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By the twentieth minute, it was already one of the most gripping season openers in recent memory. The Emirates simmered with anticipation, knowing that sooner or later, someone — Francesco, Payet, Alexis, Özil — would ignite the spark that blew this match wide open.
Then on the 24th minute, Arsenal broke the deadlock and made it 1–0 — and the roar that erupted inside the Emirates was thunderous, visceral, a surge of relief and euphoria in perfect unison.
It started, as so many great Arsenal moves did, with Mesut Özil.
The German, already weaving in and out of West Ham's midfield web with a surgeon's calm, picked up the ball just inside the halfway line after a hurried clearance by Jenkinson. Coquelin challenged Payet, nudging him off balance just enough to let Cazorla scoop the loose ball forward. Özil took it in stride with a graceful touch that made the ball seem magnetized to his boot.
Francesco, hovering on the middle channel, instinctively checked his shoulder and made the run. It wasn't a sprint — more a ghostlike glide that took him between Reid and Ogbonna, neither of whom realized he'd slipped through the crack until it was too late. Özil didn't look up. He didn't need to. The pass was already in motion before Francesco had even passed the centre circle.
A perfectly weighted ball, skimming over the turf like a pebble across water, curved into the path of the young striker. It was spun with such precision, it forced Adrián to hesitate, unsure whether to rush or stay rooted. That moment of doubt was all Francesco needed.
The ball met his right foot in stride just outside the box. One touch to kill the pace, the next to drag it slightly wide and open the angle. Ogbonna lunged. Reid turned. But Francesco had already picked his spot — low, driven, just past the reach of Adrián's left hand, and into the side netting.
The net rippled.
The Emirates exploded.
Francesco wheeled away, arms stretched wide, face alight with a mixture of joy and defiance. He sprinted toward the corner flag, skidding on his knees as teammates swarmed him. Özil arrived first, expression cool but eyes alight — the silent architect of the moment. Alexis leapt onto Francesco's back. Cazorla patted his head. Even Coquelin, usually stoic in celebration, gave a small leap of triumph.
In the technical area, Arsène Wenger let a rare smile pull across his face. He didn't leap or pump his fists, but his eyes lingered on Francesco — this boy, barely sixteen, who played with the timing and nerve of a seasoned forward.
The announcer's voice echoed overhead.
"Goal for Arsenal! Scored by number 9… Francesco Lee!"
The crowd roared louder. Francesco raised his hand to the badge and tapped it twice, his way of saying, This is where I belong.
The replays on the big screen showed the elegance of it — Özil's surgical delivery, the calmness of the touch, the unflinching finish. Sky Sports commentators were already gushing in real-time: "That's what Arsenal saw in him. He's not just a talent — he's got the ice-cold instinct of a killer in the box. At sixteen!"
Back at kickoff, West Ham's players stood in a huddle, trying to shake the cobwebs. Payet clapped his hands, rallying. Kouyaté looked frustrated. Adrián stared toward his defenders, barking orders they were too dazed to properly hear.
For Arsenal, the goal brought a sudden lightness. The tempo didn't drop — if anything, they pushed harder. The midfield trio of Coquelin, Ramsey, and Özil began playing with more confidence, rotating, interchanging, pressing the ball with intensity. Alexis, unleashed by the lead, began tormenting Jenkinson down the left. Oxlade-Chamberlain on the opposite flank tested Cresswell with every run.
But West Ham didn't crumble. Credit to them, they steadied themselves and fought back with surprising grit.
By the half-hour mark, the visitors had already forced two more saves from Cech. One came from a deep cross by Payet that found Sakho, who had ghosted behind Koscielny. His header was on target, firm and downward, but again, Cech's positioning was flawless. He dropped low, scooped the ball up, and reset play before Sakho could even raise his head.
Then came a nervy moment at the 34th minute.
A corner swung in from the right by Noble created chaos inside the Arsenal box. Kouyaté rose above Monreal and nodded it down. The ball struck Koscielny's thigh, rebounded into traffic, and pinballed toward the six-yard area. For a heartbeat, the stadium tensed — and then Debuchy hacked it clear.
Wenger gestured for calm, urging his players to settle.
Then on the 37th minute, Arsenal doubled their lead — and once again, the Emirates roared with unrestrained, unfiltered ecstasy. The goal was a piece of footballing poetry, authored this time not by Özil, but by the little Spanish maestro pulling strings in midfield — Santi Cazorla — with a flourish of genius and precision that only he could conjure.
It began with pressure, the kind of relentless, coordinated pressing that Arsenal had drilled into muscle memory on the Colney training grounds. Coquelin, a dog of war in the midfield, bit at the heels of Kouyaté and forced a hurried sideways pass to Noble. Ramsey, sharp and aggressive, closed down immediately. Noble had no time to look. He tried to flick it out wide to Tomkins — but misjudged the weight. The pass went astray.
Cazorla was already reading it before the ball left Noble's boot.
He darted in from the left half-space, intercepted cleanly, and took two quick touches that screamed elegance — one to control, one to glide into space. Jenkinson lunged late, left a boot in, but Cazorla danced past it with a shrug of his hips. Suddenly, the West Ham defensive line was retreating, scrambling. Ogbonna and Reid tried to compact the space, but it was already too late.
Francesco was alive to it.
He had hung off the shoulder of Reid, not rushing, not overcommitting. He saw Cazorla glance up. Their eyes met for a split second. That was all they needed.
Cazorla slid the ball through the narrowest of channels — a pass threaded with such impossibly delicate weight and spin that it snuck between Reid's trailing leg and Ogbonna's attempt to step forward. It was like a violinist threading a needle through silence — that level of perfection.
Francesco burst forward, the ball angling perfectly into his stride. This time, the run was more direct, and the finish even more devastating.
He took a single touch with his left to steady it — just enough to open his body. Adrián came rushing out, eyes wide, arms spread. But Francesco was ice. At sixteen years old, he showed the composure of a man who had lived in the pressure cooker of top-flight football for years.
He didn't go for power.
He didn't need to.
A subtle, deft dink — not over Adrián, but just around him. The keeper had anticipated a drive to the far post, lunging that way, but Francesco caught him cold, rolling it inside the near post instead. It brushed the inside of the upright as it went in.
Time seemed to slow.
And then the net rippled again.
2–0 to Arsenal.
Francesco didn't sprint away this time. He stood there, arms slowly rising, chest heaving.
Cazorla was the first to reach him, beaming, his tiny frame nearly bouncing as he wrapped his arms around the younger man. Francesco hugged him tight, then pointed back at him, shouting something that didn't need interpretation: "That was yours!"
Then came Özil, Chamberlain, Alexis, and even Koscielny from the back, clapping and laughing, ruffling the teenager's hair. The crowd chanted his name now — no longer a murmur, no longer an unsure curiosity. This was adoration.
"Fran-ces-co Lee! Fran-ces-co Lee!"
The announcer echoed it seconds later, the cheer peaking once more.
"Goal for Arsenal! Scored by number 9… Francesco Lee — his second of the afternoon!"
Sky's commentators were beside themselves. Alan Smith's voice broke slightly in disbelief. "That… that is exceptional. This lad is the real deal. Cazorla makes the pass, but it's the movement, the composure — look at that finish. That's a seasoned striker's goal."
"You can't teach that," murmured Gary Neville. "That's instinct. To make the right run, to wait for the defender to shift his weight, to pick the near post… that's a footballing mind ten years ahead of his age."
And in the technical area, Arsène Wenger remained still — but the pride in his eyes, the slight shake of his head, said more than any outburst could have. Steve Bould muttered something to him, but Wenger's gaze didn't leave Francesco. The kid had arrived. And the world was watching.
West Ham looked rattled now.
Reid threw his arms up at Ogbonna, frustrated at the space conceded. Jenkinson was yelling at Noble to stop giving the ball away. Adrián slapped his gloves together and screamed at his backline. But the damage had been done.
Arsenal, buoyed by the second goal, played with an irresistible confidence in the minutes that followed. The tempo quickened. Every pass was met with oohs and aahs from the crowd. Özil was untouchable, like a ghost floating between the lines. Coquelin swept behind like a sentry. And Cazorla — brilliant, cheeky, incisive — played with the freedom of a man conducting his own jazz quartet.
Then, on the 43rd minute, the mood inside the Emirates took an unexpected and sobering shift.
For all their fluidity, for all their dominance and verve, Arsenal paid the price for a moment of collective indulgence — a lapse not of effort, but of focus. Having surged forward in wave after wave, emboldened by Francesco's brace and the electric atmosphere pulsing through every red seat in the stands, they left a door ajar. And West Ham, battered but not broken, found the opening.
It began, ironically, with Arsenal in possession — Cazorla again, dancing through midfield with the kind of joy that bordered on arrogance. He exchanged a clever one-two with Coquelin, then swept it wide to Alexis, who stood near the left touchline, beckoning Tomkins forward like a matador teasing a bull. The crowd roared with anticipation as Alexis cut inside and chipped a teasing ball toward Francesco, who had peeled into the space between Reid and Ogbonna once more.
But this time, the move didn't stick.
Ogbonna stepped in with a sharp interception, nudging the ball toward Mark Noble, who, perhaps fueled by the sting of his earlier mistake, snapped it forward to Dimitri Payet. And suddenly, in the blink of an eye, Arsenal were caught.
Coquelin had pushed too high. Koscielny was already halfway up the pitch. Monreal was tracking back, but Payet had space — too much space — to drive into. The Frenchman, so often the craftsman in the final third, now turned orchestrator in transition, gliding past Ramsey with a flick and galloping into Arsenal territory.
Chambers, who had been tucking inside to support Koscielny, found himself in no-man's land.
Payet didn't hesitate.
He cut inside again — not toward goal, but laterally, drawing both center-backs toward him with a magnetic pull. Then, just as they committed, he slid the ball through the gap — a beautifully weighted reverse pass that cut behind the line and invited Cheikhou Kouyaté to burst through.
And burst he did.
From deep, unnoticed, untracked, the powerful Senegalese midfielder surged forward with the kind of stride that eats up grass. No one had picked him up — not Mertesacker, not Coquelin, not even Debuchy, who had drifted too far wide. The Emirates, still humming with the energy of Francesco's second, felt the mood begin to twist. There was a rising murmur, a collective breath sucked in.
Kouyaté didn't take a touch.
He didn't need to.
Payet's pass had done the work for him.
Petr Čech rushed out, the great wall in goal whose first half had been near-flawless. He narrowed the angle, dropped low, spread himself. But Kouyaté was composed — calm, clinical — and he slotted the ball low and firm beneath the keeper's dive. The shot clipped Čech's right boot on the way through, but it wasn't enough. The ball nestled into the bottom corner.
And just like that, 2–1.
The away end erupted, a flash of claret and blue shaking with noise. A few traveling supporters leapt to their feet, limbs flailing, fists pounding the air. On the pitch, Kouyaté wheeled away, arms stretched, then dropped to one knee with a triumphant fist pump. Payet caught up and hugged him, while Noble and Sakho sprinted in to join the huddle.
The Emirates, meanwhile, had gone quiet.
Not silent — no, but muted. The kind of hush that falls when a party guest drops a glass. The kind of silence that breaks the spell.
Arsenal's players looked at one another, visibly frustrated.
Koscielny clapped his hands, trying to rouse them. Monreal tugged at his socks and shook his head. Coquelin cursed under his breath, knowing that he'd let Payet slip the leash. Wenger, on the touchline, grimaced — not angry, but pained. It was the kind of goal he hated conceding: preventable. A goal born not of West Ham brilliance, but of Arsenal's negligence.
Sky's commentary captured it best.
"Brilliant counterattack," Alan Smith said, reluctantly admiring. "But Arsenal were far too eager to push numbers forward. That's the risk you take — one mistake, and suddenly your midfield is chasing shadows."
"They got caught ball-watching," added Gary Neville. "Payet saw it. Kouyaté saw it. Arsenal didn't. You can't give players like that space to run into. Not at this level."
Back on the pitch, the referee gestured for kickoff again. The scoreboard now read:
Arsenal 2 – 1 West Ham United
A reminder that the margin was thinner than it felt.
And the emotional tone had shifted. The Emirates crowd — so jubilant, so enthralled mere minutes earlier — now buzzed with uncertainty. The chants dimmed. The claps slowed. A few murmurs of frustration flickered from the upper tiers.
Arsenal restarted cautiously. Özil dropped deeper, offering himself as an outlet. Coquelin barked at Cazorla to sit alongside him. Francesco, now under tighter scrutiny from Reid, jogged into position and waited. He looked focused — not shaken, but recalibrated. It was his first taste of what professional football really meant. Not just the goals and glory, but the constant vigilance. The ruthlessness of it.
And West Ham, suddenly energized, pushed forward with belief.
The final two minutes of the half saw them press higher. Sakho forced a throw-in near the corner flag after chasing down a loose ball from Debuchy. Payet waved at Noble to come closer for the short option, while Cresswell lurked on the edge of the box. Arsenal held their shape, but the energy was different now — tense, reactive.
When the referee finally blew his whistle for halftime, the players jogged toward the tunnel, and the Emirates gave a cautious round of applause. Not disappointed — not yet — but wary. They had seen this story before. Dominance, flair, momentum… and then the slip.
In the Arsenal dressing room, the atmosphere was not celebratory. The players sat scattered, catching their breath, sipping water, replaying moments in their heads. Cazorla peeled off his shirt and flopped into his seat. Özil muttered quietly to Alexis about the midfield shape. Wenger walked in after a brief word with Bould and Shad Forsythe, then stood before the team with arms folded.
He didn't raise his voice.
But when Arsène spoke, every player listened.
"We are playing well," he began, voice calm but pointed. "We've controlled the ball, we've made them suffer. Francesco — excellent. Santi, Mesut — magnifique. But we must stay awake."
He looked around the room, eyes sharp.
"One lapse. One moment of fantasy. We don't protect the space, and they score."
He turned to Coquelin and Ramsey. "You must take more responsibility. When we are 2–0 up, the game is not finished. We cannot all go forward."
Then to the fullbacks: "Mathieu, Nacho — close your lines. If they break again, we kill it with fouls. Simple. No more gifts."
The players nodded, some murmuring apologies, others simply processing. Francesco, sitting between Alexis and Chamberlain, took a deep breath. His legs tingled from the adrenaline. Two goals — in his Premier League debut. But all he could think about was the one they conceded.
"I should've dropped deeper," he said to himself.
Alexis leaned over and patted his shoulder. "No. You keep scoring. That's your job. We'll fix it."
Francesco nodded, grateful, but silent. He understood now — this was the dance. The rhythm of elite football. Highs and lows not separated by days, but by minutes.
In the tunnel, as they lined up for the second half, the mood was different. Focused. Sharpened. West Ham came out with a spring in their step, sensing vulnerability. Arsenal, though, came out with purpose. Not desperation — just a renewed understanding that nothing would be given for free.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 16 (2014)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, and 2015/2016 Community Shield
Season 15/16 stats:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 5
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9