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Chapter 156: Here We Go Again
🕑 Added 2025-09-24 15:22:30 +0000 UTCArsenal have carried their fearless form deep into the second half of the league campaign.
As Arsène Wenger has made clear, the goal is no longer a top-four finish—this team wants the title.
However, while the domestic chase intensifies, Europe has delivered a familiar twist of fate.
The Champions League round-of-16 draw paired Arsenal with Bayern Munich—again.
Last season’s exit still stings: a first-leg defeat in Germany left the Gunners too much to do in the Emirates. Many pundits argued that the side was strong enough to reach at least the quarter-finals, perhaps even the semis, had they drawn anyone else.
When Brazilian great Kaka reached into the bowl and pulled out the ball containing the paper with the Arsenal crest, a ripple of laughter and groans rolled through the hall.
“Enemies meet on a narrow road,” someone muttered. Lightning had struck twice.
From the neutrals' perspective, it looked like bad luck for Arsenal, but just as many whispered that Bayern might be the ones unfortunate here. Among the group runners-up, the Gunners are easily the most dangerous draw—a landmine in red and white, one German reporter sighed.
Major European outlets splashed the headline:
Gunners vs Bayern: The Rematch.
Wenger v Guardiola.
Power against Possession.
Back in London, Wenger immediately set his sights on preparation.
He stationed Walcott and Chamberlain wide, using their pace to spear quick counters off Kai’s raking diagonal passes. Training ground runs turned into sprints of pure chaos, the pair tearing behind the back line like untethered racehorses.
Wenger also anchored Kai firmly at the base of midfield. Against Bayern, the young midfielder would be the shield and the launchpad, rarely straying beyond his own half.
Pat Rice watched a session from the touchline and exhaled.
“Guardiola’s Bayern,” he said, shaking his head. “They’re a nightmare to break down.”
Wenger’s reply was calm, almost casual.
“I actually felt they were more dangerous last season under Heynckes.”
Pat raised an eyebrow.
“We have a chance,” Wenger added, eyes narrowing with a hint of a smile.
“Pep is a fine coach, but he’s only a season into this project. He’s brought the possession style, yes, but there’s no settled starting eleven. That hurts stability.”
Pat frowned.
“Didn’t he rotate at Barcelona and still keep it rock-solid?”
“Barcelona had a fixed core,” Wenger said, “even if the faces around it changed. Bayern’s different. They’re juggling injuries, rotating their midfield, and their centre-backs have lapses. Compared to last year, they feel…beatable.”
Pat wasn’t entirely convinced.
“On paper, they’re stronger everywhere except maybe midfield.”
Wenger nodded.
“True. But if we control the middle, we control the match. I trust Cazorla against Kroos. And the key, of course, is Kai. His tackling and interceptions can break their rhythm, and his long passing can spring Walcott or Chamberlain before Bayern resets.”
Pat let out a wry laugh.
“So it all comes down to Cazorla and Kai—and a bit of luck?”
“Perhaps,” Wenger said, smiling. “But fortune favours the brave.”
Wenger exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the pitch.
“There’s really no other way,” he said at last. “If we’re to get any advantage at all, it has to be through the midfield.”
Pat Rice gave a small nod. Both men fell silent, watching Kai tear into the substitute side with a string of perfectly timed tackles. Their expressions mixed pride with a hint of worry.
Pat finally muttered, half-amused, half-concerned.
“At this rate, Jack’s going to lose his head.”
On cue, Jack Wilshere flung himself down on the grass like a frustrated schoolboy.
“That’s it—I’m done!” he barked.
Eight attempted dribbles. Eight failures. Five intercepted passes. His face was red with equal parts effort and embarrassment.
Rosicky stood nearby, hands on his hips, offering only a helpless shake of the head.
For Wilshere, it felt like trying to break through a vault door. Last season, Kai’s defensive wall had the occasional gap—slim enough for a clever player of enough speed to slip through.
This year? Every seam had been welded shut.
Even Rosicky, rarely Kai’s direct target, found himself flinching whenever the midfielder closed in. The sheer anticipation in Kai’s movement was unsettling; his steals almost inevitable.
“Not playing anymore?” Kai asked lightly, stretching as if he’d barely broken a sweat. “I can do this all day..”
“Yeah, you are,” Wilshere grumbled. “The rest of us are ready for therapy.”
Kai only grinned. The hours of footwork drills and anticipation exercises were paying off. His timing, his balance—everything felt sharper. Since the Champions League draw, his form had spiked. He wasn’t sure how much he’d improved, but one thought kept flickering: Next time I face Robben, it’ll be different.
During the break, Suarez wandered over, water bottle in hand.
“Kai, we need to add a little variation,” he said.
“Variation?” Kai raised an eyebrow.
“Your passes lean to Walcott’s side. Good teams will see the pattern,” Suarez explained. “If we keep funnelling through Theo, they’ll box it off.”
“I can link with Cazorla,” Kai offered.
“Too slow,” Suarez replied, shaking his head. “By the time it reaches Santi and then comes forward, the moment’s gone.”
Kai said.
“So what’s your grand idea?”
Suarez flashed his buck teeth.
“Come to me earlier. Long diagonals, quick flicks—I’ll time the run. I’m no Walcott, but I can still beat a line if we spot the gap together.”
Kai laughed.
“So, more service for you. Should’ve just said that.”
“Call it tactics,” Suarez said with a shrug. “The more options we show, the harder we are to read.”
Kai dropped his bottle, nodding toward the training pitch.
“Alright then. Let’s test it.”
