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One afternoon beneath the Wembley arch that would decide whether Arsenal's remarkable run continued or whether Manchester City would finally announce themselves as the new force ready to challenge the team everyone else had spent the last two years trying to catch.
The final arrived with the kind of anticipation that only Wembley could create.
For days, the occasion had lived in everyone's imagination.
Now it was real.
Players woke earlier than usual, though very few had slept particularly well.
Some had replayed possible moments in their minds.
Others had visualised lifting the trophy.
A few admitted later that they had spent half the night staring at the ceiling, waiting for morning to arrive.
Cup finals had a way of doing that.
Even the most experienced professionals felt the difference.
Francesco stood in the kitchen of his Richmond home with a mug of coffee warming his hands.
The house was unusually quiet.
Leah appeared a few moments later, still wearing one of his Arsenal training tops.
She smiled when she saw him already awake.
"You've been up a while."
"I couldn't sleep."
"I guessed."
She poured herself a cup of tea before walking over.
"Nervous?"
Francesco thought for a moment before answering.
"A little."
"Excited?"
"A lot."
Leah reached out and straightened the collar of his jacket.
"That's probably the right balance."
Cheddar trotted into the kitchen, tail wagging enthusiastically.
The dog nudged Francesco's leg, demanding attention before another long day away from home.
Francesco crouched down to scratch behind his ears.
"I'll see you later."
Cheddar answered with a small bark.
Leah laughed.
"I think that's his way of wishing you good luck."
"I'll take it."
She kissed him gently before he picked up his travel bag.
"Go win another trophy."
Francesco smiled.
"We'll try."
By late morning, Arsenal's squad had gathered at London Colney.
The atmosphere inside the team coach felt noticeably different from an ordinary away trip.
Nobody needed reminding where they were going.
Wembley.
The words alone carried weight.
As the bus rolled away from the training ground, conversations remained quieter than usual.
Some players listened to music.
Others looked out of the windows.
A few studied tactical notes one final time.
Walker glanced across at Robertson after nearly twenty minutes of silence.
"This is weird."
Robertson looked up.
"What is?"
"You've barely spoken."
"I'm thinking."
Walker nodded dramatically.
"Right."
"That's how serious this is."
Robertson rolled his eyes.
"I do think occasionally."
"I've got witnesses now."
Even Francesco laughed.
The joke eased some of the tension that had settled over the coach.
The closer they came to Wembley, the heavier the traffic became.
Cars decorated with red and blue scarves filled the roads.
Supporters leaned from windows waving club flags.
Coaches carrying fans from every corner of England joined the procession heading towards the national stadium.
Then it appeared.
The famous white arch rose above the London skyline.
Even after countless visits, it never failed to leave an impression.
Walker looked through the window.
"There it is."
Nobody needed to ask what he meant.
Several players instinctively looked up.
For a few seconds, the entire coach fell silent again.
The arch seemed to promise everything.
Glory.
Heartbreak.
History.
Only ninety minutes or perhaps more, would decide which club experienced which.
The Arsenal bus rolled beneath tight security before disappearing into the underground parking area reserved for the finalists.
Outside, television cameras immediately focused on the arriving players.
Photographers fired hundreds of pictures as one Arsenal player after another stepped off the coach.
Francesco adjusted the strap of his bag before following the others into Wembley Stadium.
Inside, the familiar concrete corridors echoed with footsteps.
Staff members welcomed both teams before directing Arsenal toward their dressing room.
The closer they came, the louder the distant noise of supporters filtered through the stadium.
Nearly ninety thousand people were already taking their seats.
Kick-off was still well over an hour away.
Yet Wembley already felt alive.
The Arsenal dressing room looked immaculate.
Every shirt hung perfectly above its locker.
Boots had been polished until they gleamed beneath the bright lights.
Each seat held neatly folded training gear, towels and water bottles.
In the centre of the room stood the Carabao Cup Final match ball.
Nobody touched it.
Not yet.
Francesco placed his bag beside his seat before quietly looking around the room.
Cup finals always felt different.
Nobody needed speeches to understand the importance of the afternoon.
The atmosphere itself said enough.
Equipment staff moved efficiently between lockers making final adjustments.
Medical staff prepared tape and treatment tables.
Tony Colbert checked watches.
"Twenty minutes."
The players immediately began changing into their training kits.
Zips opened.
Training tops replaced travel jackets.
Studs were tightened.
Tape wrapped around ankles.
Giroud quietly laced his boots while Cazorla adjusted the captain's armband resting beside his shirt.
Today, Wenger had once again stayed true to the players who had carried Arsenal throughout the Carabao Cup campaign.
Francesco had expected it.
Even so, seeing the armband waiting for Cazorla reminded him how much trust the manager had placed in the rotation group.
He walked over to the Spaniard.
"You've earned today."
Cazorla smiled warmly.
"We all have."
"You'll lead us well."
"I'll try."
Francesco placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
"You don't need to try."
"You already do."
Tony Colbert clapped his hands.
"Time."
The players rose together before jogging through the tunnel.
The first glimpse of Wembley always stole attention.
The bowl of the stadium seemed endless.
Tier upon tier of supporters stretched around every side.
Red and blue divided the stands almost perfectly.
One end belonged entirely to Arsenal.
The noise from their supporters rolled across the pitch in wave after wave.
Scarves filled the air.
Flags danced beneath the arch.
The Arsenal players applauded as they stepped onto the immaculate grass.
Warm-ups began immediately.
Goalkeepers worked separately near one penalty area.
David Raya threw himself into a series of sharp diving saves under the guidance of the goalkeeping coaches.
Every catch drew applause from nearby Arsenal supporters.
Further outfield, Wenger watched closely while the players completed passing drills.
Monreal and Bellerín sprinted repeatedly along the flanks.
Holding and Mustafi practised defensive clearances.
Ramsey and Wilshere exchanged quick one-touch passes under pressure.
Cazorla dictated the rhythm exactly as he always did, demanding the ball constantly.
Gnabry and Iwobi worked on combinations before supplying crosses toward Giroud.
The French striker buried header after header into the net.
Each finish looked effortless.
Nearby, the substitutes completed their own routine.
Francesco moved smoothly through sprint drills alongside Alexis, Walker, Van Dijk, Koscielny and the others.
Although he would begin the afternoon on the bench, his concentration never wavered.
Football rarely followed scripts.
Finals least of all.
Walker nudged him after another sprint.
"You're already thinking about coming on."
Francesco smiled.
"I'm thinking about winning."
"Fair answer."
Alexis overheard.
"It won't matter who scores."
"As long as someone does."
The warm-up passed quickly.
Soon both squads applauded their respective supporters before disappearing once more beneath Wembley.
Inside the dressing room, the atmosphere shifted instantly.
The final moments before kickoff had arrived.
Training shirts came off.
Fresh towels dried the last traces of sweat.
One by one, Arsenal's players changed into their famous red-and-white match shirts.
Studs clicked against the tiled floor.
Tape was checked again.
Shin pads secured.
Nobody spoke loudly.
Everyone understood the moment.
Wenger entered carrying a small notebook.
The conversations immediately faded.
He looked around the room before speaking.
"Gentlemen…"
"We're here because every one of you has contributed."
He let the words settle.
"No one reaches Wembley alone."
Then he opened the notebook.
"Our starting eleven."
He looked first toward the goalkeeper.
"David."
Raya nodded.
The manager continued.
"The defence."
"Nacho."
"Shkodran."
"Rob."
"Héctor."
Monreal, Mustafi, Holding and Bellerín acknowledged him one after another.
"In midfield…"
"Aaron."
"Jack."
"You'll protect the defence."
Ramsey and Wilshere exchanged determined glances.
"Santi."
The Spaniard looked up.
"You captain the team today."
Cazorla smiled proudly.
"It'll be an honour."
Wenger nodded before moving toward the attack.
"Alex."
"Left."
"Sergi."
"Right."
Iwobi and Gnabry both answered quietly.
Finally…
"Olivier."
"You lead the line."
Giroud stood slightly taller.
"I'm ready."
The manager then turned toward the substitutes.
His eyes briefly met Francesco's.
"You remain just as important."
"There are finals won from the bench."
Francesco nodded immediately.
"We'll be ready."
Alexis answered beside him.
"Every second."
Wenger closed the notebook.
"Manchester City will play their usual four-two-three-one."
He pointed toward the tactical board.
"Bravo."
"Zinchenko."
"Kompany."
"Otamendi."
"Danilo."
"Gündoğan."
"Fernandinho."
"Sané."
"David Silva."
"Kevin De Bruyne."
"Sergio Agüero."
He tapped the board gently.
"They'll have possession."
"They'll ask difficult questions."
"We answer together."
He looked around the room one final time.
"Enjoy the occasion."
"But never be distracted by it."
"It's still football."
"Play our football."
The referee's liaison officer appeared outside the dressing-room door.
"Five minutes."
Players rose together.
Cazorla picked up the captain's armband before slipping it onto his left arm.
Francesco clapped loudly.
"Come on!"
The response echoed around the room.
Together they walked into the tunnel.
Manchester City's players already waited opposite.
Pep Guardiola stood quietly at the front of his group, exchanging a few final words with his coaching staff.
Across from him, Wenger remained composed as always.
The tunnel doors opened.
A wall of noise crashed into both teams.
Nearly ninety thousand supporters welcomed them onto the pitch.
The Carabao Cup trophy gleamed brilliantly on its pedestal beside the halfway line.
For just a brief second, every Arsenal player glanced at it.
Then their attention returned to the match ahead.
The formalities passed quickly.
Handshakes.
Photographs.
The national anthem.
The captains met the referee.
Francesco settled into his place on the bench beside Alexis.
From there he watched Cazorla lead Arsenal toward the centre circle.
The referee checked both assistants.
One sharp whistle echoed beneath Wembley.
The Carabao Cup Final had begun.
Manchester City immediately settled into Guardiola's familiar rhythm.
Bravo calmly distributed possession from the back.
Kompany and Otamendi spread wide.
Fernandinho dropped between them while Gündoğan drifted into midfield.
David Silva floated elegantly between Arsenal's lines.
Kevin De Bruyne constantly searched for pockets of space.
Sané stretched the left wing with blistering pace.
Agüero prowled around the penalty area, always looking for a single mistake.
Arsenal responded exactly as Wenger had instructed.
They defended in compact lines.
Ramsey and Wilshere worked tirelessly to close passing lanes.
Cazorla organised the press with the authority of a captain.
Whenever City advanced, Arsenal retreated together.
Patient.
Disciplined.
Determined.
For the opening quarter of an hour, City dominated possession.
The ball moved quickly from one blue shirt to another.
Yet genuine chances remained limited.
Holding stayed tight to Agüero.
Mustafi won several important headers.
Bellerín recovered brilliantly to deny Sané on one dangerous counterattack.
Wenger applauded calmly from the touchline.
Then, in the seventeenth minute, Manchester City found the breakthrough.
The move began unexpectedly with Claudio Bravo.
The goalkeeper spotted Agüero making an early run behind Arsenal's defensive line.
Instead of playing short, Bravo launched a magnificent long pass over the top.
Agüero timed his movement perfectly.
Holding tried desperately to recover.
Raya rushed from his goal.
The Argentine reached the bouncing ball first before delicately lifting it beyond the advancing goalkeeper.
The ball dropped into the empty net.
Goal.
Manchester City 1–0 Arsenal.
The blue half of Wembley erupted.
Agüero wheeled away in celebration while Guardiola punched both fists into the air.
On Arsenal's bench nobody panicked.
Francesco leaned forward.
"Keep believing."
Alexis nodded beside him.
"There's plenty of time."
Arsenal refused to abandon their plan.
Instead, they defended with even greater discipline, accepting that City would continue to enjoy most of the possession while waiting patiently for opportunities to counter.
Minute after minute, they frustrated Guardiola's side.
City circulated the ball.
Arsenal held their shape.
Cazorla encouraged his teammates constantly.
"Stay together!"
"Don't dive in!"
Then, in the thirty-fourth minute, their patience was rewarded.
Ramsey recovered possession near the halfway line before immediately finding Cazorla.
The captain turned smoothly away from De Bruyne.
Rather than forcing a risky pass through midfield, he switched play toward Gnabry on the right.
The German winger controlled beautifully before driving directly at Zinchenko.
One quick touch took him outside.
Another created just enough room to cross.
The delivery curled dangerously toward the near post.
Giroud anticipated it perfectly.
He darted across Kompany, met the ball first time and powered a finish beyond Bravo.
Goal.
Arsenal 1–1 Manchester City.
The Arsenal supporters exploded into celebration.
Giroud roared toward the stands before being engulfed by his teammates.
Gnabry reached him first.
"I knew you'd be there!"
Giroud grinned broadly.
"I'll always be there."
On the bench, Francesco applauded enthusiastically.
"Brilliant!"
Walker punched the air.
"That's why he's starting."
The equaliser transformed Arsenal's confidence.
Even so, they resisted the temptation to open the game.
Manchester City resumed controlling possession.
Arsenal remained compact.
Every player defended with extraordinary commitment.
Wilshere chased tirelessly.
Ramsey tracked every runner.
Mustafi and Holding cleared cross after cross.
Bellerín refused to give Sané room to accelerate.
Cazorla organised everyone around him with calm authority.
City moved the ball beautifully.
Arsenal absorbed the pressure.
Neither side found another breakthrough before the interval.
Eventually, the referee glanced at his watch.
His whistle echoed around Wembley.
Halftime.
Manchester City 1–1 Arsenal.
The Arsenal players applauded the travelling supporters before making their way steadily back toward the dressing room.
Nobody celebrated.
Nobody complained.
The score remained level.
The trophy was still there to be won.
As the dressing-room door closed behind them, Wenger waited patiently until every player had taken a seat.
The tactical board stood ready once again.
He uncapped his marker and looked slowly around the room.
Forty-five minutes remained beneath the Wembley arch.
Every player leaned forward, listening carefully.
The players sat with towels draped across their shoulders, their shirts damp with sweat, their breathing slowly returning to normal after forty-five demanding minutes.
Outside, the roar of nearly ninety thousand supporters drifted faintly through the walls of the Wembley dressing room.
The score was level.
One goal each.
Everything was still there to play for.
Wenger uncapped his marker and drew two quick arrows on the tactical board.
"They've had the ball."
Nobody argued.
Manchester City had controlled possession exactly as everyone had expected.
"But possession isn't victory."
His calm voice filled the room.
"They've moved us from side to side."
"They've made us defend."
"And you've defended brilliantly."
He looked toward Holding and Mustafi.
"Rob."
"Shkodran."
"You've stayed disciplined."
Then to Ramsey and Wilshere.
"You've worked without the ball."
"Courageously."
Finally his eyes settled on Cazorla.
"Santi."
"Our rhythm comes from you."
The Spaniard nodded quietly.
Wenger drew another line toward City's penalty area.
"When we return…"
"…we attack."
Several players instinctively leaned forward.
"I don't want us sitting back immediately."
"I want fifteen minutes of courage."
"We attack the opening of the second half."
"We try to score."
"If we take the lead…"
He erased the attacking arrows before replacing them with a compact defensive shape.
"…then we defend it."
The room understood immediately.
Strike first.
Protect afterwards.
Simple in theory.
Far more difficult against Pep Guardiola's Manchester City.
"They'll expect us to stay cautious."
"We won't."
He looked around the room.
"But remember…"
"We attack together."
"And if we lose the ball…"
"…everyone runs."
Every player answered together.
"Yes, boss."
Wenger smiled faintly.
"Good."
He stepped away from the board.
"Forty-five minutes."
"Go and win yourselves a trophy."
The tunnel felt even louder than it had before kickoff.
The City supporters sensed an opportunity.
The Arsenal supporters answered with songs that echoed beneath the famous arch.
Francesco stood with the substitutes, watching his teammates walk back onto the pitch.
His heart beat just a little faster.
He still didn't know whether his afternoon would last twenty minutes…
Ten Or perhaps not at all.
But he stayed ready.
Exactly as Wenger had asked.
The referee checked with both assistants.
One sharp whistle.
The second half began.
Exactly as Wenger had instructed, Arsenal surprised Manchester City.
Instead of retreating into their own half, they pressed high.
Giroud closed Bravo.
Wilshere sprinted toward Gündoğan.
Ramsey chased Fernandinho.
Cazorla stepped aggressively onto Kevin De Bruyne before the Belgian could turn.
For the first few minutes, City looked genuinely surprised.
Guardiola immediately left his technical area.
"Calm!"
"Keep the ball!"
His players attempted to play through the pressure, but Arsenal's intensity made every pass more difficult.
Bellerín flew forward down the right.
Monreal overlapped on the opposite side.
Iwobi and Gnabry attacked the full-backs with renewed confidence.
Yet doing it was much harder than planning it.
City remained one of Europe's finest possession teams.
Whenever Arsenal looked close to winning the ball, another blue shirt appeared.
Silva escaped pressure with elegant turns.
De Bruyne switched play beautifully.
Fernandinho constantly offered another passing option.
Minute after minute, Arsenal chased.
Sometimes successfully.
Sometimes not.
Francesco watched every movement from the bench.
"They're making City uncomfortable."
Alexis nodded.
"But City always find another pass."
On the touchline Wenger kept encouraging his players.
"Again!"
"Keep pressing!"
"Don't stop!"
The breakthrough finally came in the fifty-seventh minute.
And it arrived from the most unexpected source.
Manchester City patiently recycled possession back toward Claudio Bravo.
The goalkeeper had time.
Perhaps too much time.
Instead of clearing first time, Bravo attempted another short pass into Fernandinho despite Wilshere already accelerating toward him.
The pass lacked pace.
For one split second, everyone inside Wembley sensed danger.
Wilshere reacted instantly.
He darted between Fernandinho and the ball, stretching his right foot just enough to intercept it.
Bravo's eyes widened.
He rushed desperately toward the Arsenal midfielder.
Too late.
Wilshere calmly took one more touch before sliding the ball into the empty net.
Goal.
Manchester City 1-2 Arsenal.
The Arsenal end erupted.
Wilshere sprinted toward the supporters screaming with pure joy.
Ramsey reached him first, wrapping both arms around his teammate.
"You never stopped pressing!"
Wilshere laughed breathlessly.
"He gave me no choice!"
Cazorla arrived moments later, clapping him on the back.
"That's exactly why we pressed."
On the bench, Francesco jumped to his feet alongside every substitute.
"Come on!"
Walker punched the air.
"I knew we'd force a mistake!"
Wenger allowed himself a brief smile before immediately signalling for calm.
"Concentrate!"
"Stay together!"
The match entered a completely different phase.
Exactly as Wenger had planned.
Arsenal gradually dropped deeper.
Their attacking ambition gave way to compact defending.
Manchester City dominated possession once again.
Guardiola urged his players higher and higher.
Danilo practically became a winger.
Zinchenko tucked into midfield.
Silva and De Bruyne floated endlessly between Arsenal's lines.
Wave after wave of blue shirts poured forward.
Holding threw himself into blocks.
Mustafi headed away dangerous crosses.
Ramsey covered impossible amounts of ground.
Cazorla continued organising everyone around him despite growing exhaustion.
But eventually, City's quality found an opening.
Sixty-six minutes.
Danilo burst down the right after exchanging passes with De Bruyne.
Monreal tried to close him.
The Brazilian delivered a superb low cross toward the edge of the six-yard box.
David Silva had ghosted unnoticed between Arsenal's defenders.
One perfectly timed run.
One composed first-time finish.
Raya had no chance.
Goal.
Manchester City 2-2 Arsenal.
The blue half of Wembley exploded.
Silva raised both fists before disappearing beneath celebrating teammates.
Guardiola roared with delight near the touchline.
Another final.
Another twist.
Francesco exhaled slowly.
"Back to the beginning."
Alexis looked toward Wenger.
"He'll change something."
Almost immediately, Wenger turned toward the bench.
"Francesco."
The striker was already standing.
"Sánchez."
"Kanté."
All three players were moving before the manager had even finished speaking.
The fourth official prepared the electronic board.
Seventy-one minutes.
Number 12.
Olivier Giroud.
Number 17.
Alex Iwobi.
Number 10.
Jack Wilshere.
Applause followed all three as they jogged toward the touchline.
Replacing them…
Francesco.
Alexis Sánchez.
N'Golo Kanté.
As Wilshere crossed the line, he embraced Francesco.
"Go win it."
Francesco smiled.
"You've already done your part."
Giroud hugged him next.
"The defenders are tiring."
"I've noticed."
"Punish them."
"I will."
Finally Cazorla walked over.
Without saying a word, he removed the captain's armband.
For a brief moment he looked at it.
Then he slipped it onto Francesco's left arm.
The young striker looked almost surprised.
"Santi…"
The Spaniard smiled warmly.
"You finish this."
Francesco squeezed his shoulder.
"I'll bring it home."
Across the pitch Guardiola responded immediately.
Fernandinho came off.
Bernardo Silva entered.
Moments later Sané made way for Gabriel Jesus.
Fresh legs.
Fresh attacking threat.
The final entered its decisive phase.
From Francesco's very first touch, City's defenders reacted differently.
Otamendi stepped tight.
Kompany followed whenever he drifted deeper.
That attention immediately created space for Alexis.
The Chilean looked electric.
He demanded the ball constantly, driving directly at defenders.
Within minutes he forced Bravo into an outstanding save after cutting inside from the left.
The Arsenal supporters sensed momentum shifting.
"Arsenal!"
"Arsenal!"
Their voices rolled around Wembley.
Francesco linked beautifully with Cazorla, whose passing somehow remained effortless despite nearly eighty minutes in his legs.
Kanté swept up every loose ball in midfield.
Ramsey kept making selfless runs.
Bellerín surged forward whenever space appeared.
Manchester City answered every attack with one of their own.
De Bruyne curled an effort inches wide.
Gabriel Jesus tested Raya from close range.
Bernardo Silva skipped beyond Monreal before Mustafi recovered brilliantly.
The match became wonderfully open.
Two outstanding teams.
Neither willing to settle for extra time.
Every attack carried danger.
Every clearance drew a roar.
Wenger stood with folded arms, his face composed despite the chaos unfolding before him.
Guardiola barely stopped moving.
His instructions came almost continuously.
"Press!"
"Faster!"
"Again!"
The stadium clock ticked toward ninety minutes.
Neither side could find the decisive breakthrough.
Then the fourth official raised the electronic board.
Five additional minutes.
A collective murmur spread through Wembley.
Five more minutes to decide the destination of the trophy.
Francesco glanced briefly toward the giant screen.
Five minutes.
One opportunity.
Maybe two.
Nothing more.
The game stretched further than ever.
Players battled through tired legs.
Cramp began appearing.
Challenges came a fraction slower.
Concentration became everything.
Ninety-three minutes passed.
Then ninety-four.
One final Arsenal attack began with Kanté winning possession just inside his own half.
As always, he reacted instantly.
A short pass into Ramsey.
Ramsey turned away from Bernardo Silva before finding Cazorla.
The Spaniard lifted his head.
Even after ninety-four exhausting minutes, he saw everything.
Francesco had drifted between Kompany and Otamendi.
Only a yard of space existed.
For Cazorla that was enough.
His pass split City's centre-backs with breathtaking precision.
Francesco exploded forward.
The captain's armband tightened around his sleeve as he accelerated.
Bravo charged from his goal.
The noise inside Wembley became almost deafening.
One touch.
The ball settled perfectly.
Bravo committed himself.
Francesco waited until the very last possible moment, before calmly guiding a low finish beyond the goalkeeper.
The ball rolled toward the far post.
Time itself seemed to slow.
Then it crossed the line.
Goal.
Manchester City 2-3 Arsenal.
For half a second Francesco simply stood there, staring at the net.
Then emotion took over.
He tore away toward the Arsenal supporters, arms spread wide.
The captain's armband fluttered against his sleeve.
Nearly forty thousand Arsenal fans exploded into pure ecstasy.
Scarves flew into the air.
People hugged complete strangers.
The roar beneath Wembley felt almost endless.
Francesco reached the advertising boards in front of the Arsenal end before climbing onto them, punching both fists toward the sea of red and white.
"I love you!"
His shout disappeared beneath the deafening celebration.
Seconds later his teammates arrived.
Alexis jumped onto his back.
Ramsey wrapped him in a bear hug.
Kanté laughed louder than anyone had heard all season.
Even Raya sprinted almost the entire length of the pitch.
Walker, Van Dijk and the rest of the substitutes burst from the bench.
They piled onto the celebration.
A mountain of red shirts formed beneath the Arsenal supporters.
High in the stands, countless phones captured the unforgettable moment.
On the touchline Wenger simply smiled.
A genuine, proud smile.
Steve Bould looked at him.
"Captain."
Wenger nodded quietly.
"Captain."
Eventually the referee encouraged everyone back toward the halfway line.
There was barely any time remaining.
Francesco jogged back, still breathing heavily.
He glanced once toward the Arsenal supporters.
They were still singing his name.
City restarted play immediately.
One desperate attack.
One final chance.
De Bruyne launched the ball forward.
Mustafi won the header.
Kanté cleared the second ball.
The loose ball bounced toward halfway.
Then the referee lifted his whistle.
One final blast echoed beneath the Wembley arch.
Full time.
Manchester City 2-3 Arsenal.
For a brief second nobody moved.
Then reality arrived.
Arsenal were Carabao Cup champions.
Red shirts sprinted across the pitch.
Players embraced.
Coaches celebrated.
Medical staff joined the scenes.
The Arsenal supporters sang louder than ever.
Francesco stood in the middle of it all, the captain's armband still around his arm, breathing heavily as he looked toward the sea of jubilant supporters.
Only a few months earlier, lifting another trophy had felt like another ambition.
Now it had become reality once again.
Against one of Europe's strongest teams.
Against Pep Guardiola.
After coming from behind twice.
The rotation side had justified Wenger's faith.
The substitutes had changed the game.
And when the biggest moment of the afternoon arrived, Arsenal's captain and superstar had delivered the winning goal that crowned the Gunners as Carabao Cup champions beneath the Wembley arch.
______________________________________________
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: 42
Goal: 49
Assist: 6
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