The home team's locker room, located on the opposite side of the tunnel, was much larger than the visitors'.
However, just as Kevin had mentioned, the FA had taken special care to ensure Wembley felt as neutral as possible. They had replicated much of the home side's facilities in the visiting dressing room too, minimizing any home advantage.
Still, Wembley was in London, and for Arsenal, who hadn't even left the city, it still felt like playing at home.
Inside the locker room, Arsène Wenger was giving his final instructions.
"The backline must keep possession steady—no unnecessary risks!" Wenger emphasized, voice sharp.
He knew Luton were a team that loved to press high up the pitch. From his perspective, that was their greatest strength: good discipline, relentless energy, and a squad full of players barely out of their early twenties. Fitness would not be an issue for them.
"They'll press hard from the first whistle," Wenger warned again. "We cannot be careless in possession. If we gift them a turnover, they'll counter at speed."
He turned to the whiteboard and struck it firmly with his fist, the loud bang capturing everyone's attention.
"Control the ball. Be patient. Wait for the openings!"
He jabbed at the diagram of the pitch.
"The flanks! Their weakness is on the flanks!"
It was true. Compared to their compact midfield, Luton's wide areas were more exposed. Ethan, Luton's coach, had done his best to organize his team defensively, but resources dictated priorities, and Luton's strength was in central defense.
"We stretch them wide, tear the gaps in the half-spaces!" Wenger instructed, his eyes sweeping across his players.
"It's exactly what we drilled all week."
Training had been focused entirely on dismantling Luton's shape—intense tactical sessions, just as if they were preparing to face Manchester United or Chelsea.
Wenger could feel the pressure.
Four years without a major trophy.
This season, the FA Cup had to return to the Emirates. No excuses. No mistakes.
He was determined.
The final pre-match instructions were completed, and soon both sets of players were lining up in the tunnel, ready to walk out onto the pitch.
The coaching staff of both sides had already taken their seats by the dugouts.
Ethan made the first move, approaching Wenger for the customary handshake.
Despite the tension, Wenger respected the young coach. Ethan, still in his late twenties, was younger than some of the players about to take the pitch. Yet here he was, leading his team out at Wembley.
Wenger looked him over for a moment longer than necessary, a fleeting thought crossing his mind:
Could I persuade him to join Arsenal's staff someday?
But Ethan, smiling with quiet confidence despite a slight stoop in his posture, would have none of that.
"What did Wenger say to you?"
John Aston leaned in, asking as Ethan returned to the bench.
The players were already walking onto the field behind the referees.
Ethan clapped politely alongside John, watching the players emerge into the roar of the crowd.
"He said he was determined to win," Ethan answered seriously. "I told him it wouldn't be that easy. Then he said, 'We'll see,' and I said if I win, he owes me a drink."
John blinked. "Seriously?"
He could imagine that kind of exchange happening between Ferguson and Wenger... but Ethan?
Ethan burst out laughing. "Of course not!"
John chuckled too, feeling some of the nerves bleed away.
If the gaffer could still joke around minutes before kick-off at Wembley, maybe they really had a chance after all.
The players from both sides stepped onto the pitch, and the atmosphere inside Wembley Stadium was already electric, with fans from both teams trying to outsing each other.
From the Arsenal end came a loud, synchronized chant:
"We're by far the greatest team the world has ever seen!"
Hearing it, Ethan felt a strange sense of familiarity.
"Why does this song sound like something I've heard even back at the Vauxhall Road stadium?" he wondered.
As the Arsenal supporters belted out their anthem, Luton Town fans were also in full voice, cheering passionately for their side. Amidst the roar, Ethan struggled to catch every word of the Arsenal chant, but the melody rang clear.
"This one's called 'And It's Arsenal'," John explained with a smile from the commentary box next to him. "It's been around since the 1930s at Highbury. It's one of the earliest recorded football chants in England. Over the years, lots of clubs have copied the tune and made their own versions with different lyrics."
Ethan chuckled.
"If Kroenke had been Arsenal's owner back then, he'd probably have tried to charge other teams copyright fees for using it!"
John and the others around him laughed along.
Meanwhile, the pre-match ceremonies wrapped up. The players lined up in their formations, nerves taut, awaiting the referee's whistle.
Arsenal had won the coin toss and would kick off. Emmanuel Adebayor stood over the ball, his foot resting on top of it, with his strike partner Robin van Persie beside him.
The referee blew his whistle.
Adebayor tapped the ball sideways to Van Persie and immediately sprinted forward to start the attack!
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to Wembley Stadium!" boomed Letkinson, the lead commentator. "The 2008–2009 FA Cup semi-final is officially underway! It's Arsenal versus the dark horses of this year's competition—Luton Town! Ninety minutes from now, who will be heading to the final... and who will be heading home?"
"Or maybe one hundred and twenty minutes later," his co-commentator added dryly.
That voice belonged to Paul Mawson, a former Arsenal youth prospect who later played for Millwall and had only retired last season. Once nearly lost to a drinking problem, Mawson had rebuilt his career and was now beginning a new life as a Sky Sports pundit.
"You think we're in for extra time tonight?" Letkinson asked.
"Look at Luton's setup," Mawson replied. "Five at the back, two sitting midfielders. It's a low block. They're here to frustrate Arsenal, pack the penalty area, and try to nick something on the break—or hold out for penalties. It's risky, but probably their only realistic shot against a team like Arsenal."
As they spoke, a loud gasp swept through the stadium.
Startled, Mawson looked up toward the pitch.
He hadn't caught the build-up, but what he saw was Luton striker Jamie Vardy—yes, that Vardy—holding his head in disbelief as he jogged back into position.
"Luton... just took a shot??"
Mawson wasn't sure if he had seen it correctly, but judging by the reaction from the Luton supporters, it was real.
Weren't Luton supposed to be parking the bus?