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...
And with Wembley, the Premier League title race, the FA Cup, and the Champions League still ahead, Arsenal's story was far from finished.
The days following Arsenal's victory over Chelsea seemed to pass in a blur.
One moment everyone was celebrating qualification for Wembley.
The next, attention had already shifted toward the Premier League again.
That was football.
Relentless.
Unforgiving.
No matter how big the victory.
No matter how memorable the occasion.
Another challenge always waited around the corner.
And for Arsenal, that next challenge arrived in South Wales.
Swansea City away.
Liberty Stadium.
Another league match.
Another opportunity to strengthen their position in the title race.
Another ninety minutes where standards had to remain exactly the same.
Because Wenger had made one thing very clear after Chelsea.
The Carabao Cup semi-final was over.
Finished.
A good memory.
Nothing more.
Now the focus returned to the Premier League.
And Arsenal's players understood that completely.
The title race left no room for complacency.
Not this season.
Not with the competition around them.
Not with Arsenal chasing something special.
The team bus rolled through Swansea beneath a gray winter sky.
Rain threatened without ever fully arriving.
The roads glistened slightly from earlier showers.
Supporters had already begun gathering outside Liberty Stadium despite the cold.
Scarves.
Flags.
Cameras.
The usual matchday scene.
Inside the Arsenal bus, the atmosphere remained relaxed but focused.
Different from the Chelsea semi-final.
There was less tension.
Less emotion.
But no less professionalism.
Players sat in their usual seats.
Headphones.
Conversations.
Phones.
Matchday rituals that had become second nature.
Francesco sat near the front today.
The captain's armband would belong to him once again.
A responsibility he never took lightly.
Across the aisle, Walker was somehow involved in another argument.
Nobody knew how.
Nobody knew why.
Some things simply happened naturally.
"I am telling you," Walker declared confidently.
"It's impossible."
Robertson shook his head.
"You haven't even heard the full story."
"I don't need the full story."
"That isn't how conversations work."
"It is for me."
Van Dijk laughed.
"That's worrying."
"It should be."
Even Koscielny smiled.
The French defender rarely involved himself in dressing-room chaos.
Yet Walker somehow dragged everyone into it eventually.
The bus erupted into laughter.
A few seats ahead, Wenger simply ignored the entire discussion.
Years of management had taught him which battles were worth fighting.
This clearly wasn't one of them.
Eventually Liberty Stadium appeared ahead.
The modern stadium rose from the surrounding area.
Compact.
Intimate.
Loud when full.
A difficult place to visit.
Especially when Swansea found confidence.
As the bus entered the stadium complex, conversations naturally faded.
The shift happened almost automatically.
Match mode.
The familiar mental transition every professional footballer experienced.
The players stepped off the bus one by one.
Cold Welsh air immediately greeted them.
Supporters behind barriers cheered loudly.
Several shouted Francesco's name.
Others called for Sánchez.
Özil.
Kanté.
The entire squad received applause.
The players acknowledged the crowd before heading inside.
Soon they were walking through the familiar maze of stadium corridors.
Staff members moved with purpose.
Security personnel communicated through radios.
Television crews prepared equipment.
The entire machinery of Premier League football operating around them.
Eventually Arsenal's squad arrived inside the away dressing room.
Match shirts already hung neatly above each locker.
Boots arranged carefully below.
Everything organized perfectly.
Exactly the way players liked it.
But first came warmups.
Training gear appeared.
Players changed quickly.
Conversations continued.
Music played softly through speakers.
The usual pre-match routine.
Comforting.
Familiar.
Professional.
Francesco pulled on his training kit before glancing around the room.
Sánchez looked sharp already.
Focused.
Determined.
The contract extension seemed to have lifted a weight from his shoulders.
Özil sat quietly adjusting his boots.
Kanté looked exactly the same as always.
Calm.
Unassuming.
Ready.
Some things never changed.
Eventually the squad made their way toward the tunnel.
And then out onto the pitch.
The Liberty Stadium greeted them with noise immediately.
Supporters already filling seats.
Flags waving.
Songs echoing around the ground.
The floodlights illuminated everything brilliantly despite the afternoon conditions.
The players spread across the pitch.
Passing drills began.
Stretching.
Sprint work.
Shooting practice.
Everything flowing with the rhythm of countless previous warmups.
Francesco spent part of the session exchanging quick passes with Özil.
The German somehow made every touch look effortless.
Even now.
Even during warmups.
After one particularly outrageous pass split two teammates, Francesco shook his head.
"You enjoy making people look bad."
Özil smiled.
"You received the ball."
"That's not the point."
"It is for me."
That answer earned laughter from both of them.
Nearby, Sánchez smashed shot after shot into the net.
Every finish carrying the intensity that defined him.
Every strike delivered with purpose.
The Chilean never really understood half-speed.
Everything happened at full intensity.
That was part of what made him special.
Eventually the warmup concluded.
The players applauded supporters.
Then headed back toward the dressing room.
The atmosphere changed immediately upon entering.
The joking disappeared.
The focus sharpened.
Now it was time.
Training kits disappeared.
Match kits appeared.
Red shirts.
White sleeves.
White shorts.
The Arsenal colors.
The colors every player dreamed about wearing.
Francesco pulled on his shirt before carefully fastening the captain's armband around his left arm.
The feeling never became ordinary.
No matter how many times it happened.
Leading Arsenal remained an honor.
One he intended to earn every single day.
Soon Wenger stood.
Instantly the room settled.
The manager waited until every eye focused on him.
Then he began.
The tactical board stood behind him.
Magnets already arranged.
Arsenal's shape clearly displayed.
"We continue with our football."
Simple.
Direct.
Classic Wenger.
His marker tapped the board.
"Formation."
The magnets shifted slightly.
"Four-two-one-three."
Several players nodded.
The lineup appeared.
Petr Čech in goal.
Robertson at left-back.
Van Dijk and Koscielny in central defense.
Walker at right-back.
Kanté and Xhaka protecting midfield.
Özil operating centrally.
Sánchez from the left.
Gnabry from the right.
And Francesco leading the attack.
Strong.
Balanced.
Dangerous.
The kind of lineup capable of overwhelming opponents.
Wenger continued.
"We press."
His marker moved across Swansea's shape.
"We control possession."
Another movement.
"We move the ball quickly."
The players listened carefully.
Every instruction mattered.
Every detail mattered.
Especially away from home.
Finally Wenger looked around the room.
"We respect Swansea."
The manager paused.
"But we impose ourselves."
That earned a collective nod.
Because that was Arsenal at their best.
Confident without arrogance.
Aggressive without recklessness.
Then Wenger folded his arms.
"Go and enjoy your football."
A simple ending.
Yet an effective one.
Soon afterward the players rose.
Final handshakes.
Final encouragement.
Then they headed toward the tunnel.
The crowd noise grew louder.
The referee waited.
Swansea players gathered opposite.
The familiar pre-match tension settled over everyone.
One last moment before kickoff.
Then the teams emerged.
Swansea in white.
Arsenal in red.
The Premier League anthem echoed around Liberty Stadium.
Supporters stood.
The atmosphere crackled with anticipation.
The referee checked both assistants.
Looked at his watch.
Then blew his whistle.
The match began.
Immediately Arsenal imposed themselves.
Exactly as Wenger wanted.
The visitors pressed aggressively.
Closing passing lanes.
Winning second balls.
Forcing Swansea deeper and deeper into their own half.
Possession belonged almost entirely to Arsenal during the opening stages.
The ball moved quickly.
Purposefully.
From defense to midfield.
Midfield to attack.
Swansea struggled to escape.
Kanté seemed to appear everywhere.
Winning possession.
Intercepting passes.
Disrupting attacks before they even developed.
Beside him, Xhaka controlled tempo beautifully.
Switching play.
Finding space.
Moving Swansea around.
And ahead of them, Özil orchestrated everything.
The German drifted between lines effortlessly.
Always available.
Always dangerous.
Always thinking two steps ahead.
Swansea defended bravely.
But Arsenal's pressure continued building.
Wave after wave.
Attack after attack.
The breakthrough felt inevitable.
Eventually it arrived.
Twenty-first minute.
And it began with Francesco.
The captain dropped slightly deeper to receive possession from Özil.
Immediately two Swansea defenders followed him.
Exactly what he wanted.
The movement created space behind.
Space Sánchez recognized instantly.
Francesco turned.
One touch.
Then another.
Scanning.
Calculating.
Waiting.
Then the pass arrived.
Perfectly weighted.
Threaded between defenders.
Right into Sánchez's path.
The Chilean exploded forward.
One touch to control.
Another to steady himself.
Then the finish.
Clinical.
Powerful.
Unstoppable.
The ball flew beyond the goalkeeper and into the net.
Goal.
Arsenal 1-0 Swansea.
The away supporters erupted.
Sánchez sprinted toward the corner flag.
Fists clenched.
Pure emotion.
His teammates followed immediately.
Francesco reached him first.
Grabbing the Chilean around the shoulders.
"Contract extension celebration?"
Sánchez laughed.
"Something like that."
The scoreboard confirmed it.
Twenty-one minutes played.
Arsenal ahead.
Exactly what their dominance deserved.
The goal only increased Arsenal's confidence.
Their passing became even sharper.
Their movement even better.
Swansea found themselves chasing shadows for long stretches.
Every time they seemed ready to recover possession, another red shirt appeared.
Another passing angle emerged.
Another attack developed.
The visitors looked in complete control.
Then came the thirty-third minute.
Another beautifully constructed attack.
Another example of Wenger's football.
Xhaka received possession near midfield.
The Swiss international looked up immediately.
His vision spotted something others hadn't yet seen.
A run.
A dangerous run.
Serge Gnabry accelerating into space.
The pass arrived perfectly.
Splitting Swansea's defensive line.
Gnabry controlled beautifully.
One touch.
Then another.
Suddenly he was through.
The young German stayed calm.
Composed.
Focused.
The goalkeeper rushed forward.
Too late.
Gnabry slid the ball beyond him.
Into the corner.
Goal.
Arsenal 2-0 Swansea.
The away end exploded again.
Gnabry sprinted away smiling.
Arms spread wide.
His teammates arrived seconds later.
Xhaka pointed toward him immediately.
Acknowledging the finish.
The young winger deserved enormous credit.
The move had required intelligence.
Timing.
Composure.
Everything.
And he had delivered.
Arsenal now had breathing room.
A two-goal advantage.
One that reflected the match perfectly.
Swansea attempted a response.
To their credit, they kept fighting.
Kept running.
Kept searching.
But Arsenal remained dominant.
Van Dijk won everything in the air.
Koscielny anticipated danger brilliantly.
Walker and Robertson controlled the flanks.
Everywhere Swansea looked, Arsenal seemed stronger.
Then came the forty-fourth minute.
Just before halftime.
Perhaps the most painful time possible for a team to concede.
The move started with Sánchez.
The Chilean collected possession near the left touchline.
Immediately defenders converged.
Yet somehow he escaped.
One touch.
Two touches.
Suddenly space opened.
Sánchez drove toward the area before lifting his head.
And seeing him.
Özil.
Arriving late.
Unmarked.
Dangerous.
The pass rolled perfectly into the German's path.
Özil didn't hesitate.
One touch.
Then a finish so calm it almost looked casual.
The ball passed the goalkeeper and settled into the net.
Goal.
Arsenal 3-0 Swansea.
The away supporters celebrated wildly.
Özil simply smiled.
The kind of smile that suggested everything had gone exactly as planned.
Sánchez pointed toward him immediately.
The German returned the gesture.
Mutual appreciation between two world-class footballers.
Arsenal's third goal.
Another statement.
Another example of their quality.
And moments later the referee blew for halftime.
The players headed toward the tunnel.
Breathing heavily.
Sweat visible despite the cold afternoon.
The first half had belonged entirely to Arsenal.
Three goals.
Control of possession.
Control of territory.
Control of the match.
Yet nobody celebrated.
Not yet.
Because football had taught everyone enough lessons.
Three-nil leads could disappear.
Matches could change.
Complacency could destroy good work.
Inside the dressing room, players dropped onto benches.
Water bottles appeared immediately.
Some stretched.
Others replayed moments from the half.
The mood was positive.
But disciplined.
Exactly as Wenger preferred.
Francesco sat near his locker and took a long drink of water.
Across the room Sánchez looked energized.
Gnabry smiled occasionally.
Özil appeared as calm as ever.
Then Wenger stood.
Instantly the room settled.
The manager waited for complete attention before speaking.
"We have played very well."
Simple.
Honest.
Deserved.
Several players nodded.
Because they had.
The first half had been excellent.
Wenger moved toward the tactical board.
"But."
That word immediately sharpened everyone's focus.
Because every footballer knew what came next.
A warning.
A reminder.
A challenge.
"Swansea have nothing to lose now."
The manager tapped the board.
"They will take risks."
Another tap.
"They will attack."
More nods around the room.
Everyone understood.
Three-nil was dangerous if players stopped concentrating.
The manager's gaze moved around the room.
"We remain disciplined."
"We remain hungry."
"We continue playing."
No protecting the score.
No fear.
No retreat.
Just football.
The Arsenal way.
Then Wenger looked directly at his captain.
Then at the rest of the team.
"We finish the job."
The room fell silent for a moment.
Every player understanding exactly what he meant.
The first half had been excellent.
Now they needed forty-five more minutes.
Forty-five minutes to complete the performance.
Forty-five minutes to continue their momentum.
Forty-five minutes to show once again why Arsenal were becoming one of the most feared teams in England.
And as the players listened to Wenger's instructions for approaching the second half, nobody in the dressing room looked satisfied.
That was the thing Wenger appreciated most about this Arsenal side.
Three goals ahead.
Completely dominant.
Playing some of their best football of the season.
And yet not a single player inside the dressing room behaved as though the match was finished.
Because experience taught harsh lessons.
Football had a habit of punishing teams the moment they relaxed.
The manager could see it in their faces.
Francesco sitting with the captain's armband still wrapped around his arm.
Sánchez leaning forward while listening carefully.
Özil quietly studying the tactical board.
Kanté focused as ever.
Nobody looked comfortable.
Nobody looked complacent.
Good.
Very good.
Wenger tapped the board one final time.
"The next fifteen to twenty minutes are important."
The players listened.
"We score again."
His finger moved toward Swansea's defensive shape.
"Maybe two."
A few nods followed.
Then Wenger continued.
"After that, we control the match."
"Lower tempo."
"Stay organized."
"If opportunities come, we take them."
His gaze moved around the room.
"But we do not give them hope."
That line carried weight.
Because hope changed football matches.
A team losing three-nil felt defeated.
A team that scored to make it three-one suddenly believed.
And belief was dangerous.
The manager folded his arms.
"Finish the game."
That was all.
No dramatic speech.
No shouting.
No theatrics.
Just instructions.
Just trust.
The kind Wenger always preferred.
Soon the players were back on their feet.
Final drinks.
Final stretches.
Final words exchanged between teammates.
Then the referee's whistle summoned them back toward the pitch.
The Liberty Stadium welcomed them once more.
The crowd remained loud despite the scoreline.
To Swansea's credit, their supporters hadn't stopped singing.
Hadn't stopped supporting.
Football crowds respected effort.
And Swansea's players had certainly continued trying.
As Arsenal emerged from the tunnel, Francesco adjusted the captain's armband once more.
Then glanced toward his teammates.
A few simple nods passed between them.
No words necessary.
Everybody knew the plan.
Score again.
Kill the match.
Then manage it professionally.
The referee checked both teams.
Looked at his watch.
And blew the whistle.
The second half began.
Immediately Arsenal looked exactly as Wenger wanted.
Aggressive.
Focused.
Hungry.
No signs of complacency whatsoever.
The visitors continued dominating possession.
Xhaka dictated play beautifully from deep midfield.
Kanté won everything nearby.
Walker and Robertson pushed high.
Sánchez and Gnabry stretched Swansea's defensive line.
Özil drifted through spaces nobody else seemed capable of finding.
And Francesco remained a constant threat.
Every touch drawing attention.
Every movement creating uncertainty.
Swansea attempted to respond.
Tried to push forward.
Tried to increase their intensity.
But Arsenal simply looked too good.
Too organized.
Too confident.
The pressure continued building.
Minute after minute.
Attack after attack.
And eventually the fourth goal arrived.
A goal that would become one of the highlights of Arsenal's season.
Fifty-fourth minute.
The move began near the halfway line.
Kanté won possession once again.
Nobody in the stadium seemed surprised anymore.
The Frenchman intercepted a Swansea pass and immediately fed the ball into Xhaka.
The Swiss midfielder took one touch.
Then found Francesco between the lines.
The captain received possession with his back to goal.
A Swansea midfielder closed immediately.
Another defender stepped forward.
Pressure arrived from multiple directions.
Most players would have laid the ball off.
Recycled possession.
Started again.
Francesco had other ideas.
One quick turn.
The first defender disappeared.
The crowd reacted instantly.
A collective murmur spreading around the stadium.
Danger.
The second player lunged forward.
Too late.
Francesco shifted the ball across his body and accelerated away.
The Swansea defender stumbled.
The away supporters rose from their seats.
Now the Arsenal striker was running directly at the back line.
One defender remained.
Just one.
The final obstacle.
The defender tried to hold position.
Tried to delay him.
Tried to force him wide.
Francesco feinted left.
Then exploded right.
The defender committed.
Wrong choice.
Suddenly he was gone too.
Three players beaten.
The Liberty Stadium collectively held its breath.
Francesco entered the penalty area.
The goalkeeper rushed out.
Attempting to narrow the angle.
Desperation.
Hope.
Neither mattered.
The Arsenal captain remained perfectly calm.
One touch.
Then a beautiful finish curled beyond the goalkeeper's reach.
The ball kissed the inside of the far post.
And settled into the net.
Goal.
Arsenal 4-0 Swansea.
For a brief second there was silence.
The kind that followed moments of genuine brilliance.
Then the away end exploded.
Thousands of Arsenal supporters erupting at once.
Francesco sprinted toward them.
Arms spread wide.
Pure joy.
Pure freedom.
Pure football.
His teammates chased after him immediately.
Sánchez arrived first.
Jumping onto his back.
"Three players?"
The Chilean laughed.
"Only three?"
Francesco grinned.
"I got bored."
"Show off."
Özil reached them next.
Shaking his head.
Even the German looked impressed.
Walker pointed dramatically.
"That was ridiculous."
Kanté just smiled quietly.
Which somehow made the moment even better.
High above the pitch, Wenger remained seated.
But even he couldn't completely hide his satisfaction.
Because goals like that weren't coached.
They weren't designed.
They weren't tactical.
They were simply moments of individual brilliance.
And Francesco had delivered another one.
At four-nil, the match felt effectively finished.
But Arsenal weren't done.
Not yet.
They continued playing.
Continued moving the ball.
Continued controlling territory.
Swansea looked exhausted now.
Both physically and mentally.
Chasing Arsenal for over an hour had taken its toll.
Every passing sequence seemed longer.
Every sprint harder.
Every challenge heavier.
The visitors sensed it.
And kept pushing.
Then came the sixty-seventh minute.
Another goal.
Another example of Arsenal's quality.
The move started on the right side.
Walker advanced and found Özil.
The German immediately turned.
Scanning.
Calculating.
Always calculating.
One glance.
That was all he needed.
Robertson was already racing forward from left-back.
The Scottish defender timing his run perfectly.
Özil's pass arrived exactly where it needed to.
Not too strong.
Not too soft.
Perfect.
Robertson collected it in stride.
Suddenly he was through.
The Swansea goalkeeper expected a cross.
Most fullbacks would cross.
Robertson didn't.
He took another touch.
Opened his body.
And drilled a low finish into the corner.
Goal.
Arsenal 5-0 Swansea.
The away supporters loved it.
Absolutely loved it.
Robertson sprinted away laughing.
Arms raised.
Disbelief written across his face.
Goals were still relatively rare for defenders.
Especially fullbacks.
His teammates surrounded him instantly.
Walker arrived wearing the biggest smile imaginable.
"You scored."
"I noticed."
"You actually scored."
Robertson pointed toward Özil.
"The pass helped."
Özil simply shrugged.
As though creating goals was the easiest thing in the world.
Which, for him, sometimes seemed true.
Five-nil.
The scoreboard looked almost surreal.
And the away section celebrated every second of it.
A few minutes later Wenger glanced toward his coaching staff.
Then toward the bench.
The manager had seen enough.
The result was secure.
The performance complete.
Now came another important responsibility.
Managing minutes.
Protecting players.
Creating opportunities.
The fourth official prepared the board.
The numbers appeared.
Seventy-first minute.
Three Arsenal substitutions.
Francesco looked up first.
His number.
Then Özil's.
Then Sánchez's.
All three being withdrawn.
The crowd applauded immediately.
Because they understood.
All three had been outstanding.
And all three deserved their rest.
The replacements quickly became visible.
Olivier Giroud.
Jack Wilshere.
And Bukayo Saka.
The away supporters reacted especially loudly to the youngster.
The Chelsea performance remained fresh in everyone's mind.
Saka jogged toward the touchline trying to look calm.
Trying being the important word.
Francesco reached him first.
A quick handshake.
Then a brief embrace.
"Enjoy it."
Saka nodded.
"I will."
"Play your game."
The teenager smiled.
Then sprinted onto the pitch.
Ready.
Excited.
Determined.
The substitutions were completed.
Francesco received a warm ovation from both Arsenal supporters and even some neutral applause around the stadium.
The captain acknowledged it with a raised hand before taking his place on the bench.
Beside him, Sánchez grabbed a jacket.
Özil took a drink.
All three immediately began watching the match again.
Because footballers never really switched off.
Not completely.
Swansea's manager responded shortly afterward.
Three substitutions of his own.
Interestingly, all defensive players.
Fresh legs.
Fresh organization.
Fresh determination.
The decision made sense.
At five-nil down, avoiding further damage became the priority.
The changes worked too.
The match settled noticeably.
Arsenal lowered the tempo exactly as Wenger had requested at halftime.
Possession remained theirs.
Control remained theirs.
But the urgency disappeared.
No need to force attacks.
No need to take unnecessary risks.
Professional game management.
The hallmark of mature teams.
And yet there remained one fascinating subplot.
Bukayo Saka.
The teenager immediately looked comfortable.
Remarkably comfortable.
Perhaps even more comfortable than some supporters expected.
He demanded the ball.
Made intelligent runs.
Pressed aggressively.
Tracked back when necessary.
Most importantly, he looked fearless.
Not reckless.
Fearless.
There was a difference.
Several times he received possession near the touchline and drove directly at defenders.
One particular run brought the away supporters to their feet.
Saka collected the ball near midfield.
Accelerated past one challenge.
Then another.
Before eventually being crowded out by multiple Swansea players.
No goal.
No assist.
Yet the reaction remained positive.
Because the intent was obvious.
The confidence was obvious.
The talent was obvious.
On the bench, Francesco noticed it too.
"So comfortable."
Wilshere's replacement had barely looked nervous all afternoon.
Sánchez nodded.
"He belongs here."
The Chilean rarely handed out compliments lightly.
Which made the statement meaningful.
Francesco agreed completely.
Because there had been discussion among supporters.
Questions.
Debates.
Especially following Theo Walcott's departure.
Many Arsenal fans still loved Theo.
Still respected him.
Still believed he could contribute.
Some wondered whether selling him was the right decision.
Others worried about squad depth.
Natural concerns.
Reasonable concerns.
But performances like this explained Wenger's thinking.
The manager wasn't replacing Walcott with another expensive signing.
He was creating space.
Space for someone else.
Space for a young player.
Space for Bukayo Saka.
And every minute the teenager spent on the pitch seemed to justify that decision a little more.
No panic.
No fear.
Just football.
Good football.
As the match entered its final stages, Liberty Stadium had largely accepted the outcome.
Swansea continued working.
Continued competing.
But the contest itself was over.
Arsenal controlled everything.
The passing remained crisp.
The positioning remained disciplined.
Van Dijk and Koscielny barely allowed anything through.
Čech enjoyed one of the quieter afternoons of his season.
Everywhere Arsenal looked, things seemed under control.
The away supporters sensed it too.
Their songs grew louder.
More confident.
More celebratory.
Occasional chants about Wembley echoed around the stadium.
Others focused on the Premier League title race.
Dreams.
Belief.
Excitement.
All of it mixing together.
The Arsenal players could hear every word.
And while professionals rarely admitted it publicly, those moments mattered.
Supporters mattered.
The connection mattered.
Especially away from home.
Eventually the clock reached ninety minutes.
Then ninety-one.
Then ninety-two.
The final moments drifted by.
One last Swansea attack faded harmlessly.
One last Arsenal passing sequence drew applause.
And then finally the referee looked at his watch.
Raised the whistle.
And blew for full time.
Swansea City 0.
Arsenal 5.
A complete performance.
A ruthless performance.
A statement performance.
The Arsenal players exchanged handshakes immediately.
Some applauded the away supporters.
Others embraced teammates.
There was satisfaction everywhere.
Not arrogance.
Not over-celebration.
Just satisfaction.
The feeling of a job done properly.
Francesco rose from the bench and walked onto the pitch.
The captain's armband now tucked beneath his jacket.
He found Saka first.
The youngster looked tired.
Happy.
And very pleased with himself.
As he should have been.
"Good performance."
Saka smiled.
"Thanks."
"You looked comfortable."
The teenager shrugged modestly.
"I tried."
"You did more than try."
A bigger smile appeared.
One he couldn't quite hide.
Nearby, Wenger was already speaking with members of his coaching staff.
The manager looked pleased.
Again, not ecstatic.
Just pleased.
Because that was Wenger.
One excellent victory didn't change anything.
The next match was already waiting.
The next challenge already approaching.
The next objective already visible.
Yet even he couldn't ignore what Arsenal had produced today.
Five goals.
A clean sheet.
Another dominant display.
Another reminder of why belief around the club continued growing.
As the players made their way toward the travelling supporters, thousands of Arsenal fans rose to applaud them.
Scarves lifted into the air, with song echoed around Liberty Stadium.
And standing among his teammates, Francesco couldn't help noticing something.
The squad felt stronger than ever.
Alexis had committed his future.
New signings had arrived.
Young players were emerging.
Veterans remained influential.
The football was flowing.
The confidence was growing.
And most importantly of all was nobody seemed willing to settle.
Not for Wembley.
Not for a top-four finish.
Not for a good season.
They wanted more.
Much more.
And after a 5-0 victory away from home, it was becoming increasingly difficult to blame them.
______________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 19 (2017)
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, Euro 2016, Premier League Champion 2016/2017, and 2016/2017 Champions League.
Season 17/18 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 36
Goal: 43
Assist: 3
MOTM: 5
POTM: 0
England:
Match: 2
Goal: 2
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 55
Goal: 87
Assist: 5
MOTM: 14
POTM: 1
England:
Match: 1
Goal: 1
Assist: 0
MOTM: 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