Football: Arsenal - Chapter 20: Next Up, the Derby Against Tottenham—Kieran Lee Starts! (Patreon)

The following afternoon, after an enormous and thoroughly refreshing sleep, Kieran arrived at the tactical meeting room right on time.

As he walked toward his seat, teammates who had arrived earlier called out greetings. He grinned and went down the line, high-fiving each one.

A room that had been quiet a moment earlier filled with laughter and chatter.

There was a reason people said Arsenal were always unleashing a youth revolution. Apart from a handful of thirty-one-year-old substitutes, the oldest man in the senior squad was Arteta, who had only just turned thirty.

Pick almost anyone at random from Juventus, their last opponents, and there was a fair chance he'd be older than an Arsenal player.

These were young men who naturally liked joking around. Their mediocre results had previously weighed on the dressing room, but with Kieran, the most conspicuous clown of the lot, leading the way, the meeting room soon sounded like a bustling market.

Amid the noise, Kieran found Arteta and leaned close to ask him something quietly.

“Mikel, do you want to become a coach someday?”

Mikel Arteta didn't seem surprised. People had asked him that plenty of times.

In a sense, he was already a coach on the pitch. He directed Arsenal's shape constantly, especially the defensive line.

Still, coming from Kieran, the question was an invitation to have some fun. Arteta smiled, draped an arm around his shoulder and issued a playful threat.

“I certainly will. So you'd better start getting on my good side now. Who knows? One day you might end up playing under me. Whether I build the team around you or make your life miserable could depend on how you treat me today.”

Kieran understood immediately. He fetched Arteta a glass of water—warm water, carefully prepared.

“Mikel, if that's your plan, you'd better start looking after yourself now. Here, I even warmed the water for you. I'll bring you some tea another day, too. You can't wait until you're old and falling apart...”

At that very moment, Wenger entered the room.

Arteta raised his hand.

“Boss, Kieran says elderly coaches ought to drink more warm water. He poured this glass for you.”

Kieran looked utterly baffled.

Arteta! You treacherous, innocent-looking scoundrel!

“I've been framed, boss! He's slandering me!”

Wenger took his place at the front, turned toward Kieran and immediately pretended to be angry.

Kieran had no choice but to run over and begin explaining himself, offering a shoulder rub, a little back massage and several carefully planted insults about Arteta.

“Boss, Mikel's the one who keeps bringing up age. I'd never say anything like that. To me, you'll always be a handsome, energetic young man in the prime of his life...”

Wenger couldn't hold his stern expression. He burst out laughing.

The teammates watching had been struggling to contain themselves, and now laughter filled the whole room. Arteta was laughing harder than anyone.

After enjoying himself for a moment, Wenger reached back and patted Kieran's arm.

“All right, Kieran, back to your seat. I'll have a word with Mikel in a moment.”

Mikel Arteta's grin disappeared instantly.

A matching grin appeared on Kieran's face.

“Hahaha! Boss, what excellent judgment!”

He walked past Arteta, stuck out his tongue and slipped nimbly away before the midfielder's fist could land on him.

Back in his seat, Kieran turned his attention to the big screen. Playtime was over. Now they had real work to do.

Everyone had arrived. Wenger opened his presentation.

It concerned the thirtieth round of the Premier League, two days away: Arsenal against their bitter neighbors, Tottenham Hotspur.

A local derby.

More than that, it was a confrontation between the teams in fourth and fifth place, separated by just one league point.

The winners would take all three points from their greatest rivals and claim fourth place. Hold on to that position until the season ended, and they would qualify for next season's Champions League.

The losers would take nothing and be forced to chase the team above them, praying their rivals eventually slipped up.

For Arsenal, the Champions League represented a dream. The Premier League was the foundation on which everything else rested.

Supporters would be disappointed to lose to Juventus in Europe, but they could accept it.

Losing a league match to Tottenham, though? That would send Arsenal supporters into a collective frenzy of outrage.

This was the match that decided whether they could hold their heads high in front of Spurs fans for the next year.

The game hadn't even begun, yet the hostility was already hanging over London like gunpowder smoke.

That do-or-die atmosphere defined the tactical meeting from its opening moments.

“We have to win this match,” Wenger said.

“I don't need to explain how important those three points against Tottenham are. I want every one of you fully focused. Treat this as the most important match of our entire season.”

It was the most absolute declaration Wenger had made all season.

We have to win.

Everyone understood what that meant. Arsenal would need to throw themselves into the match from the opening minute and keep fighting to the last whistle.

Wenger began announcing the lineup.

“We'll use the same 4-2-3-1 formation. Giroud at center-forward.”

“Walcott on the right wing.”

“And on the left...”

He paused.

“Kieran. You're starting this match.”

Wenger looked directly at him.

Confidence shone in Kieran's eyes as he nodded firmly.

Beside him, Podolski made no objection. He'd been the starting left winger for much of the season and was already exhausted.

The Premier League was physically demanding enough on its own. Worse, it was the only one of Europe's five major leagues without a winter break. You played from August through the following May, without even stopping for Christmas or New Year!

You wouldn't work a donkey that hard!

Podolski had arrived from the Bundesliga, whose winter break was the longest of the lot. More than half a season into life in England, he'd had quite enough.

Besides, he wanted to save some energy for the upcoming World Cup qualifiers.

So the discussion of the starting eleven moved forward in surprising harmony.

Wenger, however, had concerns he kept to himself.

He wasn't doubting Kieran's ability or mental strength. His worry was the sheer physicality of a derby between neighboring enemies.

Matches between these clubs had a habit of turning ugly. One half could be spent kicking the ball; by the next, players might be kicking one another instead.

Kieran was only sixteen. In a contest of raw strength, he was bound to be at a disadvantage.

And Tottenham were the home side.

Tens of thousands of Spurs supporters would be hurling abuse from the stands. Some of the more extreme ones might even throw objects onto the pitch. It was a severe test of any Arsenal player's composure.

To make his Premier League debut away at Tottenham would place an enormous burden on Kieran's shoulders.

Even so, Wenger had made the difficult decision to start him.

That alone showed how much he valued and trusted the boy. He truly believed Kieran could lead Arsenal to victory.

There was another, less romantic reason as well: Arsenal were desperately short of forwards.

Before Kieran recovered and returned to the squad, Wenger had only five senior attackers to cover three positions: center-forward, left wing and right wing. Three regular starters and two rotational substitutes.

Compared with the star-studded forward lines and luxurious squad depth of other wealthy clubs, it was a miserable state of affairs.

The main cards Wenger could play were Giroud, Walcott and Podolski.

Giroud, his fellow Frenchman, was wildly inconsistent. A good match was often followed by several poor ones.

Walcott had been reliably effective all season. Of all Wenger's attackers, he was the only one the manager could trust without hesitation.

Podolski, nicknamed the Prince of Cologne, had joined Arsenal from Cologne for £10 million at the start of the campaign. Wenger had placed enormous hopes in him.

He'd wanted the German to reproduce his national-team and Cologne performances and become the explosive attacking presence Arsenal needed.

Unfortunately, things hadn't worked out that way.

Perhaps he hadn't adapted to the Premier League. Compared with Cazorla, an attacking midfielder signed in the same summer, Podolski had been much less productive, with fewer goals and assists.

To be fair, the totals for Giroud, Walcott, Podolski and Cazorla weren't dramatically different. Each of the four had scored roughly ten goals.

And that was precisely Arsenal's biggest problem this season: a lack of cutting edge up front.

When everyone's output was roughly average, nobody truly stood out. Arsenal lacked an elite finisher who could deliver decisive goals consistently, one major reason for their repeated defeats.

Things had been different the previous season.

In 2011–12, Arsenal had lost the core of their midfield when Fàbregas left for Barcelona. Wenger had shifted his hopes to attacking talisman Van Persie and the future of midfield, Wilshere.

Then disaster struck.

During a preseason friendly against the New York Red Bulls, Arsenal's original Crown Prince, Wilshere, injured his ankle. He required surgery and missed the entire season.

That left Wenger and the supporters pinning their hopes on Van Persie.

Their captain didn't disappoint. He scored thirty goals and won the Premier League Golden Boot for 2011–12.

But as the 2012–13 summer transfer window opened, Arsenal lost their main attacking force as well. Van Persie moved to Manchester United.

So many players had left that Arsenal were perilously close to not having enough for a full lineup.

Wilshere hadn't recovered yet. Wenger needed to stretch a painfully limited transfer budget to reinforce the squad and, somehow, unearth another promising young talent from Arsenal's academy.

And there he was. Kieran, a forward, had just turned sixteen!

At most clubs, no manager would place such trust in a sixteen-year-old. But this was Arsenal. Arsenal played sixteen-year-olds.

Wenger immediately poured his hopes into Kieran.

Promotion straight to the first team, no loan spell to gain experience, and the number ten shirt, the mark of an attacking centerpiece. He could hardly have made his faith in the boy clearer.

But perhaps Arsenal's fortunes had been cursed over the past few years.

Wenger had been preparing to develop Kieran as Ferguson had developed Cristiano Ronaldo at Manchester United, or Guardiola had nurtured Messi at Barcelona.

He wanted Kieran to become the undisputed centerpiece of Arsenal's attack!

And then, right under his nose, the boy got hurt.

Wenger's heart had nearly broken.

It was almost absurd. Every season seemed to begin with an injury to another of Arsenal's brightest prospects. He had seriously wondered whether some evil spell had been cast on the club.

If the concussion had ended Kieran's career before it really began, Wenger... He couldn't bear to finish that thought.

That was why he'd reacted so fiercely to Neil's questions the night before. His anger had been impossible to hide.

Fortunately, dawn finally seemed to be breaking for Arsenal.

The attacking talent Wenger prized above all others had made his Champions League debut and treated the whole world to a breathtaking display of goalscoring.

Wenger hadn't just lost his composure in excitement at the stadium. When he got home, he'd almost failed to contain himself again. He'd come close to phoning Manchester United manager Ferguson simply to boast.

But he'd restrained himself.

The most convincing kind of boasting was silent. He was sure Ferguson must already be green with envy, even if Wenger never said a word.

...

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