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He had not just won the Champions League, but he had conquered it. A hat-trick in the final, and a night that would never be forgotten. And Arsenal — at last — were kings of Europe.
The final whistle hung in the Milan night like a note stretched beyond its breaking point, and then it shattered into a thousand pieces of noise, joy, and disbelief. Arsenal had done it. The unthinkable had become reality.
Red shirts burst into motion before the echoes of the referee's breath had even faded. Arsenal's substitutes flew off the bench, training bibs cast aside, water bottles clattering to the turf behind them. The coaching staff followed, men who had spent years in shadows of frustration now sprinting like boys toward the light.
And at the centre of it all, on his knees with tears streaking his sweat-stained face, was Francesco.
The first to reach him was Alexis Sánchez, who wrapped his arms around Francesco from behind, dragging him upward, shouting incoherently in Spanish, half curses, half blessings. Wilshere was next, his face red and damp, head pressed against Francesco's shoulder as if to make sure he was real. Then Özil, silent, smiling in that gentle way only he could, pulling Francesco's head down into his chest.
But it didn't stop there. The entire squad swarmed him, substitutes crashing into starters, men piling over one another in a tangle of limbs, roars, and tears. Giroud lifted Francesco clean off the ground, shaking him like a rag doll, shouting, "HAT-TRICK! HAT-TRICK IN THE FINAL!" until his voice broke.
The staff arrived then. Bould, that stoic figure on the sideline, grinning wider than anyone had ever seen him grin, clapped Francesco so hard on the back he nearly stumbled. The physios, the analysts, the kit men — men who never touched the pitch yet lived every second of it — crowded in, hugging whoever they could reach, tears running freely down their faces.
And then Wenger.
The old man walked toward them at first, slow, almost hesitant, his hands trembling at his sides. For a heartbeat, he looked like he didn't know if he belonged in that storm of youth and triumph. But then Francesco broke free from the pile, chest heaving, eyes ablaze, and went straight for him.
They collided in an embrace that was part hug, part collapse. Wenger's arms wrapped around Francesco's shoulders, his face pressed into the captain's sweat-soaked shirt. The words tumbled out of him, muffled, over and over again, like a prayer:
"Thank you. Thank you. Thank you."
Francesco, shaking, his throat tight, whispered back, "For you, boss. Always for you."
For two decades, Wenger had carried Arsenal on his back. He had endured ridicule, heartbreak, near-misses. He had rebuilt teams, survived storms, lived through years where glory seemed like a foreign language. And now, with the trophy finally within reach, with Francesco in his arms, the dam inside him broke. Tears streamed down his face, his glasses fogged, his lips trembled as he clutched the man who had delivered his dream.
Behind them, the Arsenal fans were chaos incarnate. The San Siro's red-and-white end was an earthquake of joy. Grown men sobbed into each other's arms. Women clutched scarves to their mouths, shaking with laughter and tears all at once. Children stood on seats, waving flags bigger than their own bodies, screaming names into the night.
They sang louder than they ever had, their voices cracking, their lungs burning. The songs were not polished chants anymore — they were raw, primal cries of release, twenty years of longing finally breaking free. Some fans simply collapsed where they stood, overwhelmed, tears blurring the sight of the scoreboard that would live forever:
Real Madrid 1 – 3 Arsenal.
On the other side, silence.
The Madrid end was a graveyard. Flags hung limp. Faces were blank, pale, shattered. Some fans buried their faces in their hands, unable to watch Arsenal's celebrations. Others stared hollow-eyed at the pitch, as if refusing to accept what their eyes told them.
And on the grass, the Madrid players wore the pain of giants struck down.
Sergio Ramos sat on the turf, arms draped over his knees, head bowed, his chest rising and falling in heavy, defeated breaths. Pepe stood near the penalty area, his fists pressed into his hips, eyes wet, glaring into nothing. Luka Modrić wandered aimlessly, hands pulling at his hair, whispering curses under his breath.
Cristiano Ronaldo — who had spent eight minutes clawing at the match, who had carried Madrid's hope in his boots — dropped to his haunches, staring at the grass. He wiped his face once, twice, and then simply sat there, the world spinning away from him. For a man who demanded immortality, this felt like death.
Some cried openly. Carvajal wept into his shirt. Lucas Vázquez covered his face with both hands, his shoulders shaking. Even Navas, who had saved them from humiliation more than once, leaned against the post with tears in his eyes.
Madrid had not just lost. They had been broken by something rarer, something unforgettable: a hat-trick in a Champions League final, a feat so rare it belonged to folklore. And it had come at their expense.
Yet on the Arsenal side, there was only light.
Players who had been written off, who had been doubted, embraced like brothers. Monreal kissed the badge on his shirt with trembling lips. Koscielny lifted Wilshere off the ground, the two laughing like boys in a schoolyard. Even the quiet Özil roared, his fists clenched, his usually placid face transformed by joy.
Above all of them, at the heart of it, was Francesco.
The captain. The hat-trick hero. The man who had dragged Arsenal into immortality.
The cameras found him again and again — shirt torn, hair plastered to his forehead, eyes wet, smile wide enough to split his face. Every time a teammate came near, he embraced them, kissed them, lifted them. Every time he glanced at the fans, he pressed his hand to the badge, to his heart, mouthing, this is for you.
And Wenger never left his side. The old man held his captain's arm as if afraid he might disappear, as if afraid he would wake up and discover this was just another dream.
The referee, still catching his breath from the frenzy of the final minutes, finally stepped forward. The crowd was a storm behind him, red and white drowning out the night, but his eyes were steady as he approached the Arsenal captain.
The ball rested in his arm like a crown waiting for its rightful owner. He held it out, and with a small, tired smile, said words that cut through the chaos like a bell:
"Congratulations, Francesco. A hat-trick… in a Champions League final. This one's yours."
For a moment, Francesco just stared at it, his chest heaving, sweat dripping down his temples, the weight of the San Siro pressing down on him. Then, almost reverently, he reached out and took the ball, pressing it against his chest. It was warm, almost alive, carrying the scars of ninety minutes that would be remembered forever.
The crowd roared louder, sensing the symbolism. The cameras flashed like lightning, each burst freezing the moment into history. Francesco closed his eyes for just a heartbeat, whispering something to himself — maybe a prayer, maybe a thank-you, maybe nothing more than the disbelief of a dream realized.
When he opened them again, he wasn't looking at the Arsenal bench or the sea of fans. He was looking across the pitch.
Cristiano Ronaldo.
The Portuguese star was still seated on the grass, his shoulders heavy, his eyes dim, the defeat wrapped around him like a shroud. But even in that posture of despair, he radiated the aura of a man who had defined football for more than a decade.
Francesco didn't hesitate. Ball still clutched to his chest, he crossed the pitch, weaving through teammates who tried to stop him with hugs, with handshakes, with kisses on his head. He smiled at them, nodded, but his eyes never left Ronaldo.
The cameras followed, the commentary boxes erupted, and the Madrid fans watched in silence as the hat-trick hero of the night extended his hand.
Ronaldo looked up. His eyes were red, rimmed with exhaustion, his jaw tight. For a heartbeat, he didn't move. And then, slowly, he reached up, took Francesco's hand, and pulled himself to his feet.
The embrace that followed was not long, not showy. It was quiet, heavy, full of the unspoken weight of men who had given everything to the game.
Ronaldo's voice, hoarse and low, carried just enough for the microphones nearby to catch:
"Congrats, champ. You deserved it. I hope… we meet again in the final next year."
Francesco, stunned by the grace in defeat from a man known for his fierce pride, hugged him tighter, his own voice cracking:
"I'll be ready. You'll be there too — I know it."
They pulled apart, eyes meeting, two warriors acknowledging each other not as rivals but as equals in a battle that transcended the night.
Behind them, Madrid players watched with a mixture of pain and respect. Ramos gave the faintest of nods. Modrić patted Francesco's shoulder as he passed. Even Navas, devastated though he was, murmured, "Increíble" under his breath.
Francesco bowed his head to them all, clutching the ball tighter. This wasn't just his night — it was theirs too, in a way. Football was cruel, but it was beautiful because of moments like this.
As he turned back toward his teammates, the Arsenal fans began to chant louder, a single name rolling like thunder across the San Siro:
"FRAN-CES-CO! FRAN-CES-CO! FRAN-CES-CO!"
And with every step he took back to his brothers in red, the chant grew, until it was less a song and more a roar, a force that shook the very foundations of the night.
The San Siro, still trembling under the aftershocks of Arsenal's triumph, shifted its focus toward the north stand where workers in UEFA jackets hurried about their business. Metal trusses clanged, heavy black curtains unfurled, and the famous Champions League podium began to rise like a stage summoned from the earth itself.
The silver-and-blue banners of UEFA were draped across it, the Champions League logo shining under the floodlights. At its center, a tall plinth stood waiting, empty for now, but destined in minutes to cradle the most coveted prize in European football. The famous trophy—"La Orejona," the big-eared cup—was brought forward, held by two white-gloved officials as if it were a relic of ancient royalty.
The crowd buzzed, half in jubilation, half in sorrow. Arsenal's supporters sang without pause, voices raw, tears still streaking their cheeks. Madrid's end was quieter now, filled with the rustle of flags being folded, scarves tugged tighter around necks, eyes wet with disbelief.
On the stage, Angel María Villar, the interim president of UEFA, adjusted his suit jacket and nodded to his staff. His expression was one of solemn dignity; he knew he was about to crown history. Beside him, the UEFA delegates stood ready, medals glinting on their trays.
The referee's whistle had ended the game, but this ceremony was the punctuation mark—the moment when the night would be sealed in memory.
The announcer's voice boomed across the stadium, carrying through speakers that still crackled with static from the thunderous celebrations:
"Ladies and gentlemen… please welcome to the podium, the runners-up of the 2016 UEFA Champions League… Real Madrid!"
A ripple of applause swept the stadium. The Arsenal fans, to their credit, clapped for the fallen giants; even in their ecstasy, they knew respect was owed.
Madrid's players, weary and broken, gathered near their dugout. One by one, they trudged toward the stage. Ronaldo led them, his face carved from stone, the pain of defeat hidden beneath his famous mask of control. Ramos followed, head bowed, the captain's armband still tight around his arm but feeling heavier than iron. Behind them came Modrić, Bale, Marcelo, Kroos—all in silence, their boots dragging slightly across the grass.
They climbed the stairs slowly, each step a reminder of what they had lost. Villar offered a handshake, his eyes soft with sympathy, as each player accepted the silver medal placed around their neck. The medals gleamed, but to the Madrid men they might as well have been chains.
When Ronaldo's medal was slipped over his head, the cameras caught the flicker in his eyes. It was not self-pity, not entirely. It was fire. Already, you could see it—his mind turning, his hunger igniting, the unspoken promise that he would not let this be the last word.
Zidane, the coach who had lived this stage as a player, received his medal too. His face betrayed little, but his handshake with Villar lingered, a wordless vow to return.
When all the Madrid players had lined up, their medals hanging heavy on their chests, the applause rose again, respectful, bittersweet. Then, quietly, they descended the steps and returned to the pitch, slipping back into the shadows of defeat.
The announcer's voice rose once more.
"And now… the winners of the 2016 UEFA Champions League… Arsenal Football Club!"
The Arsenal end erupted. It was not just noise—it was a cataclysm. Red flares burst into the night, scarves waved like banners of conquest, and songs cascaded down in rolling waves. The players, arms around each other, broke into a jog toward the stage, their faces glowing, their bodies still trembling with adrenaline.
But before them came the officials—the men who had carried the weight of the match without the reward of glory. The referee and his assistants walked up the steps first, their faces weary but proud. Villar shook their hands firmly and placed medals around their necks. The crowd applauded, a rare moment of recognition for those who usually disappeared into anonymity.
Then came Arsène Wenger.
The cameras zoomed in on him, his silver hair shining under the lights, his suit slightly disheveled, his eyes still red from tears. He walked up the steps with Steve Bould at his side, followed by the rest of the coaching staff—the men who had lived in his shadow but never wavered in loyalty.
Villar clasped Wenger's hand warmly, his words lost to the noise, but the meaning clear as the gold medal slipped over the Frenchman's head. Wenger's fingers brushed it for a moment, almost reverent, before he stepped aside, allowing Bould and the rest to receive theirs. Each man held his medal like it was the culmination of years of sacrifice, of nights away from family, of doubts endured and silenced.
And then came the players.
One by one, they ascended the stage, faces split by grins, eyes shining with tears. Monreal kissed his medal the second it touched his neck. Koscielny clutched his like a lifeline, shaking Villar's hand with both of his own. Wilshere lifted his high to the Arsenal fans, who screamed his name in reply.
Özil, ever understated, simply smiled, bowed his head in thanks, and slipped aside. Alexis kissed the medal, then pointed up to the night sky as if offering it to something beyond himself. Giroud crossed himself and tapped the badge on his chest.
The medals came down the line, each player pausing, shaking hands, moving along. The Arsenal staff below the podium clapped furiously, chanting each name, their pride as unrestrained as the fans'.
And then there was one left.
Francesco.
The captain. The hero. The man of the night.
He walked up the steps slowly, the match ball still tucked under his arm, his every stride echoing with history. The stadium roared his name again, louder, louder, until it drowned out everything else.
Villar was smiling by the time Francesco reached him, shaking his hand with both of his own. The medal was slipped over his head, gleaming against his sweat-damp shirt. And then Villar turned, reached for the great silver trophy, and lifted it from its plinth.
The moment stretched.
The cameras zoomed in.
Villar handed the cup to Francesco.
The Arsenal captain gripped it with both hands, lifting it chest-high, staring at its gleaming curves. The weight was immense, the silver warm under the lights, its ears catching the glow of a thousand flashes. His teammates were already waiting at the front of the stage, their hands outstretched, their voices begging for him to raise it.
But Francesco did not move forward immediately.
Instead, he turned.
Wenger was standing a few feet back, his medal hanging, his hands clasped behind his back, watching his captain with an expression of quiet awe. He looked like a man who had wandered into a dream and was afraid to wake up.
Francesco caught his eye, and with a wide, trembling smile, called out over the din:
"Boss! This is yours. Come, lift it with me."
The words cut through the storm. Wenger's eyes widened, his lips parting in disbelief. For a moment, he shook his head, almost refusing—this was the players' moment, not his. But Francesco stepped toward him, trophy in hand, and offered it like an oath.
The players behind shouted, "Yes, boss! Come on, boss!" Their voices rose with the crowd, urging him forward.
Wenger hesitated only a heartbeat longer, then finally stepped forward. Francesco placed one hand of the trophy into Wenger's trembling grasp, keeping the other on the opposite handle. Their eyes met—player and manager, captain and father figure, hero and dreamer.
And together, they lifted it.
The San Siro shook. The Arsenal fans exploded in joy, flares blazing, scarves thrown into the air, songs roaring so loud they drowned out thought. Red and white confetti burst from the machines, cascading like a storm of fireflies, catching in the lights, sticking to hair and sweat and tears.
On that stage, Wenger and Francesco stood side by side, hoisting the great silver cup above their heads, their teammates piling in around them, hands raised, voices hoarse with triumph. Because for the first time in their history, Arsenal were Champions of Europe.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 17 (2015)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, 2015/2016 Community Shield, 2015/2016 Premier League, 2015/2016 FA Cup and 2015/2016 Champions League
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 60
Goal: 82
Assist: 10
MOTM: 8
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9