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The question was—could Arsenal rise again? Could a 16-year-old lead them back from the edge? Old Trafford buzzed with energy, the game now transformed into a war of nerves.
On the Arsenal bench, as the din of Old Trafford roared in their ears and the second goal still echoed in their minds, Arsène Wenger turned with urgency in his eyes. His voice was steady, but carried a tremble beneath the surface—a tremble only a man with everything to lose would feel.
"What's the Chelsea score?" he asked, eyes fixed on Steve Bould.
Bould, hunched slightly, had been refreshing the live ticker on his phone, nervously tapping the screen like a man gambling with fate.
He looked up.
"Three–nil," he said, almost in disbelief. "They're 3–0 behind."
Wenger blinked. "At the Bridge?"
"No. The Hawthorns. West Brom," Bould said, his voice quiet but sharp, like a knife glancing off stone. "It's… it's carnage."
For a second, there was silence in that small pocket of the Arsenal bench, swallowed by the noise around them. The Theatre of Dreams was vibrating with United fans chanting, howling, savoring the moment. But to Wenger and Bould, this was something else entirely.
It meant the title was still alive.
Despite everything.
Despite the collapse just minutes ago, despite Falcao's goal and Mata's finish, despite the ghosts of past failures haunting every moment—they could still win the league. A draw would be enough now. Even a draw.
Wenger exhaled, eyes scanning the pitch. Francesco stood near the halfway line, hands on hips, a kid carrying the weight of the club's history on his narrow shoulders. He was the only one not shrinking. The others looked like they'd been punched in the gut. Özil's head was down. Alexis had his hands out, arguing with the ref over a missed foul. Coquelin was gesturing frantically, trying to find Herrera in the chaos.
Wenger turned to the bench. "Tell them!" he barked to one of the assistants. "They need to know—Chelsea are losing. A draw is enough!"
The message was quickly relayed, passed from mouth to mouth, like a secret being whispered through a chain of men desperate for hope. Mertesacker heard it first and turned toward Koscielny. Özil caught wind and raised a hand in signal. But the one who didn't need to be told—the one who didn't look like he'd given up at all—was Francesco.
Because Francesco wasn't playing for a draw.
He wasn't built for that.
He glanced back at the bench just once, locking eyes with Wenger. The manager gave a short nod, not a command, not an order—just belief. Pure, silent belief.
And then Francesco turned back toward the pitch.
Something changed in that moment. Not in the crowd, or the coaches, or the tactics board. But in him.
You could see it.
That stillness.
That fire.
In the 64th minute, Arsenal began to stir again. Small movements at first, subtle adjustments. Özil tucked in deeper to escape the man-marking. Coquelin played closer to the back line, screening Mata and Herrera. And Francesco started drifting wider—pulling Blind out, stretching the shape.
Wenger knew what he was doing. Francesco was baiting the defense.
In the 66th minute, it almost worked.
Francesco picked the ball up near the touchline with Blind shadowing him, tight and anxious. One touch, two, and then the spin—the Marseille turn that had embarrassed Ivanović two weeks ago. Blind clattered into him, late and desperate.
Free kick.
Groans from the United end. Cheers from the traveling Arsenal fans behind the goal.
Cazorla stood over it, right edge of the box. He feinted to swing it in, then rolled it short to Francesco, who whipped a first-time ball across the face of goal.
Giroud met it.
The header was thunderous—but straight at De Gea.
Save.
Francesco threw his hands up, urging more from the crowd, from his teammates, from himself. He was not here to lose.
In the 69th, another chance. This time it was Özil, slipping a pass between the lines. Francesco raced onto it, left foot, inside the box. A quick chop inside past Jones. The angle was tight. He fired low—
Post.
Agony.
The ball rolled back across goal before Valencia hoofed it clear.
Wenger turned away, hands on his head. The entire bench groaned.
But Francesco didn't flinch. He jogged back, head up, urging his teammates on.
Still time.
The 72nd minute.
It didn't arrive with a roar. It began as a whisper. A few touches. A flick. A movement that looked casual, almost mundane in the chaos.
But it became something beautiful.
It began with Özil, drifting into the left half-space. He'd been silent for much of the second half, crowded out by Herrera and Fellaini. But here—he found grass. Enough for a breath. He looked up, eyes scanning like a painter staring at an unfinished canvas. He saw the run of Cazorla and gently rolled the ball toward him. A simple pass. But weighted perfectly. A signature.
Cazorla received it on the turn—so smooth it was like the ball never stopped. He feinted right, cutting past Mata, and tapped it sideways to Coquelin. Now the gears were spinning. Coquelin didn't hesitate—he took one touch forward and spotted Bellerín bursting down the right.
The young Spaniard was a blur. Off he went, chasing the through ball, which Coquelin played into space with laser precision. Bellerín got there with room to spare. His first touch was excellent. His second—a dribble that left Rojo stumbling. Now he was free.
The Old Trafford crowd held its breath.
Bellerín neared the edge of the box, looked up, and curled a wicked cross into the heart of the six-yard area. Giroud, always physical, always braced for impact, rose above Smalling and nodded it backwards—not toward goal, but toward the penalty spot.
A flick. A cushion. A setup.
And there, waiting, poised like he'd known it would come all along, was Francesco.
Time froze.
No one near him. Not a single red shirt had tracked his ghosted run. The cross fell to him like a gift from the football gods.
He didn't wait. Didn't think.
He struck it first time.
A left-footed volley, crisp and clean. His body turned perfectly with the ball, his balance immaculate. The strike cut through the air with venom and purity—past De Gea, past any chance of saving it, into the roof of the net.
2–2.
It was mayhem.
The Arsenal fans erupted. A wall of sound surged from the away section, scarves flying, fists pumping. Some were crying. Some were screaming. All were in disbelief.
And Francesco?
He didn't run to the crowd. He didn't slide, or dance, or leap into the air.
He stood there. Arms out wide. Chin raised. A gladiator in the Colosseum.
He had equalized at Old Trafford. Again.
He had saved the dream.
Wenger jumped off the bench, fists clenched, yelling toward the pitch like a man years younger. Bould hugged one of the assistants, a rare burst of emotion breaking his usual calm. The bench exploded with cheers, staff and substitutes rising as one.
Even the Manchester United fans had to pause. Not in celebration—never that—but in stunned appreciation. It was a hell of a goal. A team goal. An Arsenal goal.
The players mobbed Francesco, Giroud grabbing his head and shouting something only they could hear. Özil arrived next, then Cazorla, then Bellerín—who slapped Francesco on the back like a proud older brother.
But inside the huddle, Francesco wasn't screaming.
He was breathing.
Steady. Focused. Calm.
Because it wasn't over.
And he knew it.
At the bench, Wenger turned back to Bould. "Chelsea?" he asked again, voice cracking from shouting.
Bould glanced down at his phone. "Still 3–0," he said, and this time, he smiled.
Wenger didn't.
He knew United wouldn't stop. And neither could Arsenal.
Back on the pitch, the game restarted with a fury. United came again, stung by the equalizer, driven by the roar of their home. Falcao pushed forward. Mata tried to weave. Herrera shot from distance—wide. Ospina restarted quickly.
Arsenal were still on the front foot. The equalizer hadn't satisfied them.
Because this wasn't about a point anymore. Not really.
This was about belief.
About identity.
About finishing what they'd started.
And for Francesco Lee, the boy who grew up idolizing Thierry Henry, this was about something else entirely.
Legacy.
In the 75th minute, Francesco nearly had his hat trick.
Özil again the architect, threading a no-look pass into the channel. Francesco turned on the burners, cut inside Jones, and let fly with his right foot this time—low, near post.
De Gea got down.
Tipped it.
Corner.
Arsenal surged forward again. The energy on the pitch was electric now, a heartbeat pounding between every blade of grass. United looked rattled—not because they were playing poorly, but because Arsenal had refused to fall.
Francesco stood over the corner with Cazorla. They exchanged glances. It was played short.
Cazorla to Francesco—who whipped in a ball toward Giroud again. Cleared.
But Arsenal stayed in their shape. Stayed hungry
Then on the 78th minute Arsène Wenger stood at the edge of his technical area, arms folded, the weight of decades pressing down on his narrow shoulders. The roar of Old Trafford was relentless, but his mind was calm—like a chess grandmaster making his final move. He turned to the fourth official, raising three fingers. The board went up.
A triple substitution.
Francis Coquelin, lungs burning from an hour of shielding and scrapping, was first. He jogged off slowly, a nod from Wenger sending him to the bench with quiet gratitude.
Santi Cazorla followed, exhausted after conducting Arsenal's midfield orchestra with grace and flair.
Olivier Giroud—towering, bruised, selfless—left last. He looked back at Francesco, who nodded.
The replacements came on with urgency: Matthieu Flamini, a veteran warrior whose legs still had one last fight in them; Jack Wilshere, the prodigal son, hungry to reclaim his place in Arsenal's story; and Theo Walcott, the blur of pace that defenders feared in open space.
The changes rippled across the formation.
Francesco moved central. Striker now. Alone up front.
Walcott slid to the right wing.
Alexis tucked into the left.
Özil and Wilshere operated behind them, with Flamini the shield in front of the back four.
Wenger had reshaped the team.
Not to survive.
To win.
On the other touchline, Louis van Gaal responded instantly—almost defensively. He gestured to his bench with uncharacteristic haste.
Off came Falcao, his early goal now just a flicker in the storm.
Off came Ander Herrera, spent from chasing shadows and delivering passes.
Off came Rojo, bruised and baffled after ninety minutes trying to stop Francesco.
Van Gaal's triple substitution was a statement of its own: he brought on Robin van Persie, the former Arsenal captain turned villain; Angel Di María, once the toast of Madrid, now desperate to justify his price tag; and Tyler Blackett, a young defender with big shoes to fill.
Di María went to the right wing.
Van Persie slotted up front.
Mata dropped deeper, replacing Herrera in midfield.
Two managers, two minds, two visions—all colliding in the cauldron of Old Trafford.
From the restart, the game surged again.
Francesco now led the line, flanked by speed and guile on both wings. But he wasn't isolated—he was involved. Wilshere fed him quickly, low passes to feet. Özil drifted around him, always available for a one-two. Flamini barked instructions from behind, anchoring the base.
United probed down the flanks, Di María testing Monreal with stepovers and quick crosses. But Arsenal were alert. Koscielny cleared one. Mertesacker swept the next. Then Bellerín intercepted a third, launching it upfield to Walcott.
The pace shifted again. This was no longer chess. It was speed chess—frenzied, breathless, every move loaded with danger.
In the 80th minute, Francesco nearly carved United open again. Wilshere played a sharp diagonal pass to him near the edge of the box. With one touch, Francesco turned Blackett, driving forward into space.
He looked up.
Walcott was tearing down the right, screaming for it.
Francesco flicked it forward, a clever lofted pass over the retreating Shaw. Walcott reached it, took a touch—and cut it back across goal.
Francesco arrived.
Slide.
Connection.
But Smalling, somehow, got a toe to it—just enough to deflect it wide.
Corner.
Arsenal fans groaned, hands on heads. So close. Again.
From the corner, Özil whipped in a dangerous ball. Mertesacker climbed high—but Van Persie, of all people, headed it clear. It landed at Di María's feet.
Suddenly, United broke.
Di María turned, sprinted. It was vintage. He blazed past Flamini, skipped over Wilshere's late challenge, and found Mata in the middle. Arsenal scrambled. Koscielny stepped up. Monreal tucked in.
Mata fed Van Persie, and for a heartbeat—time paused.
He was inside the box. Left foot. That same angle he'd scored from a hundred times before.
He pulled the trigger.
Ospina stood tall.
Save.
Huge.
The Colombian roared as he gathered the rebound, clutching it to his chest like it was life itself.
Francesco clapped from the halfway line. "Come on!" he shouted, voice lost in the din.
And then—Ospina rolled it forward.
Fast.
To Flamini.
To Wilshere.
To Özil.
And again—they built.
The tide hadn't turned.
It was just rising.
Francesco Lee was no longer just a winger. He was Arsenal's spearhead. Their hope. Their answer to every question Manchester United asked. And he tried his best to tried score the goal that made them win.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 16 (2014)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : None
Match Played: 33
Goal: 39
Assist: 12
MOTM: 8