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Every time Arsenal thought they had control, Southampton stole it back. Wanyama was a nuisance. Not dirty—just relentless. He pressed Özil and Kanté like he had a personal vendetta.
Then suddenly, in the 19th minute—just when it felt like Arsenal were beginning to get a grip—Southampton struck.
It came out of nowhere. A loose ball near the halfway line, a half-cleared Arsenal corner. Kanté went for it, but Ward-Prowse got there first, toeing it out wide to Bertrand. The left-back didn't hesitate—he pinged it forward to Mané, who cut inside and carried at pace.
Francesco tracked back hard, alongside Bellerín and Özil, but they couldn't close the space in time. Mané saw Martina overlapping on the right, completely unmarked.
And there he was—Cuco Martina, a fullback more known for stamina than style—but with room to pick his moment.
Francesco had turned just in time to see Martina take a touch out of his feet, then whip his boot through the ball from fully 30 yards.
The shot looked mad at first—too far out, too wide, too speculative.
But then the curl started.
And then Cech leapt.
And then everyone realized.
It was perfect.
A swerving, outside-of-the-foot thunderbolt that bent midair like something from a comic book. It flew across the face of goal and bent back inside the far post, clipping the net just as Cech's outstretched glove missed it by an inch.
The crowd erupted.
1–0, Southampton.
Martina sprinted off, his arms wide, stunned face mirroring the disbelief of every red and white shirt on the pitch. His teammates mobbed him near the touchline, Bertrand shouting something unintelligible, Wanyama jumping on his back.
Francesco stood frozen for a second, hands on hips, chest heaving, staring at the place where the ball had kissed the net.
Even Cech was shaking his head in disbelief as he picked himself up from the grass.
"Couldn't stop that," Van Dijk muttered as he jogged back into shape beside Francesco. "No way."
Wenger was on the edge of his technical area now, arms crossed, brow furrowed but calm. He didn't yell. Didn't pace. Just waited for their eyes.
Francesco glanced his way. The message was clear.
Reset.
Respond.
The game resumed, and the noise at St. Mary's swelled. Southampton smelled blood. The fans were buoyant. The team pressed harder, emboldened. Long chased everything. Ward-Prowse buzzed between the lines. Wanyama doubled his aggression.
But Arsenal didn't flinch.
Francesco moved wider now, pinning Martina deep. Bellerín overlapped more aggressively. The tempo rose again. Özil became the conduit, picking passes with surgical precision, looking for Giroud, for Walcott, for anyone in space.
And then—at minute twenty-seven—it clicked.
Kanté stole possession on the halfway line with a neat poke tackle and shifted it instantly to Ramsey, who looked up and sprayed it left to Francesco.
Francesco's first touch was deft, cushioning the ball out of the air. Martina was closing fast now—full of confidence from his goal—but too eager. Francesco shaped to cut inside, sold it, then took the ball down the line instead with a burst of pace.
He was past Martina before the fullback could recover.
A glance up.
He saw it.
Giroud, between Yoshida and Fonte, drifting near the penalty spot.
Francesco didn't think. He just let it go—a low, driven cross, whipped with the inside of his boot, threading through a tight window between defenders.
And Giroud was there.
The Frenchman didn't need a touch.
He threw his entire body into the strike, guiding it with the outside of his left foot while falling backward—half-scorpion, half-volley, fully brilliant.
The ball cracked off his boot and darted low into the bottom right corner.
1–1.
Stekelenburg didn't move.
The away end exploded, a cacophony of red-and-white scarves rising behind the goal. Giroud roared, sliding knees-first toward the corner flag, arms outstretched.
Francesco was already chasing him, laughing, his hand outstretched as teammates swarmed around them.
Ramsey leapt onto Giroud's back. Özil high-fived Francesco with a firm slap and murmured, "Perfect ball, mate."
Even Wenger cracked the smallest smile, turning to shake hands with Steve Bould.
On the pitch, Francesco clapped above his head, then turned to point toward the away end—a quiet gesture, but deliberate. That one was for them. For Leah watching from home. For the kids at the orphanage two days ago. For everyone who still believed this squad could be more than a holiday feel-good story.
The momentum had shifted again.
Southampton restarted with urgency, but Arsenal smelled the change in wind.
Özil took over now, orchestrating like a maestro. He found Ramsey's late runs. He threaded impossible balls into Giroud. Francesco, alive with confidence, kept dragging Martina wide and deeper, opening lanes.
On minute thirty-two, Arsenal nearly snatched another.
Ramsey intercepted a sideways pass and immediately surged forward. He slipped it into Francesco, who this time cut inside, dropped a shoulder, and opened up for a shot.
He struck it right-footed, low, curling toward the near post.
But Stekelenburg, ever reliable, got down to palm it wide.
Francesco groaned and turned to the advertising boards, hands on knees.
The keeper was having the game of his life.
From the corner, Özil sent in another teasing ball—this time aimed at Van Dijk, who rose with force. The header glanced just over the bar.
Wenger shouted now, calling for tempo. "Push them! Keep them deep!"
Southampton looked rattled for the first time.
Fonte barked instructions, trying to reorganize. Martina stopped pushing forward entirely, too occupied tracking Francesco. Mané drifted inside more, but Bellerín had grown into the game now, handling him with tighter marking and some early fouls that said: not today.
As the half wore on, the cold air turned to foggy breath. The players' shirts clung to their bodies. Sweat glistened in the floodlights. And still, neither side let up.
In the thirty-ninth minute, Long had another go—a clever backheel flick from a Ward-Prowse cross—but Cech had it covered, diving low to his right.
Francesco helped Bellerín track back, then turned upfield, nodding to Kanté.
"Let's go again," he mouthed.
Just before the break—minute forty-three—another Arsenal move nearly paid off.
Özil pinged a pass into Giroud's feet. The striker played it with a blind flick behind him. Francesco ran onto it, cutting in from the left. He took a touch, opened his body—
—but Bertrand came crashing in with a clean sliding challenge at the last second.
Groans from the Arsenal bench. Cheers from the home crowd.
So close.
As stoppage time was signaled—two minutes—Arsenal pushed for one last chance.
Özil dropped deep, collected, spun, and fed it wide left to Monreal.
The Spaniard sprinted to the touchline and clipped in a lofted ball.
Francesco rose—challenged in the air—and headed it centrally.
Ramsey volleyed.
Blocked.
The ball fell to Walcott.
Shot.
Over.
The whistle blew.
Halftime.
1–1.
But the tension crackled all the way into the tunnel.
As they walked off, Francesco glanced up at the scoreboard. 1–1. But it didn't tell the full story. It didn't show how they'd clawed back control. How they'd looked the stronger side since the goal.
In the tunnel, Giroud turned to him, still catching his breath.
"Merci," he said simply, patting Francesco's shoulder.
Francesco just smiled. "Don't waste it."
Back in the dressing room, steam rose from the players' shoulders like smoke off hot coals. The smell of damp kit, liniment, and adrenaline filled the air. Cech took off his gloves and spoke calmly to Van Dijk and Koscielny about Long's movement. Özil sat cross-legged, rolling out his calves. Ramsey changed his undershirt, slick with sweat.
Wenger waited until everyone had a sip of water before stepping forward.
"That was a response," he said.
No slideshow. No tactics board. Just words.
"A goal like Martina's—sometimes it happens. A wonder strike. We cannot control the miracle. But everything after that? We controlled. We grew."
He looked around.
"But if you stop now, if you hesitate, if you lose patience—we let them back in."
He paused.
"Let's not."
Then he pointed once—to Francesco.
"More of that down the flank. You've got him backing up."
Then to Özil. "Find your rhythm early again."
And finally to Ramsey and Kanté.
"Dominate the middle. Win the second balls. Keep us moving."
As the team stood again, shirts fresh, boots retied, lungs reloaded, Francesco took a last gulp from his bottle and grabbed his gloves again.
As he pulled the left one tight, Özil walked past and murmured, "Second half's ours."
Francesco didn't doubt it.
They were alive now.
And they weren't done.
Then the second half started.
Arsenal came out like they had unfinished business—which, to be fair, they did. The scent of parity still lingered in the cold Southampton air, but the red shirts were hunting more than balance now. They were hunting blood.
From the first whistle of the restart, it was pressure. Relentless, almost suffocating.
Francesco could feel the change in rhythm the moment Özil touched the ball. The German had a little more time, a little more space, and when Mesut Özil had even one extra second, it was like the whole match bent in his direction.
Kanté snapped into tackles, Ramsey ghosted between lines, and Bellerín shot up the right like a coiled spring. Giroud held up play with strength and elegance, but it was Francesco who came alive with a different kind of hunger.
Forty-sixth minute. Francesco took a quick pass from Monreal, turned on the half-space, and blazed down the touchline. Martina stumbled on his pivot trying to track him. Francesco cut inside and ripped a shot just wide of the near post.
"Oi!" Ramsey shouted from behind, "he's on toast today!"
Martina looked shaken—his body loose where it had been coiled in the first half. And Francesco felt it. He hadn't just beaten him to the ball. He'd broken his rhythm. Every touch now seemed heavier, every footstep a half-second behind.
By the fiftieth minute, Arsenal were camped inside Southampton's half. They recycled the ball like it was a chess piece, patient but alert, always looking for the breakthrough.
Then it came.
Minute 51.
It started with a switch—Özil, wide to the right, spotting Francesco holding the line on the far flank. The ball floated toward him in a long, arcing diagonal. Francesco barely had to move. His first touch was velvet. The second took him forward.
Martina was late again, and this time Yoshida came across too.
Francesco didn't slow.
He dipped his shoulder and shaped to cut in—like he had before—but this time dropped the outside of his boot and rolled it straight down the line instead. Martina lunged. Missed. Francesco caught him flat-footed.
Yoshida came sliding, but Francesco chopped the ball back inside, dragging it with the underside of his boot, shifting it to his left, then right again—a feint, a realignment, a moment of artistry in the blur.
The angle wasn't perfect.
But Francesco didn't wait.
He took the shot from just inside the box—low, hard, and with a slight whip that dragged the ball just outside Stekelenburg's outstretched left hand and into the bottom corner.
The net snapped.
Arsenal 2 – 1 Southampton.
Francesco didn't celebrate with theatrics. No knee slide. No dramatic pose.
Just a clenched fist, a nod to the away end, and a roar torn from deep in his chest. Giroud was the first to him, pulling him into a headlock. Özil arrived, grinning, slapping him on the back.
"You broke him, mate," he said between breaths. "You snapped Martina in half."
Behind them, Ramsey pumped both fists in the air, yelling at the fans.
Cech, way down the other end, jogged up past the halfway line, arms raised. Even Wenger allowed himself a small fist pump and a whispered "Très bien."
Francesco looked up at the scoreboard as he jogged back.
51:03.
Southampton were rattled. And Arsenal, finally, had the advantage.
But it didn't last long.
Not because of complacency—but because Southampton had spirit. That never-die, scrap-for-everything, Boxing Day defiance. It didn't matter that they'd been pinned back. It didn't matter that Francesco had humiliated two defenders and scored one of the finest solo goals of the season.
They hit back.
And they did it fast.
Minute 57.
Southampton had barely touched the ball since the restart, but when they did—it was Mané who sparked it.
Cech had punched out a deep cross after Bellerín was outnumbered on the flank. The clearance landed near the edge of the box, where Ward-Prowse picked it up and fed it back to Mané, now drifting centrally.
Mané danced between Ramsey and Kanté like water slipping through fingers. He darted left, then back right, drawing both midfielders in before releasing a perfectly weighted pass into the channel.
Long had already started his run—timed it to perfection, slipping just between Van Dijk and Koscielny.
One touch. Right foot. He barely broke stride.
And then a toe-poke, almost casual, sliding the ball past the onrushing Cech and into the far corner.
It was almost too simple.
2–2.
St. Mary's erupted again.
Francesco turned and cursed under his breath, hands gripping his hips. Not because of blame—there was none to go around—but because of timing. Momentum had been theirs. They were strangling the match. And now… now they were back in the cauldron.
Long wheeled away in celebration, arms wide, pointing to the crest on his shirt. Mané chased after him, beaming. Fonte shouted something at the sky.
And on the Arsenal sideline, Steve Bould turned to Wenger and muttered, "We lost the line for a second."
Wenger nodded once, lips tight. "Not again."
Back on the pitch, Francesco pulled his gloves tighter.
All square again.
But it didn't feel over.
Not by a long shot.
Özil jogged past, clapping. "Back to it."
Giroud raised both fists. "We go again."
Francesco exhaled slowly. The cold stung his lungs now, but he could still feel the weight of the ball on his boot from six minutes ago.
They'd punched first. Southampton had punched back.
Now it was round three.
The cold was biting sharper now, like the floodlights had drawn every ounce of heat from the pitch and turned it into static in the air.
Francesco exhaled slowly and jogged a few paces in place at the halfway line, trying to keep his legs warm. The scoreboard still read 3–2, its glow taunting in the misty Southampton night. His gloves were soaked through. His socks itched with sweat. But he wasn't thinking about the discomfort anymore.
He was thinking about time.
Fifteen minutes left. Plus whatever stoppage the ref might give them. That was it.
He'd seen enough matches to know the difference between chaos and momentum. What Arsenal had now wasn't panic. It was pressure. Controlled, mounting pressure—like water pushing against a dam, slow and insistent. It hadn't broken yet, but the cracks were forming.
Kanté prowled the midfield like a wolf off the leash now, snapping at every loose ball. Flamini, arms flailing with every instruction, barked constantly at Bellerín to overlap and cover wide. Chamberlain looked electric every time he touched the ball—direct, fearless, like a boxer who only threw jabs to set up a knockout.
And Iwobi?
The kid had grown into the game in the span of ten minutes.
At first, he'd played nervously—tight touches, safe passes—but after one good take-on against Cedric on the left wing, his confidence surged. He started asking for the ball. Started cutting inside, daring defenders to step out.
It was in that motion, that tempo, that Francesco thrived.
He wasn't a static striker. Never had been. He drifted. Pulled wide, dropped deep, darted diagonally. And now, with two fresh wingers beside him and Özil sitting just behind, Francesco became the axis they turned around.
The minutes ticked down.
78th minute: Özil curled in a cross from the right. Francesco rose between Yoshida and Fonte—he got his forehead to it, clean—but couldn't keep it down. Over the bar.
81st: Flamini stole a loose ball and drove forward, slipped it to Iwobi, who took a touch, squared to Chamberlain—his shot was blocked by Romeu, who celebrated the block like a goal.
84th: Francesco beat the offside trap, latched onto a long ball from Bellerín, and tried to chip Stekelenburg—but the keeper stood tall, parrying it wide.
The groans from the away end were growing louder, but they weren't frustrated—they were desperate.
The sound of belief refusing to die.
Francesco jogged back to the center circle after that last miss, sweat dripping off his chin. He clapped his hands once. Loud. Then turned to Iwobi.
"Next time, play it earlier," he said, not unkindly—just urgently.
Iwobi nodded. "Got you."
Then came the eighty-fifth. Tadić drew a foul near the sideline, and Southampton milked the clock for a full minute. Fonte stayed down for another. It wasn't dramatic—just deliberate.
By the time Arsenal had the ball back in open play again, it was already the eighty-seventh.
Wenger stood near the touchline now, coat open, tie loosened, eyes fixed. He wasn't shouting anymore. Just watching. Waiting for one last surge.
And it came.
Minute eighty-eight.
Chamberlain won a throw on the right. Bellerín took it quick, fed Özil. Özil cut inside—ignored Flamini's run—and found Iwobi on the opposite flank with a smooth switch of play.
Iwobi took it on his thigh, dropped it dead with his toe, and drove straight at Martina again.
This time he didn't hesitate.
He didn't check back, didn't square it early.
He pushed forward with intent—one touch, then two—then cut back, and Martina bit on it.
Iwobi slipped past him into the left channel. Fonte stepped out, too slow.
And that's when Francesco made the run.
It was instinct. Nothing tactical. Just a sudden crack of space, a pulse in the rhythm.
Francesco darted diagonally across Yoshida's shoulder, curved back inside to stay onside—and raised his hand once.
Iwobi saw him.
The pass wasn't powerful. It wasn't even that clean.
It rolled. A soft ball across the top of the box, dragging just a bit left of center.
But it was enough.
Francesco took one touch to control, his back to goal, just inside the D.
He felt Yoshida coming. Heard Fonte's boots sliding across behind him. Knew Stekelenburg would be rushing out.
So he spun.
One clean touch with his right—pivoting his whole body into the motion, brushing the ball just past Fonte's trailing leg—and then struck it with his left.
A half-volley.
Low.
Hard.
True.
It slipped under Stekelenburg's left hand and thumped into the back of the net.
And for a second, there was only silence.
That stunned, breath-held silence that always comes in the beat before celebration.
Then the away end erupted.
Arsenal shirts flew off the bench. Wenger clapped once, twice, then let his hands drop, exhaling through a long smile.
On the pitch, Francesco didn't slide.
He didn't sprint.
He just stood there, fists clenched, eyes wide, soaking in the moment.
Then the wave hit.
Chamberlain jumped on his back. Özil grabbed him around the chest. Iwobi came flying in, arms out.
"Franny!" he shouted. "We're still in it!"
Francesco turned, laughing, and shouted back, "I told you—first touch forward!"
3–3.
Eighty-ninth minute.
The scoreboard took a few extra seconds to update, but the roar said it all.
Southampton players stood hands on hips, shaking their heads. Fonte kicked the turf. Koeman barked toward the sideline crew, demanding focus.
But the momentum—oh, it was Arsenal's again.
They had pulled themselves back from the edge, again. In a game that refused to play by anyone's rules.
And Francesco? He had two goals now. One from the wing. One as the striker.
The ball hadn't even settled in the back of the net when Francesco felt his legs go heavy. Not just from the sprint. Not just from the goal. From everything. The grind. The weight of the match. The relentlessness of it all.
He had nothing left in the tank—but that was fine. They were level again.
Back in the center circle now, waiting for Southampton to restart, Francesco bent slightly at the waist, hands on his knees. Chest rising and falling like bellows. Bellerín jogged past and gave him a quiet slap on the back. "Let's see it out."
He nodded.
Across the pitch, Wenger's voice rang once more. "Stay compact! No risks!"
And for a moment, Arsenal did just that.
The crowd at St. Mary's was a buzz of tension and noise, both sides knowing there might be one last twist. But the energy had shifted. Southampton's urgency was still there, but it had turned a little frantic now, like someone scrambling to save a dream that had already begun to fade.
Arsenal held firm.
Flamini snarled into one last tackle on Romeu. Özil jogged the ball into the corner. Francesco even dropped deep into midfield once more, just to press and delay the inevitable.
Then, after what felt like a long breath held over the pitch…
Peeeeep.
The final whistle.
Full time.
Southampton 3 – Arsenal 3.
Francesco dropped to a crouch almost immediately, both hands pressing into the wet grass, his breath fogging in front of his face. His legs screamed. His chest burned.
But in that stillness, the noise rose around him. Groans from the Southampton faithful. Scattered applause from the Arsenal section, grateful and proud of the fightback.
Behind him, Koscielny and Van Dijk shook hands with Long. Özil leaned back, hands on hips, shaking his head at the sky. Iwobi jogged over to Francesco and pulled him up.
"Man," the youngster said, voice thick with effort. "They do not quit."
Francesco let out a breath that was half laugh, half groan. "No," he said. "They don't."
He looked up toward the scoreboard, still glowing 3–3, and felt the weight of it settle in.
Their winning run—gone.
Since the opening weekend of the Premier League, Arsenal had been unbeaten, riding wave after wave of momentum. Tonight, under the cold lights and the roar of St. Mary's, Southampton had stopped them.
Not by outclassing them, but by outlasting them. Blow for blow, minute for minute. Francesco rubbed his hands together, then glanced toward the tunnel. They hadn't lost—but this wasn't a win, but a survival. And it was damn exhausting.
________________________________________________
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: 27
Goal: 37
Assist: 6
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