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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.
The glow of the stadium lights still shimmered on the pitch, but the energy had shifted entirely. Arsenal hadn't won—but in the bellies of the traveling faithful, and in the stiff postures of Bayern's players walking off in disbelief, it felt like a triumph all the same.
As the players shook hands and swapped shirts, a UEFA staffer in a navy-blue windbreaker approached Santi Cazorla. He touched the Spaniard's arm gently, offered a few clipped words in accented English, and gestured toward the tunnel.
"Man of the Match," he said with a smile. "You've been selected. Interview area, please."
Cazorla blinked, sweat still dripping from his temple. He turned toward Francesco and Alexis, who were still catching their breath a few feet away.
"They want me," he said, almost sheepishly, like a student being asked to the front of the class.
Francesco grinned and clapped his back. "Of course they do. Go, maestro. You earned it."
Alexis echoed the sentiment with a thumbs-up, his chest still heaving. "That free kick, hermano… madre mía."
Cazorla nodded, bashful but glowing, and followed the UEFA rep toward the designated interview area—just a cordoned-off backdrop near the tunnel plastered with logos and sponsor boards.
The rest of the Arsenal squad ambled toward the dressing room, dragging their feet not out of fatigue but from the surreal electricity still humming through their bones. The hallway to the changing room echoed with the dull clack of studs on concrete, the occasional thud of a shoulder bumping a wall, and the low murmurs of players still processing what they had just survived.
Inside, the dressing room had that heavy, silent buzz that follows a war of attrition.
Jerseys were peeled off, sodden and clinging. Shin pads clattered to the tiled floor. A few groans escaped as players sat, untying boots and rubbing cramping thighs. Someone turned on the speaker—a faint rhythm of reggaeton trickling through the space, not quite celebratory but easing the weight of tension.
Francesco walked slowly to the back corner where his kit lay in a disheveled pile. He kicked off his boots and stripped down, nodding silently at Van Dijk, who sat with a towel draped over his shoulders, staring at nothing.
In the showers, the steam rose like fog, thick and hot. Francesco stepped in, the water hitting his back like a thousand pins. It wasn't about cleanliness—it was about resetting. About washing away the 94 minutes of madness that had taken place on the pitch.
Alexis joined a few stalls down. Bellerín followed. Nobody said much. The water did the talking.
By the time Francesco toweled off and stepped back out into the changing area, most of the players were already halfway dressed. The buzz was rising again—lighter this time. Mertesacker had started talking about Lewandowski's reaction to the equalizer. Özil was mimicking Robben's curl, spinning it comically wide into an imaginary crowd.
Francesco slid into his Arsenal tracksuit, zipped it up to the collar, and sat on the bench, elbows on knees, eyes forward. He wasn't tired. Not really. He felt wired, like he could play another ninety. But he also felt hollow in the way you only get after surviving something big.
His name rang through the dressing room.
"Francesco," came Wenger's voice from the doorway. The manager had changed into a dark overcoat, hair still damp from the drizzle outside. "You and Santi with me. Press conference."
Francesco stood without a word and nodded. He walked with Wenger down the corridor, past German security, UEFA officials, and a few clusters of international media. The hallway opened into a clean, well-lit room where journalists were already packed in like sardines, cameras and recorders aimed at the small stage up front.
Cazorla was already there, seated behind a microphone with a bottle of water at his side. He gave Francesco a small grin, then shifted as the captain took the seat beside him. Wenger settled between them.
The UEFA moderator stepped forward, spoke in German first, then English.
"We'll begin the post-match press conference for Bayern Munich versus Arsenal. Please raise your hands, and we'll bring the microphone around."
First question came from a German reporter with square glasses and an eager lean.
"Question for Mr. Wenger—what does this result mean for Arsenal's campaign?"
Wenger leaned forward, his voice calm but clipped. "It means belief. It means we have shown we belong here, even against one of the best in Europe. We were three-one down at the Allianz. We didn't fold. That speaks of mentality."
A French journalist followed up. "Monsieur Wenger, did you expect this resilience?"
Wenger smiled faintly. "You always hope for it. You never demand it. But I knew the character in this group. Tonight they showed it to the world."
Then a hand from The Guardian's man, his eyes flicking toward Cazorla.
"Santi, first—congratulations on the Man of the Match. That free kick… was it always yours to take?"
Cazorla laughed softly, eyes twinkling. "If Mesut wants it, we fight," he joked. "But no, I felt good. I saw the wall, saw Neuer's position… and I trusted my foot."
Francesco chuckled quietly at Santi's comment about fighting Mesut for the free kick, his smile lingering as the room buzzed with a few appreciative laughs. Then the next question came, this time directed at him.
A reporter from Sky Sports, blonde and sharp-eyed, leaned forward with a steady voice, her English clipped with the barest trace of a German accent.
"Francesco," she said, "can we get your thoughts on this match? A 4–4 draw—between Arsenal and Bayern Munich. It's a scoreline that will shock the football world. Arsenal kept chasing, kept fighting for the equaliser. And considering you defeated Bayern 4–0 back at the Emirates… how do you reflect on the scale and meaning of this result, both for your team and for European football as a whole?"
For a second, the room seemed to hold its breath. Francesco's expression tightened faintly. His eyes flicked toward Wenger, who gave the smallest nod—go ahead—then to Santi, who was watching him now with a subtle smile, like he already knew what he'd say.
Francesco adjusted his microphone.
"I think," he began, slowly, voice soft but clear, "this match… will be remembered. Not just because of the score. But because of what it says—about football, about belief, about us."
He sat back slightly, searching the room with his gaze, letting his thoughts gather.
"Look—Bayern are, for many people, one of the top two or three clubs in the world. Their quality, their depth, their history, the way they play… it's top-tier. To come here, to the Allianz, and draw four-four, that doesn't happen by accident. That takes guts. It takes heart. And it takes a team that believes even when everyone else thinks it's over."
He paused. No one interrupted.
"And we did believe. Even when it was 3–1. Even when Lewandowski scored that fourth. We still believed. Not in some fake, motivational way—but in the kind of belief that's built on hard work and pain. On training ground sprints, on winter nights in Stoke, on recovery sessions when your legs feel like lead. That kind of belief."
A ripple of murmurs flowed across the room. Cameras clicked.
"And you're right," Francesco continued, eyes sharper now, voice firmer. "We beat them 4–0 at the Emirates. People called it a fluke. Said Bayern weren't ready, that they had an off day. Tonight? I don't think anyone can say that. Tonight they played at full throttle. They pressed, they passed, they attacked with everything they had. And still—we found a way to stand up. To fight back. To not lose."
His hands spread slightly, as if to say: This is who we are now.
"This isn't about embarrassing Bayern. We respect them deeply. But if you're asking me if this result shocks the football world? Then good. Maybe it should. Maybe it should shake some assumptions. Maybe people will stop seeing Arsenal as just a team with nice football and start seeing us as a team with teeth. With spine."
Another pause.
"Because in this tournament, in this group, there's no room for passengers. You earn every point. You bleed for every inch of space. And we showed tonight that we're not just passengers. We're contenders. Even if no one expected us to be."
He leaned back slightly, his eyes still glowing with the fire of the match. A few journalists nodded subtly, some scribbling down his words with the kind of quiet urgency that suggested they knew they had something real.
Wenger, seated beside him, allowed himself a rare smile. He didn't add anything, just placed a steady hand on Francesco's shoulder—briefly, but purposefully.
Wenger's hand lifted from Francesco's shoulder with a gentle pat, and he shifted forward in his seat again, adjusting his tie out of instinct rather than necessity. The murmur of the press still rippled in the room from Francesco's words, but it quieted quickly as another hand rose near the front row.
This time, it was a French reporter—a veteran face, grizzled and lean, wearing a navy scarf knotted just beneath his chin. His voice was low, articulate, thoughtful.
"Arsène," he began in French, then repeated himself in English for the benefit of the room, "a question about your signings this season. Everyone knew the quality of Petr Čech, of course, but not many people knew about N'Golo Kanté or Virgil van Dijk when you brought them in. Now, just a few months into the season, they've not only become starters, but they're delivering top performances on the biggest stage—like tonight. What do you make of their impact so far?"
The question landed with a kind of resonance that quieted even the cameramen. Wenger's eyes narrowed slightly—not out of irritation, but consideration. He folded his hands on the table, pausing for a breath. You could tell it was a question he had already answered a hundred times in his head, just never aloud.
"Let's start with Petr," he said, voice calm, laced with that familiar blend of French wisdom and professorial detachment. "Everyone knew who he was, yes. His trophies speak for themselves. But what people forget is the character behind those medals. Petr is not just a goalkeeper. He is a presence. He gives this team calm. Maturity. Direction. When we signed him, I told the board—I'm not buying just hands. I'm buying a brain. A leader."
Francesco, still seated beside him, nodded subtly at that. Cech's influence was already obvious in the dressing room—his voice, his preparation, his standard.
Wenger continued.
"As for N'Golo…" A fond, almost private smile touched the corners of his mouth. "When I first saw him play in Caen, I knew what he was. He was… everywhere. Not flashy. Not tall. Not a player who gives you YouTube highlights. But I saw in him a kind of energy I've only seen a few times in my career. He reads danger before it becomes danger. He recovers, recycles, releases the ball faster than most players complete a thought."
He leaned in slightly, tapping the table once with his fingers. "Tonight, he covered nearly twelve kilometers. He stopped Müller. He helped neutralize Alonso. But more importantly—he never hides. When we were 4–2 down, N'Golo didn't panic. He didn't play safe. He pressed. He tackled. He started the move that led to our third goal. That tells you everything."
A hum of quiet appreciation murmured through the media again.
"And Virgil," Wenger said, a little slower now. "Ah, Virgil."
He glanced sideways, almost as if he could see the young Dutch defender's long, composed stride right now in his mind.
"When I watched him at Celtic, I saw a player who was waiting to be discovered. Tall, powerful, yes—but that was not what impressed me. It was the elegance. The poise under pressure. He plays like a man with all the time in the world. In a match like this, in a stadium like this, against Lewandowski… that kind of composure is rare. And he showed it."
Wenger's voice took on a firmer tone now, as if issuing a quiet challenge to those who had doubted him.
"Of course, when we signed him, some said he wasn't ready. Too raw. Not tested. But that is the job of a manager—not just to buy the finished product, but to see what is inside a player before the world sees it. And tonight, I think the world started to see Virgil."
He let the silence stretch for a beat, then sat back, folding his hands again.
"So yes," he concluded, "I am proud of all three. And not just because of the performance. But because of how quickly they've embraced the culture, the work ethic, the humility. That's what makes a signing succeed—not just the talent, but the mindset."
A smattering of applause broke out among the journalists—not loud, but genuine. Wenger acknowledged it with a faint nod.
Next to him, Francesco leaned slightly toward the microphone again. "If I can add," he said, glancing at Wenger with a deferential smile, "those three? They've made my job easier. Every single match."
The reporters chuckled. Santi grinned.
From the back of the room, a German journalist—bald, thick glasses, leaning heavily on his translator's earpiece—raised a hand.
"This is for both coach and captain," he said. "With this result tonight, Arsenal have scored eight goals against Bayern over two games—more than almost any team in recent memory. What does this say about your team's attacking potential in Europe?"
Wenger gestured for Francesco to answer first.
Francesco smiled, a little more relaxed now. The heat of the earlier adrenaline had faded, but the pride remained etched in every word.
"I think it says we're not afraid to play our football," he said. "We know who we are. We know we're not the biggest club financially. We don't have the depth Bayern have. But what we do have—are players who are brave. Who want the ball. Who are willing to take risks."
He looked across the table, toward the press, toward the lights.
"I mean—Santi, Mesut, Alexis, Ox… these guys don't shrink. They step up. And when we combine like that, when we commit to attacking—even against Bayern—it's because we trust each other."
He paused, then added, "And the manager gives us that freedom. He doesn't say, 'defend with ten and hope.' He says, 'believe in your football.' That's what makes this club special."
Wenger gave a quiet nod, pleased.
"But," Francesco added, holding up a finger, "we also know this isn't enough. Not yet. Eight goals against Bayern is great, yes—but we've still got work to do. This group is tight. There's no time to celebrate."
That brought a few more appreciative murmurs. Reality. Perspective.
After a few more questions—mostly about tactics, substitution choices, the final standings of the group stage—the press conference drew to a close. The moderator thanked everyone, and the three men at the table rose in sync.
Wenger moved with the quiet calm of a man who had done this a hundred times. Cazorla followed, still holding his Man of the Match award. Francesco stood a second longer, looking out across the press corps.
They weren't sneering now. They weren't scoffing.
They were listening.
He stepped away.
Back in the hallway, as the trio made their way toward the Arsenal dressing room once more, Wenger placed a hand on Francesco's shoulder again.
"You know," he said softly, just between them, "when I made you captain, some people thought I was mad."
Francesco looked over, half-smiling. "Some still do."
Wenger chuckled. "Maybe. But nights like this? They remind me why I did."
The hallway opened up, the air cooler, the walls echoing with the last vibrations of what had been one of the greatest group-stage matches in Champions League history.
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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