FA Cup Final (3)

The moment I wrested possession away, only two choices remained: knock the ball into space and sprint for all I was worth, or play it safely backward.

I have to run.

Arsenal's full-backs had pushed deep into our half to support their attack, leaving the flanks completely vacant. It was the perfect scenario for a footrace. On top of that, the second Mart lost the ball, the Arsenal backline pushed up to execute the aggressive, suffocating high press they had relied on throughout the second half. Winning the ball back high up the pitch would allow them an immediate counter, but failure carried devastating ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠risk. The higher they pressed, the more gaping the acreage behind them became. Arsenal's goalkeeper wasn't known for an extraordinary sweeper-keeper range outside his penalty area, either. There was no better moment to kick and run.

Tap!

Controlling the ball with my feet was still an excruciatingly clumsy chore, but nudging it into empty green space wasn't shooting; it was well within my capabilities. The touch was heavier than I had intended, sending the ball rolling farther than planned, but that simply meant I had to run a little faster to catch it.

“Cut him off! Don't let him run!”

As I tore down the touchline, Barton's shrill, frantic voice carried clearly from the Arsenal technical area. Unfortunately for him, there was no one on their left flank capable of halting my momentum. Leaving their left midfielder in the dust through sheer pace, I sprinted flat out and dragged the ball to a halt just inches before it rolled out for a goal kick.

Because my heavy touch had carried the ball so far, by the time I brought it under control, Arsenal's center-back, Andries, had already sprinted across to block my path. True to his Premier League pedigree, his recovery speed was noticeably faster than any defender I had faced in the Championship.

“Give up the ball and fuck off!” he snapped.

“Not a chance.”

Knowing full well that my technical footwork was catastrophic, Andries didn't dive in recklessly. Instead, he narrowed my passing angles, boxing me toward the corner flag while waiting for defensive cover to arrive. That was precisely what I had been waiting for.

Thud!

Realizing that I had deliberately struck the ball off his thigh, Andries grimaced in disgust and spun around to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠scramble back into defensive shape.

“Lee Han! Shielding with his back to the corner flag, he forces the deflection off Andries and wins the corner! Luton Town earns a corner kick!”

“That's a classic Allen Morrison move! The retired club legend watching from the stands must be smiling down right now.”

“Lee Han clearly learned well from the veteran striker. A tidy piece of play that retains possession and bleeds precious seconds off the clock for Luton Town.”

“And here comes Dominic Moss, jogging over to take the corner.”

Offering a silent prayer of gratitude to Allen somewhere up in the Wembley stands, I made my way toward the penalty box. Crossing paths with Dominic, I covered my mouth with one hand.

Thanks to a flurry of Luton substitutions, we had more than enough time to talk tactics without being booked for delay of game.

“Cross it like we practiced,” I whispered.

“Which one?”

“Outside the box, driven slightly low.”

“Ah. That one.”

Dominic grinned, gesturing with full confidence as he strutted toward the corner quadrant. If we executed it as practiced, a successful connection meant a goal; if it failed, it would sail harmlessly over the end line for a goal kick. Either way, there was zero danger of conceding an immediate counterattack, allowing me to commit without hesitation.

With that settled, I stepped into the penalty area alongside Adlan, who had come on for Hughes, Giovanni, who had replaced Luke, and Jozef, on for Emir.

“Both of Luton Town's wide midfielders have now been replaced by natural full-backs.”

“Introducing players renowned for defensive solidity rather than attacking flair makes Gordon Morton's intentions crystal clear: shut down Arsenal's deadly wing play for the remainder of this match.”

“What's more, Hughes Cotter, who covered an astonishing fourteen kilometers in under seventy minutes as a relentless box-to-box engine, is finally withdrawn. Replacing him is Adlan Karabayev, widely regarded as the fittest man in Luton's squad.”

“Considering the average professional covers ten to thirteen kilometers over an entire ninety-minute match, Hughes ran himself completely into the ground for this defense.”

“Listen to that ovation! The Luton Town supporters are on their feet!”

Looking completely drained, Hughes trudged at an agonizingly leisurely pace toward the far touchline. The referee promptly flashed a yellow card for obvious time-wasting, but Hughes couldn't care less. Grinning broadly, he whipped the traveling Luton fans into an even louder frenzy before finally stepping off the pitch to exchange a firm high-five with Adlan.

Only after Luton had completed its double swap and Arsenal had made their own tactical adjustments did the referee prepare to restart play. The sharp whistle pierced the roar of the stadium, signaling that the delivery could come at any second.

Standing over the ball, Dominic raised both arms into the air, then dropped his left. It was the confirmed signal. Seeing it, our players subtly shifted into their designated blocking positions.

A few seconds ticked by.

Dominic took his stride and whipped the ball inward.

Normally, I would have anchored myself in the heart of the box, subtly jockeying for aerial dominance. Not this time. The moment Arsenal's two towering center-backs moved to sandwich me between their frames, I pivoted sharply and burst toward the edge of the area.

Caught off guard by my sudden run out of the box only to loop back toward the incoming ball, several Arsenal defenders lunged forward to close me down. But having read Dominic's signal, Captain Teddy and Adlan set impeccable screens, sealing off the chasing defenders with textbook positioning.

Free from any physical harassment, I tracked the incoming trajectory and hurled my entire body forward.

The instant the leather made contact with my forehead, I twisted my neck sharply, imparting an aggressive, wicked spin. The ball, originally traveling on a flat, direct line, suddenly bent violently in midair. It arced along an impossible, looping trajectory, curling around the outstretched reach of the defense and the frozen goalkeeper before slamming violently into the side netting inside the far post.

“Lee Han! Lee Han! LEE HAAAAN! What on earth was that?! What an unbelievable goal!”

“What kind of sorcery did we just witness?! The ball curved around a sea of bodies, hooking straight into the top corner! An absolute masterpiece of a header!”

Though it was a diving header, I hadn't flung myself blindly with maximum force, which allowed me to watch the ball nestle into the netting with my own two eyes. Naturally, the prerequisite crash landing onto the turf remained unavoidable, but that didn't matter in the slightest.

A goal was a goal.

Above us, the massive electronic scoreboard updated its display. Not the inexorable match clock, but the digit beside Luton Town's crest, shifting from one to two. The stadium fractured into contrasting extremes of ecstasy and despair. Less than fifteen minutes separated us from lifting the trophy.

“Get back over the line! Hurry up!”

“Stop shoving. I'm moving on my own.”

“Lee Han, Mart! Both of you, yellow card!”

With every precious second draining away, the desperate Arsenal players shoved and hurried me as I deliberately dragged my feet back toward our half. The moment I crossed the halfway line, they took their kickoff instantly, throwing every single outfield player into our territory save for a lone center-back.

In response, Luton Town locked down into total siege warfare.

Every single player wearing orange dropped deep into our defensive third. While holding our compact defensive shape, Dominic and I roamed across the front, tracking back to plug the temporary pockets that appeared across our midfield. Time became a blur of frantic scrambles and lung-busting clearances, yet we somehow absorbed Arsenal's furious onslaught. Every time they unleashed a piledriver from distance, our bodies screamed in agony from taking the full brunt of the impacts. But a few bruises were infinitely preferable to conceding a comeback and sobbing on the pitch.

“Mart's fierce strike is blocked away by Lee Han's head! Arsenal wins another corner!”

“Arsenal is throwing absolute wave after wave of attacks at the Luton goal, but Luton Town is holding the line with every ounce of grit they possess! There's hardly any time left!”

“And look at that—Luton Town is making another change. Dominic Moss comes off for Kayden Obreim.”

“The Arsenal players are furious! They want to take this corner immediately!”

A circle of Arsenal players stood on the pitch, scowling with veins bulging from their necks. But there was nothing they could do. Having already picked up a booking while tracking back to defend, Dominic couldn't pull Hughes's blatant time-wasting trick. Instead, he walked off at a pace that was neither suspiciously slow nor particularly hurried, wearing an expression of pure, unadulterated exhaustion—an exhaustion that was entirely genuine—before giving way to Kayden.

As soon as play resumed, Arsenal curled their corner into the mixer. But their last lingering hopes were emphatically extinguished when the delivery met my forehead and flew out of the penalty box. A follow-up long-range volley came hurtling back in, but it sailed harmlessly miles over Mathias's crossbar.

Moments later, the fourth official raised the electronic board on the sideline.

Five minutes of stoppage time.

“Brilliant clearance, Han!”

Even though I had merely made a routine clearing header, Mathias made a show of jogging all the way out toward me to offer glowing praise. It was a transparently brilliant excuse to let the ball rolled in by the ball boy sit undisturbed near the six-yard box. Like the seasoned veteran who had guarded Luton's goal without incident for years, Mathias happily traded a yellow card for two precious minutes off the clock.

Stepping up at last, he booted the ball as far downfield as humanly possible. Anticipating the landing zone, I timed my jump and cushioned a backward header into the path of the fresh-legged Kayden.

The heavy spin on the ball made it awkward to trap, but Kayden showcased silky technique to wriggle away from Arsenal's pursuing full-back before turning his back to pin the ball against the corner flag. Pushing, shoving, tackling, flailing limbs, and desperate bodies tangled together. Possession swung back and forth by the corner flag half a dozen times, yet Kayden never let the ball escape the corner quadrant.

Finally, deep into added time's added time, right around the ninety-seventh minute—

Peep! Peep! Peeeeep!

The referee drew the whistle to his lips and blew the final, sweetest sound in football.