew exactly where the line was and how close he could dance to its edge.
Bellerín gave chase, lungs burning, but he was half a step behind, and that half was all Coman needed.
One glance up. One shift of the hips. And then the cross — low, driven, curling just behind the line of Arsenal's retreating centre-backs and in front of Cech's diving hands. The kind of cross defenders hate. The kind that turns six-yard boxes into coin tosses.
And there was Müller.
Unmarked.
Late arriving, ghosting into space like only Müller could — a phantom of chaos who thrived in places others forgot to defend.
He didn't even hit it clean. His right boot stabbed forward, poking the ball past Cech with more instinct than power, more timing than flourish. But it didn't matter. The net bulged.
2–0.
The Allianz Arena detonated.
Francesco could hear it before he saw it — a roar that physically thudded in his chest. The crowd behind Cech's goal rose as one, a crimson-and-white mass of limbs and flags and jubilation. Müller wheeled away, arms flapping like wings, tongue out in that irreverent grin of his as he sprinted to the corner flag. Coman caught up with him, slapping hands in celebration.
Arsenal stood scattered — not broken, not yet, but visibly rattled. Cech pounded the turf once with his glove before rolling over, sitting up, and exhaling hard through his mouthguard. Koscielny had his hands on his hips. Van Dijk rubbed the back of his neck, scowling. Even Özil seemed stunned — not by the scoreline, but by the inevitability of it all. Like they were caught in something bigger than tactics.
Francesco remained near the center circle, waiting, eyes trained not on the scoreboard but on his team.
He knew what these moments could do. Two-nil away at the Allianz in under thirty minutes wasn't just a deficit. It was a challenge to the soul.
He clapped once — sharp, loud — and pointed toward their own half. "Come on!" he shouted. "Heads up!"
Alexis turned. So did Cazorla. Özil followed. The body language shifted — slightly, but noticeably. A straightening of spines. A few longer strides. Arsenal jogged back to position.
Because as cruel as this sport could be, there was always a moment — a sliver of opportunity waiting for those who kept looking.
And Arsenal found it.
They didn't fold.
In fact, in the next five minutes, they fought. The Bayern press had momentarily eased, just slightly, perhaps intoxicated by the scoreboard or simply catching their breath from the ferocious tempo. But Arsenal didn't waste the chance.
It began with Kanté — unsurprisingly. The French midfielder intercepted a pass from Thiago intended for Lahm and immediately turned on his heel, skipping past an overcommitted Alonso.
Francesco was already moving.
Özil saw it first.
With that sixth sense, that playmaker's intuition, Özil drifted into a pocket of space between Bayern's midfield lines, received the ball from Kanté on his left foot, and took a touch forward. Boateng was stepping out. Bad idea.
Özil bent a pass around him.
It wasn't flashy. It wasn't theatrical. It was surgical.
Right into Francesco's path.
The captain didn't hesitate.
He took one touch to control, then another to draw Neuer forward — just a little. Just enough.
And then he struck it.
A right-footed shot, low and curling, not toward the near post — Neuer would expect that — but across the body, just inside the far corner, a place no goalkeeper enjoys reaching at full stretch.
Neuer dove.
But not fast enough.
The net rippled.
Arsenal 1. Bayern 2.
Silence — real, audible silence — bloomed across parts of the Allianz like a spreading fog. It wasn't complete, of course. The ultras behind the goal kept chanting. But it was fractured now. The hum of expectation dulled by the crack of Arsenal's reply.
Francesco didn't scream. He didn't sprint to the corner or yank off his shirt.
He jogged to the edge of the box, fist clenched, and pointed to Özil with a single, emphatic gesture. Then turned and jogged back toward the halfway line, lips pressed in a grim line of focus.
Özil caught up to him, tapped his shoulder. "Good finish," he said, not loudly, not smugly — just matter-of-fact.
Francesco gave a curt nod. "Great ball."
Behind them, Alexis had retrieved the ball from the net, already trotting back to the center circle. Bellerín jogged past, exhaling in relief. Even Cech raised a thumb from the far end.
The scoreboard read 2–1 now.
It was no longer Bayern's game alone.
And with that goal, Arsenal didn't just claw back a scoreline.
They reclaimed belief.
Wenger's arms were now unfolded, his stance looser, more animated. He gestured to the flanks, urging Oxlade-Chamberlain and Campbell to press higher. Arsenal's shape shifted — subtly, but with new conviction. The midfield no longer sat passively. Kanté pushed up beside Cazorla. Özil floated more dangerously.
For the next ten minutes, it was Arsenal with the ball.
And Bayern, though far from flustered, had to recalibrate.
The tempo had changed.
The Allianz hadn't gone quiet — it never truly did — but a different energy coursed through the stands now. Less celebratory. More anxious. Bayern supporters knew this feeling. It was the flicker of doubt.
By the 34th minute, Arsenal earned a corner. Özil floated it in, Van Dijk rose, and Neuer had to punch clear under pressure. Cazorla volleyed the rebound wide, but it didn't matter. It was another signal.
They weren't going away.
On the bench, Mertesacker and Ramsey stood, clapping. Giroud leaned forward, elbows on knees, watching intently.
Then came another half-chance. In the 37th, Alexis wriggled free of Lahm and curled a cross toward Francesco, who tried an audacious bicycle kick from the penalty spot — catching the ball with decent contact but sending it just over the bar. The crowd gasped. Wenger winced. But the intent was clear.
Arsenal were no longer just surviving.
They were threatening.
Guardiola stood now, barking instructions to Alaba and Alonso, urging a return to control. But Arsenal had found the one thing Guardiola couldn't coach his players to defend: momentum.
Then, in the 41st minute, came the flashpoint.
Francesco again.
Campbell had chased down a lazy touch from Boateng and stolen possession deep on the right flank. He turned, laid it inside to Özil, who once more found Francesco at the top of the box.
This time, the striker dummied — sold Alonso with a step-over — and dragged the ball left.
He struck it clean, aiming top right.
The ball curled viciously.
Neuer didn't move.
It was in.
Or so it seemed.
But the flag was up.
Offside.
Groans from the Arsenal bench. Francesco froze, turned, and threw his hands up, looking to the assistant referee with disbelief.
Replays on the stadium screens showed it was close — so close.
Then came the dagger.
The 44th minute.
Just as Arsenal were threatening to turn the tide, just as belief was beginning to throb through their veins again, Bayern struck with the kind of merciless precision that defined champions.
And this time, it wasn't Lewandowski. It wasn't Müller. It wasn't Coman or Douglas Costa or any of the sleek attackers who had spent the half dancing at Arsenal's expense.
It was David Alaba.
The left-back, the utility man, the Austrian engine who did everything right even when nothing seemed on.
The move started innocently — a spell of possession at the back, Neuer to Boateng, across to Lahm, and then back again. Arsenal pressed in ones and twos, not as a unit, and Bayern waited for the crack.
It came when Alonso, deep and calm as a lake at dawn, pinged a diagonal switch to Coman, who again beat Bellerín for pace. This time, Coman didn't look to cross. He played it inside, into Thiago, who one-touched it to Müller, who laid it off to Alaba — storming up from deep like a man possessed.
No one tracked him.
Cazorla was a step late. Koscielny was preoccupied with Lewandowski. Van Dijk had dropped too deep. Alaba had space.
And time.
He took one touch, steadied himself just outside the box — and curled a left-footed shot that was as cruel as it was brilliant. It sailed high, arcing beyond Cech's full-stretched glove, kissed the inside of the post, and rippled into the net with a sound that cut like ice.
3–1.
Just like that.
The Allianz bellowed again, louder now, this time tinged with a venomous sort of joy. They had seen Arsenal's defiance. And now they relished its punishment.
Francesco bent over at the halfway line, hands on knees. Özil kicked the air in frustration. Cech cursed under his breath as he retrieved the ball from the net.
The half didn't linger much longer. One minute of stoppage time, a few half-hearted passes, and then the whistle blew.
Arsenal jogged off with their heads down, Bayern strutting.
It was quiet at first. Not the kind of silence that follows a funeral — this was sharper, more volatile. A silence charged with frustration, pulsing behind the ribs of every man who wore red and white.
Cech sat down, gloves off, breathing heavily. Özil removed his boots without looking at anyone. Alexis muttered something in Spanish, pacing. Bellerín looked like he wanted to punch a locker.
Francesco was the last to enter.
Wenger followed soon after, flanked by Steve Bould and fitness coach Shad Forsythe.
The manager didn't say anything at first. He walked to the center of the room, arms folded, surveying them all. His gaze stopped briefly on Francesco, then moved to Giroud, seated and silent beside Arteta.
"Listen," Wenger began, voice low, steady — not angry, not yet. "Listen to me carefully."
They did.
"3–1 at the Allianz Arena. Against this Bayern. Most teams would be dead. You're not."
He let that sit in the air.
"Why? Because you've created. You've threatened. You've shown bravery. That goal from Francesco — the move, the finish, the timing. That is not luck. That is character."
Francesco stared ahead, face tight, jaw set.
Wenger turned, motioning toward the tactical board. He snapped a magnet off the wall and replaced Campbell's marker with Giroud's.
"In the second half, we go bold."
Some eyebrows rose.
"Joel, you've worked hard. But we need presence now. Olivier—" he turned to the Frenchman "—you'll go central. Francesco shifts to the right. You give us the focal point. Francesco, I want you pulling Alaba wide, isolating him. You've already beaten him once. Do it again."
Francesco gave a short nod.
"Alexis stays left. Mesut floats as he always does. We keep Kanté and Santi holding but with license. Press when the moment is right. Don't get drawn in. Be patient. They will leave gaps. You saw it yourselves."
Wenger's voice had risen now, tinged with that unique French cadence that surfaced when he was truly fired up.
"They are not gods. They are men. Play like it."
He turned back.
"Francesco."
The captain looked up.
"You lead. Not just with goals. With your movement. Your voice. Your presence. Remind them we are Arsenal. Remind them why they fear us."
Francesco's eyes flickered — not pride, not ego. Just that fire.
"I will," he said.
Giroud stood, clapped his hands once, and turned to Francesco. "Let's make it count."
"Let's," Francesco replied.
The bell rang.
As the teams emerged from the tunnel, the temperature inside the Allianz Arena had shifted. It wasn't literal — the November air still bit with alpine chill — but something else. A crackle. A question.
Arsenal had made their move.
Joel Campbell was off. Olivier Giroud was on. Francesco now stood wide right, exchanging a glance with Bellerín, who nodded. The captain rolled his shoulders once, then took his place.
Bayern resumed with their usual swagger. But there was a flicker of caution now in Guardiola's stance on the touchline. He barked to Lahm and Alonso to drop deeper when out of possession. Arsenal had earned their respect.
And then — the moment.
51st minute.
It started with Kanté again — because of course it did.
A tackle on Thiago near the halfway line. Quick feet. A switch of play through Özil to Alexis, then back inside to Cazorla.
Alaba had stepped high to press Özil.
Bad idea.
Cazorla spotted it in an instant — a curling pass down the right flank, perfectly weighted into Francesco's stride.
And the captain was gone.
He didn't explode — he glided. Accelerated. Alaba tried to recover, but Francesco dipped his shoulder and left him behind, the ball tight to his foot like a violinist to a bow.
He reached the edge of the box.
One look up.
Giroud was arriving, hulking, determined, muscling between Boateng and Lahm.
Francesco curled a low cross with his right — not too fast, not too high, but just right.
Giroud rose.
Not with finesse. With force.
He climbed above Boateng, twisted, and powered a header downward and across goal.
Neuer saw it.
But couldn't stop it.
The net rippled again.
3–2.
And now — now — the Allianz did falter.
The red wave of noise became a confused murmur.
Arsenal had struck back.
And they had time.
Francesco sprinted toward the corner flag this time, arms wide, and Giroud met him there, grabbing him by the back of the head in that wild, euphoric grip strikers share when they deliver for each other.
"Perfect," Giroud gasped.
"You made it easy," Francesco replied, grinning through his sweat.
Back at the halfway line, Wenger clapped furiously, yelling encouragement. Mertesacker was on his feet. Ramsey punched the air. Even Steve Bould cracked a grin.
The scoreboard now read:
BAYERN 3 – 2 ARSENAL
52' Giroud (Assist: Francesco Lee)
The stadium buzzed, the scoreboard flickering with a new kind of tension. Arsenal had clawed it back to 3–2. They weren't supposed to be here, not like this — trailing by one in the lions' den but with teeth bared, refusing to back down.
But then — came the counter.
54th minute.
Guardiola moved fast. He wasn't one to wait when momentum slipped even slightly from his grasp. He turned and gestured, firm and swift, and the fourth official raised the board.
Coman off. Robben on.
The crowd stirred. Not because they doubted Robben's ability — no, quite the opposite. It was the kind of substitution that signaled something surgical, something deadly. Coman had been lively, but Robben brought something else. A veteran's venom. An assassin's calm.
Francesco clocked the change instantly.
"Robben's in," he called across the pitch, warning Bellerín and Kanté. "He's gonna cut in. You know it."
Bellerín nodded, already tracking the Dutchman's movements like a hawk. But it didn't matter.
55th minute.
Just a minute later — it happened.
The ball began innocuously again, Bayern passing among themselves like a snake coiling in the grass. Neuer to Boateng. Across to Lahm. Then back to Alonso.
Arsenal's press was active, but Bayern had pulled them out just far enough.
Alonso touched it left to Alaba.
And the Austrian took off again.
He charged up the wing like a man possessed, just as Wenger had warned — not content with defending, never content. This time, Francesco was out wide tracking him, but a half-second late, and Alaba skipped past with a cheeky flick, his boots barely touching the ground as he flew.
Inside, Robben waited.
Not hugging the line — no, lurking in that inside pocket where he thrived.
Alaba spotted him, slid a pass into his path — just inside the box.
Bellerín reached, too late.
Robben didn't even feint. He didn't need to. Everyone in the Allianz knew what was coming — that classic, cursed cut-in onto his left.
And still, no one could stop it.
He sliced inside like a blade through silk, opened his body, and curled a wicked shot toward the far corner.
Cech dove — full stretch.
But the shot was sublime. Rising. Bending. Tearing.
Goal.
4–2.
The stadium erupted again, but this time with the roar of release — fear turned back into triumph, belief reignited. Robben peeled away toward the corner flag with arms raised, a smile as sharp as the shot.
Francesco let out a sharp exhale, turning back toward the center circle. He didn't shake his head. He didn't curse. He just looked toward the bench, toward Wenger — and nodded once, almost like: We go again.
Because that's what they did.
61st minute.
Arsenal refused to drown. They didn't panic. They didn't force.
They played.
It started, again, with that brilliant little Spaniard in midfield. Cazorla — head always on a swivel, always looking for the rhythm.
A slick one-two with Kanté. A quick burst forward. Then — a perfectly disguised outside-of-the-foot ball between Lahm and Boateng.
Alexis was on the move.
His first touch was aggressive — not elegant, but violent in the way it pushed the tempo. He accelerated into the box, dragged the ball inside with a feint that sent Boateng stumbling.
Then, the finish — with his right foot, low and angled past Neuer's feet before the keeper even set himself.
GOAL.
4–3.
Now it was the Arsenal fans — small in number, tucked into the upper tier — who made the noise that mattered. They leapt and shouted, scarves flailing in the Munich cold, the impossible now only one strike away.
Alexis sprinted to the sideline, fingers pointing skyward, then to Cazorla — the man who made it happen. The two embraced in that brief, fierce way of teammates who've dug each other out of a pit.
Wenger clapped hard. "Come on!" he shouted, louder than anyone had heard him in months.
And on the pitch, Francesco turned, looked at Alexis, and shouted across the pitch, voice raw:
"One more!"
Time passed.
Bayern, for all their quality, started to look nervous. The arrogance of the first half was gone now — not because they doubted their ability, but because they'd seen what Arsenal could do. They had been warned. Twice. Now thrice.
76th minute.
Free kick to Arsenal.
Thirty yards out. Slightly to the left. Boateng had brought down Giroud trying to climb for a high ball.
Cazorla stood over it.
There was a hush. Not in the crowd — they were chanting, whistling, trying to rattle him — but on the pitch. A kind of momentary suspension, as if even the players knew something was about to happen.
Francesco stepped back, watching. Özil stood nearby, but didn't move. They all knew who would take it.
Cazorla placed the ball down with surgical care. Took four steps back. Breathed in.
And struck.
Not power. Pure technique.
The ball lifted, curled, and dipped — an impossible arc.
Neuer dove, arms outstretched, mouth open in disbelief.
But the ball was gone.
Top corner.
GOAL.
4–4.
Stunned silence.
The Allianz — stopped.
For a full five seconds, it was as if someone had sucked the air out of the entire stadium. Cazorla didn't even celebrate wildly. He just turned, arms wide, and grinned as his teammates swarmed him. Alexis jumped on his back. Özil ruffled his hair. Francesco grabbed him by the shoulders and shouted, "You beautiful, beautiful bastard!"
Even Wenger laughed.
Even Guardiola looked momentarily… stunned.
It was 4–4. With fifteen minutes to go.
And now? Chaos.
Bayern tried to respond, of course. They came forward in waves. Alonso pushing. Robben trying again. Müller shifting into the middle. Costa off the bench. Even Lahm made a late surge.
But Arsenal were resolute.
Kanté was everywhere — blocking, chasing, snapping at heels. Cazorla, legs tired but heart blazing, dictated tempo. Özil dropped deep, then darted forward again. Alexis kept testing Boateng. Francesco tracked back to double up on Robben. Giroud battled for every long ball like his life depended on it.
81st minute. Robben again cut inside — this time Francesco got just enough of a touch to deflect the shot.
83rd. Lewandowski rose for a header — Cech caught it clean, arms like iron gates.
88th. Alexis nearly broke free — but Alaba hauled him back. Yellow card. No hesitation.
90+1. Özil floated a corner in — Giroud headed over the bar.
90+3. One final Bayern attack. Cross into the box. Van Dijk cleared with a thundering header.
Final whistle.
The sound that followed was not one of triumph. Not for Bayern.
It was disbelief. Frustration. A slow, confused applause that came more from obligation than celebration.
Arsenal players collapsed to the turf — not in despair, but exhaustion. They had run, and bled, and believed.
Francesco bent at the knees, looking to the sky, then smiled.
He walked straight to Cazorla and hugged him. "You saved us," he said.
Cazorla shook his head. "We saved us."
Wenger met them at the edge of the pitch. No words — just arms out, pulling them into brief, proud embraces. They hadn't won but they hadn't lost either and in Munich, that mattered more.
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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: 16
Goal: 25
Assist: 4
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