The FA Cup Final (Part 1)
Following Allen's retirement ceremony, a lavish party was held to celebrate Luton Town's Championship title.
The venue was even more opulent than the one we had rented when securing promotion, with tables groaning under spreads of gourmet delicacies. Yet surprisingly, none of the players gorged themselves the way they had before. Having tasted silverware once, our hunger for the FA Cup burned hotter than ever. In that moment, I could finally understand why world-class players who collected trophies season after season never lost their insatiable appetite for more.
"Winning the league was incredible, but..."
"I want that FA Cup."
"Just one more win and we've got the Double. A bloody Double!"
Beyond the euphoria of lifting their first piece of silverware, the chance to etch another title onto their honors lists—and an antique, storied cup at that—kept everyone in check. Without a single word from the coaching staff, the squad exercised strict discipline over what they ate and drank. Another pressing reality loomed over us: a mere five days separated today's league finale from the FA Cup Final.
Five days might have sounded ample on paper, but tomorrow was earmarked for recovery training, and match day allowed no tactical drills whatsoever. In truth, we had fewer than three days to prepare.
Not that we're going in blind, of course...
Arsenal had maintained consistent Champions League qualification for nearly a decade, steadily reclaiming the prestige of the Arsène Wenger era. From the moment our final opponent was determined, the manager and coaching staff had dissected their tactical blueprint, running us through targeted drills. Even so, the sheer gulf in squad pedigree remained an undeniable reality. Having already crashed out of the Champions League, this fixture marked the end of the season for them just as it did for us. They were guaranteed to field their strongest possible eleven.
Not that any sane manager would rotate fringe players in a cup final anyway, but it underlined just how deadly serious both sides were about this clash.
And that was precisely why I was starting this final.
Unlike the possession-heavy 4-2-3-1 spearheaded by Lee Yeon, the classic 'Big and Small' 4-4-2 formed by Dominic and me was fine-tuned for devastating counterattacks.
"What's got you brooding like that?"
"...Nothing much. Just thinking."
"Is the food not to your liking?"
Lia had watched the players picking delicately at their plates with an initial look of worry, but upon hearing my explanation, she giggled softly, gazing at the team with unmistakable admiration.
"If that's the reason you're leaving food, by all means. Even if we had prepared twice as much, I couldn't possibly complain."
She was able to enjoy the festivities at an unhurried pace thanks to her father, Ernst Meyers, the true owner of Luton Town, who had paid a rare visit to the club.
"Though I suppose this freedom ends today. Now that Father has officially passed the club chairmanship to me, things will only get busier."
"Sounds like quite a burden."
"We'll be bringing on more staff, and besides, it's Luton Town—the club I love. I'll make sure everything gets done properly." Lia took a delicate sip from the beer can I handed her before turning her gaze back to me. "Honestly, I'm far more worried about you, Han."
"I'm always in peak condition."
"That's not what I mean. After the FA Cup, there's the bus parade and the civic festival. The moment that wraps up, you have to fly straight to Australia to prepare for the Olympics. And as soon as the tournament finishes, you're thrown right into the Premier League."
Hearing it laid out like that, the itinerary truly bordered on insanity. My pre-season was effectively non-existent.
"Anderson insisted you'd hold up fine, but anyone with common sense can see that's an absurd physical toll."
She was clearly dreading an injury. Accumulated fatigue was the quickest shortcut to breaking down.
"I'll see it through and come back in one piece."
Blessed with a frame that had never suffered a serious injury, coupled with the unique accelerated recovery that occurred whenever our consciousness swapped, I would be fine—provided no opponent came flying in with a malicious, career-ending hack.
"Can you promise me that?"
"I promise."
"Then please, come back unhurt. Luton Town would be in dire straits without you next season."
Evidently satisfied with my concise answer, she finished the rest of her beer and leaned closer, whispering softly.
"And once the FA Cup is over... make sure you save at least one day entirely for me."
The celebratory night deepened around us.
Before long, we were stepping out onto the hallowed turf of Wembley Stadium, the grand theater of the FA Cup Final.
"So how many people did you say showed up?"
"Every single seat sold out. Ninety thousand."
"..."
Forty-five thousand clad in orange, roaring their hearts out for Luton Town. Forty-five thousand draped in crimson, singing for Arsenal. Split precisely down the middle, ninety thousand supporters poured their voices into a deafening wall of sound.
"Feels like the entire population of Luton packed up and moved here."
Our home ground, Kenilworth Road, barely held over ten thousand spectators, and even then, empty patches occasionally dotted the stands. Yet today, half of this gargantuan colosseum was packed solid in orange. Just as Emir had marvelled, it felt as though every living soul from the neighborhoods around Kenilworth Road had made the journey.
"What're you lot shaking for? Once our stadium expansion finishes before next season, we'll be pulling in far bigger crowds than before, even if it won't quite match Wembley. Treat this as getting used to the big stage."
Teddy, wearing the captain's armband, strolled over with an easy grin, imparting words of veteran wisdom. With Allen having officially stepped into retirement, Teddy seemed acutely conscious of his status as the squad's senior statesman, eager to steady the ship.
"Aren't you nervous, Skip?"
"'Course I am. Who wouldn't be?" Teddy chuckled before his expression hardened with conviction. "Still, with all these people turning up just to back us, freezing up and failing to show what we can do would be an insult to every single one of them."
Whether his speech completely dissolved the team's nerves was hard to tell, but the collective tension loosened noticeably.
"Right, let's get out there."
Under the direction of match officials, we marched out of the tunnel and into Wembley Stadium—an arena dwarfing our home ground many times over. By sheer luck or fate, even the neutral seating sections adjacent to our dugout were overwhelmingly claimed by Luton supporters. We fanned out along the touchline, waving to the traveling fans, before lining up for the pre-match ceremonies. Hands were shaken, the coin tossed, and both teams dispersed to their respective halves.
"The FA Cup Final between Championship winners Luton Town and Arsenal, who secured fourth in the Premier League to punch their ticket back to the Champions League, is about to get underway!"
"Given the objective difference in squad pedigree, the pre-match atmosphere suggests Arsenal intend to storm forward the second the opening whistle blows."
"The sheer volume of the Gunners supporters certainly reflects that confidence—the momentum inside Wembley is tilting heavily toward North London."
"And yet, they cannot afford even a split-second of complacency, can they?"
"Precisely. Luton Town toppled a gauntlet of Premier League heavyweights to reach this stage. Their uncanny ability to bridge resource gaps through unorthodox tactical execution is something Arsenal dare not overlook."
"Both teams will want to lay everything on the line, as befits a cup final of this magnitude."
"The players take their positions..."
"Luton Town versus Arsenal! The curtain call of the English domestic season at Wembley Stadium—the FA Cup Final kicks off now!"
Arsenal kicked off, and we immediately compressed our two-line defense, ruthlessly suffocating the space inside the penalty box and sealing off the mid-range shooting lanes in front of it.
Not that Arsenal lacked dribblers capable of unpicking low blocks. Stationed on their left flank was Mart Bartstram—perhaps still a step shy of an outright world-class crack, but an exceptional dribbler by any Premier League standard. Unfortunately for him, our defenders had spent the entire season being dismantled in training day in and day out by Lee Yeon. Compared to Yeon's capricious footwork, Bartstram was a puzzle they knew how to solve.
"Bloody hell!"
Bartstram's attempted cut-back clipped Andre's outstretched boot and skipped out over the touchline. Thwarted in his dribble, the winger slammed the turf in frustration.
"Mate, he's way easier to stop than you," Wright yelled over.
"Right? We were sweating over nothing," Luke chimed in.
"Keep talking and watch him blow past you. Focus on the match, you idiots," I called out with a dry smirk, tracking back to mark the opposing fullback preparing for the throw-in.
A sequence of aerial duels ensued before the ball settled safely into the waiting gloves of our goalkeeper, Mathias Cole. Ten minutes of the first half had already flashed by. It was time to show them our brand of football.
"Luton Town absorbs Arsenal's press with remarkable composure, dictating the tempo!"
"This is precisely what makes Luton Town so fascinating. You look at their 4-4-2 sheet and expect a primitive kick-and-rush, but Gordon Morton's tactical identity shines right through here—calm buildup from the back paired with fluid positional interchanges."
"Mathias claims possession once more, and rolls it out directly to Giovanni Santos."
Receiving the pass, Giovanni dropped deep between our center-backs to form a makeshift back three. The subtle structural shift instantly loosened the grip of Arsenal's pressing front line. A deep-lying playmaker of his caliber was never one to squander that pocket of breathing room.
No words were needed. Every Luton Town player on the pitch knew with absolute certainty that he was about to launch a lofted diagonal ball forward.
"Luton Town surges forward in an instant!"
"Both fullbacks, the wingers, and the central attackers—everyone is breaking into an all-out sprint without hesitation!"
"Arsenal held their defensive line high—they have to scramble back now!"
To their credit, Arsenal executed a rapid defensive transition fitting of their elite pedigree. Unfortunately for them, recovering into position and dispossessing us were two entirely different matters.
Clocking the positions of their two center-backs, I contorted my frame in mid-air to win the aerial duel cleanly, using the impact to shatter the balance of the defender challenging me. The referee found himself awkwardly stranded between our bodies; using the official as an accidental shield, I pirouetted around him, shook off the remaining center-back, and struck the dropping second ball on the bounce, curling it diagonally forward with vicious spin.
The dipping ball swerved inches beyond the desperate lunge of Arsenal's fullback, Glenn, landing squarely in the stride of Mick, who was sprinting down the channel as if his life depended on it.
Reaching the ball just shy of the byline, Mick saw Glenn racing across to box him into the corner flag. Without breaking momentum, he chipped a scooped cross back into the danger area. Hovering near the right edge of the penalty box, Emir met the delivery on the volley, flicking it inside with a deft touch of his heel.
Seeing the ball float toward my chest as I charged into the box, I instinctively ducked my head, glancing it forward to alter its trajectory.
Waiting at the end of this lightning counterattack was Dominic. Thanks to Glenn being dragged out of position by Mick's run, Dominic stood completely onside, lurking unmarked mere yards from the net. He simply met the skipping ball with the side of his boot, smashing it past the keeper and rippling the nylon.
"A breathtaking counterattack and a clinical finish! Luton Town draws first blood against Arsenal!"
"Ignited from the holding midfield by Giovanni Santos, moving through Lee Han, Mick, Emir, back to Lee Han, and finished with poise by Dominic Moss!"
"Not a single player took more than two touches! It unfolded in the blink of an eye!"
"That final combination inside the penalty box between Emir, Lee Han, and Dominic was absolute footballing perfection!"
A goal born of pure artistry, struck against the very club that prided itself on beautiful football.
Up in the media gantry, the commentary team was in total raptures. Down on the touchline, Boss Gordon thrust both fists into the air, mouthing words of unrestrained praise.
I guess I can finally understand why Yeon hated playing against Middlesbrough so much.
Yeon had always obsessed over passes, fluid processes, and imposing dominance on the pitch. Even within the rigid framework of a 4-4-2, football could be played with this level of exhilarating flair. To someone like him, sides that blindly parked a ten-man bus and prayed for a single lucky counter—the so-called "one-click" football—must have looked utterly detestable.
Smiling at the thought, I sprinted after Dominic as he executed a triumphant knee slide toward the orange corner of the stands. Along with the rest of the charging squad, we clobbered him onto the grass, stifling whatever elaborate celebration he had planned under an avalanche of bodies. Lately, I had been the one scoring most of the goals and getting suffocated under dogpiles. It was high time someone else shared the burden.
"Get off me! Get off! I had a celebration ready, damn it!"
"Too late, mate!"
"Score another one and we'll let you do it!"
"Aaargh!"
Fortunately, Dominic's indignant shrieks were swallowed whole beneath the chorus of Arsenal boos and the deafening roar of the Luton Town supporters. Just moments ago, the red half of Wembley had held a tenuous edge in volume. Now, only the anthems of the Hatters echoed across the London sky.