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The music started. The officials began to move. And the two teams marched forward, out of the tunnel, into the light, into the deafening roar of the Community Shield.
Then the game started, the Community Shield crackling into life under a sky that was almost too blue, like it had been painted on just for the occasion. Arsenal got the kickoff after Mertesacker won the coin toss, and as Francesco stood over the ball on the center circle, he felt the world shrink to the tight circle of the pitch and the roar beyond it. The referee gave a sharp nod. A whistle split the air.
Francesco nudged the ball backward to Coquelin, and the game was on.
The first twenty minutes were a blur of intensity — no easing into the season, no testing the waters. This was Arsenal and Chelsea. This was London pride. Two teams who knew each other too well and liked each other too little.
Chelsea pressed with venom from the start, trying to catch Arsenal cold. Hazard, all flickering menace, darted down the left with Azpilicueta overlapping in sync. The first attack came within two minutes — Hazard cut inside, curling a low shot toward the far corner. But Čech, like a towering sentinel in goal, went down fast and palmed it wide.
Francesco barely had time to admire the save before he was sprinting back into position. The pace was relentless. Arsenal responded immediately. Özil and Santi combined in midfield, passing like poets. The ball swept wide to Alexis, who drove forward, beat Ivanović on pace alone, and fizzed a low cross into the box. Francesco made the near-post run, stuck out a foot — connection — but Courtois reacted like lightning and parried it out with a strong left hand.
The crowd gasped. Applauded. The game was alive.
"Let's go again!" Francesco barked, already turning, already pressing Terry as the veteran centre-back tried to carry the ball out. He could feel the weight of the shirt on his back, but it didn't crush him — it pushed him forward.
Chelsea came again. This time through Cesc. Fabregas, graceful and treacherous in equal measure, floated through the middle like he'd never left this pitch. He slid a perfect ball between Koscielny and Monreal for Remy, who took it in stride and thundered a shot toward the top corner — only for Čech to rise again, a giant among men, and claw it out of the air.
Three top-class saves in twelve minutes.
Wembley was roaring now. The fans knew they were witnessing something electric.
Arsenal weren't cowed. If anything, the chaos galvanized them. Özil dropped deep to collect, sent a long diagonal to the Ox, who brought it down with the kind of touch that made grown men applaud. He skipped inside one, two challenges, then laid it off to Santi, who took a touch and struck — low, curling — Courtois was equal again.
And on it went.
By the twenty-minute mark, it was still 0–0, but the air felt thick with anticipation, as if goals were hiding in every corner, just waiting for the right pass.
Francesco was sweating, lungs heaving, but he'd never felt more alive. Every run he made dragged Chelsea's back line a little thinner, a little wider. Every feint and one-two with Alexis or Özil drew nervous looks between Terry and Cahill.
Then came the moment.
Minute 23.
Arsenal built from the back — Coquelin to Santi, Santi to Özil. A quick turn from the German, and he threaded the needle between three blue shirts. Francesco had already made the run, reading the pass before it left Mesut's boot. He burst into the space between Cahill and Ivanović, the ball skipping ahead of him on the turf like it was on a string.
One touch to steady. One look up. Courtois rushed forward, arms wide.
Francesco didn't panic. He dipped his shoulder — a feint — then dinked the ball gently over the keeper's left leg.
It hit the inside of the post.
And rolled out.
The collective "ohhhhhh" from the Arsenal fans was almost louder than a goal. Francesco stood there for half a heartbeat, head tilted up, eyes closed — then clapped his hands once, hard, and turned back to the halfway line.
So close.
But it was coming.
The miss didn't deflate Arsenal. If anything, it poured fuel onto the fire. Their press intensified. Alexis flew into tackles like a man possessed, Özil picked pockets with ghostlike timing, and even Mertesacker was stepping into midfield when needed. Wenger was on the sideline, arms crossed, but his face betrayed quiet satisfaction. This was his team now. Fast. Clever. Dangerous.
Chelsea, for all their experience and steel, were on the ropes. Fabregas had to drop deeper to find space. Remy was growing increasingly isolated and irritated, throwing elbows, barking at the ref, trying to get under Koscielny's skin. But Laurent didn't flinch.
Then on the 27th minute, Arsenal finally scored — and it was Francesco Lee who broke the deadlock.
It started with a turnover just inside Chelsea's half. Coquelin snapped into a tackle on Fabregas, won the ball cleanly, and within two touches had shifted it to Özil. Mesut glanced up, saw the Ox galloping into space down the right, and swept a curling pass right into his path.
The moment the ball left Özil's boot, Francesco took off. He didn't even need to call for it — he trusted the Ox would look up, would see him. And sure enough, as Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain drove toward the edge of the box, he glanced once, then whipped a cross in, hard and fast, like a bullet with backspin.
Francesco was sprinting between the lines, ghosting into that perfect pocket between Cahill and Terry. It was a tight window, but he didn't hesitate. He timed his leap like a striker twice his age — one strong push off his left foot, shoulders thrown back, chest open, eyes locked on the ball.
John Terry tried to follow him. Tried to wrestle him. But Francesco had gotten the step, had already risen higher. He met the cross with his forehead, powerful and precise, guiding it down and away from Courtois's desperate dive.
The net rippled.
Wembley erupted.
Francesco turned away, arms outstretched, face alight with pure, unfiltered joy. The Ox came sprinting toward him, and they crashed together in a leaping hug near the corner flag, mobbed seconds later by Santi, Özil, and Alexis. Behind them, red-and-white shirts spilled forward in a wave. On the sidelines, Wenger's clenched fist was the only betrayal of emotion, but Steve Bould punched the air and grinned.
1–0 Arsenal. And deservedly so.
The stadium shook with song. The Arsenal fans were in full voice now, drowning out even the announcer. Francesco pointed to the crowd as he jogged back to the center circle, tapping the badge on his chest.
Chelsea, rattled, tried to wrest control back, but for the next ten minutes, they struggled to string passes together. Hazard, their main outlet, was swarmed every time he touched the ball. Ivanović found himself backpedaling more than bombing forward. Even Matic, usually so composed, scuffed two passes in a row under Arsenal's aggressive midfield press.
Francesco wasn't just scoring — he was orchestrating chaos. Every run he made forced Chelsea to shift. Every burst behind their back line had Terry and Cahill trading panicked glances. Alexis fed off it. Özil danced in the spaces it created. It was as if Arsenal had finally found the rhythm they'd been building toward for years.
By the 35th minute, it could've been two.
Özil again, gliding through midfield, found Alexis with a no-look reverse pass. The Chilean feinted inside, then squared it across the top of the box where Francesco was lurking. He took it on his left, flicked it onto his right with one deft touch — but just as he went to shoot, Azpilicueta slid in with a desperate, last-ditch tackle.
The ball deflected wide.
Francesco slapped his hands together again — not in frustration, but in hunger. The second goal felt close. Almost inevitable.
Then, on the 37th minute, Chelsea reminded everyone why they were champions.
It started with a moment of hesitation — rare in this half for Arsenal. Mertesacker stepped up too soon trying to cut off Fabregas, but the Spaniard slipped the ball behind him into the feet of Eden Hazard.
And then the air changed.
Hazard didn't sprint. He glided.
The Belgian's low center of gravity and impossible balance turned defenders into cones. He dropped his shoulder and cut left, Coquelin lunged but missed. Then he drifted right, dragging Koscielny out of position. With the subtlety of a whisper, he curled around the edge of the box, ball stuck to his boot like it was magnetized.
Francesco, even from near the center circle, paused mid-run. He could see what was coming — the crowd could too. This was the kind of run that ended up in highlight reels. Hazard had that look, that eerie composure, like he'd slowed time down to his pace. The Arsenal backline backed off, unwilling to dive in and risk a penalty.
Hazard waited until the perfect moment — when Mertesacker was caught between stepping up and dropping, when Koscielny had turned slightly sideways — and then he let fly.
It wasn't a thunderbolt. It didn't need to be. It was one of those precision strikes, arcing low, swerving toward the bottom left corner with the elegance of a curling leaf on the wind.
But Petr Čech had seen it all before.
He'd seen Hazard try that in training, in cup ties, in league battles. He'd seen it when they were teammates at Chelsea, and now, standing tall in Arsenal colours, he read it again.
Čech moved early.
He didn't dive. He lunged — long and hard — throwing his whole body leftward like a swimmer off the block. One arm stretched wide, fingers splayed.
The ball was a whisper from the post. It should have nestled into the net.
But it didn't.
Čech got a palm to it — not a fingertip, a full, solid palm — and parried it wide.
Gasps from the Chelsea end. Roars from the Arsenal faithful. And above it all, Čech roared too — not in celebration, but command.
"Focus!" he bellowed, voice rasping with authority. "Keep your shape!"
He was already up on his feet, glaring down the line at his defenders, chest rising and falling with adrenaline. "Don't give him space! That's twice now!"
Mertesacker gave a quick nod, hands raised in apology. Koscielny thumped a fist into his palm. They knew. Hazard had nearly punished them for a single lapse.
Wenger, on the sideline, didn't move. But his eyes narrowed.
The pace didn't drop. If anything, Hazard's chance sparked Chelsea back into life.
For the next few minutes, Arsenal were forced into their own half. Fabregas found more of the ball. Matic pushed higher. Ivanović finally bombed forward, swinging in a dangerous cross that had to be clawed away again by Čech under pressure from Remy.
And yet, in that crucible of pressure, Arsenal's shape held.
Coquelin was tireless. Özil dropped deeper to help. Santi and the Ox doubled up on Hazard whenever he came near the ball. And Francesco — even as a striker — tracked back with lungs burning, closing down Terry when Chelsea tried to recycle possession.
It wasn't glamorous football. But it was necessary. Gritty. Mature.
By the 42nd minute, Arsenal began to claw their way back up the pitch.
A clever turn from Alexis drew a foul just past the halfway line. Santi floated in the free kick — Mertesacker got a head to it — but Courtois collected cleanly.
Two minutes later, they came again. This time through the Ox, who spun away from Azpilicueta with a burst of pure athleticism and surged forward. He played a quick one-two with Özil, took the return ball in stride, and shaped for another cross.
Francesco was already moving.
Terry read it this time, stepping across to block the lane. The cross deflected off his thigh and spun out for a corner.
Santi trotted over to take it. Francesco caught his eye and nodded — a silent signal, one they'd practiced. The ball would come near post.
Santi whipped it in with venom, low and fast.
Francesco darted across Cahill, stuck out a boot — connection! But it skipped just wide of the post.
He exhaled sharply, hands on hips, face flushed red with effort. He was getting closer. And Chelsea knew it.
The fourth official signaled one minute of stoppage time.
Chelsea tried one last surge, but Hazard's tired legs betrayed him, and Coquelin was there to sweep the ball away again.
Half-time.
As the whistle blew, Arsenal jogged off to thunderous applause. One-nil. It could've been more. Should've been, perhaps. But they were leading. And more importantly — they were in control.
Francesco reached the tunnel, wiped his forehead with his sleeve, and glanced sideways at Alexis. The Chilean grinned and punched his shoulder.
"Keep doing that," he said, nodding toward the Chelsea end. "They hate it."
Francesco grinned back, his breath steadying now. "We're not done."
Inside the dressing room, the mood was intense but focused. No wild celebrations. Just bottled energy.
Wenger spoke clearly, his voice quiet but firm. "Excellent work. That's how we play. That's the standard."
He looked at Francesco. "Brilliant run. More of that. Keep stretching them."
Francesco nodded, his chest swelling slightly with pride — not because of the praise, but because he knew he'd earned it.
Then Wenger looked around. "But this game isn't won yet. Chelsea will throw everything now. Be ready."
They were.
When the second half kicked off, Chelsea looked sharper — as expected. Mourinho had clearly issued his own sermon in the tunnel. They came with more aggression, more forward runs. Oscar replaced Ramires to add energy. Victor Moses warmed up along the touchline, snarling like a dog off leash.
But Arsenal didn't sit back. They adapted.
Santi tucked in to form a tighter midfield three. The Ox tracked back with more discipline. Alexis dropped deeper to pick up possession and drive into space.
In the 49th minute, Özil found Francesco again — this time through a chipped ball over Cahill. The teenager let it bounce once, then volleyed it on the turn. It dipped wickedly — and only a full-stretch save from Courtois kept it from doubling the lead.
Moments later, Hazard slipped past Monreal and whipped in a cross. Remy met it, six yards out — but again, Čech was there. A two-handed reaction block, followed by a second save to smother the loose ball before Oscar could pounce.
Wembley was shaking again. This wasn't just football. It was a war of will, of stamina, of inches.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 16 (2014)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League and 2014/2015 FA Cup
Season 15/16 stats:
Match Played: 1
Goal: 1
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9