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But Liverpool weren't going to lie down. Klopp's voice could be heard even from the stands, shouting, urging his front three to press higher, faster. Coutinho and Firmino began to drop deeper, trying to pull Kanté out of position.
Then, in the 32nd minute, the Emirates found its second eruption.
Liverpool, shaken but stubborn, had begun to edge higher again — trying to trap Arsenal's midfield in those tight spaces Klopp loved, forcing mistakes from teams too brave to play out. But Arsenal wasn't one of those teams. They thrived on that pressure — they invited it, teased it, and then struck through it like a scalpel.
It started deep with Kanté, sliding across to intercept a pass meant for Firmino. In a single, smooth motion, he turned and released the ball toward Özil, who already knew what was coming. Özil barely looked up; he just flicked his left foot, caressing the ball through Liverpool's midfield line, straight to Francesco, who had dropped off Henderson's shoulder.
Francesco controlled it effortlessly — the sound of boot meeting ball soft but precise — then pivoted. Ahead of him, Sánchez was already spinning into motion on the left flank, sprinting into space.
Francesco's pass was weighted perfectly — not too heavy, not too gentle — gliding into Sánchez's stride like a whisper.
The Chilean didn't slow. He caught it on the run, cutting down the wing, Moreno already backpedaling in panic. Francesco followed, pointing ahead, urging the run. In the middle, Walcott saw it — the gap, the channel, that half-second window between Klavan and Lovren.
Sánchez glanced once, curled his right foot, and swung the cross low and fast across the six-yard box.
Walcott arrived like lightning. One touch, low and clean — Mignolet had no chance.
GOAL!
The Emirates erupted.
Martin Tyler's voice nearly cracked through the broadcast:
"Walcott! It's two! Arsenal double their lead — and it's the same old story: Sánchez to Walcott, devastating, clinical!"
Alan Smith's voice followed, alive with admiration.
"Oh, that's a magnificent move, Martin — absolutely beautiful! From Kanté to Özil to Francesco — and then Sánchez with the perfect delivery. That's football at its purest! And Walcott, what a finish under pressure!"
Francesco was already sprinting toward the corner flag, laughing, fists clenched, his captain's armband flashing under the floodlights. Sánchez met him halfway, slapping him on the chest before they embraced, shouting something lost under the roar of 60,000 fans.
"¡Vamos, hermano!" Sánchez grinned, his eyes gleaming with fire.
Walcott followed, sliding on his knees toward the corner as teammates mobbed him, the Emirates thundering with chants.
"ARSENAL! ARSENAL! ARSENAL!"
On the touchline, Wenger allowed himself a subtle nod, arms still folded. There was a calm pride in his eyes — the kind of pride of a craftsman watching the masterpiece move as intended.
Meanwhile, Klopp looked furious. He clapped sharply, shouting across the technical area, urging his players to reset. The camera caught him muttering something in German to his assistants, his expression a storm of disbelief and determination.
Liverpool kicked off again, but the rhythm of the match had changed. Arsenal's confidence had settled deep into the turf — their passing crisp, measured, rhythmic. Every time Liverpool tried to press, Arsenal slipped through them like water.
Still, Klopp's men didn't surrender. They began to turn the match into a fight — tackles flying in harder, duels contested with fire. Henderson and Wijnaldum bit into every challenge. Firmino pressed with fury, and Coutinho started dropping deeper to weave his magic.
The tempo quickened, and so did the tension.
Martin Tyler's commentary matched the fever:
"This has turned into a proper contest now, Alan. Liverpool refusing to lie down, but Arsenal — they look so dangerous every time they break."
Alan Smith agreed. "You can feel it, Martin. There's a lot of fire out there. Liverpool know one goal could change the complexion of this game before half-time. Arsenal can't afford to let their guard drop."
The game began to take on that restless hum of two teams trading punches at full speed. Monreal slid in hard on Mané, earning a roar of approval from the home crowd. Minutes later, Van Dijk rose like a tower to head clear a dangerous cross, the ball thudding off his forehead and spinning toward the halfway line.
Then, in the 41st minute, Liverpool found a flicker of light.
A quick one-two between Wijnaldum and Firmino caught Arsenal's midfield a step late, forcing Koscielny to bring Firmino down just outside the box.
The whistle went again.
A free kick — dangerous territory.
The Emirates grew quieter now, that low murmur of collective concern rippling through the stands. The referee pointed to the spot — 25 yards out, slightly to the left of center.
And as soon as the camera zoomed in, everyone knew.
Philippe Coutinho stood over the ball, eyes fixed, body perfectly still.
Francesco jogged back, joining the defensive wall — standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Xhaka, Van Dijk, and Kanté. He glanced at Cech, who was crouched low, eyes darting between Coutinho's stance and the ball.
"Left-foot curler," Francesco muttered quietly. "Top corner."
Cech nodded slightly, adjusting his position.
On commentary, Martin Tyler's voice dropped to a reverent hush:
"It's Coutinho… and everyone in this stadium knows what he can do from here."
Alan Smith exhaled. "He's got that technique, Martin. He can bend it anywhere he likes. Arsenal have to hold firm."
The referee stepped back, blew his whistle.
Coutinho took three steps and struck.
The ball soared — perfect trajectory, a whip of venom and artistry that curled over the wall, dipping sharply at the last second.
Cech dove — full stretch — fingertips grazing air.
The net rippled.
Goal.
2–1.
The Emirates groaned, a mix of disbelief and grudging admiration.
Martin Tyler's voice rose. "Oh, that is magnificent! Philippe Coutinho — a stunning free kick from 25 yards! And Liverpool are right back in it!"
Alan Smith sighed, half in awe. "You just can't defend that, Martin. Absolutely inch-perfect. He's bent it over the wall and dipped it just under the bar. World-class."
Coutinho wheeled away toward the corner flag, arms outstretched, face lit with wild joy. The travelling Liverpool supporters — a pocket of red behind the goal — exploded into noise, waving flags and fists. Klopp punched the air, his face a storm of passion, shouting, "Ja! Ja!"
Francesco stood at the edge of the box, hands on hips, shaking his head slightly. There was no anger, only acknowledgment. That was genius. Sometimes, you simply had to tip your hat.
Cech rose slowly, nodding toward him. "Unstoppable," he said, breathing hard.
Francesco exhaled, then clapped his hands. "Alright, we go again! Heads up!"
The response was immediate. Kanté jogged to the midfield, Özil gave a thumbs-up, and Sánchez nodded, determination hardening his expression.
The Emirates crowd, sensing the need to lift their players, began to chant louder — the sound swelling, building back into rhythm.
"Ar-se-nal! Ar-se-nal!"
From the bench, Wenger gestured calmly, one hand in the air. Control. Keep control.
The final minutes of the half turned fierce. Liverpool pressed for one more chance — a cross from Milner punched clear by Cech, a header from Firmino blocked bravely by Koscielny. Arsenal answered with counters of their own — Sánchez cutting in, Özil threading a through ball to Walcott, only for Mignolet to smother it at the last second.
The whistle finally blew for half-time, but the tension didn't fade right away. Players exchanged glances — a battlefield truce at the interval. The crowd stood, applauding, buzzing from the half they'd just witnessed.
Martin Tyler's voice wrapped the half in words as cameras panned across the Emirates' blazing lights:
"And that brings an electrifying first half to a close at the Emirates Stadium. Arsenal leading Liverpool two goals to one — Francesco Lee's audacious Panenka followed by a fine finish from Theo Walcott, before a moment of magic from Philippe Coutinho gives Klopp's men hope.
It's been fast, fierce, and utterly gripping."
Alan Smith added, "It's everything you want from an opening day, Martin. The champions showing class, Liverpool refusing to roll over — we're in for some second half here."
As the players made their way toward the tunnel, Francesco walked at the front, wiping sweat from his brow, the captain's armband still gleaming. He glanced briefly at Sánchez beside him — both of them breathing hard but satisfied.
"Could've been three," Sánchez said, half-smiling.
Francesco nodded. "Could've. But they'll open up second half. We stay patient."
Behind them, Özil and Kanté were already talking tactics, pointing toward the wings, discussing space. Cech jogged past, clapping Francesco on the back. "We're good," the keeper said. "We've got them."
Francesco smiled faintly, his eyes sharp. "Yeah. But let's finish it."
The tunnel was filled with the sharp hiss of boots on concrete and the low hum of breathless voices — some anxious, some burning with adrenaline. Francesco led the way down, sweat glistening across his temple as camera flashes followed him until the dressing-room door swung shut behind the team.
Inside, the familiar scent of turf, sweat, and liniment oil hung heavy in the air. Shirts stuck to skin, players collapsing onto the benches, gulping water, gasping for air. The Emirates above was still a storm of noise, but down here — beneath it all — there was only the rhythm of heavy breathing, the muffled thuds of boots being kicked off, and Wenger's quiet pacing at the center of the room.
He didn't speak at first. He just stood, hands behind his back, gaze moving from player to player as to reading them. Özil leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes thoughtful. Sánchez was still restless, tugging at his wristbands, jaw set. Kanté sat in silence, focused as ever. Francesco, sitting closest to Wenger, had his captain's armband still on, chin lifted slightly, ready.
Finally, Wenger broke the silence.
"Sit. Breathe." His tone was calm, deliberate. "You've played well. Very well. But you all know how this goes. Liverpool — they don't stop. Not at one, not at two. Klopp will push them to play faster, harder, higher."
He moved toward the tactics board, the magnets already arranged in Arsenal's 4-2-3-1. His hand traced the midfield triangle.
"Second half," he continued, "they will press here — high. Wijnaldum, Lallana, Henderson… they'll close down every pass from Granit, from Kanté. They'll try to force mistakes." He looked toward the defenders. "Laurent and Virgil, your line must stay compact. Don't let Firmino drag you out. Stay disciplined. Anticipate, don't react."
He tapped the magnets forward slightly. "When they come and they will, we don't panic. We don't clear blindly. We play. Calm, quick passes. Break through their press. They leave space behind, always. That's where we punish them."
His eyes shifted toward Francesco. "And you, guide them. You've been excellent. Keep the tempo, remind them when to breathe, when to press. You read the game better than anyone out there."
Francesco nodded, wiping his face with a towel. "We stay compact, break fast."
"Exactly," Wenger said. "And Theo,". he turned to Walcott. "stay alert to Sánchez. He'll find you again. But Liverpool will try to shut that channel. You might need to switch sides more. Use your pace, stretch them."
Walcott nodded, still catching his breath. "Got it, boss."
Then Wenger leaned back, arms folded again, his voice soft but heavy with meaning. "Remember, composure. That's what they don't have. They play with chaos; we play with intelligence. Hold your shape, trust each other."
The room fell into a moment of focused quiet. You could feel it, that fine edge between exhaustion and conviction. The kind of stillness before the storm.
Cech rose, tightening his gloves. "Let's finish the job," he said, his deep voice breaking the silence.
Sánchez cracked a grin. "Let's kill the game."
Francesco stood, stretching his arms, rolling his neck until it cracked lightly. His heart was steady. Calm. Focused. He looked around at his teammates, their faces gleaming under the fluorescent light like a warriors ready to go again.
"Together," he said simply. "We go again."
A few heads nodded. Özil reached out his hand and clapped Francesco's shoulder once. "Lead us, cap."
Wenger smiled faintly, watching them file out. "Show them what champions look like."
When the Arsenal players stepped back onto the pitch, the Emirates roared to life again. The floodlights gleamed off the freshly watered grass, the chants of "COME ON YOU GUNNERS!" echoing across the stadium. The air felt sharper, tighter as that second-half tension every football fan knows, when a lead feels both secure and fragile.
Liverpool, as Wenger predicted, came out blazing.
From the first whistle of the half, Klopp's men pressed like wolves unleashed as the red shirts swarming Arsenal's back line, snapping at every pass, every touch. Henderson barked from midfield, pushing the line higher. Firmino and Lallana chased like madmen, cutting off angles, forcing Cech to go long.
"Liverpool have started like a house on fire!" shouted Martin Tyler over the din on Sky Sports. "You can see Klopp's instructions written all over this with a high energy, relentless pressing!"
Alan Smith added, "Yeah, Arsenal need to be careful here. They've been brilliant on the ball, but Liverpool's intensity is frightening. One mistake and they're back in it."
Cech's early goal kick found Sánchez, who was immediately swarmed by two Liverpool players. He lost possession under pressure, and within seconds, the ball was back in Arsenal's half. Lallana and Wijnaldum exchanged a lightning one-two, slicing past Xhaka and Kanté before laying it wide for Mane.
The cross came in fast, dangerous, Koscielny barely getting his head to it. The rebound dropped to Coutinho, who lashed it goalward. Cech's gloves flashed, parrying it wide. The crowd gasped, then applauded wildly as the veteran keeper roared at his defense to wake up.
"Come on!" Francesco shouted, waving his arms. "Tighten up! No free men!"
But Liverpool weren't stopping. Their rhythm was relentless — every touch a dagger, every run a test of Arsenal's shape.
In the 48th minute, Firmino drew a foul just inside Arsenal's half. Liverpool took it quickly, Henderson to Wijnaldum, who spun past Kanté and surged forward. Francesco tracked back, shouting instructions, but the red wave was already moving.
Wijnaldum threaded a ball into the right channel for Clyne, who crossed low toward the six-yard box. Van Dijk stuck out a leg that is deflected, but the ball rolled perfectly into the path of Adam Lallana, who ghosted in from midfield, unmarked.
One touch. A calm finish.
Goal.
2–2.
The Emirates fell into stunned silence before the Liverpool fans exploded in a sea of red and white scarves.
"Lallana!" Martin Tyler's voice boomed over the Sky Sports feed. "Liverpool have done it! From two down, they've clawed their way back! It's 2–2 at the Emirates!"
Alan Smith's voice carried a note of disbelief. "That's a brilliant goal, Martin and Arsenal were caught sleeping. Wijnaldum again at the heart of it, finding that perfect pass. Lallana's run… no one tracked him. It's a simple finish, but a devastating one."
Lallana sprinted toward the away end, fists pumping, his teammates chasing him down in jubilation. Klopp was roaring on the touchline, both fists clenched, a grin of pure fury and joy on his face.
Francesco stood still for a moment, staring at the goal. His chest rose and fell, sweat dripping from his chin. He could feel the pulse of the stadium, that collective shift from confidence to tension.
He exhaled slowly, rubbing his mouth with his wristband. "Alright," he muttered, half to himself, half to the pitch. "Time to respond."
He clapped his hands sharply, turning toward his teammates. "Heads up! We play our game — we don't panic!"
Sánchez, panting, nodded. "Sí, sí. Let's go."
Özil jogged past, urging calm. "Keep the ball. Don't force it."
Wenger on the sideline didn't move, but his jaw tightened. His eyes followed the players, calculating. He knew Liverpool wouldn't ease off now. The next ten minutes would define the match.
Cech's shout carried from the back. "Organize! Talk to each other!"
The match resumed with faster and harder pace. Liverpool smelled blood; Arsenal sought control. Every touch mattered now, every pass had a heartbeat behind it.
The Emirates roared, urging their side forward again. "COME ON ARSENAL!"
Francesco drifted deeper, linking with Kanté, trying to slow the rhythm, to reclaim possession. But Liverpool pressed like a machine. Firmino shadowed him constantly, Wijnaldum snapping at his heels. It was war in the midfield — beautiful chaos.
"Look at this press, Alan," said Martin Tyler, almost in awe. "Liverpool have Arsenal pinned!"
Alan replied, "Yeah, they've absolutely suffocated them these last five minutes. But if Arsenal can ride this storm, there's space behind. That's where Francesco Lee could make the difference."
Francesco finally broke the pattern with him dropping into his own half, dragging Firmino out, before turning sharply and playing a long diagonal toward Sánchez on the wing. The ball sailed beautifully across the field, a reminder of the captain's composure under pressure.
The crowd responded instantly, a roar of approval.
But Liverpool intercepted before Sánchez could do much, and the red wave came surging again.
For the next five minutes, it was pure survival. Arsenal blocked, tackled, and ran withbodies thrown in front of every cross, every shot. Van Dijk clattered into Firmino, Monreal stopped a cutback from Clyne. Even Özil was tracking back, sliding in to break up a play.
But through it all, Francesco stayed calm, shouting, organizing, clapping. "Stay together! Compact! Don't break!"
Still, Liverpool had clawed their way back into the light. The scoreline which is 2–2, was justice for their effort, but also a danger for Arsenal's pride.
On the sideline, Wenger called for calm. Klopp, meanwhile, was relentless from clapping to shouting, urging more, more, and more.
The storm began to ease — not fade, but slow just like the final roll of thunder before the air clears. Arsenal, battered and bent under Liverpool's merciless press, began to breathe again. It wasn't immediate; it never is. It came through small moments, the kind that only those inside the match can truly feel.
A settled touch from Xhaka under pressure.
A shoulder drop from Francesco to shake off Wijnaldum.
A calm clearance from Koscielny that didn't just relieve danger, it found a teammate.
Those were the signs. The pulse returning.
"Arsenal finally finding some rhythm again," Alan Smith said over the Sky Sports commentary. "They've weathered that storm, and you can see Francesco Lee trying to slow things down to pull the strings again."
Wenger's stance softened slightly on the touchline. His arms unfolded. He gave one, sharp nod.
The next few minutes were all about control, the kind of control that defines great teams. The passes became crisp again, triangles reappearing across the midfield. Özil began to find space between Liverpool's frantic lines; Kanté started snapping up loose balls like a magnet finding metal. The Emirates crowd sensed it too, that quiet confidence returning like a pulse under the skin.
Francesco dropped deep again, demanding the ball from Xhaka. Firmino tried to close him, but the young captain feinted right, turned left, and escaped with ease. He carried it forward, the weight of the captain's armband clear on his arm to be not seen as a burden, but as a flame.
He looked up. Sánchez was darting down the left, Walcott peeling off the right, Özil drifting centrally. Francesco threaded a sharp ball to Özil, who flicked it first-time back into space. The move was fluid, pure Arsenal showing Wenger's football, reborn.
"Beautiful from Arsenal," Tyler said, voice rising. "That's the football we know they can play!"
But this time, it wasn't about just beauty. It was about purpose.
And Francesco had plenty of that.
By the 56th minute, Arsenal had pushed Liverpool back into their half. The crowd's chant began to swell again with a rhythmic, heavy, tribal. "Ar-se-nal! Ar-se-nal!"
Then, the moment came.
It started innocuously, Kanté winning a tackle in midfield, nipping the ball off Henderson's toe. He immediately fed Francesco, who was standing near the halfway line, back turned to goal. A single touch with his right foot killed the ball; a second spun him around.
He saw space, and he ran.
One, two strides with a long, powerful run. He glided past Wijnaldum like smoke. The roar of the crowd began to lift.
"Francesco's on the move here…" Tyler's tone sharpened.
Klavan stepped up to stop him, bracing himself for a tackle, but Francesco's pace was unreal. A quick stepover sent the Estonian the wrong way, then a burst of acceleration left him behind entirely. The Emirates was rising now, everyone on their feet.
"Look at him go!" Alan Smith shouted.
Lovren came next, sliding across to close him down. Francesco didn't slow. He cut inside on his left, the faintest touch rolling the ball through the Croat's open stance, slipping between him and Milner like water between rocks.
He was through.
One-on-one with Mignolet.
The Belgian keeper rushed forward, arms wide, but Francesco didn't flinch.
One glance, one calm breath.
Then a low, curling strike across the body.
The ball kissed the inside of the far post and rippled the net.
GOAL.
The Emirates exploded.
"FRANCESCO LEE! THAT IS ABSOLUTELY BRILLIANT!" Martin Tyler's voice almost cracked with excitement. "A captain's goal, a leader's goal, pure class from the Arsenal skipper!"
Alan Smith could hardly contain himself. "That's world class, Martin! He's just torn Liverpool apart all on his own. Power, precision, confidence, that's what makes him different. That's what makes him Arsenal's future."
Francesco didn't celebrate wildly. He slowed near the corner flag, turning toward the roaring North Bank, his chest heaving, sweat dripping down his face. He simply raised both arms, palms open as if to say 'I'm here.'
The crowd's response was thunderous.
Flags waved. Voices cracked.
The captain had risen.
Wenger's eyes glimmered with pride. He didn't smile, but there was a look there, one that only those who've seen a boy become a man could recognize. Bould leaned over and muttered, "He's got it in him, boss."
Wenger just nodded slowly. "He's been ready."
Klopp, on the other hand, was furious on the opposite touchline — stomping, shouting, his cap nearly flying off as he yelled instructions to his back line. "PRESS! DON'T LET THEM BREATHE!"
But for all the noise, Arsenal now had control.
The scoreboard glowed:
Arsenal 3 – 2 Liverpool (57')
As the game restarted, Arsenal's shape was calm and deliberate. Francesco had dropped slightly to help the midfield not just a scorer now, but a commander on the field. He barked orders, pointed for pressing triggers, told Sánchez when to track back and Walcott when to push.
Liverpool, for all their intensity, were rattled again. The timing of the goal had sucked the momentum out of them. Firmino tried to press, but Arsenal's passing triangles had returned crisp, sharp, beautiful. Özil's elegance and Kanté's relentlessness kept the rhythm steady.
Then, on 62 minutes, Wenger made his move.
He signaled toward the fourth official, already deep in conversation with Steve Bould. "Theo, Alexis good work. But we'll need fresh legs."
The substitution board lit up.
Walcott ⬅️ Oxlade-Chamberlain (62')
Sánchez ⬅️ Giroud (62')
"Theo Walcott makes way for Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain," Tyler narrated. "And look at this, Olivier Giroud coming on as well, replacing Sánchez."
Alan Smith added, "Interesting tactical switch here. Francesco might shift to the left now, Martin. With Giroud up top, they'll look for more aerial threat and hold-up play."
And indeed, as the changes were made, Francesco clapped both Walcott and Sánchez on the back as they came off, exhausted but smiling. "Good shift, lads," he said, before trotting to his new position on the left flank.
Giroud took his spot up front, puffing his chest. "Let's finish this," the Frenchman muttered.
Klopp, reacting instantly, responded with his own adjustment. He waved to his bench and called for Emre Can.
Lallana ⬅️ Can (63')
"Jurgen Klopp answering Wenger's changes," said Tyler. "He's adding more muscle to that midfield, maybe to help counter Arsenal's control through the middle."
The match restarted, and the tempo settled into a fascinating deadlock that not dull, but tactical. Every movement mattered. Arsenal used Giroud's presence to draw Liverpool's defenders deeper, while Francesco's intelligent movement on the left created constant questions.
When Arsenal attacked, it was calm and deliberate as Özil and Francesco playing quick one-twos, Oxlade cutting inside with pace, Giroud holding up play to bring others in.
When Liverpool countered, it was chaos again as Mane darting, Firmino flicking, Coutinho dancing through the half-spaces.
Sky Sports' camera panned across Wenger, his jaw set, eyes like a chess master studying a board mid-battle. Klopp, in contrast, was animated with his voice hoarse, his arms constantly waving.
By the 70th minute, the pattern was clear. Arsenal were controlling possession showing Arsenal 57% to Liverpool's 43, but neither side could find the decisive opening. Francesco tried to curl another shot from the edge of the box, but it clipped Lovren's shoulder and went wide. Giroud headed one effort over from a Chamberlain cross. At the other end, Coutinho's strike forced a diving save from Cech.
"Both sides really going at it now," Alan Smith said. "It's a proper Premier League classic, this."
The rhythm of the match hung in that delicate balance — the kind of stillness that isn't calm, but taut, like the moment before lightning strikes. Every tackle drew a gasp, every touch a pulse through the stands. Arsenal's control was evident, but Liverpool's menace lingered like smoke.
Francesco could feel the tempo in his chest, the hum of the Emirates beneath his boots. He barked orders, gestured with his arms, his sleeves rolled up, sweat glistening under the floodlights. Every second mattered now with every breath, and every decision.
By the 75th minute, Arsenal were dictating play again. Xhaka and Kanté kept the ball moving like clockwork, Özil dropping deep to weave the strings. Giroud held up play, leaning into Lovren, while Francesco prowled the left wing — alive, hungry, reading the space like a hunter.
Liverpool pressed high, but gaps were appearing. Klopp's men were starting to fade as the red shirts slower to close down, the recovery runs a step behind. Arsenal could sense it.
And Francesco could smell blood.
In the 77th minute, it happened.
It began with a turnover in midfield — Kanté snapping into Henderson, winning the ball with that signature crunch of boot on leather. He nudged it to Özil, who, without hesitation, slipped it to Giroud with his back to goal. Giroud absorbed the pressure from Lovren, shielding the ball with that powerful frame, before flicking it behind with a deft touch.
Francesco was already moving.
He darted into the channel between Klavan and Moreno, showing a blur of red and white. The ball rolled into his stride like it was drawn to him. He didn't slow down. He shaped to shoot with his left, sending Mignolet diving early, then cut inside, dragging it to his right foot and with the composure of a veteran to chipped the ball over the keeper's outstretched body.
Time seemed to pause as the ball arced through the air.
Then, it dropped under the bar and nestled into the net.
The Emirates erupted.
"FRANCESCO LEE, AGAIN!" Martin Tyler's voice soared over the chaos. "A HAT-TRICK! The Arsenal captain has done it all by himself tonight, what a performance!"
Alan Smith was laughing in disbelief. "Oh, that's outrageous, Martin! The confidence to chip the keeper like that — that's the mark of a player in another world. He's got ice in his veins, hasn't he?"
Francesco skidded on his knees toward the North Bank, fists clenched, his teammates swarming him. Giroud was the first to reach him, wrapping his arms around the younger man and shouting over the noise, "Mon capitaine! You are unbelievable!"
Francesco grinned, breathless, shouting back, "We finish this!"
Wenger, on the touchline, couldn't help but smile now show a full, rare grin. Even Bould slapped his arm. "That's a hat-trick on opening day, boss. You don't see that every season."
"No," Wenger murmured, eyes fixed on his captain. "But this boy is special."
The scoreboard burned bright now:
Arsenal 4 – 2 Liverpool (77')
Liverpool looked shaken. Klopp stood with his hands on his hips, his jaw tight, knowing exactly what he was seeing — not luck, but authority. Arsenal were not just playing well; they were commanding.
Still, Klopp wouldn't go quietly. He urged his men forward, waving his arms, yelling as his voice hoarse but defiant. "PRESS! HIGHER!"
But it was Arsenal who pressed next.
Four minutes later, in the 81st minute, they struck again.
It began with Chamberlain, who had been a menace since coming on — full of energy, cutting in from the right. He picked up a switch from Xhaka and danced past Moreno, his pace electric. Francesco, now floating centrally beside Giroud, drew both Lovren and Klavan toward him, leaving space wide.
Oxlade spotted it, darted forward, and whipped in a low cross across the face of goal. Giroud, always alive in those moments, lunged in front of Lovren and flicked it with the outside of his boot with a clever, instinctive finish that flew past Mignolet and into the top corner.
GOAL.
5–2.
"Giroud joins the party!" Tyler shouted. "It's another for Arsenal — and that's surely the game done!"
Alan Smith added, "You've got to say, the Ox deserves credit there. Brilliant assist. And Giroud, with that trademark finish from near post, clever touch. Arsenal are rampant!"
Giroud slid toward the corner flag, arms wide, chest heaving, as the crowd chanted his name. Chamberlain was the first to him, grinning, shouting, "Told you I'd give you one!"
Francesco jogged over, laughing, slapping Giroud's back. "That's what we needed, Oli. Beautiful."
At that moment, the Emirates was alive as tens of thousands of fans in perfect harmony, chanting the captain's name, the team's rhythm, the club's heartbeat.
"Francesco Lee! Francesco Lee! Arsenal's number nine!"
The noise was intoxicating. Even Liverpool's away section applauded briefly as it was not a mockery, but a respect.
Then, in the 84th minute, Wenger made his final change.
The board went up:
Francesco Lee ⬅️ Ramsey (84')
The captain looked up, surprised for a split second, then nodded with understanding. He jogged toward the touchline slowly, the roar of the crowd growing with each step.
He reached Koscielny first, pulling off the captain's armband and sliding it up the Frenchman's arm. "Take it, skip. Bring it home."
Koscielny nodded, eyes gleaming. "You've done your job, cap."
As Francesco walked off, the stadium stood from every corner, every seat. Arsenal fans chanted his name with reverence; Liverpool supporters joined in polite applause. Even Klopp clapped his hands slowly, nodding in respect.
"That's a standing ovation for Francesco Lee," Tyler said, his tone warm. "A hat-trick, an assist in the build-up to another, and a performance full of leadership. You don't see many like him at seventeen years old."
Alan Smith's voice was softer. "That's the kind of night that builds legends, Martin. What a player. What a captain."
Francesco reached the sideline, exchanging a handshake with Wenger. The manager's smile was small but proud. "Magnifique, Francesco. You made the difference."
Francesco, breathing hard, gave a humble nod. "For the badge, boss."
He sat down, a towel draped over his shoulders, as the crowd continued to chant his name. His shirt clung to his skin, drenched with sweat, but the fire in his eyes hadn't dimmed. He watched every second that followed, even from the bench.
Klopp made his last throw of the dice:
Coutinho ⬅️ Origi (84')
Wijnaldum ⬅️ Kevin Stewart (84')
"Two changes for Liverpool," Tyler narrated. "Klopp bringing on Origi and Kevin Stewart, perhaps looking for some energy in the final minutes, but it might be too late."
And indeed, it was.
The last few minutes played out like the dying echoes of a great symphony. Arsenal, buoyed by their captain's brilliance, held the ball with ease. Xhaka and Kanté dictated the tempo; Özil glided through space, unhurried.
Liverpool tried as they always do, but the spark was gone. Mane chased shadows, Firmino dropped deep, but Arsenal's shape was unbreakable.
Giroud almost added another in the 89th minute, rising above Lovren to head a Chamberlain cross just over the bar. The Emirates responded with laughter and applause — this was Arsenal football, confident again, alive again.
Then came the final whistle.
FULL TIME: Arsenal 5 – 2 Liverpool
The roar was deafening.
"Arsenal's first Premier League win of the new season," Tyler declared over the noise. "And what a way to do it! Five goals, a hat-trick for their young captain Francesco Lee, and a statement of intent from Arsène Wenger's men!"
Alan Smith's voice carried admiration. "You couldn't have scripted a better start. They looked tested, but they fought back with class. That's what champions do. Francesco Lee — he's just put the league on notice."
The cameras followed Francesco as he stood, clapping toward the fans, his face calm, eyes shining under the floodlights. He shook hands with Klopp, who leaned in and said something brief but genuine — "You're special, kid. Remember that."
Francesco smiled faintly. "Thank you, sir."
He then joined his teammates on the pitch. Giroud threw an arm around him; Chamberlain gave him a playful shove. Özil grinned, whispering, "Hat-trick on opening day, eh? No pressure for the next one."
Francesco laughed softly. "Pressure's part of it."
The cameras zoomed in for Sky Sports' closing shot toward Francesco, standing at the center of the pitch, armband off but presence undiminished. Behind him, the scoreboard gleamed: ARSENAL 5 – 2 LIVERPOOL.
________________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 17 (2015)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, 2015/2016 Community Shield, 2016/2017 Premier League, 2015/2016 Champions League, and Euro 2016
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 1
Goal: 1
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
POTM: 0
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 60
Goal: 82
Assist: 10
MOTM: 9
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Euro 2016
Match Played: 6
Goal: 13
Assist: 4
MOTM: 6
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9