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Chapter 92: Hope Rekindled
🕑 Added 2025-07-13 15:48:56 +0000 UTCPremier League Round 29: Arsenal vs Everton at the Emirates.
Everton, often described as a working-class club, has consistently punched above their weight despite a modest budget. Since David Moyes took the reins, they’ve found stability, usually finishing mid-table or better.
But if there's one thing you learn playing against Everton, it’s never to get too comfortable. They know how to catch teams off guard.
This time, though, Moyes brought his team to the Emirates with a clear plan: park the bus.
A tight 4-4-1-1 setup. Survival mode.
But this isn't the old Arsenal.
In seasons past, they might’ve struggled to crack a low block like this. But now, 29 rounds in, Cazorla’s return has given Arsenal’s attack a new spark.
“Pick up Cazorla! Don’t let him drift into the box again!”
Everton keeper Tim Howard was yelling his lungs out. Their defensive setup was being tested—hard.
Arsenal had pinned them in for nearly 10 minutes straight. The pressure was suffocating.
“Clear it!”
“Just boot it!”
Suarez’s shot was blocked. An Everton defender lunged in with a desperate clearance. The ball flew toward midfield—anywhere but their box would do.
Anichebe looked up, tracking the ball’s arc.
But someone had already claimed that space.
Kai was already there, reading the drop perfectly. He gently nodded it sideways, redirecting it to Podolski’s feet.
Sky Sports' Martin Taylor chuckled on commentary:
“Everton are doing all they can to relieve the pressure—just clear and hope. But when you’ve got someone like Kai sitting at the heart of midfield, reading every second ball, it’s like hitting a wall. He doesn’t just react—he owns that zone.”
Arsenal pressed on. Everton looked winded.
74:24 on the clock.
Cazorla dropped deep, feinted a back pass, then suddenly cut inside, weaving between two defenders. Before the third could close him down, he slipped a pass to Chamberlain.
Oxlade-Chamberlain took it on his toes, popped it up, dodged a sliding challenge, and flicked it toward Suarez just before going down.
Suarez caught it in stride, danced left to make space, and pulled the trigger.
The shot skipped through the legs of Everton’s center-back, caught a deflection off the defender’s calf—wrong-footing Howard—and nestled in the net!
GOAL! Arsenal break the deadlock!
Applause roared through the Emirates. After 75 minutes of relentless pressure, Arsenal had finally broken through.
It would turn out to be the only goal of the game.
Cazorla’s presence had transformed the attack, bringing fluidity, creativity, and the sort of direct threat that Arsenal had missed.
Even Kai couldn’t help but smile.
He knew this was a side of the game he couldn’t provide, but he was more than happy to have Cazorla back.
It was the first time since round 20 that Kai felt he’d had such a smooth evening.
“Hey! Nicely done!”
After the match, Kai found Cazorla near the tunnel.
Cazorla grinned and hugged him.
“Hermano, I’ve been dreaming of games like this every night in that hospital bed. You’ve got no idea how badly I wanted to be back out here.”
Kai laughed.
“So you’re telling me this wasn’t you at full speed?”
Cazorla tapped his chest.
“If anything, I was holding back!”
A group of fans in the stands nearby started calling Cazorla’s name.
“I’ll go sign a few—catch you later,” he said.
“Go on.”
After the final whistle, Kai stayed on the pitch for a moment, raising his hands and clapping lightly, acknowledging the roaring crowd.
Then a voice cut through the noise.
“Kai! Hey, Kai! Over here — look at me! Hey, do you even know who I am?!”
Kai glanced up and spotted a man in sunglasses and a cap, clinging to the front row railing as security tried to pull him back. Clearly, he wasn’t about to let go.
The railing was a good two meters high — not the safest situation.
Kai jogged over calmly.
“Easy,” he said evenly, “let the security handle it, alright?”
The man, still holding an Arsenal jersey, finally looked straight at him, and there was something oddly familiar about his grin.
“Mind signing this for me?” the man asked, his tone light but self-assured.
Kai arched an eyebrow. “If you come down first.”
“Fair enough. Give me a sec.”
The man swung his legs over and dropped down with a soft thud, raising his hands toward the security team as if to say he was done.
“Alright, alright — you can relax. I’m sorted now,” he said with a faint smirk.
The guards didn’t move at first, looking to Kai for direction. He gave a small, reassuring wave.
“It’s fine. I’ve got it.”
At that, the man finally took off his cap and glasses, revealing himself.
It was Matt Damon.
Once the security staff finally stepped aside, Matt Damon crouched under the railing, took out a pen from his pocket, and held out his Arsenal jersey, his tone calm yet warm.
“Big fan of your work out there. That performance against United in the Champions League was something else,” he said with a small smile.
Kai returned the smile. “Thanks. What would you like me to write?”
Matt thought for a second before replying evenly: “Just ‘To Matt — best wishes’ will do.”
Kai nodded, wrote the short message neatly, signed it, and handed the shirt back.
Matt glanced down at it, then added with a chuckle, “If you’ve got a second, maybe one more line… in Chinese?”
Kai quirked an eyebrow at him, but smirked faintly and nodded. “Alright.”
...
Back in the dressing room, Kai found his teammates huddled around a phone or tablet, chatting animatedly.
He peeled off his damp jersey, wandered over shirtless, and leaned in.
“What’s everyone staring at?”
Without even looking up, Oxlade-Chamberlain replied:
“Tottenham game.”
Kai blinked, then chuckled dryly.
“What? You lot switching allegiances now?”
Everyone knew: Tottenham were Arsenal’s sworn rivals. Supporting them was unthinkable.
Cazorla glanced over his shoulder with a grin.
“Tottenham v. Man City. Spurs are up, 2–1.”
That made Kai’s eyebrows shoot up. He pushed into the group to see for himself.
“Let me have a look!”
The screen showed the match well into the 80th minute, Tottenham indeed leading 2–1 and now digging in defensively.
The room was tense. For the first time, Arsenal players found themselves rooting for Spurs, not out of love, but necessity. If City lost, Arsenal would draw level with them on points.
As the seconds ticked down, everyone leaned closer.
When the final whistle blew, a huge roar erupted.
“Brilliant!”
“City dropped points!”
“Wait—are we second now?”
“Yes, we are leading by three points, Ha!”
The players were ecstatic, even Kai cracked a rare, wide smile.
Chamberlain was still scrolling through the scores when a pop-up caught his eye. He froze, staring.
“…United drew.”
The room went silent for a beat before the entire squad lunged forward, crowding around him.
On the screen: West Ham 2–2 Manchester United.
“My God.”
“No way!”
“Bloody hell!”
The dressing room erupted.
What had been a nine-point gap to United was suddenly down to seven.
Hope was alive.
Proper, tangible hope.
The lads clapped each other on the back, shouting and hugging. The noise in the room was deafening.
“We can catch them!”
“Sick of watching City and United have it all their way!”
“Come on, let’s make it a fight now!”
Even Pat Rice, watching from his corner with a small smile, couldn’t help but nod in approval.
That day, the Hammers had done Arsenal a huge favour—taking points off United and blowing the title race wide open.
And the Gunners could feel it.
London was theirs to shake up.
