Crush Them! Those Annoying French Bastards!
"Henry and Bergkamp."
No sooner had the Chelsea match ended than we dove straight into analyzing Arsenal's golden duo, Henry and Bergkamp. We pored over the videos requested from the analysis team, racking our brains for ways to shut them down. After watching the footage dozens of times, we reached our conclusion.
"Enough already! We'll be shaking in our boots before we even line up."
"Their combo is straight-up cheating. I'd take Drogba or Van Nistelrooy any day."
What set Henry and Bergkamp apart from other elite strikers was their fundamental trait: selflessness. Unlike most forwards burdened with innate greed, they had no hunger for goals themselves. That lack of selfishness gave them far more options in battles with defenders. Even with a clear shooting chance, they could pass instead, leaving defenders' heads spinning.
"We've got nothing to lose. Win, and we'll go down in history as the team that ended Arsenal's unbeaten run for the title. Lose, and well..."
"Anton! Shut your trap right now! Lads, gag that fool!"
"That flapping piehole of his!"
Anton got caught for his loose lips and endured some "torture" from the seniors. Never utter the word defeat—that was the unspoken rule in the locker room of a team chasing an unbeaten streak.
"Help! Mercy! I take it back!"
"Too late, you jinxed it! If we lose this one, it's on you!"
"Hahaha!"
The seniors and juniors roughhoused, laughing it up. The atmosphere had changed a lot since I'd first joined the club. They were shedding their deep-rooted defeatist mindset, planting resilience amid growing flexibility. I took pride in knowing I'd played a part in that shift. If we broke Arsenal's unbeaten streak tomorrow, it would accelerate West Ham's transformation even further.
Peep!
The first half kicked off with us attacking. In the pre-match interview, Wenger had praised us and offered kind words—unlike Mourinho, for sure. But those "kind" words somehow pissed us off even more than Mourinho's jabs.
"Even the Premier League's minnows need to evolve now. Teams like perennial bottom-feeders West Ham can change with good ideas. Believe in your vision, and you can rise."
Before the game, a heated debate raged in the East London pubs: Was Wenger pulling a fancy French passive-aggressive diss on us? Our final verdict?
"Crush them! Those annoying French bastards!"
Arsenal and West Ham, both London clubs, had surprisingly little bad blood before. But to climb higher, we had to break them and put them beneath us.
Early on, Zola dropped into our half to play.
Thud!Thud!Thud!
The French giant Wenger had awakened from his slumber was Patrick Vieira.
BOOM!
Vieira charged in with his stilt-like legs, shouldering Zola flying and launching the attack himself from deep. Makelele never pushed that high or built play directly—Vieira was a different breed of monster.
Pires slipped through them like magic.
Whoooosh!
I went in for the tackle inside the box, bracing for a penalty. Luckily, I cleanly cleared the ball.
"Hmph. Not bad, just like the rumors, Kung Fu Boy~"
"Not letting you have your way today, goatee~"
Pires and I exchanged greetings. He could've gone down easy for a dive, but true to his man's man rep, he stayed up. Pride in pure skill over beating defenders dirty.
Great player. Wonder if we could poach him.
Pires was exactly the type we needed—someone to attack from the flanks. But with his loyalty to Wenger, probably impossible.
Peep!
On the corner that followed, I marked Vieira. As the tallest on both sides, it was on me to handle the giant.
Thud!
"Ow!"
I jumped on the spot, but Vieira subtly spiked my thigh with his cleat. As I flinched, he stole position. But then—
"Huh!?"
Swoosh!
A black shadow loomed over us. Our starter today, pub owner and keeper from West Ham & Prague, Alexander, boldly rushed out and clutched the corner beautifully.
"West Ham! Counter! Everyone up~!!"
Whoooosh!
He punted it with gusto—but it sliced off his laces into the left stands. A fan tossed it back in, bemused.
"What the hell, Alex!?"
"Don't rush me! I'm the keeper!"
"You lot dawdled and messed my timing! Move faster on counters!"
Alexander had thick skin too—brushing off teammates' gripes with shameless counters.
Ljungberg and Ljungberg alternated tormenting West Ham's flanks. Our five-back held a 3-2 double line as always, but different from facing Chelsea or United.
As right winger Ljungberg cut central, Bergkamp swapped to the right flank.
"It's open there! Cover!"
I raced with fullback Rufus to block Bergkamp. But—
Thwoooom!
Henry burst from nowhere, curling it effortlessly.
Paang!
Henry's shot was perfect—the keeper's nightmare, far post top corner. Alex flung his 2-meter frame, stretching to parry it.
"Woooo! Feels amazing! Henry! Don't get cocky, you punk!"
"..."
Henry blinked, stunned as Alex pointed and yelled.
"Who's that guy? Why's he like that?"
Arsenal's corner failed, and our attack finally came.
I took from Alex and advanced, reactivating the vertical five-back tested against Chelsea.
Arsenal's 4-4-2 had Vieira and Gilberto locking midfield—tight despite just two. Their wing duo, Ljungberg and Ljungberg, joined defense with insane workrate, turning Arsenal's mid a nightmare for foes.
"Where you going!"
Whoooosh!
We exploited their overeager wings: when they vacated flanks for center, our mids (Zola, Carrick, Mark) would own the sides.
It worked—Arsenal's midfield wobbled from the flanks. But—
BOOM!
At Arsenal's left end stood England's greatest left-back ever. Ashley Cole schooled the much younger Mark with a clean tackle, then switched play swiftly.
Thwoom!
Cole's lofted pass came at awkward height; Bergkamp cushioned it on his chest. As I closed, he chipped it up with his toe, spun, and rifled a turn shot.
Whoooosh!Paang!