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He tried to nap, but his thoughts bounced like marbles in a tin can. He thought of the warm-ups. Of the anthem. Of Neuer again — that long, confident stride of his. Of how Guardiola always tried to control everything, to smother variables with possession and angles and overloads. But he also thought of the Emirates. Of the crowd, the noise, the way everything had clicked.
Then at three, they gathered at the lobby.
Not all at once — they came in waves, like the tide returning to shore. Some arrived early, pacing slowly with hands in their pockets, headphones over ears, trying to keep their world small. Others drifted in later, quiet and focused, dressed in their travel kits — Arsenal-red zip-ups, matching track pants, black boots clean and laced tight.
The marble floor of the Munich hotel lobby reflected the late afternoon light through tall windows, and outside, a veil of fog clung to the glass. It wasn't raining, but the air looked wet, heavy. The kind of weather that pressed on the lungs and blurred street signs. Everything outside was gray and still — too still — but inside the lobby, time was beginning to tense.
Francesco stood near a column, shoulders squared, earbuds hanging loose. He wasn't listening to anything anymore. The music had long stopped. Now it was just the faint hum of blood in his ears, the dull echo of voices — staff checking final logistics, players murmuring to themselves or fiddling with their sleeves.
"Franny," said Bellerín, approaching from the hallway, adjusting his collar. "Forgot how cold Munich gets in November. I thought Spain ruined me for winter."
Francesco gave a distracted smile, then rolled his neck. "You played in London for six years, mate."
"Still," Héctor said, nudging him with an elbow. "They should hand out scarves with the team sheets."
Mertesacker walked past them with the air of a schoolteacher counting heads on a field trip. "Bus in five minutes. Get your things."
The German was calm but firm. You could tell it mattered — not just because it was Bayern. But because this was one of those games you remembered in fragments. Little details. The walk from the tunnel. The anthem echoing through concrete ribs. The way a touch felt under the lights. These moments lived longer than most.
Özil arrived last, sipping from a plain water bottle. His gaze was far-off, blinking as if mentally lining up his first ten passes. He didn't say anything — just met Francesco's eye for a second, then gave the faintest nod. No need for more.
By 3:06, they were on the coach.
The bus had that odd stillness again — not quite quiet, but full of the soft, low rustle of bags, the click of zippers, the light pressure of nervous energy coiled like springs beneath the floorboards. Outside the windows, German fans had begun gathering behind the metal barriers near the hotel entrance. Most wore red and white. Some were just curious onlookers — tourists with phones held aloft — but a few were chanting already, faces lit with anticipation.
Inside the coach, Cech sat up front, staring out the windshield. He was always like that on away days — as if he could see the entire 90 minutes coming toward him in the shape of the road.
Wenger sat behind the driver, suit immaculate, not speaking yet. His hands were folded in his lap, eyes closed, breathing slow. He wasn't napping. He was visualizing — the way he always had. The stadium. The pitch. The first ten minutes.
Francesco took a window seat halfway down the left aisle, slipped his backpack between his feet, and stared outside.
They pulled away from the curb in silence.
It took twenty-seven minutes to reach the Allianz Arena.
Twenty-seven minutes of flickering traffic lights, tramlines, parked bicycles, and glass buildings flicking past in blurs. Some fans waved from corners. Others stood still, waiting. Police escorts cleared intersections. It felt like they were being ushered toward something ancient — not just a match, but a trial. A ritual.
Francesco leaned his head against the window. His own reflection stared back, pale and sharp. He could see a few beads of sweat already rising near his hairline, even though the bus was cool. Not nerves, exactly. Just… readiness. Anticipation had a physical weight. It sat in your chest and lungs, made your fingers twitch.
He remembered something Thierry Henry had once told him at London Colney. "It's not the fear of losing," the legend had said, voice hushed and serious. "It's the fear of not rising to the moment. Of being there… and not being fully you."
He swallowed hard.
Next to him, Oxlade-Chamberlain bounced his right knee, one hand on his phone, the other gripping the edge of his seat. He was staring straight ahead, lips moving slightly. Rehearsing. You could tell.
"Hey," Francesco murmured. "You ready?"
The Ox looked over, surprised for half a second, then nodded fast. "Yeah. You?"
Francesco didn't answer. Just gave the same nod Özil had given him earlier.
At 3:33, the Allianz came into view — a massive, glowing ribcage of red light swelling behind a veil of winter fog. It looked alien. Beautiful. Terrifying. Like a place where destiny didn't just unfold — it was forged under heat and noise and floodlights.
The team bus rolled down into the players' entrance tunnel.
Security met them with nods. UEFA officials waited near the side door. One of them wore a headset and held a clipboard with exact timings:
Arrival: 3:36 PM
Dressing Room Entry: 3:38 PM
Pitch Inspection: 3:45 PM–4:10 PM
Warmup: 5:45 PM
Kickoff: 6:45 PM CET
Every minute was choreographed. Everything down to the second.
They filed off the bus one by one. You could hear the shifting of bags, the footsteps on concrete, the squeak of studs on tile. Francesco adjusted his zip-up, slung his bag over one shoulder, and followed the others through the tunnel, past the Bayern crest, into the away dressing room.
And then it hit — the smell.
All stadiums had it. Grass. Paint. Detergent. Sweat.
Here, it was sharp. Cold. Professional. No frills. A kind of antiseptic brilliance. The walls were white. The benches wood. Above each locker was a nameplate — simple, printed on paper. No screens. No ego.
Francesco found his spot between Özil and Oxlade-Chamberlain, unzipped his bag, and pulled out his boots — molded specifically for this surface, for these dimensions. The insoles were reinforced. The studs slightly longer than usual.
At 3:45, Wenger gave the signal.
"Pitch check. Let's move."
They walked together through the internal tunnel, up a slope lit with harsh fluorescent lights. Then the slope gave way to light — white, blinding — and suddenly, they stepped out into the cathedral.
The Allianz Arena, half-full already, roared as they emerged. Bayern fans had arrived early, flags already waving. The red seats rippled with energy. Chants rose in crescendos. Some booed. Some laughed. Some just watched, eyes cold.
But the pitch — oh, the pitch.
It was perfect. Green velvet. Trimmed with military precision. The kind of surface you dreamed of as a child. Francesco stepped onto it, took a slow breath, and walked across the halfway line.
The grass was a little damp underfoot. The ball zipped when rolled. He tested a few touches. One pass to Alexis. One touch from Bellerín. Özil jogged a few circles, head constantly turning.
The team split into pairs and groups, testing angles. Francesco found himself near the D, passing short triangles with Ox and Santi. Each time he struck the ball, he let it roll just a little longer. Let it bounce back into his rhythm.
He looked toward the goal at the far end.
That goal.
Where Neuer would be waiting.
He wondered if Boateng remembered the last time. That moment — the fake shot, the dip of the shoulder, the stunned silence from the German crowd.
He knew they did.
He knew they wanted payback.
By 4:10, they returned inside.
Then came the quiet stretch. The waiting.
Time stretched thin. Nothing to do but hydrate. Tape ankles. Lie on the massage table. Stretch hamstrings. Talk to no one. Or everyone.
In the far corner, Koscielny tied and retied his laces five times. Virgil leaned back against a bench, completely still, headphones on. Giroud offered everyone fruit gummies with mock ceremony. Ox took two. Alexis took seven.
Francesco found himself alone for a few minutes, staring at his boots. Thinking about his father. About everything it had taken to reach this dressing room, this night, this game.
Then at 5:45 PM, the corridor outside the dressing room began to hum with footsteps and echoes. A UEFA official appeared at the door, headset pressed to one ear. "Time for warm-up," he said, voice clipped, gesturing down the tunnel.
The players rose in a near-silent wave. No shouting. No joking. No bravado. Just the soft shuffle of boots on tile, zippers tugged closed, collars adjusted. They filed out together, some with jackets, some already in training tops, and passed under the harsh strip lights of the players' tunnel.
The walk back out onto the Allianz pitch felt different now.
The stadium was nearly full — over 70,000 voices building in a slow, swelling surge. Flags whipped in unison, scarves raised like banners before a battle. The chanting rolled through the arena in rhythmic, looping waves. German voices in cadence, sharp and proud. It wasn't intimidation, not exactly. It was something more ancient. A rite. A reminder: This is our fortress.
The Arsenal players moved as one toward the far side, to their allocated warm-up area. A UEFA assistant passed a cluster of match balls, each perfectly inflated, each pristine and glossy. One by one, they peeled off into routines. Cazorla and Özil bounced passes in tight circles. Alexis and Campbell worked on sharp cutbacks and crosses. Bellerín sprinted short bursts up and down the sideline, testing his acceleration.
Francesco drifted toward the top of the penalty box, exchanging one-touch passes with Van Dijk and Monreal. His touches were clean, precise. He could feel the tension leave his legs with each pass. The rhythm returned, like breathing, like muscle memory stretching out after hours folded into quiet.
He glanced up at the far goal.
Neuer was there now. Massive. Controlled. A walking wall.
The German keeper caught a cross with one hand and rolled it out smoothly to a waiting defender. As if it were nothing. As if this were another training session. Francesco let his gaze linger, then turned away. He didn't need to stare too long.
He already knew what waited.
Wenger stood on the sideline with his arms folded, coat unzipped just enough to show his Arsenal tie fluttering gently in the breeze. He didn't yell. He just watched. Occasionally he'd lean toward Steve Bould or shout a word to one of the trainers. But mostly, he let them own this space. His work had already been done. Now it was theirs.
At 6:22, another UEFA official approached with a clipboard. "Two minutes."
Wenger nodded once, then turned back toward the bench. "Let's go."
Francesco jogged slowly off the pitch, sweat clinging to his temples now. The dampness in the air had crept into his lungs, but his body was warm — charged, even. Every step back toward the tunnel felt heavier with meaning.
By the time they reached the dressing room again, it was different.
Gone were the headphones, the jokes, the soft conversations. Now there was only the sound of zippers unzipping, tape being torn from rolls, studs clicking across tile. No more pretense. No more pacing.
Now it was time.
The training tops came off first. Each movement was practiced, instinctual. Francesco peeled his shirt off in one pull, tossed it into his duffel, and reached for the match kit — the away strip: navy blue and gold accents. He slid the shirt over his head slowly, let it fall across his chest, then laced up his boots. Right, then left. Tight. Symmetrical.
The others changed just as quickly. Özil rubbed liniment into his thighs with clinical precision. Alexis punched at the air once or twice. Koscielny bounced slightly on the balls of his feet.
At 6:29, Wenger stepped to the front of the room.
He didn't need to raise his voice. They all looked.
He grabbed the magnetic tactics board from its hook on the wall and placed it against the bench, then knelt down and began placing the red magnets — one by one — onto the green field.
"We go 4-3-3," he said, voice measured but resolute. "We match them."
His hand moved with clarity, outlining the formation.
"In goal — Petr."
Cech, already in his under-armor and gloves, gave a small nod, expression unreadable behind the helmet.
"Defense: Nacho at left-back. Virgil, Laurent in the middle. Héctor on the right."
Monreal tied off his socks and flexed his calves. Van Dijk rolled his neck once, eyes locked forward. Koscielny exhaled deeply. Bellerín gave a single nod, then adjusted his armband.
"Midfield three: N'Golo at six. Santi and Mesut ahead."
Kanté, silent in his corner, tied off his wrist tape, then stood up with a bounce. Cazorla tapped the ball between his feet in tiny, hypnotic motions. Özil had one boot on and was now reaching for the other, his focus absolute.
"Wings: Alexis left. Joel right."
Campbell cracked his knuckles. Alexis sat back against the bench, eyes shut — meditating, maybe. Or just visualizing. He'd been here before. He knew what was coming.
"And up front," Wenger said last, "Francesco."
He didn't point. Didn't need to.
All eyes shifted, just slightly, toward the captain.
Francesco stood, quiet, steady. He'd heard his name in starting lineups before. At the Emirates. At Old Trafford. At Anfield. But here — here at the Allianz — it rang differently. Not as recognition, but as a challenge.
He gave a short nod. Nothing more.
Wenger replaced the magnets and gestured to the side bench.
"Subs: Matt, Calum, Per, Mathieu, Francis, Alex, and Olivier."
Each substitute acknowledged it. Macey gave a quick tap to his gloves. Iwobi reached down to retie his boots. Giroud murmured something to Coquelin, who responded with a wry grin.
Wenger straightened now. The board was done. The structure was set.
But what came next wasn't about magnets or tactics. It was about belief.
He paced once, slowly, in front of them all.
"This team," he said, gesturing loosely to the board behind him, "is not here to contain Bayern. We are not passengers. We are not tourists. We are Arsenal. And tonight, we come to compete."
A silence fell. Heavy. Focused.
"They have Lewandowski, Müller, Douglas Costa, Thiago," he continued, voice rising. "They will press. They will move the ball quickly. They will try to pin us deep. But if we stay compact, if we believe in each other — we can break them."
He turned his eyes toward Francesco now.
"And when we do… we finish."
Francesco felt something stir in his chest. A pulse. A thrum. The words landed heavy, but not burdensome. Like weight added to armor — not to slow you down, but to make you ready.
Wenger looked around once more. No theatrics. Just meaning.
"Eyes up," he said. "Eyes forward."
A long pause.
Then: "You know what to do."
And that was it.
No roaring speeches. No last-minute tactical diagrams. Just the truth — delivered plainly, cleanly. Like a line drawn in chalk. Like a whistle before a race.
The room began to move again, but different now. Intentional. Focused.
Cech grabbed his gloves. Virgil and Koscielny bumped fists. Bellerín checked his shin pads for the last time. Özil flicked the ball up from the floor and caught it in his hands.
Francesco reached down, pulled up his socks, then stood tall.
He looked around the room once, scanned the faces. Every single one had a reason to be there. Every single one had something to prove.
He was ready.
In the hallway, the referee and the two captains — Francesco and Philipp Lahm — waited near the entrance of the tunnel. A UEFA handler spoke to each, confirming last-minute details. Arm bands. Coin toss. Handshakes.
The low rumble of the crowd was louder now — less like wind, more like thunder building just out of sight. They were so close to the surface, you could feel the vibration through your boots.
Francesco turned his head slightly. Behind him stood the rest of the squad, lined up in full kits, quiet, poised.
Özil. Alexis. Cazorla. Campbell. Bellerín. Koscielny. Van Dijk. Monreal. Kanté. Cech.
The full eleven. And behind them, the bench.
The lights in the tunnel flickered once. The pitch manager gave the signal.
It was time.
They stepped forward together. One step at a time. Then the tunnel opened to the world, and the night exploded around them — banners unfurled, fans on their feet, the Champions League anthem swelling into the air like an anthem from another world.
Then they lined up beside the referee, shoulder to shoulder beneath the cathedral roar of the Allianz Arena. The flash of cameras lit the faces of the players in passing bursts — Özil blinking under the white-hot strobe, Alexis with eyes sharp as razors, Koscielny still as a statue. The referee stood centered, neutral but aware of the occasion's weight, his whistle slung at his lips like a judge's gavel waiting for silence in a courtroom.
Francesco's heart thudded, not with fear — never with fear — but with that strange brew of anticipation and focus that accompanied these moments. To his right, Philipp Lahm stood calmly, the iconic Bayern captain with years of these nights behind him, his eyes sweeping briefly across the Arsenal line, expression unreadable.
Then came the ritual. Handshakes — firm, measured, not overly warm but not hostile either. A show of mutual recognition. Campbell gripped Alaba's hand quickly, nodding once. Alexis and Müller exchanged brief contact, the Chilean keeping his gaze locked forward. Özil met the eyes of old teammates — some from the German national team — and though there was familiarity, there was no softness tonight.
When Lahm approached Francesco, the two captains nodded respectfully. There was no animosity here. Only roles to play.
The referee stepped between them and raised the silver coin.
"You call," he said, glancing to Francesco.
"Tails," Francesco said, voice firm.
The coin spun, arcing high under the stadium lights, catching the shimmer of a thousand lenses, and then landed in the referee's palm. He revealed it.
"Heads," he said.
Lahm turned his wrist casually, gesturing to the right.
"We'll take that side," he said, pointing toward the end with the Südtribüne — Bayern's raucous southern stand.
Francesco nodded once. That meant Bayern would kick off.
The referee gestured again, signaling the players to take their positions.
Francesco turned, jogged back toward his team, and met eyes with Koscielny and Van Dijk along the way. There was no need to say anything now. Just take your place. Be ready.
The whistle blew.
And the game began.
The first twenty minutes were like trying to breathe in a hurricane.
Bayern pressed with suffocating intensity — not in bursts, but constantly, like an anvil being dropped over and over against Arsenal's midfield and backline. Thiago and Xabi Alonso dictated the tempo like conductors of a brutal symphony, their passes sharp, relentless, pinging between the red shirts in vertical lines that seemed to split space open with every touch.
Lewandowski dropped deep to drag Van Dijk out of line. Müller drifted wide, only to slice diagonally inward the moment Arsenal's back four tried to reset. Kingsley Coman attacked Bellerín down the flank with dizzying pace, forcing the Spaniard to backpedal again and again.
It was relentless.
Within three minutes, Cech had to make his first save — a bullet header from Müller off a whipped cross from Alaba. The Czech keeper stretched full length, palming it wide, and scrambled to his feet before Lewandowski could pounce on the rebound.
By the sixth minute, Bayern had already won two corners. From the second, Boateng rose above everyone, his header hammering down toward the turf and forcing Cech into another reaction stop — a save made not with elegance but necessity, as he punched it away with both gloves and took a boot to the ribs in the process.
The noise was deafening.
Arsenal couldn't string more than three passes together. Every time Cazorla turned, there was a body in his face. Every time Özil tried to flick around his marker, another Bayern player stepped in, snatching it away. Alexis, usually so full of drive, was pinned deep inside Arsenal's own half, forced to track Lahm's overlapping runs.
By the tenth minute, Cech had saved again — this time a curling effort from Costa that looked destined for the far corner until the keeper clawed it away with one hand, landing hard on his back.
Wenger stood near the edge of the technical area, arms folded tightly. He didn't shout, didn't gesture wildly. But his jaw was clenched. His mind working overtime.
Francesco? He was stranded.
Every time Arsenal tried to build forward, it broke down before it reached him. Campbell and Özil tried to combine once, only for Alonso to intercept and launch Bayern into yet another transition. The space between Francesco and the rest of his teammates was a chasm — one he couldn't cross alone.
Then, in the 18th minute, Arsenal finally got something.
A rare slip from Xabi Alonso allowed Kanté to pounce. He surged forward and found Alexis, who turned sharply, shrugging off Lahm's challenge. Alexis found Francesco just outside the box, and in a flash, the captain spun and fired — a low shot toward the far post, aiming just inside the upright.
It was a good strike.
But Neuer was already down.
The German keeper, all spring and reflex, got two strong hands behind it and smothered the shot with ease. He rose, calm, almost bored, and rolled the ball back out to Boateng as if to say, Nice try, but not tonight.
It had been Arsenal's first shot. And for Francesco, the brief spark of possibility was already being snuffed out by the red wave that returned.
By the 21st minute, it broke.
It started innocently — a throw-in on the right. Lahm to Thiago, who passed and moved with dizzying speed. A quick one-two with Costa and then a pass slipped behind Cazorla and Kanté before anyone could react.
Suddenly, the entire Arsenal midfield was bypassed.
Thiago advanced, head up, measuring the angles. Lewandowski darted between Van Dijk and Koscielny, perfectly timed, and pointed.
The ball arrived on a silver platter — a diagonal pass with just the right weight.
Lewandowski didn't break stride. One touch to kill it. One to set it.
Then a shot — low, near post, catching Cech mid-shift to his left.
The net rippled.
And the Allianz exploded.
70,000 voices erupted at once, not in screams of surprise but in the full-throated roar of expectation fulfilled. Flags waved furiously behind the goal. Smoke flares lit like fireflies among the crowd. The stadium trembled with pride.
Lewandowski turned to the corner flag, arms spread wide, then slid on his knees, grinning as his teammates swarmed around him.
Thiago caught up first, wrapping an arm around him, the assist as clean as it gets. Alaba clapped both men on the back. Even Guardiola — usually stone-faced — rose from the touchline, applauding once, satisfied.
Francesco stood at the halfway line, watching as Van Dijk and Koscielny exchanged frustrated glances.
It had been coming.
There was no shame in conceding a goal to Bayern. Not here. Not in this crucible.
But still — it burned.
He looked back toward Cech, who was pulling the ball from the net with a grimace. The keeper looked up, met Francesco's eyes, and nodded once.
They'd weathered the storm for twenty minutes.
Now they had to respond.
Francesco walked back to the center circle, shoulders back, hands resting on his hips. The whistle blew again. Arsenal would restart.
But the stadium had changed.
The energy inside the Allianz had gone from building pressure to full ignition. Bayern weren't going to settle now. They smelled blood.
Francesco glanced around at his teammates — at Özil's narrowed eyes, at Alexis pacing in a tight circle, at Cazorla whispering something to Kanté. They hadn't collapsed. Not yet.
But they'd need something more.
Something beyond tactics. Beyond formations.
They needed belief.
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.
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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: 15
Goal: 24
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