Across another broadcast, two analysts were mid-argunt over whether Arsenal’s sextuple ant they were now the best side of the decade.
A clip of Odegaard hoisting the trophy cut between them as they talked over each other.
"Look at the numbers," the older pundit insisted.
"Look at their margin of victory, the way they handled their dostic run, Europe, everything. It’s ingenuity, and when you have multiple players that understand what the coach is trying to get across, this is what you get. Whether they are the best side of the decade, I do not think so."
"Would you like to make known why?" the host threw the question back to the first pundit.
"Well, first of all, Barcelona scored a lot of goals. Arsenal did too, but it ca from just a singular source. Izan alone had 46 goals in the Premier League, and the Arsenal player with the next most was Saka, with 14, followed by Martinelli with 11 and Havertz with 10. He was also the top assister, breaking Henry and De Bruyne’s assist record of 20 by 3 more. This ans that over 60 per cent of Arsenal’s total goals and assists for the season were made by Izan.
"In Barca’s Sextuple, ssi was indispensable, but still Eto was their top scorer, with 30, followed by ssi with 23 and then Henry with 19. 3 of their players made up the top six, so you can imagine."
"They’ve built a monster," the younger one replied with a nod.
"A modern one. Fluid, young, balanced everywhere. Even the players they rotated in last night looked like they belonged in that starting eleven. And this window, they have revamped, trying to fix any weak link, and as they have started, I do not really see any."
On a morning radio show, the host read out a list of viewer ssages celebrating the win.
One text said, "They couldn’t believe they had lived to see the club lift a Club World Cup trophy and two European trophies in one year."
And the next wrote, Thank you, Izan.
The discussion moved smoothly into whether Arsenal could keep their montum, and if this marked the beginning of a long-term era or the peak of a perfect season.
The panel laughed softly when a caller shouted that they would "win everything again next year," but no one really dismissed it.
By midday, a major sports network aired a full panel special titled The Rise of Arsenal.
Behind the pundits, a graphic displayed all six trophies lined in a row, with confetti drifting lazily across the screen.
One of the guests leaned back in his chair, arms folded, as the host ntioned the feat again.
"Third club in history to do it," the host said. "And they did it with a six-one in the final."
He exhaled, almost in disbelief.
"It has been total domination," he said.
"That’s the truth of it. And now that they’ve tasted this, a team that’s gone nearly twenty years starving for sothing major will only get hungrier. This isn’t a finish line for them. It looks like a starting point and........."
"Haaaaahh!!" Bukayo sighed before leaning back in his chair.
He had angled his phone against the armrest, not bothering with headphones while the plane humd around him, steady and soft, but the voices coming from the device filled the little pocket of space he’d carved out for himself, with all the voices being news of their triumph the night before.
Saka grinned at it, almost proud of the headline’s confidence, but before he could lean into the next one, a hand smacked the back of his head.
Not hard, but enough to jolt him forward.
"What the hell," Saka muttered, rubbing the spot while Nwaneri slid into the space beside him, shaking his head like a disappointed parent.
"Turn that off. You’re acting like you didn’t play in the ga. If you watch too much of that stuff, it’ll get to your head."
Saka gave him a slow side-eye while turning up the volu in annoyance.
"Every man enjoys the fruit of his labour. It’s in the Bible. So let enjoy my fruit."
Nwaneri blinked at him. "You’re quoting Scripture now, yeah?"
"Only when it helps ."
Before Nwaneri could respond, Izan walked back into the aisle from the bathroom, adjusting the sleeve of his track top.
He caught only the tail end of the exchange, but that was more than enough.
"The Bible also says you should be humble," he said, passing by with a smug look on his face that he knew would get a reaction out of the forr.
Saka clicked his tongue.
"Look at this guy. Quoting back at like he’s my pastor. Move on, man."
Izan lifted his hands in surrender with a small laugh, continuing toward his seat a few rows down.
"I’m just saying."
"You say too much," Saka called after him.
"Well, he’d say less if you kept your mouth and words to yourself," Nwaneri added, though he was smiling.
Saka ignored him and turned the volu up a touch more as the pundits shifted into another lively segnt.
Before long, a chi cut through the cabin as the pilot’s voice followed, warmly.
"Gentlen, we’ll be descending shortly. Please return to your seats and fasten your belts. Cabin crew, prepare for arrival."
A stewardess stepped into the aisle a mont later, offering a polite gesture with both hands.
"Seats, please. Belts fastened."
The aisle started to settle after words as the players began to prepare for the landing.
The mont the players stepped out into the cool air outside Heathrow’s arrivals hall, the noise rose in a wave.
It wasn’t a massive crowd, but it was far more than anyone expected for early afternoon on a Monday morning.
A cluster of fans had gathered behind the barriers, so in jerseys, so in shirts and ties and a few holding takeaway coffees like they had sprinted here with whatever was still in their hands.
One man in a grey suit adjusted his tie like he regretted wearing it, then raised his phone and shouted, "I’m on my lunch break for this!"
Saka pointed at him right away.
"You ca on your lunch break? You’re a legend."
The fans around them laughed, and the suited man grinned as Saka moved closer.
"Co on, let’s get a picture before your boss calls," Saka said.
The man shoved his briefcase under his arm and posed, still half out of breath as the players around them cracked up, and a few more quick photos followed before security gently ushered the squad toward the exit.
A couple of minutes of handshakes, selfies, shirts being held up for signatures, and waves from the younger boys kept the mood bright.
When the staff finally eased them toward the waiting bus, the cheering llowed into a warm sendoff.
The bus door closed, and the noise outside faded.
It didn’t take long for the Emirates to co into sight.
The stadium’s shape rose above the streets like a landmark that belonged equally to the city and to them as the bus rolled to a stop outside the entrance, and the players stepped out.
Inside, the building felt quieter than usual.
The hallways held that echo you only heard when matchday noise wasn’t filling every corner.
As they rounded a turn, two figures waited at the far end.
Josh Kroenke stood with his hands in his pockets, smiling before anyone reached him.
Beside him was Andrea Berta, watching the group approach with a look that followed each of them carefully.
"Congratulations, all of you," Josh said once they were close enough.
"That was sothing special."
The players shook hands, exchanged a few words, and then Odegaard stepped forward with the trophy held carefully in both hands.
It glimred under the corridor lights as he offered it to Josh.
"This one goes with the rest, yeah?" Odegaard said.
Josh accepted it, pretending the weight was more than it was.\
"At this rate, I’m going to need a chiropractor. My back can’t take lifting all these trophies onto shelves."
The room burst into laughter as Josh set the trophy on a display cart beside him, then turned back to the squad with a softened and proud expression.
"This club and its fanbase have suffered, but you guys have finally brought it joy. You’ve erased a couple of decades’ worth of being told we can’t win anything. Today, we can proudly say that we are the first English club to win the sextuple."
The players clapped at that before seizing a mont later.
"You’ve done well. All of you. Go ho, get so rest, spend ti with your people, and wait for your bonuses."
The players laughed again, so louder than before, because Josh’s eyes had shifted toward Nwaneri for the last line.
Nwaneri, who had been standing quietly until then, groaned and covered his face as his teammates nudged him from both sides.
"Don’t start," he muttered, trying and failing to stop a smile.
"You asked him last ti, bro," soone behind him whispered.
"And you’re about to ask again," another added, shoving him lightly.
Josh chuckled and waved them off before Berta stepped forward to offer his own brief congratulations.
The group thanked them, then drifted down the corridor toward the exit, leaving a soft trail of laughter behind them as they made their way out.
User Comments
0 comments from readers