Ethan's emotions finally erupted when Matt found the back of the net.
He sprinted along the touchline, arms raised high in triumph!
Three to one! A two-goal cushion! At this moment, Ethan could finally declare it—Luton were on the verge of victory! Luton would win this!
Under the roaring stands of Wembley Stadium, Matt stood frozen, eyes wide with disbelief. He had just scored against Arsenal. The ball was in the net. The referee pointed decisively to the center circle—it was a goal!
"I scored…! I actually scored!" Matt could hardly process it.
It wasn't until Vardy threw an arm around his shoulder, and the rest of the Luton players came swarming in, that Matt snapped out of it. He didn't even have time to think about a celebration—he just screamed along with the rest of them, lost in the euphoria.
On the opposite bench, Arsène Wenger sat stiffly, his face buried in his hands. Within two minutes, Luton had scored twice. Even for a manager as experienced as Wenger, the rapid shift had been rattling. His hands trembled slightly as he reached for his coat pocket, fumbling for composure that was hard to find.
The Arsenal players looked drained—emotionally and physically. As they watched Luton's wild celebration, the weight of exhaustion finally caught up.
Cesc Fàbregas was the first to go down, clutching his calf in pain. He was cramping badly. Denílson rushed over to help stretch him out, and the medical staff followed close behind.
One by one, Arsenal players started dropping—Gibbs collapsed, and Van Persie, who had been tireless all game, finally slowed to a limp. The signs were clear: Arsenal were running on empty.
Meanwhile, Luton kept celebrating—and running.
Wenger remained seated, watching helplessly. His players were spent. There was nothing more he could ask of them now.
"Cramp after cramp for Arsenal—it's a physical crisis out there," the commentator Letkinson observed grimly. "They've played nearly twenty minutes of normal time with a man down, and now in extra time, they're falling apart. Luton, to their credit, have managed to drag the match into overtime—and now they're punishing Arsenal's fatigue."
"Coach Ethan recognized this perfectly," added co-commentator Paul Mawson. "He brought on Charlie Austin at the start of extra time to maintain pressure, and it paid off. Back-to-back goals have completely turned the tide. Luton are now in full control."
"Their fitness is outstanding," Mawson continued. "We're nearly through the first half of extra time and Luton still look fresh."
As the celebration died down, Ethan returned to the bench, calm but focused. What Mawson hadn't mentioned was that Ethan had factored this in from the very beginning—physical endurance was a key selection criterion when he built this team. Luton's tactics demanded relentless running and high pressing, and only players with the stamina to match were chosen.
Except for Adam and Matt Schmidt, who had been substituted earlier, the remaining players were all peak-condition athletes. Luton's training regime emphasized endurance, and that preparation was now paying off.
On one end, Arsenal had two or three players lying on the pitch with cramps. On the other, Luton's players were still charging up and down the field like it was the first half.
There was no suspense left. The game had shifted decisively.
Shortly after Luton's third goal, the referee blew the whistle to end the first half of extra time.
As players trotted off to switch sides, both teams gathered at the sidelines—replenishing fluids, receiving instructions.
"Watch out for Bellerín, Walcott, and Denílson—they're still fresh," Ethan told his players. "But keep control. Keep possession. They're as exhausted as we are—we just don't show it."
The Luton squad nodded, fire still in their eyes. They were fifteen minutes away from the FA Cup Final, and you could feel it in the air.
With hands stacked in a huddle, the players shouted in unison:
"Let's go!!!"
They weren't just holding on—they were hungry for more.
Unlike the high spirits surging through the Luton squad, the mood on Arsenal's bench was heavy, nearly somber.
Van Persie sat on the turf, gulping in air like a man starved of oxygen. It was the briefest moment of respite in a game that had pushed every player to their physical limit.
Nearby, Fabregas had an ice pack strapped tightly around his thigh, with multiple physios attending to him in hurried synchronization. Arsenal's players were clearly worn thin—legs heavy, shirts soaked, movements sluggish.
Wenger scanned the scene, his eyes pausing on each of his exhausted players. The second period of extra time had already begun. Fifteen minutes remained.
In football, you never surrender until the final whistle.
Arsenal's hopes of an equalizer were slim—perhaps vanishing—but surrendering would seal their fate for sure.
On the touchline, Wenger was in deep discussion with Walcott, Denilson, and young Bella—the only players left with fuel in the tank.
"Drive at them, Theo! Long-range shots, Denilson! Bella, crash the box for the rebound!" Wenger barked. "Simplify it! Play it smart, but play it fast!"
All three nodded, eyes blazing with determination. Before Wenger could continue, the fourth official signaled. The referee was urging the teams back onto the pitch.
In the final stretch of extra time, Arsenal pushed hard. They pressed, they chased, but their legs were leaden, their rhythm fractured. Every pass came with effort. Every sprint took something from them.
As the clock ticked closer to 120, Luton's fans were already rising to their feet. Shock and disbelief flickered in their eyes.
"Am I dreaming, Mel?!" John's voice was shaky, his hands trembling.
"Do you want me to pinch you?" Mel replied, eyes locked on the pitch.
"No... No, I believe it."
"The 115th minute of extra time!" shouted Letkinson from the commentary box, voice quivering with emotion. "Luton still leads Arsenal three goals to one!"
The stadium buzzed like a pressure cooker about to explode. Some Luton fans began to celebrate prematurely, unable to contain their hope.
In the 117th minute, Denilson unleashed a speculative effort from distance, but it soared just over the bar. On the restart, Luton keeper Claude was booked for time-wasting as he delayed the goal kick.
Claude then launched it long. Matt rose above everyone to win the aerial duel in midfield and drove forward toward the corner flag. Under pressure, he slipped the ball to Hill Waiters, who let it deflect off an Arsenal defender and roll over the byline.
Corner kick!
The Luton supporters erupted. The cheers echoed like thunder.
Luton expertly killed over two minutes in the corner flag area, shielding the ball and frustrating Arsenal with clever body positioning and tight ball control. By the time the Gunners finally regained possession and launched one last attack, the clock read 120:00.
Walcott took the ball down the right, bursting down the flank with everything he had left. He reached the byline and swung in a desperate cross...
Bella soared in the center, connecting with a powerful header—but it sailed agonizingly over the bar.
The referee raised the whistle to his lips—
Full time!
It's over!
Luton Town have reached the FA Cup final!
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