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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.
Then the second half started — and it was immediately clear that the rhythm had changed.
West Ham returned to the pitch not just buoyed by Kouyaté's goal, but emboldened by it. The belief that had flickered in the first half now burned steadily in their eyes, and from the first whistle, they surged forward with the kind of hunger that could tilt a game.
Arsenal, by contrast, came out cautious — not timid, but restrained, as if the memory of the late first-half concession had clipped their wings. They were still passing, still probing, but it was more deliberate now. The sharp edge that had defined the first 30 minutes had dulled, and West Ham sensed it like sharks in the current.
For the next twelve minutes, Arsenal found themselves on the back foot — an unfamiliar place, and an uncomfortable one.
The first warning sign came less than a minute into the half. Payet, the magician, picked up the ball just inside the Arsenal half and turned gracefully between Cazorla and Özil. He danced past Coquelin with a clever shimmy and floated a pass out wide to Cresswell, who had bombed forward on the overlap. The fullback whipped in an early cross, and Sakho flung himself at it, but Koscielny just managed to flick it clear with a desperate header.
Arsenal tried to respond through Alexis, who dropped deep and tried to spark something on the left, combining with Monreal and then cutting inside. But as he shifted his weight to shoot, Tomkins lunged in with a perfectly timed slide, poking the ball away and clearing the danger.
Again West Ham came.
This time down the right, where Payet had drifted to collect from Noble. He twisted past Monreal, sent a low cross zipping into the six-yard box — and Čech had to throw himself low to smother it before Sakho could pounce. The Emirates groaned in unison, a sound that spoke not of anger but anxiety. The momentum had shifted, and everyone in the stadium felt it.
Francesco, isolated now, watched from near the halfway line as wave after wave of claret-and-blue pressure rolled forward. He stayed alert, tracking Reid and Ogbonna when West Ham played out from the back, but chances to get on the ball were rare. Reid, tasked with shadowing him, stayed tight. Every time a ball came toward the young striker, he was met with a firm shoulder, a trailing arm, a cleat nipping at his heels.
The next chance fell to Zarate — and it was a good one.
In the 52nd minute, a turnover in midfield saw Ramsey lose the ball under pressure from Noble. The West Ham captain immediately slid it to Zarate, who was hovering just outside the area. The Argentine spun, dipped his shoulder, and unleashed a curling shot toward the far post. Čech flew across his line and parried it wide with a strong right hand. The crowd exhaled — a loud, nervous breath of relief.
Arsène Wenger paced the touchline now, arms folded, his lips pressed into a line. He knew what he was seeing. His team wasn't being outclassed — they were being outfought. The control they'd built early on had vanished, and it wasn't coming back unless someone wrested it.
"Settle down!" he barked at Cazorla and Coquelin. "Hold the midfield!"
But the tide kept coming.
The 55th minute brought more chaos. A Payet corner — swung in dangerously with his right foot — caused panic in the six-yard box. Koscielny and Mertesacker both went for it. The ball popped loose. Sakho tried to volley, missed, then Cresswell had a go — his shot cannoned off Coquelin's knee and looped out for another corner.
And then, in the 57th minute, the dam broke.
It started, innocently enough, with a routine clearance from Ogbonna, who sent a long ball down the left channel. Monreal went to meet it, but his first touch was heavy, and Tomkins was quick to pressure. He poked the ball forward, and it spilled into the path of Mauro Zárate.
There was no panic in Zárate's movement. Only purpose.
He took a single touch with the outside of his boot, pushing the ball into space between Koscielny and Mertesacker. The gap was narrow, but it was enough. He ghosted between them, nudged the ball once more to steady himself — and struck.
It wasn't a screamer. It didn't need to be. The placement was perfect.
With Čech charging off his line again, arms wide like a parachute, Zárate kept it low, tucking his shot just inside the near post. The net rippled, the Emirates fell still — and the away end erupted a second time.
2–2.
Zárate slid on his knees in celebration, arms wide, face contorted in ecstatic defiance. Behind him, Payet pointed to his temple, mouthing "Think! Think!" at the Arsenal bench. Noble roared toward the away fans. Even Bilic punched the air.
The Arsenal players stood stunned.
Mertesacker looked toward Koscielny, searching for an explanation. Koscielny pointed back at Coquelin. Coquelin gestured at Monreal. It was disjointed, confused — a team grasping for answers in the wind.
Francesco shook his head and dropped into a crouch near the center circle. For a split second, he stared at the grass beneath his boots, then exhaled and rose. This was what they warned him about — the Premier League didn't care if you were sixteen, didn't care if you'd scored twice in a game. It hit back, and it hit fast.
The restart was subdued. The Emirates still hadn't found its voice again. Some fans sat back with arms folded. Others glanced at one another with expressions that said not again. There was history here. Opening-day jitters. Slips against mid-table sides. For all the excitement surrounding the new season, the ghost of past collapses hovered near.
Arsenal tried to reassert themselves. Cazorla took charge of the ball, dictating from deep. Özil pushed higher. Alexis swapped wings with Chamberlain to try to find more space. But West Ham were disciplined, compact, and now full of belief.
The game had shifted. That much was clear.
West Ham's second goal had leveled the scoreline but done far more damage beneath the surface — it rattled Arsenal. Players exchanged uncertain glances, and even the crowd, usually a twelfth man at the Emirates, had grown restless. But Arsène Wenger wasn't a stranger to pressure. Nor was he blind to the signs.
By the 63rd minute, he was already at the fourth official, clipboard in hand, decisions made.
Two substitutions.
Francis Coquelin — full of industry, but overrun — was replaced by N'Golo Kanté. The new signing from Caen jogged onto the pitch with his usual quiet intensity, ready to sweep up the mess. The second change was more attacking: Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain came off, and on came Theo Walcott, a blur of pace and purpose.
As the crowd registered the moves, murmurs turned to claps. Not everyone understood why Coquelin was coming off — but everyone could see the logic in fresh legs, in more energy, in Wenger tightening the midfield while adding bite on the wings.
Kanté trotted into position beside Cazorla and immediately began pointing, calling out spaces, organizing like he'd worn the shirt for years. Walcott took up his station wide right, stretching the West Ham back line, looking to isolate Cresswell.
Still, West Ham pushed.
In the 65th minute, a long ball floated toward Sakho again, and Mertesacker, worn from chasing and clearing all afternoon, rose but lost his footing as he came down. He grimaced, grabbing at his lower back — a familiar ache, one that had plagued him last season.
Wenger saw enough.
He gestured again. The board went up.
Number 4 off. Number 15 on.
Virgil van Dijk — tall, poised, unshaken — stepped forward from the bench. The 24-year-old Dutchman had been brought in from Celtic to shore up the defence, and now, with less than half an hour to play, he was being thrown into the fire.
As Mertesacker came off, he peeled the captain's armband from his left arm. For a moment, he looked around — the usual candidates: Cazorla, Koscielny, maybe even Alexis. But then his eyes landed on the boy.
Francesco.
Still only sixteen, sweat glistening on his brow, jersey sticking to his back, breathing heavy but eyes bright with determination.
Per walked over and handed it to him without a word.
Francesco blinked, then looked up at the German.
"Take it," Mertesacker said, placing the armband in his hand. "You've earned it."
Francesco slipped it on slowly, as if afraid it might tear in his hands. The moment carried weight. He'd been told before the season that he was second captain — a symbolic gesture, Wenger had said, but now it was real. In front of 60,000 people, wearing the Arsenal red, he was the man with the armband.
The Emirates stirred. It was a full cheer, as a realization spreading through the crowd: the club was true to their word choosing him as the second captain.
Van Dijk slotted in beside Koscielny. His first act was to step across Zarate and win a header cleanly. Then he took a touch and calmly laid it back to Čech. That small moment — calmness in the storm — helped settle nerves. Arsenal found their shape again. And then, they found their rhythm.
Minute 68. Cazorla floated a diagonal to Walcott, who controlled it with a deft touch and then turned to drive at Cresswell. The West Ham fullback backpedaled, wary of the Englishman's speed, and Walcott used it — feinting inside before exploding outside and whipping a cross toward the penalty spot.
It was half-cleared.
Kanté got there first, beating Noble to the loose ball and flicking it sideways to Özil. Özil barely needed to look — he nudged it wide to Alexis, who quickly fed it into Francesco's feet near the top of the box.
But Reid was on him again, stepping tight, forcing him to retreat.
Francesco played it back to Alexis, reset the run, then drifted toward the penalty spot again. The ball cycled — Cazorla, Walcott, then back to Özil. The rhythm was there now. Arsenal were dancing again, but looking for the incision.
Minute 70.
Walcott received the ball near the right edge of the box, glanced up, and saw the line.
There was a channel — just between Reid and Ogbonna, who had drifted a step too far apart. And Francesco was already moving.
Walcott zipped the pass.
Francesco darted forward, split the gap perfectly, and touched it once with his left to kill the pace. Reid lunged. Ogbonna turned. Adrián rushed out of goal, arms wide.
But Francesco was already seeing the finish before it came to him.
His second touch was the shot — low, driven, side-footed past Adrián's right hand.
The Emirates erupted.
The net rippled.
Hat-trick.
3–2.
Francesco didn't even celebrate at first. He just stood there, chest rising and falling, arms stretched slightly out at his sides, absorbing the noise, the moment. Then he turned, pointed to Walcott, and broke into a sprint toward the corner flag.
The whole team chased him. Alexis was the first to leap onto his back. Özil arrived with a wide grin and a ruffle of his hair. Koscielny ran the length of the pitch to join them. Even Van Dijk raised a fist as he jogged back into position.
In the stands, the eruption hadn't ended. A full minute of pure noise — chants, applause, even laughter. Fans turned to one another, shaking their heads, mouths open in disbelief.
Francesco Lee, sixteen years old, wearing the captain's armband, had scored his first hat-trick on his second Premier League season.
Wenger stood on the touchline, arms crossed — but smiling now. The kind of smile that said: Yes. This is why we trusted him.
In the commentary box, Alan Smith exhaled. "You just don't see that," he said, voice edged with wonder. "What we're watching here… this is something special."
Neville nodded. "I've seen a lot of players. This? This is generational. And the composure — from a kid? It's frightening."
Back on the pitch, Francesco finally walked back toward the center circle, glancing at the scoreboard now flashing:
Arsenal 3 – 2 West Ham United
He felt the weight of the armband again, and this time, he didn't shrink under it.
Then the game continued.
There was a different charge in the air now — the kind that comes only when belief has returned to a team's bloodstream. Francesco's third goal had done more than reclaim the lead. It had reignited something deeper. The Emirates roared every time Arsenal touched the ball, and West Ham — spirited and stubborn though they were — had begun to look like a side suddenly aware that the momentum had shifted, hard and fast, against them.
Wenger didn't sit. He stood on the edge of his technical area, arms folded, barking occasional instructions but mostly letting the players ride the wave. He knew when to manage — and when to trust.
Francesco, armband tight on his sleeve, was orchestrating from the front now. He no longer played like a teenager. He played like a man possessed, pressing high, dropping deep when needed, pointing, shouting, clapping, leading.
And behind him, everything had started to click.
Kanté was everywhere. Intercepting, tackling, springing counters — his presence in midfield had stabilized Arsenal completely. He was a blur of movement and awareness, a silent guardian with tireless legs and uncanny timing. Every time West Ham tried to build through the middle, they ran into Kanté's wall.
Van Dijk, meanwhile, was the picture of calm. Smooth on the ball, unflinching in the air, his partnership with Koscielny had gelled almost instantly. It was only his debut, but already fans in the stands whispered to each other — This one's the real deal.
Özil, freed by Kanté's cover and Walcott's runs, had found a higher gear too. His passes began to stretch West Ham's lines. One flick here, one disguised ball there — he was painting again. And Alexis… Alexis had smelled blood.
The Chilean had been quiet for parts of the first half, but he was never out of the game — only waiting. And now, with Arsenal buzzing and West Ham chasing shadows, he was in his element: direct, explosive, unpredictable.
In the 76th minute, Arsenal won the ball back deep in their half — a strong sliding challenge from Van Dijk on Sakho that was met with thunderous applause. The Dutchman didn't hesitate. He sprang up and sprayed a diagonal pass to Özil, who had found space drifting inward from the left.
The German maestro killed the ball with one touch, lifted his head, and saw Alexis already turning. The Chilean's marker, Tomkins, was a step too slow, and that was all Özil needed.
He threaded the needle.
The pass — delicate, curling, and inch-perfect — split the defense and rolled into Alexis's stride like it was magnetized. The Emirates rose again. The entire stadium knew.
Alexis didn't break stride. He raced into the box with Adrián closing the angle, but there was no hesitation. With his right foot, he opened up his body and bent a shot past the keeper — quick, ruthless, clinical.
Goal. 4–2.
This time, Alexis did celebrate.
He slid on his knees toward the North Bank, fists clenched, roaring into the crowd. Özil followed with arms raised, a wide grin on his face, as teammates mobbed them. Francesco caught up and wrapped an arm around Alexis, both of them laughing as the scoreboard changed again:
77' – Alexis Sánchez (Assist: Özil)
Arsenal were flying.
The Emirates was in a frenzy now. Flags waved. Fans chanted louder, faster. The kind of noise you only hear when joy meets disbelief. It wasn't just about the scoreline. It was the how. The fight-back. The resilience. The captaincy handed to a teenager who was now running the game. The new signings — Kanté and Van Dijk — looking like they'd been there for years. Özil and Alexis at their brilliant best.
Wenger turned to Steve Bould on the bench, finally allowed himself a real smile. This was more than three points. This was a statement.
Back on the pitch, West Ham looked stunned.
Slaven Bilić barked instructions from the touchline, urging his men to press higher, to push forward, but the energy was gone. They had played bravely, taken the lead twice, but Arsenal's second-half response had overwhelmed them. Their midfield was stretched thin. Their backline had no answer to the movement of Francesco, the pace of Walcott, the cunning of Özil, the relentless drive of Alexis.
And still Arsenal came forward.
Walcott nearly made it five in the 81st minute after latching onto a chipped pass from Cazorla, only to be denied by a sharp Adrián save at the near post. Moments later, Francesco turned Reid inside out on the edge of the box and curled a shot inches wide of the far corner.
The crowd groaned in that satisfied, appreciative way — they didn't need more goals. They were already feasting.
Wenger made his final substitution in the 84th minute, giving Alexis a warm handshake as he brought him off to a standing ovation. On came Aaron Ramsey, a move to solidify the midfield and see out the game. Alexis waved to the crowd, clapped the fans, then slapped Francesco's shoulder on the way out.
"Captain's hat-trick," he said with a grin, before disappearing down the tunnel.
As the clock ticked toward full-time, Arsenal were in complete control. They passed with confidence, hunted in packs without the ball, and even in the final moments, still looked like they might score again.
When the referee finally blew the whistle after three minutes of stoppage time, the Emirates erupted one last time.
Full Time: Arsenal 4 – 2 West Ham United
The players embraced each other, hands on knees, jerseys soaked, faces beaming. Francesco stood in the center circle, hands on hips, gazing up at the stands. Then he raised his hand, applauding the crowd, turning slowly in a circle as thousands rose to their feet.
They were chanting his name now.
"Fran-ces-co! Fran-ces-co!"
The youngest captain in Premier League history. A hat-trick hero. A debut to rival any in Arsenal's storied past.
Wenger walked onto the pitch, shook hands with Bilić, then made a beeline for the boy.
Francesco saw him coming and tried to speak, but the manager just placed both hands on his shoulders.
"Well done," he said softly, but his eyes glimmered with pride. "You were magnificent."
"Merci, boss," Francesco said, still breathless.
They walked off together, flanked by the others — Özil, Kanté, Walcott, Cazorla. A team that had found itself in the fire. A team with new blood, new heroes, new belief.
Back in the dressing room, music was already playing. Players shouted across the room, clapping each other on the back, laughing, reliving moments.
Francesco sat down at his locker, finally letting the adrenaline drain. He looked down at his boots — mud-slicked, worn, loved. Then at the captain's armband on his wrist. He smiled, as he thinks this was only the beginning of the new season as the second captain.
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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: 6
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9