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Chapter 106: FA Cup Final 5
🕑 Added 2025-07-27 15:14:25 +0000 UTCWembley Stadium, London.
Penalty Shootout
At Arsenal’s technical area, the players sat together, forming a tense circle. Fatigue was written all over their faces.
All eyes were on Arsène Wenger.
After carefully observing the players’ condition, Wenger finalized the penalty list.
“The order for our first five takers will be Arteta, Koscielny, Ramsey, Suarez, and Cazorla,” he announced.
Then, after a brief pause, he added, “If we go beyond that, it’ll be Kai, then Arshavin.”
A few heads turned.
Kai being placed in the sixth round wasn’t expected. That stage—sudden death—is just as high-pressure as the first or fifth kick, if not more.
According to penalty shootout rules, if the score remains tied after five rounds, it enters sudden death: miss once, and if the opposition scores, it’s all over.
In this context, Kai’s placement was critical. He’d be the bridge between survival and elimination.
While Wenger finalized the list, goalkeeping coach Gerry Payton and Lehmann were off to the side, giving Szczesny his final words of advice.
“Listen,” Payton said seriously, “in penalty shootouts, the mental side is everything. Trust yourself. The moment you guess a direction, that’s where they’ll shoot!”
Szczesny nodded,
Lehmann continued, flipping through pages. “Watch out for Aguero, Silva, and Džeko.”
He pointed out tendencies.
“Džeko usually prefers the right. If you’re unsure, lean that way.”
“Aguero and Silva? Be careful—they like going for the cheeky chip.”
As final preparations wrapped up, both sides gathered around the center circle. Eleven players from each team stood shoulder-to-shoulder, while their goalkeepers jogged toward their respective goals.
Then came the referee, ball in hand.
The air at Wembley turned cold and quiet.
More than 60,000 fans stood still. Some covered their mouths, others clutched their scarves tightly. A few simply shut their eyes whilst others turned their backs, unable to watch.
One round at a time. No replays. No second chances. Penalty shootout—football’s cruelest test.
Kai stood near the edge of the center circle with the rest of the Arsenal squad, shoulders touching, arms draped over each other.
He could feel the nerves eating away inside.
The coin toss went to Manchester City—they would shoot first.
First round:
Manchester City: Aguero
Arsenal: Arteta
Aguero stepped up, no eye contact, no theatrics. Just silence.
Martin Taylor on Sky Sports:
“Manchester City’s first penalty... Sergio Aguero steps forward. The Argentine has a chance to put pressure on Arsenal.”
Aguero fired low and hard to the bottom left.
Szczesny guessed correctly but was half a beat late. The ball scraped past the post and into the net.
“Damn it!” Szczesny growled, slamming the turf.
City drew first blood.
Arteta approached the other end. Calm. Composed. As the whistle blew, he chipped the ball down the center—a bold Panenka.
Alan Smith:
“Lovely touch from Arteta! He’s sent Joe Hart the wrong way. The captain leads by example.”
Second round:
Manchester City: Džeko
Arsenal: Koscielny
Džeko blasted his shot, but it cannoned off the post.
Missed!
Joe Hart followed up with a brilliant save on Koscielny’s strike. Still 1–1.
Kai stood with his arms folded, heart pounding. Beside him, Arshavin muttered under his breath.
“I’ve got a bad feeling this is heading for sudden death.”
“Shut it,” Kai snapped, not even turning to look.
Arshavin had jinxed it.
Third round:
Silva tried a chip. Szczesny read it like a book and caught it.
Ramsey’s penalty was too tame. Saved easily.
Still 1–1.
You could feel the tension in every corner of the stadium.
This was the closest Arsenal had come to a trophy in seven years. And now it hung in the balance.
Fourth round:
Nasri fired high and wide.
Suarez slotted his calmly.
The red side of Wembley erupted. Arsenal were ahead.
Szczesny pumped his fist and screamed, throwing taunts at Nasri. It rattled City.
But pressure worked both ways.
Fifth round:
City: Yaya Touré
Arsenal: Cazorla
If Yaya missed, Arsenal would win.
He didn’t.
Yaya smashed it into the inner side netting—no chance for Szczesny.
Now it was all on Cazorla.
Score, and Arsenal lift the trophy.
But Cazorla, under the weight of history, misfired. The ball curled too far, smashing off the post and spinning out.
The groans from Arsenal fans echoed across Wembley.
Szczesny buried his face in his gloves.
This was the chance. The moment.
Gone.
He said nothing. There was no time to dwell.
Because now… it was sudden death.
The next as decided by Wenger earlier—
Was Kai.
...
Gareth Barry stepped forward.
At that moment, the entire stadium held its breath.
This was it—the kind of pressure that turns legs to jelly. One kick could decide the FA Cup final.
Barry started his run-up.
Szczesny faked left, then suddenly dove right.
His instincts said left... but he went right.
He guessed correctly.
The ball clipped his glove and spun wide!
ROAAAAR!!
Szczesny dropped to his knees, pounding his chest and roaring in triumph. Once again, he’d dragged Arsenal back from the brink.
Martin Taylor, visibly excited, exclaimed on Sky Sports,
“Barry misses! A massive save from Wojciech Szczesny! This could be it!”
Chaos. Absolute chaos in the Arsenal's stand. The City stand had gone quiet as a church mouse.
Alan Smith leaned forward, squinting at the screen.
“Let’s see who’s stepping up for Arsenal next…”
The camera cut to the stadium jumbotron.
A young Asian face appeared.
Stunned silence.
“…Kai?!” Taylor raised his eyebrows. “Well, no surprises there. This is the same Kai who scored that cheeky chip against Neuer in the Champions League quarterfinals!”
Wembley hushed.
All eyes were on Kai as he stepped out from the halfway line and walked toward the penalty spot.
You could almost hear a pin drop. Even the fans seemed unsure whether to cheer or pray.
But Kai knew he had to block it all out. This was about composure.
One goal.
One trophy.
End a seven-year drought.
The referee leaned in with a quiet word.
“Wait for the whistle, alright?”
Kai nodded, focused.
Martin Taylor spoke with gravity,
“This is it. Arsenal’s entire season... maybe more than that... rests on this one moment.”
Alan Smith added,
“Look at the bench and the center circle—every player’s down on one knee. Even Wenger is biting his nails. I’ve not seen him this tense in years.”
“The fans can barely watch. Everything they’ve dreamed of for seven years is now in the hands of a 19-year-old.”
...
Joe Hart stood tall in goal, pacing like a caged animal.
“Hey! I know where you're going with this one!” Hart taunted. “I'm not Neuer. I've studied you, mate!”
He kept chirping.
“You miss, you’re the villain. It’s all on you!”
Kai didn’t flinch.
He simply looked up and said,
“I can chip it, you know.”
He blinked.
Wait—was he bluffing? Or was he seriously thinking of a Panenka... in a final... at 19?
Hart suddenly wasn’t so sure of anything anymore.
Meanwhile, Kai calmly took his steps back, ignoring the mind games.
Hart swayed from side to side on the line.
BEEP!
The whistle blew.
Kai approached slowly at first, then accelerated. Every step landed like a drumbeat inside the hearts of Arsenal fans.
Suddenly, he halted.
That tiny pause felt like an eternity.
Hart, half-committed to diving right, froze awkwardly, legs locked.
Kai planted his left foot and struck with his right—low and fast.
The ball pinged off the right post…
And bounced —
