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And Francesco? He was everywhere. Dropping deep to link play, darting wide to drag defenders, then bursting into the box with ruthless intent. Every time Monreal or Bellerín bombed forward, the Villa backline looked terrified, glancing nervously to see where Arsenal number 9 was lurking.
The scoreboard still glowed 1–0 in bright red lights, but the game itself was beginning to tilt dangerously one way. Aston Villa, shaky and startled by the ferocity of Arsenal's start, looked like a boxer still stumbling from the opening jab. They were retreating, dropping deep, trying to hold back the red tide. But there was something in Arsenal's movement that felt inevitable, like a wave swelling higher and higher until it had no choice but to crash.
And then, in the 17th minute, it crashed again.
Özil picked up the ball just inside Villa's half. He didn't even look hurried, almost strolling with it, as if waiting for the perfect moment. That was his genius—where others saw chaos, he saw geometry, angles invisible to the rest of the world. He feinted one way, let Gueye lunge past him, then slid the ball across the grass with a surgeon's precision.
The pass curved into the channel, bypassing two Villa midfielders, threading through a gap that looked impossibly small. Francesco read it instantly. He had been hovering near the edge of the box, leaning ever so slightly on Joleon Lescott's shoulder, baiting him into a false sense of control. Then, in a heartbeat, he was gone—bursting forward, accelerating into the gap before the defender even realized.
The ball met him perfectly. Francesco didn't need to break stride. His first touch was a caress, soft and controlled, pulling the ball just enough across his body to open up his angle. Mark Bunn, scrambling off his line, tried to make himself big, arms wide, chest puffed out.
But Francesco had already decided. With a flick of his right boot, quick and ruthless, he sent the ball low and hard past the keeper's outstretched arm.
Net. Again.
The Emirates became an earthquake. The sound rolled through the stands, thunderous, unrelenting. Scarves twirled, bodies jumped, people screamed until their voices broke.
"IT'S TWO! IT'S TWO FOR ARSENAL! AND TWO FOR FRANCESCO LEE!" Martin Tyler's voice soared over the chaos. "THE CAPTAIN OF THIS UNBEATEN TEAM, THE TEENAGER WHO HAS LED THEM ALL SEASON—HE'S AT IT AGAIN! HISTORY ISN'T JUST CALLING—HE'S ANSWERING IT HIMSELF!"
On the sideline, Wenger barely moved, but his eyes—those sharp, calculating eyes—betrayed something rare: pride, unfiltered and glowing. He allowed himself the smallest of nods, as though to say, Yes. This is why I believed in him.
Francesco sprinted straight toward Özil this time. No hesitation, no thought. He wrapped the German in a fierce hug, shouting something into his ear that was lost in the roar. Özil just grinned, his usual reserved expression cracking into joy, and tapped his forehead against the boy's. Behind them, the rest of the team piled in again—Sánchez leaping onto Francesco's back this time, Ramsey roaring like a man possessed on the bench.
From the commentary box, Henry leaned back in his chair, shaking his head in disbelief. "This is ridiculous," he muttered, though the smile on his face betrayed admiration. "Seventeen years old, and he's carrying this final like it's nothing. Look at the composure on that finish. That's not a kid. That's a killer."
Ian Wright was half-laughing, half-screaming. "He's gonna get a hat-trick, I swear down, he's gonna get it!"
Neville scribbled furiously on his pad, his voice incredulous. "You can't give him that much space. But it's not even the finish—it's the movement. That pass from Özil, yes, but the way Francesco bends his run? That's elite. Villa look like they're still trying to figure out where he went."
The cameras cut to the fans again—grown men with tears streaming down their faces, children bouncing in joy, couples hugging like the goal was a personal gift to them. It felt bigger than just a second goal. It felt like confirmation. Arsenal weren't just going to play this final. They were going to own it.
Still, football doesn't allow fairytales to roll on uninterrupted. Villa, shell-shocked, finally began to claw their way back into the match. The second goal seemed to wake them up, remind them they had nothing to lose. Jordan Ayew, their wiry forward, began to press higher, snapping at Koscielny and Van Dijk's heels. Scott Sinclair drifted wide, trying to find pockets of space, his quick feet forcing Bellerín into cautious retreats.
Cissokho, ever the willing runner at left-back, surged forward with determination, swinging hopeful crosses into the box. They weren't always accurate, but they carried menace. In midfield, Ashley Westwood started to find his rhythm, spraying passes left and right, trying to dictate tempo.
Idrissa Gueye, Villa's tireless engine, was everywhere—sliding into challenges, breaking up Arsenal's flow, pushing his teammates to rise with him. Even Jordan Lyden, young and inexperienced, grew into the game, keeping the ball moving, feeding Sinclair and Ayew whenever he could.
For the first time in the match, Arsenal were forced to defend in numbers. The back four tightened, their lines drawn sharp. Monreal tucked in close to Van Dijk, Koscielny barked orders with his usual authority, and Bellerín kept a wary eye on Sinclair's darting runs. In front of them, Kanté was relentless—snapping at heels, intercepting passes, refusing to give Villa time to breathe.
Villa carved out half-chances. Ayew managed a low shot from distance, forcing Cech into a diving save at full stretch. Sinclair twisted inside from the left, curling a shot toward the far post, only for Koscielny's thigh to deflect it wide. From a Westwood free-kick, Lescott rose highest, but his header floated harmlessly into Cech's gloves.
Each time, the Arsenal fans held their breath, then roared in relief. Each time, the players regrouped, slapping each other's backs, urging one another on.
What stood out wasn't panic. Arsenal didn't look rattled. They looked… composed. Like they had been here before, like they understood that finals aren't just about moments of brilliance—they're about weathering storms, about bending without breaking.
Cazorla kept demanding the ball, slowing things down, forcing Villa to chase. Özil dropped deeper, linking with the Spaniard, easing pressure with every gentle touch. Sánchez tracked back, crunching into Gueye with a fierce tackle that sent the Emirates into raptures. Even Francesco, high up the pitch, pressed intelligently, never giving Villa's defenders a second to breathe.
By the half-hour mark, the match had settled into a strange rhythm: Villa pushing, probing, desperate to claw one back, but Arsenal absorbing, controlling, and striking with calm counter-attacks whenever the chance arose.
The scoreboard still glowed 2–0, and yet, as the minutes ticked by toward halftime, the electricity of Arsenal's explosive start gave way to something steadier, heavier, almost like the match was settling into a trench war.
Villa, to their credit, hadn't folded after Francesco's second. They were no longer swinging wildly; they had planted their feet, guarding their chin, trying to find rhythm in the scraps left to them. Arsenal, meanwhile, had begun to manage, to conserve, to remind themselves that ninety minutes in a final is a long journey.
The game, for a while, became a stalemate.
Every Arsenal fan inside the Emirates could feel the shift. The end-to-end chaos had simmered into a quieter kind of tension. Each Villa foray carried a whisper of danger—Scott Sinclair dipping his shoulder and cutting inside, Ayew chasing lost causes, Gueye hunting relentlessly in midfield. But Arsenal's shape was calm, almost stubborn in its discipline.
Cech clapped his gloves together after one save and bellowed instructions. Koscielny's voice rang out like a drill sergeant's, snapping the line into position whenever Villa tried to sneak an overload. Van Dijk's calm presence, chest puffed out, gave everyone around him belief. And in midfield, Kanté was a blur of motion, somehow always appearing exactly where the ball might spill.
The half-hour mark ticked over, then the thirty-fifth. Arsenal weren't slicing Villa open anymore, but neither were Villa finding a way through. It was as if the game itself had paused, waiting, knowing that both sides were saving their next strike for when it mattered most.
By the fortieth minute, the crowd had settled into a constant murmur—nervous but proud, like parents watching their child balance carefully on a rope. Every touch of the ball was applauded, every interception met with roars of approval.
And then came the whistle.
Halftime. Arsenal 2, Aston Villa 0.
The players jogged down the tunnel, some more quickly than others. Francesco, his shirt damp with sweat but his face set in that same determined scowl, slapped Özil's hand on the way in. Sánchez gave a thumbs-up to the fans behind the bench before disappearing inside. Cazorla trotted with light feet, looking almost like he hadn't played forty-five minutes at all.
The Emirates buzzed with halftime chatter, fans debating nervously. "We need a third, just to kill it off." "Don't let them back in. One goal and it's a game again." "This kid Francesco—seventeen years old, are you seeing this?!"
Inside the dressing room, the mood was both light and sharp. Players dropped onto benches, grabbing water bottles, towels, and oranges. The smell of sweat, grass, and liniment filled the space. The low hum of chatter faded when Arsène Wenger finally stepped inside.
He didn't rush. He never did. His presence alone was enough to still the room.
He looked at them the way a craftsman looks at his tools—carefully, with quiet respect. These weren't just players to him. They were parts of a machine he had spent years building, polishing, perfecting. And now they were forty-five minutes away from making that machine sing in the most important game of their season.
"Bien," Wenger began softly, setting his notes down. His French accent curled gently around the word. "Good. Very good first half."
The players lifted their heads, eyes on him.
"You have shown," he continued, his tone measured, "that you can control not only the ball, but the game itself. Villa are dangerous when you let them run, when you allow them to counter. But when you are calm, when you are precise, they are lost. This is what I want to see."
He walked slowly across the room, coat still buttoned neatly, his long fingers gesturing lightly.
"Do not lose focus. The score is 2–0. It is a strong position, but it is not finished. One goal for them, and everything changes. They will believe again. You must not give them that chance."
His voice sharpened slightly, rising like a blade unsheathed.
"When they counter, you must be ready. Koscielny, Virgil—organize. Keep the line tight. Bellerín, Monreal—watch the wings. Do not let Sinclair or Ayew run free. Kanté—" he paused, allowing himself the faintest smile, "—you are already everywhere. Keep it that way."
Kanté gave a little nod, his quiet demeanor unchanged.
Wenger's gaze shifted then, to the heart of his attack.
"Mesut, Santi—keep the ball moving. Do not let them settle. The ball is your weapon. You use it to control the rhythm, to make them tired, to make them frustrated. Patience will break them more than force."
Finally, his eyes landed on Francesco. The boy sat forward, elbows on his knees, still catching his breath. For a moment, Wenger simply looked at him, and there was pride in his expression, but also responsibility.
"And you," Wenger said softly, but the whole room heard it. "Two goals already. Magnifique. But listen carefully—do not chase the hat-trick. It will come if it must. What matters is the team. Keep running, keep pressing, keep fighting. Your presence alone gives them fear. That is your greatest weapon."
Francesco met his manager's eyes and nodded once, firmly. He didn't need to say a word.
Wenger straightened, hands behind his back.
"You are forty-five minutes away from glory. Do not think of the celebration. Do not think of lifting the trophy. Think only of the next ball, the next duel, the next second. If you do that, if you give every heartbeat to the moment, the rest will follow."
He paused, his voice softening again.
"Play with focus. Play with composure. And above all—play as Arsenal."
Silence hung for a beat, then the players broke into nods, murmurs of agreement, fists clenched. The words weren't fiery. They weren't the kind to make headlines. But they were precise, deliberate—just like Wenger himself. And they landed exactly where they needed to.
Ramsey, bouncing on the balls of his feet, clapped his hands. "Come on, lads. We've got this. Keep it tight."
Sánchez grinned, flashing that mischievous smile. "One more goal and we finish them."
Özil simply patted Francesco on the shoulder. "Patience," he murmured, as though echoing Wenger. "It will come."
The referee's whistle echoed faintly down the corridor, signaling the end of halftime. The players rose, pulling on their shirts again, tightening boots, rolling shoulders. Cech tugged his gloves tighter. Koscielny cracked his knuckles. Francesco thumped his chest once and exhaled sharply.
The second half began under a sky that seemed brighter, almost theatrical, as if North London itself knew something decisive was about to unfold. The Emirates hummed with anticipation, not quite at full roar but charged with the nervous electricity of expectation. Two goals were good, but finals are fickle things, and no one wearing red or white dared to feel safe yet.
Arsenal came back onto the pitch with that same calm discipline Wenger had drilled into them at halftime. The whistles and chants from the Aston Villa fans clustered in the corner were fierce, but they were small waves against the sea of Arsenal voices filling the rest of the stadium.
46th minute. The whistle cut through the air. The game was back on.
For the first ten minutes, Arsenal were not flying forward, not hunting recklessly for the kill. Instead, they held. They absorbed. Villa, urged on by their desperate support and Eric Black's barked instructions from the sideline, tried to muster some kind of response. Sinclair ran hard at Bellerín, Ayew pressed Koscielny, and Gueye crashed into midfield duels like a man trying to will his team back into contention.
But Arsenal's shape was immovable. Every Villa attack seemed to find its path blocked by the French wall of Koscielny and Van Dijk, or swallowed up by Kanté's tireless legs. The pattern repeated: Villa surged, Arsenal held, the crowd exhaled.
Francesco himself was working as hard as he had in the first half, dropping deeper now and then to help, chasing shadows when Villa tried to move it quickly. His shirt clung to his skin with sweat, his lungs burned, but he carried himself like a man possessed. This wasn't a boy anymore. This was a player taking the weight of a final on his shoulders.
By the 55th minute, the tide began to shift. The frantic Villa energy began to ebb, their initial charge blunted by Arsenal's composure. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the red shirts began to string passes together again. Cazorla tapped the ball left to Monreal, who recycled it into Özil. One touch. Two. Then back to Ramsey. The rhythm was back, like a drumbeat that only Arsenal could hear.
The Emirates sensed it. The noise began to build again.
Then came the 59th minute.
It started on the right, as so many Arsenal moments had that season. Bellerín, the young Spaniard with jets strapped to his boots, picked up a loose ball near halfway. Villa's midfield had just pushed forward, leaving space in behind. With one sharp look up, Bellerín drove. His acceleration was terrifying—one touch, two touches, and he was already past his man, tearing down the right flank like an arrow shot from a bow.
Francesco was already moving. He didn't need to think. He knew. As Bellerín hit full stride, Francesco curved his run inside, ghosting between Lescott and Bacuna, angling himself perfectly for what he felt was about to come.
Bellerín didn't disappoint. At the edge of the box, with defenders closing, he whipped in a cross—not high, not low, but devilishly fast, the kind that begged to be finished.
Francesco flung himself forward, muscles coiled, eyes locked on the ball. His timing was flawless. A single touch, right foot stretched, redirecting the cross into the roof of the net.
The net bulged. The stadium exploded.
"HAT-TRICK! FRANCESCO! THE TEENAGER HAS DONE IT! THREE GOALS IN THE LAST MATCH OF THE PREMIER LEAGUE! AND LISTEN TO THIS PLACE!"
Martin Tyler's voice cracked with disbelief, the kind of commentary that would be replayed for decades. Beside him, Alan Smith was nearly laughing with joy.
"Seventeen years old, Martin. Seventeen. And he's carrying Arsenal to glory here! This is astonishing—it really is. The maturity, the composure… what a player."
The Emirates was shaking. Literally. People were hugging strangers, scarves twirling, limbs flailing. The red flares in the stands burned brighter. The chant of "Francesco! Francesco!" rolled like thunder across the terraces.
On the pitch, Francesco wheeled away, arms outstretched, face twisted in disbelief and elation. He slid to his knees near the corner flag, teammates piling on top of him one after another. Sánchez leapt on his back, Özil slapped his head, and even Kanté came charging in with an uncharacteristic grin plastered across his face.
Cameras caught Wenger on the touchline, not celebrating wildly but with a small, proud smile tugging at his lips. He clapped his hands twice, then gestured for calm. He knew what this meant. Arsenal weren't just winning—they were sealing their place in history.
Because now, with the score at 3–0 and Francesco completing a hat-trick in a final, the whispers around the Emirates turned into shouts:
Invincibles. Again. The second golden crown.
For the first time since 2004, Arsenal were on the brink of something no other English club had ever repeated.
The game resumed after the chaos of the celebration, Villa players trudging back to kick off, their faces pale with frustration and resignation. They were brave, but they knew it now: the mountain was too high.
65th minute. Wenger moved.
On the sideline, Olivier Giroud was stripped and ready. The Frenchman, tall and broad-shouldered, jogged to the fourth official. Wenger called Francesco over briefly, hand on his shoulder, whispering in his ear.
Then it happened. Jack Wilshere, who had worked tirelessly in midfield, made way for Giroud. Arsenal reshuffled. Francesco drifted to the right wing, still dangerous but now given more space to run at tired legs, while Giroud planted himself at the tip of the attack.
It wasn't a retreat. It was an adjustment—one more weapon, one more layer to Arsenal's arsenal.
The Emirates applauded Wilshere warmly as he left, and Giroud entered to chants of his name. The balance shifted again: a fresh target man to occupy defenders, and Francesco ready to wreak havoc from the flank.
Eric Black had to respond. The Villa caretaker manager, arms folded and jaw tight, threw his dice. Lescott came off, Richards pushed central, and he introduced the young Jordan Lyden for midfield legs. A moment later, Jack Grealish was summoned, the crowd's jeers loud and unforgiving for the Villa prodigy.
The Villa substitutions made little difference. Arsenal had reached that stage of superiority where the match was no longer a battle but a stage performance, and every pass, every run, every movement felt choreographed by destiny itself. The roar of the Emirates was constant now, a wall of noise that swallowed Villa's desperate shouts, drowning out the Villa fans tucked into their corner of the ground.
Francesco, now on the right flank, was playing with the kind of freedom that only comes when you know the game is already yours. He drove at defenders, cut inside, flicked passes into Giroud's chest, and worked the wing as if it had been his natural position all along. He wasn't chasing a fourth goal for himself anymore—he was playing like someone who understood that football was about moments shared, not just statistics.
By the 75th minute, Arsenal were in full control. Villa barely touched the ball except in their own half, where Özil and Cazorla pressed them relentlessly. Sánchez was still buzzing, tormenting the left side of Villa's defense, his legs somehow unwearied by an hour and a half of running. Kanté continued to sweep like a human metronome, breaking up counters before they even began.
The Arsenal fans had shifted their songs now. It wasn't only "Francesco, Francesco" reverberating across the stadium. A chorus of "We are the champions" rippled, followed by chants for Arteta, for Wenger, for Sánchez. The supporters sensed what was coming.
And then, as if written in some perfect script, the 87th minute arrived.
It began with Cazorla, who had dropped deeper after Wilshere's departure. He pinched the ball off Grealish near the halfway line and immediately turned forward, looking up to spot Sánchez drifting dangerously into space. With the outside of his boot, Ramsey fed him down the left.
Sánchez didn't hesitate. He took his man on, body low, legs a blur. One sharp cut inside left Bacuna wrong-footed, and suddenly Alexis was slicing into the box. The Villa defense backpedaled in panic.
Francesco darted toward the near post, dragging Richards with him. That tiny movement created the pocket of space Wenger's introduction of Giroud had been waiting for. The Frenchman, looming between two tired defenders, held his position like a stone in the river.
Sánchez spotted it instantly. Instead of shooting, he shaped his body and lifted a curling cross toward the six-yard box.
Giroud moved. One step, then a launch. He rose above everyone, broad shoulders climbing into the floodlit night. His forehead met the ball perfectly—timed, powerful, ruthless.
The net rippled.
Goal.
4–0.
The Emirates erupted for the fourth time that evening, but this was a different cheer, deeper somehow. It wasn't just joy; it was triumph. It was release. It was confirmation. Arsenal weren't just winning the league. They were finishing their masterpiece with a flourish.
Sánchez sprinted to Giroud, leaping into his arms, and the two embraced as if they had just scored the goal that made them immortal. Behind them, Francesco clapped furiously, shouting something toward the North Bank that was lost in the roar. Even Cazorla, usually all smiles, was screaming into the sky with veins in his neck straining.
The commentary box was shaking.
"Giroud! Four! Arsenal are putting on a show for the ages here!" Martin Tyler bellowed.
Alan Smith chuckled breathlessly beside him. "What a way to finish it off, Martin. Giroud's been patient, but that's as good a striker's header as you'll ever see. And the crowd—just listen to them. They know. They absolutely know."
On the Villa bench, Eric Black slumped into his seat, his eyes glazed. There was nothing more he could do.
And then came the 88th minute, the one that turned celebration into something more personal, more emotional.
A board went up on the sideline: number 11 off, number 8 on.
Özil jogged slowly toward the touchline, applauded warmly by the crowd. But the real focus was the man standing there, stripped and ready. Mikel Arteta. The captain. The veteran. The man whose touch of class had helped stabilize Arsenal during turbulent years, who had guided younger players quietly, who had announced weeks ago that this season would be his last.
As he stepped onto the pitch, the Emirates rose. All of it. Every single person. Forty-thousand scarves twirled in unison, hands clapped above heads, and a chant rolled like a wave through the ground:
"Ohhhh, Artetaaaaa… Mikel Artetaaaaa…"
Francesco froze for a moment as he heard it, his chest tightening. He glanced toward the sideline, and instinctively, without hesitation, he reached down and tugged at the elastic on his arm. The captain's armband, bright red, was peeled off his bicep.
Arteta jogged toward him, smiling but already misty-eyed. Francesco stepped forward, grabbed his hand, and pressed the armband into it.
"You wear it," Francesco said simply. His voice was soft, almost lost in the storm of applause.
Arteta looked at him—really looked at him—then nodded once, pulling the teenager into a quick embrace. "Gracias, niño," he whispered. "Now you carry it forward."
When Arteta pulled away and slipped the band over his arm, the Emirates roared again, louder, prouder. They weren't just cheering a man. They were cheering an era, and in the same breath, they were welcoming the next.
The final minutes were ceremonial. Villa moved the ball half-heartedly, their spirits long broken. Arsenal, respectful but composed, passed it among themselves, letting Arteta touch the ball as often as possible. Every time it reached his feet, the crowd cheered anew. Every pass was a goodbye kiss.
Francesco stayed wide, but he kept glancing inward, watching Arteta orchestrate the middle with that same calm rhythm he'd carried his whole career. It wasn't about scoring anymore. It was about honoring the moment.
92nd minute. The board showed three minutes of added time, but even the referee seemed in no rush. He glanced at his watch again and again, waiting for the clock to allow what everyone wanted.
94th minute. A Villa throw-in, harmlessly cleared by Van Dijk. The ball rolled back to the Villa goalkeeper, who barely took a touch before punting it forward in resignation.
The whistle went to his mouth.
And then—
The sound.
The shrill, sharp, history-defining sound that froze time in North London.
Full-time.
Arsenal 4. Aston Villa 0.
Invincible. Again.
The Emirates exploded. There is no other word. It wasn't just cheering, it was eruption—like a volcano that had been waiting twelve years to burst again. People screamed until their voices cracked, strangers embraced and wept, scarves flew through the air. The red flares returned, bathing the terraces in fire.
On the pitch, Arsenal's players collapsed into one another. Giroud fell to his knees, Sánchez ripped off his shirt and swung it overhead, Ramsey pumped his fists at the crowd. Van Dijk lifted Koscielny in a bear hug, the two center-halves shouting wordless joy into each other's faces.
Arteta, the armband on his arm for the last time, stood at the center circle, turning slowly to take it in. His eyes were glistening, his lips moving silently—thank you, thank you, thank you.
And Francesco—Francesco was engulfed. Teammates surrounded him, dragging him into the huddle, kissing his head, slapping his back. The teenager who had scored a hat-trick in the match that crowned Arsenal invincible once more. The boy who had become the symbol of a new era.
Above it all, Arsène Wenger stood at the touchline, arms crossed but face glowing with pride. He knew what this meant. He had done it once, with Henry and Vieira and Bergkamp. And now, a dozen years later, he had done it again—with a new generation, with Francesco at its heart.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 17 (2015)
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: 56
Goal: 78
Assist: 10
MOTM: 7
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9