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Chapter 107: FA Cup Final End
🕑 Added 2025-07-29 10:40:18 +0000 UTCAnd bounced into the net.
The moment the ball hit the back of the net, Kai felt a surge—like electricity rushing through his veins.
He whipped his head around and took off in a full sprint.
He was flying.
A smile crept across his face, spreading fast.
And then—Wembley erupted.
After a heartbeat of silence, the roar of Arsenal fans exploded like a volcano.
They screamed, they jumped, they chanted.
Champions!
Arsenal are champions!
Kai charged toward the bench, not stopping, not slowing.
He knew exactly where he was headed.
Wenger stood on the sideline, heart pounding, his face lit with emotion.
In that moment, he swore to himself—bringing Kai from Sporting Lisbon to Arsenal was the best decision he’d ever made.
This was the payoff. This was the moment.
A smile of deep relief and pride crossed Wenger’s face. He opened his arms wide.
“Come on, son...”
But Kai didn’t slow.
He shot past Wenger—straight toward Pat Rice.
There was a muffled thump and a tangle of limbs as Kai launched himself at the stout assistant coach.
Pat was solid, but right now, Kai could’ve lifted a truck.
They collided and hugged with full force.
Kai’s voice was shaking with adrenaline and joy.
“Hey! Hey! Did you see that? Did you see what I just brought us?!”
Pat bit his lip, overwhelmed. He didn’t trust himself to speak—he might break down on the spot.
So he just kept smacking Kai’s back over and over, his emotions spilling out with each hit.
They had first met in July 2011. Back then, Pat had his doubts. If it hadn’t been for Wenger, he never would’ve taken Kai under his wing.
And yet now—this same kid, once overlooked, had given Arsenal the best gift in years.
FA Cup Champions.
Seven long years without a trophy, and finally—finally—Arsenal stood atop the podium again.
Pat’s voice cracked as he pulled Kai in close.
“Brilliant work, lad... You’ve made me proud.”
Kai grinned, teasing, “Wait—are you crying?”
“Bollocks!” Pat barked, laughing through the emotion. “And what if I am, huh? Not allowed to cry now?”
Kai laughed harder. “Cry all you want! There’ll be plenty of chances in the future. These are happy tears!”
Just then, the rest of the squad mobbed them.
Arsenal players came sprinting toward the bench like schoolboys let loose.
Each one was crashing into Kai, shouting, hugging, and cheering.
One by one, they ran past Wenger.
The boss still stood with his arms out—though by now, his smile had turned slightly stiff.
Szczesny came a little later, charging forward—but then he caught Wenger’s eyes.
They said:
"You’re not seriously going to skip me, too?"
"Come here. Hug your manager."
Awkwardly, Szczesny changed direction.
The contrast in the stadium was stark.
On one side, jubilant Arsenal fans. On the other hand, silent, stunned City supporters.
Up in the commentary booth, Martin Taylor’s voice rose above the noise.
“Kai! What a penalty! And what a moment! After seven years, Arsenal are champions again!”
Alan Smith followed up, laughter in his voice.
“This lad—only 19—and he steps up like that? They chant about him having steel in boots but tonight the lad has a heart of steel!”
“The Gunners have done it,” Martin said. “They’ve beaten Manchester City in the FA Cup final. The 2012/13 trophy is heading to North London.”
Alan added with a grin, “London belongs to the red and white tonight!”
Arsenal fans in the stands had completely lost themselves.
They hugged strangers, jumped with both feet, waved scarves and flags until their arms ached.
120 minutes of relentless football.
A nerve-wracking penalty shootout.
And in the end, Arsenal stood tall.
Their first major trophy in seven years.
“Champions! We’re champions!”
Billy screamed, hugging every fellow Gunner in sight, black jerseys and all.
No one cared who they were hugging anymore.
Across the crowd, Meadows was still smiling—his arms sore, his voice gone. He’d waved the Arsenal flag for nearly an hour.
But there were no regrets.
Kai had made it worth every second.
Champions.
Arsenal were champions.
City’s players, downcast, walked toward the tunnel, glancing at the trophy as they passed.
It was right there. Close enough to touch.
But it didn’t belong to them.
The pain was visible.
Mancini took time to comfort each player.
He knew this match would probably mark the end of his time at City.
But he wouldn’t place blame. They had fought well—just lacked the finishing touch.
After his players had all disappeared down the tunnel, Mancini turned and walked toward Wenger.
He extended his hand first.
“Congratulations, Professor,” he said, smiling warmly.
Wenger took it with a nod.
“It was a great match.”
“Indeed,” Mancini said. “Arsenal deserve this one.”
Wenger couldn’t help but grin.
But Mancini leaned in slightly, with a sly smile.
“Good luck with the league.”
Wenger raised an eyebrow.
“Merci.”
The two shared a knowing look.
They both had one common goal left—to bring down Manchester United.
The cheers in the stadium swelled again, growing louder and more unified.
And then came the chant.
“Who built a wall in the middle of the field?
KAI! KAI!
He don't dive, he don’t yield!
KAI! KAI!
The Gunners cheer and rivals squeal—
‘Cause Kai’s the boss with boots of steel!
OHHHH KAI!
WHO BUILT THAT WALL?
KAI! KAI!”
"KAI! KAI!"
Over 30,000 Arsenal fans roared his name into the night sky.
The boy from Lisbon had arrived.
And tonight, he was a champion.
...
Kai’s performance tonight had won over every doubter.
Two assists in regular time—and the decisive penalty in the shootout.
No one could deny it now: Kai was one of the heartbeats of this Arsenal team.
Amid the ongoing celebrations, Pat gave him a nudge on the shoulder.
“Go on, lad. They’re waiting for you.”
Kai nodded and turned, stepping back onto the pitch alone.
As soon as he stepped on the pitch, a deafening roar swept through Wembley.
It started with thunderous applause—fast, fierce, relentless.
Clapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclap!!!
Kai walked slowly toward the center circle, raising his hands in gratitude, lightly clapping back.
And then, like a wave rolling through the stadium, the chant began to rise.
"Ohhhhhh Kai, Kai, he’s our pride!
Born to fight in red and white!
Pass or strike, he makes 'em cry,
Arsenal's star—our boy Kai!"
(clap-clap, clap-clap-clap)
"Our boy Kai!"
(clap-clap, clap-clap-clap)
"Our boy Kai!
It was his celebration chant—something only he did. And the fans knew it by heart.
Kai chuckled to himself.
He raised his left arm—fingers spread, palm wide.
Instant silence.
More than 30,000 Arsenal supporters stood frozen, watching him with breathless anticipation.
Kai began a slow jog, his left hand still outstretched.
And from the crowd, a deep rumble emerged.
It started low, like magma bubbling under the surface.
Both the fans and Kai were building up.
Then, without warning, he tucked his right fist beside his abdomen and punched forward three times in quick succession.
"ARSENAL!
ARSENAL!
ARSENAL!"
The crowd erupted with each strike, their voices shaking the very structure of Wembley.
Then came the roar—
Kai thumped his chest and shouted at the top of his lungs:
“Come on, Gunners!!”
ROAR!
The stadium shook.
Hearts pounded. Voices cracked. Flags flew.
There was no mistaking it—this boy had stolen their hearts.
Arsenal fans were completely, utterly his.
Wembley quaked.
Every supporter felt it deep in their bones.
The stands were vibrating with passion and pride.
...
The roar of the crowd began to dim—only slightly—as the players lined up along the touchline, hearts still pounding.
Now came the final act.
The presentation.
Martin Taylor (calm, reverent):
"A familiar sight at Wembley, but always a difficult one... Manchester City, valiant tonight, will walk the steps first—for silver."
The City players climbed the historic staircase to the Royal Box, their footsteps slow and heavy.
They were met with polite applause, not mockery. Even rival fans knew what it meant to get this far.
Silver medals were placed around their necks. Most looked straight ahead. Some offered tight smiles.
None looked toward the trophy
Their expressions were mixed—some bitter, others stoic. Most stared blankly at the trophy sitting just meters away, so close they could feel its shine. But it was not theirs tonight.
Alan Smith (reflective):
"You can see it on their faces, Martin. They know they were close. Inches away from history... but on a night like this, there's no consolation."
At the top of the steps, Mancini exchanged handshakes with the Royal guests. His smile was restrained, but dignified.
As the last City player descended the stairs, the announcer’s voice rang out through the stadium speakers.
“Ladies and gentlemen… your 2012/13 FA Cup champions—ARSENAL FOOTBALL CLUB!”
ARSENAL FOOTBALL CLUB!”
The stadium erupted again, as if someone had struck a match in a room full of fireworks.
Flags swinging. Fans losing their minds.
Martin Taylor (with rising energy):
"And now it’s the turn of the victors. Arsenal—seven years without silverware—finally climbing back to the summit of English football!"
The Arsenal players, some bouncing on their heels, others locking arms in boyish anticipation, began the climb.
Each step toward the Royal Box felt like a lifetime of effort paid off.
Golden medals were handed out—glinting under the floodlights.
When Kai reached the Royal Box, the decibels ticked up again.
He shook hands respectfully, bowed slightly, and smiled at the rows of dignitaries. The Royal representative smiled back, clearly impressed by the young man who had written himself into Arsenal folklore.
Alan Smith (grinning):
"That’s a medal he’ll never take off. What a tournament, what a final, and what a player Kai’s becoming, eh?"
And then came the captain.
Mikel Arteta.
Climbing the steps with composure and purpose, Arteta approached the trophy—the FA Cup, perched just a few feet from royalty.
The Royal dignitary stepped forward, extended the iconic silverware toward him.
Arteta accepted it with both hands, bowed gently, then turned to face the stadium with his teammates flanking him.
He paused to build up suspense before—
Lifting the trophy high.
BOOOOM!
Fireworks exploded into the night sky, streaking over the Wembley arch.
Golden confetti erupted from all sides of the roof and sides of the Royal box.
Martin Taylor (excited):
"And Arsenal… are FA Cup Champions once again!"
Alan Smith (shouting over fireworks):
"The wait is over! The drought is done! North London can celebrate tonight—this one belongs to the red side!"
Arsenal’s players took turns grabbing the trophy, hoisting it, laughing and shouting.
Martin Taylor (with emotion):
"They’ve been through the storms—through heartbreaks, near-misses, questions, rebuilds—and now, they have their reward."
Kai grabbed the trophy with both hands and raised it and screamed:
“CHAMPIONS!!!”
The crowd’s reaction was instantaneous.
“KAI! KAI! KAI!”
The chant thundered from all corners of Wembley.
Alan Smith (softly, smiling):
"That boy’s name will echo in this stadium for a long, long time."
The word echoed across Wembley as red and white flares lit up the stands. Flags waved. Fans wept.
The sound of "Good Old Arsenal" began to ring out from the stands, slow and thunderous.
Red and white ribbons fluttered through the air, while the fireworks raged on, painting the sky above London in celebration.
Cameras flashed. Children screamed. Grown men shouted through tears hugging strangers.
This was Arsenal’s night.
The Royal Box had become their throne.
And on it stood a team who had endured, who had believed.
They had climbed to the top.
And now, they had the cup to prove it.
Tonight, no one would sleep.
Tonight belonged to Arsenal.
