226. Againts Chelsea PT.3
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The Bridge was no longer confident. It was anxious. Unsettled. A stadium that had seen leads before — and watched them vanish as the clock continue to ticked on. And Mourinho was preparing his changes, because he knew what was coming next.
Then came the 58th minute — the moment that turned simmering pressure into eruption.
It began, again, with N'Golo Kanté. Of course it did. He had just stepped in front of an Oscar pass near the halfway line, timing it perfectly — like he'd seen it in a dream the night before. One touch to control, another to move, and suddenly the field opened up before him.
Chelsea's midfield was out of shape. Fabregas had drifted too high, Matic too wide. The channel was there — and Kanté knew exactly who to find.
He threaded a ball through the middle, just a whisper past the reaching studs of Matic, and Francesco was already moving into the space between Terry and Zouma. Not sprinting — not yet. Just positioning, reading, inviting.
The pass arrived. Francesco took it on the half-turn, left foot cushioning it perfectly, and lifted his head. The crowd rose with him.
Terry stepped out. Zouma closed the angle. But Francesco didn't panic. He dipped his shoulder, turned his back to goal — and waited.
Alexis was coming.
From the left wing, the Chilean had seen it unfolding. He darted inside, just as Ivanović hesitated — a half-step of doubt, and it was enough.
Francesco rolled the ball with a soft flick of his right boot, just into the path of Alexis. Delicate. Weighted. Measured.
Alexis didn't need to break stride.
He burst into the box, eyes locked on the ball, then on the corner.
Begović came out — arms wide, legs tense — but the angle was always against him.
Alexis opened his body, sold the far-post finish… and slipped it in at the near post instead.
Low. Precise. Ruthless.
2–2.
The away end exploded.
A roar of catharsis, of belief, of yes, we're really doing this.
Francesco punched the air once, hard, then turned to Alexis and met him in an embrace — a brief, fierce one. Then Özil was there, and Walcott, and Cazorla, all piling in. A tangle of red shirts against the blue gloom of Stamford Bridge.
And above them, Wenger let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He didn't celebrate. Not visibly. Just a slow, hard nod. Because he knew what it meant.
Francesco's assist wasn't just a pass. It was intelligence. Poise. Leadership.
From a sixteen-year-old.
Mourinho, meanwhile, stood motionless at the edge of his technical area, face unreadable. But the bite in his jaw, the twitch of his left hand — it betrayed the truth. He could feel it slipping.
Chelsea had been ahead. Twice.
And now it was level.
Arsenal were younger. Arsenal were faster. And Arsenal were rising.
The restart was hurried. Chelsea wanted to reassert. Hazard dropped deeper now, taking the ball in midfield, trying to probe. Ivanović pushed up again, his pride stung by Alexis. But it was different now.
The fear had crept in.
Arsenal didn't retreat — they hunted.
Kanté intercepted another pass in the 61st minute, snapping into Fabregas with the kind of clean aggression that got the Arsenal fans singing his name. "KAN-TÉ! KAN-TÉ!" rippled through the away end, loud and defiant.
Francesco, now truly in the zone, was everywhere. He tracked back to link up play, chased down loose balls, offered himself constantly as an outlet. And when Özil fed him again in the 64th minute with a through-ball behind Zouma, it took a brilliant Begović block to keep Chelsea from going behind.
By the 65th minute, the shift in tone was complete.
Mourinho called for reinforcements. Ramires replaced Oscar. John Obi Mikel came on for Fabregas. The crowd stirred, unsure. These weren't substitutions made from strength — they were tactical triage.
Wenger didn't flinch. He trusted his players.
Trusted Francesco.
And the young captain was growing with every minute.
The 70th minute arrived like a turning point cloaked in silence.
Wenger stepped forward from his seat, wordlessly gathering the fourth official's attention. The board was lifted — triple change.
Three names. Three statements.
Off: Alexis Sánchez. Santi Cazorla. Theo Walcott.
On: Olivier Giroud. Aaron Ramsey. Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain.
It was bold — not because the departing trio had played poorly, but because the shape of the match was shifting. And Wenger, as ever, was reshaping with it.
Giroud jogged onto the pitch, already issuing gestures to adjust the shape — a center-forward's instinct to anchor and link. Francesco caught his eye and nodded; no words needed. He moved left, into the space Alexis had just vacated. Ramsey tucked in beside Kanté, giving Arsenal dual engines in midfield. Chamberlain slotted wide right — speed, directness, unpredictability.
And suddenly, Arsenal weren't just playing with momentum — they were reshaped to finish the job.
Francesco now drifted wide and high, hugging the touchline just enough to stretch Ivanović, but always watching, always waiting to pounce inside. It wasn't a punishment to be pushed wide. It was a new vantage point. A new battlefield.
He relished it.
Chelsea were starting to crack under the weight of it all. Mikel was no Fabregas — functional but not visionary. Ramires brought energy, but no control. Hazard was getting isolated, starved of possession. Ivanović, tasked now with both the unpredictable Oxlade-Chamberlain and the ever-shifting Francesco, looked like a man being pulled in two directions — and failing both.
Minutes passed, the tension tightening with every touch.
Then came the 77th.
The moment people would replay for years.
It began innocuously — a throw-in deep in Arsenal's half on the left. Monreal took it short to Ramsey, who calmly fed the ball inward to Özil. Chelsea's press had softened, unsure whether to commit or contain.
Özil took two touches and glanced left.
Francesco.
He was standing still — for just a second. Watching. Measuring.
Then he moved.
The pass arrived at his feet like a fuse being lit.
Ivanović stepped up — late.
Francesco dropped his shoulder and went inside. Quick. Sharp. Clean.
Ivanović turned — too slow.
Zouma came next, stepping across to block the channel. A mountain of a man, all strength and stride. But Francesco didn't try to go through him.
He went around.
A feint to the right. A drop of the hip. Then — flick.
Outside of the boot, past the lunge.
Zouma was chasing shadows.
Now only Cahill remained, backpedaling into the box, trying to guess. Left? Right? A tackle? A block?
Francesco didn't give him time.
He touched the ball forward with the outside of his left boot, accelerating into the area, Cahill clinging to his shoulder — but not enough to risk a foul.
Then, with the goal in sight, he snapped his right foot across the ball — a whip, not a blast. Clean. Clinical. Cruel.
The shot bent low and fast, curling just beyond Begović's glove and tucking inside the far post.
3–2.
Stamford Bridge fell silent.
Except for the Arsenal end.
They erupted. A cascade of limbs and shouts and disbelief. Pure, unfiltered euphoria.
And at the heart of it — Francesco.
He didn't slide. He didn't leap into the air. He sprinted to the corner flag, arms wide, mouth open in a guttural cry of triumph, of vindication, of this is my team.
Oxlade-Chamberlain was the first to reach him, leaping onto his back. Then Ramsey. Then Giroud, wrapping a massive arm around both. Even Cech came running to the halfway line, fists pumping.
Wenger stood again, this time unable to contain a smile. A rare one — sharp-edged with pride.
He'd seen many goals in his time.
But not many like this.
Not many from someone this young.
Not in a match this big.
And not at Stamford Bridge.
Francesco Lee, sixteen years old, captain in Per Mertesacker's absence, had just scored the kind of goal that shifted narratives. Not just games. Not just seasons.
Careers.
Mourinho, by contrast, stood statue-still. His eyes on the grass, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it might crack. He didn't even glance at the scoreboard.
He knew what it read.
He didn't need to look.
The restart came slowly. Chelsea were stunned. They pushed forward now out of necessity, not intent. Hazard dropped deeper again, desperate to find some avenue. Costa, surly and isolated, clashed with Koscielny and van Dijk but never found rhythm.
And Arsenal?
They didn't bunker in.
They managed it.
They pressed smartly. Held possession when they could. Chose when to attack, when to slow.
Then, in the 82nd minute — as the clock ticked toward the twilight of the match and the tension inside Stamford Bridge simmered like water just before a boil — Arsenal struck again.
They didn't rush it. They built it.
The ball had pinged around in midfield for a spell, Arsenal toying with Chelsea's press like a matador with a tiring bull. Ramsey and Kanté were tireless, recycling possession, dragging blue shirts out of shape. Özil drifted between the lines, always a step ahead, always seeing the next two moves. Giroud dropped deep, laid it off, and spun in behind. And wide right, near the touchline, Oxlade-Chamberlain was licking his lips.
He'd been electric since coming on — legs fresh, heart roaring. Azpilicueta, already exhausted from chasing shadows, looked like he was running through tar. His positioning slipped just slightly — a yard too deep, half a yard too tight.
And that was enough.
Ramsey spotted the angle. With a single clipped ball, he fed Chamberlain down the right wing, threading it between Mikel and Azpilicueta with surgical precision.
Chamberlain took off. One touch to settle. Another to push it into stride. Then he was gone.
Azpilicueta gave chase — or tried to. But the Ox was in full flight now, legs pumping, boots slicing the pitch as he surged toward the corner flag. In the box, Giroud was already moving. He knew. He trusted. He'd peeled off Cahill's back shoulder, dragging Zouma with him.
Francesco, just inside the box, raised a hand — but this one wasn't his.
This one belonged to Giroud.
Chamberlain looked up. Saw red shirts flooding the area. Saw Begović edging off his line. Then — with a swing of his right boot — he whipped in a cross.
It wasn't just good.
It was perfect.
Low enough to evade the keeper. High enough to clear Mikel. Curling just enough to bend away from the line of defense and into the corridor of uncertainty.
Giroud launched.
Cahill jumped. Zouma flailed. Both tried to muscle him off balance. But Giroud — the bull-shouldered Frenchman with a sculptor's touch and a warrior's spirit — wasn't losing this duel.
He rose, twisted mid-air, and hammered his forehead through the ball.
Begović got a glove to it.
It didn't matter.
The shot was too pure. Too close. Too vicious. The ball snapped into the back of the net, rustling it violently before bouncing off the ground and back into the roof.
4–2.
Stamford Bridge gasped.
The Arsenal bench exploded.
Wenger, fists clenched, turned sharply to his staff and let out a rare, visceral cheer. Steve Bould leapt to his feet, clapping thunderously.
And on the pitch — pure bedlam.
Giroud sprinted to the corner, leaping into a knee-slide with both arms outstretched like a glider. Chamberlain chased him down, yelling, "Mon gars !" before tackling him to the ground. Ramsey jumped on top of them both. Then Kanté. Then Özil, who offered Giroud a wink and a hand up.
Even Francesco, breathless, drenched in sweat, jogged over and hugged the striker around the neck.
"You animal," he laughed in Giroud's ear.
"You told me to get in the box," Giroud grinned.
Francesco just nodded, heart pounding. This — this moment — was football distilled to its purest form. Unity. Execution. Celebration.
The camera panned to the stands.
Arsenal fans were in delirium. Jumping, singing, waving scarves. Grown men in retro kits were crying. One held a cardboard sign: "WENGERBALL IS BACK."
And behind them, in the Chelsea sections, silence reigned. Pockets of blue seats were already emptying. A few fists slammed against metal. A father clasped his son's shoulder and muttered, "Come on, let's go."
Mourinho stood stone-faced near the touchline, arms crossed, lips thin. If you looked close, you could see it — the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Rage? Defeat? Calculation?
All three, maybe.
He didn't speak. Didn't move.
Just watched.
The fourth goal broke something — not just in the scoreline, but in Chelsea's posture. Their fight drained. Their midfield flattened. Ramires began fouling out of frustration. Costa shoved Koscielny after a fifty-fifty ball and drew a yellow. Hazard, who'd barely had a sniff, tugged at his shorts, head bowed.
In contrast, Arsenal played with the freedom of men released from a cage.
They didn't sit back. They didn't show mercy.
They managed the match with the intelligence and swagger of champions.
Ramsey and Kanté formed a wall, snapping into challenges with perfect timing. Özil continued to dictate like a conductor, arms always moving, voice always guiding. Oxlade-Chamberlain terrorized Ivanović until the final whistle, and on the left, Francesco began to toy with the ball — little nutmegs, feints, letting the ball roll under his studs before darting away.
It wasn't arrogance.
It was confidence.
This was what Wenger had always preached. Not just victory. But beautiful victory. And this — in the backyard of his oldest rival, against the most cynical side in England — was his football reborn.
In the 89th minute, Francesco almost capped it with a fourth of his own.
A one-two with Ramsey. A burst into the box. Cahill sliding. Francesco dragging the ball with the outside of his right boot and firing low to the near post.
Only a full-stretch save from Begović kept it out.
But even that — even that — drew applause from both benches. Mourinho sat down again. Wenger clapped slowly, eyes flickering between the pitch and the clock.
Then, finally — after three added minutes and one last desperate long ball from Chelsea — the whistle blew.
Full-time.
Arsenal 4, Chelsea 2.
At Stamford Bridge.
And not with luck. Not with controversy. But with domination.
The players embraced. Shirts were swapped. Boots untied. Some dropped to their knees. Others high-fived the away fans pressed against the barriers.
Francesco?
He stood still for a second.
Just like before the goal.
Still. Measuring. Soaking it all in.
The noise. The lights. The smell of cut grass and adrenaline. The cameras flashing like fireflies. The chants. "Super Frankie Lee!" echoing louder and louder.
Then he turned and jogged toward the away end. Not to lead — just to be with them. To celebrate as one.
Giroud caught up, slinging an arm around his shoulders.
"You know what this means, eh?" the Frenchman asked.
Francesco smirked. "We're top?"
"Top, yes. But more than that."
"What?"
Giroud looked at him — the baby-faced captain who'd just torn Chelsea apart at sixteen — and said, "Now they fear us again."
In the tunnel, Mourinho gave Wenger a curt nod. No words. Just a glance. Not quite respect. But no longer dismissal.
In the press room, Wenger kept it brief.
"We played how we wanted to play. With courage. With quality. I am proud."
Then came the player of the match interview.
Francesco sat before the camera, still in kit, cheeks flushed, hair wet.
"Three goals in two games this month in the premier league. Captain's armband. 2 goal and an assist today. What's going through your head?"
He smiled softly, then said, "We're just getting started."
And somewhere — in a pub, in a living room, in a pub in Islington — Arsenal fans raised their glasses.
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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: 7
Goal: 11
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9