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Chapter 165: Run The Nerves Off
🕑 Added 2025-10-03 15:25:07 +0000 UTCAs the final whistle echoed around Old Trafford, the result was sealed. Ninety minutes plus injury time had passed, and Manchester United had failed to find a way through.
Arsenal had done it—again. A 1–0 victory away from home, completing a rare and precious league double over their old rivals.
On Sky Sports, Martin Taylor’s voice carried the weight of the moment:
“Manchester United beat here at Old Trafford. A single goal settles it, and Arsenal claim the double over United in the league this season. That is a massive statement from Wenger’s side.”
Alan Smith followed, his tone more reflective: “It tells you everything about where these two clubs are right now. Last season, with practically the same squad, Sir Alex Ferguson had United marching to the title. Fast forward a few months under David Moyes, and they look… disjointed, almost ordinary. It’s hard to imagine we’re talking about the reigning champions.”
The post-match discussion grew sharper.
“There are just too many problems,” Taylor continued. “From the boardroom to the dressing room, you sense disunity everywhere. United have lost that old resilience, that instinct of rising to the occasion.”
Smith didn’t disagree. “And you know what, Martin? At times, watching them, I get the sense decisions are being made off the pitch with commercial gains in mind rather than footballing ones. It’s a club still massive in name, but on the pitch tonight, Arsenal was the side that looked hungrier, sharper, more together.”
Then the focus turned, naturally, to the Gunners.
“Credit where it’s due—Arsenal deserve enormous recognition,” Taylor said. “They’ve steadied themselves brilliantly. Two wins and two draws from their last four, against tricky opponents, is exactly the kind of form you need heading into the business end of the season.”
Smith added, almost with admiration: “You can sense something different in this Arsenal side. They have brought last season’s swagger, that belief, and built on it. Wenger’s men look more mature this year. And at the heart of it all—you guessed it—is Kai. Three seasons in now, and the kid who arrived as a raw prospect has turned into their midfield cornerstone.”
“Defensively, he’s a wall,” Taylor said. “But don’t overlook what he offers in attack. His passing range, his vision, even his willingness to shoot from distance—it’s all part of why Arsenal have grown this year.”
The pair exchanged knowing glances as the broadcast replayed Kai’s key interventions from the night.
“World-class? You wouldn’t get many arguments if you labelled him that,” Smith concluded.
…
For Arsenal fans, the result was more than three points—it was vindication. Just a few years earlier, the painful memory of that infamous 8–2 thrashing at Old Trafford had haunted them. Now, with a double over United, the narrative had changed. Arsenal was on the rise again, reclaiming pride and momentum.
In the Oak Bar, the celebrations painted the picture perfectly. Beer stains, shattered bottles, and cigarette smoke clung to the air long after the final whistle.
Billy, glass in hand and cigarette dangling from his lips, leaned back with a grin. “Double over United… can you believe it? That’s proper Arsenal, mate!” His words slurred with joy, his voice almost floating above the din.
Meadows, sweeping broken glass into a pan, wasn’t any less cheerful but played devil’s advocate. “Kai’s class, no doubt about it. Defensively, he’s immense. But to be the super core? He’s not there yet. Not quite.”
Billy nodded, though his eyes still shone with conviction. “Fair enough, but you can see it coming, can’t you? He’s already taking on more responsibility, organising, dictating the tempo. It’s only a matter of time before he’s the absolute core. You can feel it.”
The two men laughed, but quickly turned the conversation forward.
“Got your ticket for Bayern yet?” Billy asked, suddenly serious.
“I tried. Only two thousand away tickets allocated. It’s a lottery.” Meadows rolled his eyes. “What about you?”
Billy smirked, tapping his nose. “I’ve got… channels.”
Meadows’ eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me—you’ve been begging Kai again for spares?”
“Begging? No. Asking a mate? Maybe.” Billy shrugged innocently.
Meadows broke into laughter. “Then you’re asking for me as well. I’m not missing Munich!”
That was the thing: tickets had become gold dust. Home games were covered thanks to season passes, but away days were another story. And Arsenal fans, smelling the scent of revival, didn’t want to miss a single chapter.
Then came the inevitable nerves.
Bayern Munich in the Champions League Round of 16.
“Do you really think we’ve got a chance?” Billy asked, his earlier bravado slipping. “That’s Bayern—last year’s champions. They’re a machine.”
Meadows, though, stayed calm, almost cocky. “Why not? Football isn’t just about squads on paper. If it were, the richest team would win every year. It’s about form, tactics, and moments. Bayern are strong, yes, but they’re not untouchable.”
He ticked off Arsenal’s advantages on his fingers. “Our chemistry’s sharp, we’ve only got Vermaelen out injured, and don’t forget—we’ve got Kai to shadow Robben. That alone could change the balance.”
Billy chuckled nervously.
Meadows, stealing a sip of Billy’s beer before finishing, said with a flourish. “Look, Ribéry’s out injured—that’s huge. Bayern without Ribéry isn’t the same. Götze’s good, but that left-right partnership with Robben that Bayern thrived on? Broken. If Wenger gets his tactics right and Kai locks down Robben, we’re in this tie. So why be afraid? Chin up! We have a chance.”
Arsenal, for their part, had already begun rehearsing tactical drills at London Colney. Bayern were the benchmark, the champions of Europe, but there was a quiet, growing belief that this Arsenal side could stand toe-to-toe.
The news from Germany was mixed. Ribéry was sidelined, but Schweinsteiger had returned to training. A blow and a boost all at once.
...
On February 18th, after Arsenal’s final training session before their European trip, Wenger gathered the squad at the edge of the training pitch. His expression was calm but firm, the kind that immediately silenced the players around him.
“Tomorrow,” he began, his French accent sharpening every word, “we fly to Germany. Our opponent—Bayern Munich. The very team that knocked us out of the Champions League last season.”
The atmosphere shifted instantly. The players who had lived through that painful night looked especially tense, their faces hardening at the memory. For Kai, the reminder stung. He could still recall the helplessness, the sight of the scoreboard, and the bitter walk back down the tunnel in Munich.
Wenger’s tone, however, quickly turned from heavy to commanding.
“We will not fall in the same place twice, nor bow to the same opponent again. I believe in this team. You are in excellent form, you’ve grown stronger, sharper, more resilient. We can beat Bayern Munich.”
He raised his voice, his hands cutting through the cold evening air.
“Believe in yourselves. Sleep well tonight, and tomorrow we travel to the Allianz Arena—not to relive our defeat, but to take back what was taken from us. Last year, we lost our way to the Champions League there. This year, we find it again—with our own hands!”
There was a pause, the kind that lingers after a rallying cry. Then Wenger clapped his hands once.
“Now—disband!”
The players filed back to the dressing room, some buzzing, others quiet in reflection.
Inside, Kai was changing out of his kit when he noticed Chamberlain hovering nearby. The young winger wore an uneasy look, fiddling with his wrist tape.
Kai looked at him with a half-smile. “What’s with that face? If you’ve got something to say, spit it out. Don’t just stand there looking like you’re about to burst.”
Chamberlain grimaced, almost embarrassed. “I’m… a bit nervous.”
Kai chuckled, shaking his head. He knew why. Chamberlain had been handed a key role in the tactical setup for Bayern—a surprise weapon, someone whose pace could stretch their back line. It was a massive opportunity, but also a heavy weight for a young player to carry.
“So how do you usually deal with pressure?” Chamberlain asked, eyes hopeful. He had noticed that Kai rarely seemed rattled, whether it was his debut, last season’s clash with United, or even those high-stakes derbies.
Kai raised his eyebrows. “You really want to know?”
Chamberlain nodded eagerly.
Kai straightened up, stopped pulling on his jumper, and jerked his head toward the exit. “Alright then. Follow me.”
Something in his tone made Chamberlain suspicious, but he obeyed.
Minutes later, Chamberlain was sprawled across the training pitch like a man who had just gone twelve rounds in the ring. His chest heaved violently, sweat pouring down his face as he gasped for breath.
“Hhhhuuuh… I—I can’t… I can’t run anymore!” he croaked.
Kai jogged up beside him, looking far too relaxed for someone who had just dragged his teammate through a punishing set of sprints.
“So,” he asked, crouching down with a grin, “still feeling nervous?”
Chamberlain’s only answer was to clutch his stomach and groan. “Yeah… all the pressure’s right here. I think I’m gonna puke—ugh!”
He ended dry heaving, nothing in the tummy.
Kai laughed, giving him a pat on the shoulder. “Good. Go home, take a hot bath, and you’ll sleep like a baby. Trust me, best cure for nerves there is.”
Chamberlain rolled onto his back, pale and exhausted. “What kind of cure is this? Worst idea ever…”
Kai cupped a hand to his ear dramatically. “What was that? Louder, I can’t hear you!”
“I said—” Chamberlain wheezed, waving his arms like a surrendering soldier, “I want to go home! Just take me home!”
Kai helped him up while laughing as Chamberlain groaned again.
