The ball wasn't touched again.
Newcastle restarted with hollow urgency, but the whistle blew seconds later—long, flat, final.
7–4 on aggregate. 4–3 on the night. Arsenal to Wembley.
The away fans erupted behind the dugout.
Flags waved, scarves lifted.
A storm of red noise against a backdrop of stunned silence as St. James' Park stood still.
No boos. No outrage.
Just the subdued hush of reality.
They had hoped. For twenty minutes, they believed.
Then Izan happened.
The man in question just jogged slowly—toward his teammates, slapping a few hands as he passed, but not lingering.
He shook Isak's hand first.
A brief nod between goal-scorers.
Then Bruno. Then Schär.
No words were exchanged, just eye contact that spoke more than congratulations or apologies ever could.
By the time he turned toward the sideline, the staff and officials had already set up the interview area—barely a barricade and a microphone on a boom stick.
