GRANDMAESTA_30
patreon
Chapter 16: Where It All Began
🕑 Added 2025-05-14 15:18:05 +0000 UTCThe next day, the Arsenal squad departed for Manchester.
Kai stood by, watching the first-team players dressed in sharp training kits, ready to board the bus.
Chamberlain caught his eye—his hair was slicked back with wax.
Chamberlain looked mighty pleased with himself as he stepped on the bus, full of swagger.
Kai muttered under his breath, “Good luck out there.”
Once the first team had gone, only a handful of substitutes remained at the training ground—players who hadn’t made the matchday squad.
Kai didn’t pay them much attention. Instead, he headed straight for the equipment room to continue his strength training.
He was working towards a target: 80 kilograms, with enough bulk and power to stand his ground on the pitch, plus the necessary ball control.
According to Pat’s plan, Kai was expected to reach his goal by Christmas.
Both of them were committed to the process.
After a long day at the training ground, Kai didn’t stay behind for extra drills. Instead, he went straight back to Billy’s house.
Billy was already waiting for him at the door. After a quick change upstairs, the two headed out towards London.
It was a 45-minute drive from the facility to central London, and they chatted along the way.
Billy shared his thoughts on the upcoming match.
“I think Arsenal can repeat last year’s feat,” he said. “Beat United 1-0 at Old Trafford again.”
Kai didn’t respond. He simply stared out the car window, lost in thought.
It had been three months since he joined Arsenal, but apart from a quick trip through the city when he first arrived, he hadn’t seen much of London.
Naturally, he was curious. This was one of the most iconic cities in the world, after all.
But he had resisted the urge to explore, choosing instead to focus on training.
Their destination was a place called Dale Square in the Woolwich district of London—though it’s now more commonly called Woolwich Square.
Technically, while people refer to London as a “city,” it isn’t classified as a city in England’s administrative system. Rather, it’s one of the two sub-districts under Greater London.
Greater London, in turn, is one of England’s first-level administrative divisions. It includes the City of London and 32 boroughs—33 areas in total.
Greenwich is one of those boroughs, and Woolwich lies within it.
Today, Arsenal is one of the Premier League’s most prestigious clubs, considered a footballing giant.
But that wasn’t always the case.
In the mid-19th century, workers at the Royal Arsenal in Woolwich—a weapons factory—formed a football club.
Because their meeting point was in Dale Square, they named the club after it: Dale Square.
That was the beginning of Arsenal.
As the club grew and its first real financial backer arrived, it rebranded as Arsenal and relocated from Woolwich to Highbury, in North London.
At the time, Woolwich was considered a suburban backwater. It made sense from a business and sporting perspective to move.
But for many diehard fans, the decision was heartbreaking.
They tried to oppose the move but failed.
To this day, some still refer to Arsenal as Woolwich Arsenal or simply Woolwich, honoring the club’s roots.
These are a unique group of supporters. They don’t attend games at the Emirates, but they call themselves Arsenal’s true fans. They follow everything about the club.
That’s why people often say: “If you want to see the real Arsenal, go to Woolwich.”
Over the years, the area has transformed from a quiet suburb into a bustling district.
At the heart of Woolwich Square stands a large sign:
“This is Woolwich—Dale Square, where it all began.”
To the left, a lively pedestrian street stretched out, lit up by neon signs.
It was crowded with people, and here and there, Kai spotted fans wearing Arsenal shirts. But more noticeable were the black jerseys worn by another group.
Their crest was different from the current one.
Instead of the modern logo, these jerseys bore a shield with three upturned cannons and decorative leaves on either side.
Kai eyed them curiously.
Billy noticed and said, “That’s the original club crest. Most folks around here still support Arsenal, but they’re not too keen on Wenger’s version of the team.”
Kai nodded.
He had heard similar complaints—some long-time fans felt the club had lost its edge.
The team played attractive football, but crumbled in high-pressure moments. Mental toughness was in short supply.
That sentiment had only grown stronger after Vieira left.
It was alive and well here, too.
They walked further down the buzzing street before Billy stopped in front of a bar.
It was called the Oak Bar, and a sign outside read:
Arsenal fans only tonight.
Billy pushed open the door and led Kai inside. The place was packed and noisy, thick with smoke.
Kai wrinkled his nose and waved a hand in front of his face.
Billy made his way to the bar and called out to a stocky middle-aged man, “Kelvin! A strong whisky!”
The man was bald, broad-shouldered, and wore a vest that showed off his tattooed biceps. On one arm, a battery symbol—the old Arsenal logo—was inked clearly.
Only die-hard fans went that far.
And this die-hard hadn’t been to the Emirates in years.
As Billy explained, they did watch home matches—just not since Wenger took over.
Wenger had tried to mend the bond with this group, but nothing came of it. Eventually, he gave up.
That cold relationship had lasted nearly a decade.
“I hope you’re calling a cab after this one,” Kai heard someone say.
Kelvin gave a wry grin. “I’ve heard enough of Elena’s yelling. Don’t worry.”
Billy chuckled and raised his glass. “I never drink and drive!”
Kai squinted. Sure looks like borderline drunk-driving to me…
Billy turned to introduce him. “This is our new member!”
Kelvin raised his eyebrows. “We haven’t had a new one in a while. Asian? Fantastic—we don’t care where you’re from, as long as you’re a Gooner.”
He slid a pint of beer across the counter toward Kai. “On the house!”
“Hey, hey, hold up!” Billy quickly interjected. “He’s only seventeen—and he’s a player!”
Kelvin froze. “Arsenal player?”
Billy nodded.
Kelvin narrowed his eyes. “You know our rule. No softies allowed.”
“He’s not like the others,” Billy said, dead serious.
They locked eyes for a moment, then Kelvin gave a short nod. “Alright. I’ll keep an eye on him.”
Then he raised his voice: “Alright, everyone, we’ve got a recruit! Beers are on me tonight!”
The bar erupted with cheers.
“Long live the Meadows!” the crowd roared.
Kelvin grinned and extended his hand. “Kelvin Meadows. Leader of the Black Jersey supporter group.”
Kai’s eyes widened slightly.
Kelvin Meadows?
Isn’t he the guy who co-founded the Black Scarf Movement later?
That protest group would eventually help push Wenger out, over weak performances, rising ticket prices, and frustration with the board.
They’d marched from Highbury to the Emirates by the thousands.
Some even called Meadows the man who forced Wenger out and pried open the wallet of Arsenal’s tight-fisted owner.
Kai quickly composed himself and reached out to shake his hand.
“My name is Le K—”
“He’s Lucky!” Billy interrupted gleefully.
Kai’s face turned red. “Don’t go giving people nicknames without asking!”
Meadows laughed heartily. “Lucky? Not bad! Let’s hope you bring some luck to Arsenal.”
Kai sighed. If this keeps up, that nickname might stick.
In the end, Meadows poured him a glass of juice and handed over a straw.
By now, the energy in the bar was electric.
The TV mounted on the wall switched to live coverage.
At Old Trafford, the players were warming up.
“Let’s show United what we’re made of!” someone shouted.
“We did the double over them last season—let’s do it again!”
Kai watched silently. The passion here reflected the optimism of the broader Arsenal fanbase.
But they didn’t know what was coming.
Arsenal started strong, but their aggression earned them an early yellow. Arshavin fouled high up the pitch—his reward was a caution.
That foul ignited Manchester United’s fury.
In the 22nd minute, Anderson set up Welbeck for the opening goal.
The bar went silent.
Then, in the 26th minute, Evans and Ashley Young cut down Arsenal’s counterattack with fierce tackles.
Walcott was taken out hard—he rolled on the ground, clutching his leg.
Both sides crowded in, tempers flared, and a scuffle nearly broke out before being diffused.
But something felt off.
Despite being fouled, the Arsenal players looked timid, even apologetic.
They were getting pushed around.
Kelvin Meadows’ face darkened.
“This is what we’ve become? No backbone. No grit,” he muttered. “No real fighters under Wenger anymore.”
