220. Debuting For England From Side Substitute PT.2

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Vardy jogged off to applause. Francesco jogged on to cheers. He was on the pitch. For England.

Then in the 72nd minute, just two minutes after Francesco stepped onto the pitch, Ross Barkley let fly from thirty yards out — a strike that came out of nothing, a moment of individual brilliance that only made it clearer how wide the gulf was between these two teams. The ball rocketed off his right boot, arcing beautifully over the desperate lunge of San Marino's goalkeeper, and smashed into the top corner of the net.

The stadium gasped, then erupted in a roar. Even the small contingent of San Marino fans applauded. Barkley jogged toward the corner flag, arms spread wide, grinning as teammates flooded around him in celebration. It was 6–0 now, and England showed no signs of letting up.

Francesco found himself grinning too, watching Barkley high-five Kane and slap palms with Milner. He clapped as they trotted back into position, adrenaline still pumping through his own veins. Even though he'd only been on the pitch a few minutes, he was already moving with purpose, constantly scanning, constantly looking for space, ready to make himself useful.

He kept his positioning disciplined, pressing when needed, tucking into the half-space between defenders when England surged forward. The match felt surreal in motion — the sound of thousands, the shouts of teammates, the smell of the pitch, the shimmer of the stadium lights under the darkening sky. This wasn't a dream. He was here. He was playing for England.

Then came the moment.

The 75th minute.

England moved fluidly through the midfield, with Milner switching play to Walcott on the right. Theo took one touch to bring it under control and looked up — just for a second — before flicking a low cross in toward the penalty area. It was fast and driven, skimming just ahead of the defender who lunged for it, but missed.

Francesco saw it coming.

He had ghosted in behind the center-back, timing his run perfectly — not too early, not too late. He adjusted his stride, eyes locked on the ball, his body already calculating the angle. And then he struck it with his left foot, not with power, but with precision — directing it just inside the far post, out of reach of the goalkeeper.

The net rippled.

And for a second, everything stopped.

Then the noise hit.

Cheers exploded around the stands, a tidal wave of sound that crashed over him as he turned and sprinted to the corner flag, arms flung wide in disbelief and joy. His teammates were already chasing him, Barkley the first to grab him in a hug, Walcott right behind.

"You little legend!" Theo shouted over the noise, ruffling Francesco's hair as others swarmed in.

Kane pulled him into a bear hug. "Bloody hell, mate! First cap, first goal!"

Milner clapped him hard on the back. "Soak it in, kid. You've just made history."

And he had.

Francesco Lee, at 16 years old, had just become the youngest-ever England debutant to score a goal — breaking not just Theo Walcott's record for youngest debut, but also Wayne Rooney's record as England's youngest goalscorer.

As he stood in the huddle of players, heart pounding, he looked up at the scoreboard where his name now appeared beneath the "75'" minute marker. LEE. One goal. On his debut. For England.

His throat was tight, not with nerves this time, but emotion.

He glanced toward the stands, scanning the rows until he found the section where he knew England's traveling fans were seated. Among them, flags waved, arms were raised, people chanted his name — already. As if he'd always belonged here.

He jogged back to the center circle, still in a daze, cheeks flushed and heart hammering. Walcott leaned over as they lined up again.

"Sixteen years old," he said, shaking his head with a smile. "You've just broken my record. And Wayne's."

Francesco gave a breathless laugh. "Sorry, mate."

"Don't be. I was just keeping it warm for you."

Play resumed, and even with the scoreline so one-sided, England didn't stop. They continued to push, not with arrogance, but professionalism — exactly like Hodgson had asked for. Francesco remained sharp, chasing lost causes, pressing defenders, calling for passes.

The tempo of the game showed no signs of waning. Even at 6–0 up, England kept pressing, kept rotating the ball, as if the scoreline was still tight, as if there were something still to prove. Maybe there was — not to San Marino, but to themselves, to the watching world. This was about setting a standard.

And for Francesco Lee, it wasn't just about standards. It was about seizing a once-in-a-lifetime moment and making it his.

The crowd had only just settled from the thunderous ovation of his debut goal when England reclaimed possession almost immediately after the restart. San Marino, visibly deflated, played the ball from the back with no real urgency. A misplaced pass was intercepted by Jon Stones, who calmly recycled the ball through midfield.

Francesco didn't let himself relax. He stayed alert, hovering near the edge of the final third, subtly adjusting his runs to stay just onside, always showing for the ball. His lungs were burning slightly — the adrenaline hadn't dulled that — but he didn't care. The ache in his legs, the sweat soaking his kit, the stadium lights shining down on him like a spotlight — it all felt like part of a dream he'd never dared to dream this vividly.

And then, in the 81st minute, it happened again.

Barkley picked up the ball just inside San Marino's half, dancing through two sluggish defenders with ease. The Everton midfielder had been electric all game — buzzing with intent, driving at players with quick feet and confidence. This time, he didn't shoot. He looked up and saw Francesco.

Francesco was already moving — a diagonal run, quick and low, darting into space between the center-backs like a knife sliding between two plates of armor. Barkley threaded the pass with perfection — a weighted through-ball that kissed the grass and curled gently into Francesco's path.

He didn't need to break stride.

One touch to steady it.

Another to open his body.

Then the finish — calm, composed, clinical — rolled into the bottom right corner past the outstretched fingers of the keeper.

The net bulged. The stadium erupted again.

Francesco froze for a heartbeat, almost in disbelief. Then the realization struck him like a bolt of lightning: he'd just scored again.

Two goals. On his England debut.

The youngest player ever to do it.

The youngest to score a brace for England — breaking Wayne Rooney's record.

His arms shot up into the air and he turned to the bench, to the dugout, to the crowd — spinning in place like he was trying to take it all in, to imprint the moment into his very soul.

Barkley was on him in seconds, laughing breathlessly as he pulled him into a hug.

"You're bloody unreal!" he shouted over the din.

Francesco could hardly breathe from the excitement. "That ball was perfect, mate."

"I saw you — like a ghost. No one tracked you."

The rest of the team swarmed around again. Milner, Kane, Walcott — every single one of them offered some form of congratulations. And not in the patronizing way older pros sometimes treated young players. This was genuine, heartfelt. They were excited for him. Proud.

As they jogged back to the center circle, the camera cut to the touchline where Roy Hodgson stood, arms folded but smiling with the satisfaction of a man who knew he'd made the right call.

Theo Walcott came over and nudged Francesco with an elbow.

"Now you've really done it," he said with a grin.

Francesco raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"First it was my debut record. Now you've taken Rooney's brace record. You going for the hat trick next?"

Francesco gave a sheepish smile. "If the chance comes…"

Theo laughed. "Greedy little bastard. I love it."

But the teasing was warm, affectionate. The kind of teasing that said, You're one of us now.

⸻

By the 85th minute, San Marino were done. You could see it in their body language — the slow jogs, the half-hearted pressing. They looked up at the scoreboard like it was a cruel joke. Seven–nil. And counting.

Francesco didn't let up.

Every time England pushed forward, he was there — not demanding the ball, but always offering, always moving with intent. And his teammates noticed. They looked for him now. Trusted him.

Then came the 87th minute.

It started again with patient build-up — a few quick passes between Stones and Clyne at the back, then up through midfield where James Milner, ever the engine, picked it up near the halfway line.

Milner was a different kind of player than Barkley — less flashy, more industrious. But he saw things, understood space in a way that came only with experience. As he drove forward, he glanced up — just once — and saw Francesco make a clever double-move to lose his marker.

Milner didn't hesitate.

A long, slicing ball split the San Marino backline — not lofted, not chipped, just perfectly drilled along the grass. Francesco was already accelerating, reading it before it was played.

He latched onto the ball just as it entered the box.

One touch to control.

Then he pulled the trigger — a low, instinctive finish across the face of goal, slotting it into the far corner with such coolness it was hard to believe the boy was only sixteen.

The net rippled for a third time.

The crowd exploded.

A hat-trick.

Francesco Lee had just scored a hat-trick on his England debut.

Three goals.

At sixteen.

He had just broken Theo Walcott's record to become the youngest-ever player to score a hat-trick for England.

He stopped dead in the box for a moment, stunned.

Then his hands went to his head — not in frustration, but in utter disbelief. He turned and ran toward the bench, toward Hodgson and the coaching staff, arms raised, laughing, eyes wide with emotion.

The substitutes leapt from their seats. Coaches clapped and grinned.

Out on the pitch, Kane and Barkley sprinted to catch him, dragging him into a celebratory pile. Milner arrived a beat later, ruffling Francesco's damp hair like a proud big brother.

"That's three!" Kane shouted. "Hat-trick hero!"

"You just made history, kid," Milner added, almost reverently.

Walcott approached slower this time, hands on hips, shaking his head.

"Alright, I take it back. Now you're just showing off."

Francesco laughed, still catching his breath. "I swear I'm not trying to break every record."

Theo smirked. "Yeah, well, you just did."

All across the stadium, fans chanted his name. Lee! Lee! Lee!

Up in the stands, a cluster of young boys held up a makeshift sign that read: REMEMBER THE NAME.

When the final whistle blew moments later, it was a 9–0 victory for England. But the scoreline was only part of the story. The real headline would be about the boy who came on in the 70th minute and rewrote the record books in less than twenty.

The final whistle still echoed in the air, but the cameras had already turned toward one figure. Francesco Lee — the sixteen-year-old sensation who had just stolen every headline in the country — was being ushered off the pitch with a small crowd of England officials and media handlers around him. His cheeks were flushed with exhaustion, hair damp with sweat, kit clinging to him from ninety minutes of adrenaline and sweat. But none of it dulled the beaming grin stretched across his face.

As he made his way toward the tunnel, one of the England PR officers leaned over and said, "Sky, ITV, and BBC are all requesting a quick interview. Just a few minutes, alright?"

Francesco gave a small nod, still catching his breath. He didn't feel nervous — not now. The hard part was over. The goals were scored, the history made. All that was left now was to talk about it. He could do that. He wanted to do that. Because what had just happened wasn't just for him — it was for everyone who'd believed in him.

He was led to a small media zone near the mouth of the tunnel. Floodlights from TV cameras glared down at him, and he squinted slightly as he stood before the backdrop covered in England and FA logos. A reporter from BBC Sport, mic in hand, stepped forward with a smile.

"Francesco, first of all — congratulations. Hat-trick on your England debut, three goals in seventeen minutes, youngest ever to do it. You've broken Wayne Rooney's record, Theo Walcott's record… What's going through your head right now?"

Francesco let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head slowly. "Honestly, it hasn't sunk in yet. I feel like I'm dreaming. I just… I came on wanting to make an impact, help the team, but to score three? I never imagined that. It's unbelievable."

"You've made history tonight. A sixteen-year-old from Arsenal making waves in international football — did you feel any pressure coming on at 6–0? Or did that kind of give you the freedom to just play your game?"

He shrugged, but there was a calmness behind his words. "There's always pressure when you're wearing this shirt. It doesn't matter what the score is — you're representing your country. But I think the way the lads welcomed me in, the support they gave me, it made me feel like I belonged. Once I got that first touch, the nerves kind of went away."

The reporter smiled. "Let's talk about the goals. The timing of your runs was impeccable — that second goal in particular, the run behind the defenders, the finish… Are those instincts you've worked on at Arsenal?"

"Yeah," Francesco said, nodding. "We work a lot on movement off the ball at Arsenal. Arsène Wenger's always telling me that goals come before you even get the ball — it's about being in the right place, reading the play. Ross and Milly — those passes were unreal. I just had to make the run."

"You've now broken records held by some of England's biggest names. Rooney, Walcott… What does that mean to you, personally?"

"It's surreal," Francesco said, his smile softening. "I grew up watching those guys. I had Rooney posters on my wall, watched Theo tear it up for Arsenal. To even be mentioned alongside them is crazy. But I know I've still got a lot to prove. This is just one game. I want to keep working hard and see where it takes me."

The reporter leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. "You know what the next question is — everyone's already thinking it. Euro 2016 is next summer. Do you think you've done enough tonight to make your case?"

Francesco's expression turned just a touch more serious, though the fire behind his eyes didn't dim.

"I'm gonna do everything I can," he said clearly, without hesitation. "It's not my decision — that's down to the manager. But I'll keep working, keep improving, and if I get the chance, I'll be ready. I'll give everything for this team. That's my promise."

It was a mature answer. Grounded. No bravado, but not shrinking from the ambition, either. And it was exactly the kind of response that would send the nation buzzing all over again.

"Final question," the reporter said, smiling warmly now. "What's the message to the fans back home tonight? Because I don't know if you've seen it, but your name is already trending across the UK."

Francesco's eyes widened, and he laughed again, a little embarrassed. "Wow. That's mad. Honestly, just thank you. For the support, for believing in me." he joked. "I'll keep doing my best. This is just the beginning."

The interview wrapped up and Francesco thanked the crew, his voice hoarse but still cheerful as he stepped back, where Hodgson clapped a hand on his shoulder with a quiet "Well done, son."

Back in the tunnel, his phone — temporarily handed back by a team liaison — was blowing up. Dozens, maybe hundreds of notifications. Messages from teammates at Arsenal, friends from school, agents, journalists, and most importantly, his family. A text from his dad read: Proud doesn't begin to cover it. We're crying watching you.

He swallowed down the lump in his throat, pressing the phone to his chest for a moment.

This night — this feeling — it wasn't going away any time soon.

The boots would come off. The shirt would get laundered. But the memories? The history?

That was his now.

And as he walked toward the team bus, the chants of "Lee! Lee! Lee!" still echoing faintly from the remaining fans in the stands, he made a quiet vow to himself — not just to make the Euro 2016 squad, but to make sure tonight wasn't the peak.

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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: 5

Goal: 9

Assist: 0

MOTM: 0

POTM: 1

England:

Match Played: 1

Goal: 3

Assist: 0

Season 14/15 stats:

Match Played: 35

Goal: 45

Assist: 12

MOTM: 9