God Of football

An entrance and a whole lot of pre-match pleasantries passed, and it was finally time for the game as the players of both sides hopped and walked around the pitch trying to get into the groove.

And after a few checks from the officials, the referee raised his whistle to his lips, and in that sharp instant of silence before the shrill note pierced the air, the Emirates held its breath.

Then—peep—the Champions League semi-final was alive, Paris Saint-Germain kicking us off under the floodlit stage in north London.

The French side wasted no time in revealing their intent as most of the players, in their pink third kit, surged into Arsenal's half, a sweeping motion that had been rehearsed countless times this season.

Vitinha was first to touch, collecting from Ruiz in the centre circle as the latter bolted forward to occupy space in Arsenal's half.

He barely let the ball settle under his studs before whipping a diagonal pass high and deep into enemy territory, angling it towards Khvicha Kvaratskhelia, PSG's Georgian whirlwind stationed wide on the left.

The duel came quick and rugged as Kvaratskhelia leapt, chest twisting, while Jurrien Timber climbed with him, shoulders brushing mid-air.

The ball, however, betrayed the Georgian, clipping awkwardly off his shoulder before skipping out of play.

A chorus of red and white rose instantly as cheers and whistles sounded, a thundering release of noise from the Arsenal faithful, as though the mere sight of PSG's opening gambit crumbling brought them relief.

"Well, that's exactly what PSG want to do, Alan, come flying out of the blocks, throw Arsenal onto the back foot. It's been their signature this campaign: load the final third and force errors while the opposition are still settling in," Alan Smith's voice layered over the roar.

Alan McInally, in sync and in agreement with the former, nodded before he picked it up smoothly.

"Yeah, but they'll have to be sharper than that. You can't waste those moments in a Champions League semi-final. Timber did brilliantly there, didn't flinch, didn't panic, and he's sent the crowd into a frenzy with that little win."

Timber himself wasted no time with pleasantries.

He trotted over, scooped up the ball for the throw, and then opted instead to drive a long one forward, down the flank, past midfield and deep into PSG's half.

It wasn't careless, though.

Timber knew the trick Paris had sharpened into a weapon all season: tempt the opponent into delicate passes in their own third, hound them with numbers, and turn their mistakes into firestorms before defenders could even regain balance.

Arsenal wouldn't play that game, and certainly not to the whims of PSG.

Not tonight and not at the Emirates.

The home crowd loved it, roaring as the ball arced forward like a challenge thrown into the Paris half.

As the game resumed, Smith's commentary flowed again, continuing to show the game through the lens of a veteran commentator.

"You can see Arsenal's response already. Mikel Arteta has drilled them not to get caught dwelling back there. PSG thrive on chaos, recoveries, second balls, and counters when teams overthink. By hitting it long early, Arsenal are basically saying: you won't dictate where this battle takes place."

McInally chuckled.

"And listen to this place, Smithy—just listen! The Arsenal fans aren't having any of it. The Paris contingent, well-travelled and loud as ever, are in that corner, bouncing, but every time they start a chant, the Gunners respond with one twice as fierce. This is proper European football, isn't it? A wall of sound crashing back and forth."

The stands were a contest of their own.

Arsenal's red sea refused to be drowned by the swaying, booming pocket of blue at the other end.

Banners rippled and drums beat like war signals.

The whole stadium felt taut, as though the first minutes weren't about possession or passing at all, but about showing whose will would bend first.

The men on the pitch, or the thousands screaming above them.

...

After Timber's early clearance had rattled the away end, PSG sought to impose their identity once more.

Vitinha drifted infield, constantly showing and demanding the ball from the back three that had formed with Joao Neves tucking in and his intent clear: stretch Arsenal's midfield, force them into chasing shadows.

But Arsenal were not rattled.

Declan Rice's voice could be heard over the din, ushering teammates into their defensive shape.

"Stay compact, don't chase it!" he barked, pointing at Kvaratskhelia, who lingered dangerously wide left.

By the fifth minute, the match had already picked up its edge.

A sharp one-two between Hakimi and Ruiz saw carved space through the middle, with the former bursting forward as he sought to break lines, ultimately drawing a cynical tug from Saliba just outside the centre circle, and the whistle came sharp and immediate.

"Free-kick to Paris," Alan McInally noted over the broadcast. "That's a little early for Saliba to be taking that kind of risk, but you can understand it. He wasn't going to let Hakimi carry on running."

The set-piece came to nothing, but the warning signs were there.

PSG's transitions had a venom about them, every forward pass followed by the sudden roar of away supporters sensing danger.

Arsenal, though, had answers of their own.

In the tenth minute, a slick move down the right brought the home crowd to its feet.

Ødegaard, gliding into space, shifted the ball out wide to Saka.

The winger squared up Lucas Hernández, feinted inside and tried to shoot but drew the first of many crunching challenges of the night as Hernández's boot caught him on the ankle, and the whistle blew again.

"Paris are letting him know he's not going to get anything easy tonight," Alan Smith remarked. "That's deliberate. Physical early on, test the referee, test Saka's composure."

Saka dusted himself off, flashing a grin toward the North Bank as Rice lofted the free-kick into the area.

Gabriel, always the one they were looking for in these instances, rose highest, nodding the ball towards goal, but it went narrowly over the bar.

It was Arsenal's first real look at Donnarumma's goal, and it stirred the stadium into song once again.

The next ten minutes swung like a pendulum.

PSG were keen to break Arsenal's press, dropping Hakimi inside as an auxiliary midfielder whenever possession slowed.

On one such occasion, he skipped past Martinelli with a clever flick, only to be hauled down by Zinchenko before the move could build.

The referee kept his cards in his pocket, but the warning was clear: Arsenal would not allow PSG's wingbacks free rein.

By the eighteenth minute, the duel between Timber and Kvaratskhelia was becoming one of the night's defining subplots.

A long diagonal from Marquinhos found the Georgian winger, who attempted to bring it down under pressure.

Timber leaned in, shoulder to shoulder, and muscled him out with impeccable timing, and the home fans roared their approval.

"Superb defending," Smith said warmly. "He's going to need to be at his absolute best tonight. That's not just any opponent he's up against—Kvaratskhelia has tortured defences all season."

Eventually, Arsenal's brightest spell arrived in the twenty-first minute.

A neat triangle between Ødegaard, Rice, and Havertz drew PSG's midfield out of position for the first time, allowing Martinelli to dart inside.

The Brazilian slipped a pass into Havertz's stride at the edge of the box, but before he could turn, a crunching intervention from Pacho snuffed out the chance.

Havertz popped back up quickly, slapping his thigh in frustration as the ball rolled harmlessly to Donnarumma.

The game's tempo had risen, both sides testing, probing, yet refusing to blink.

Fouls punctuated the rhythm, challenges coming harder with every passing minute.

Every recovery drew noise; every forward surge carried with it the tension of a knife-edge contest.

By the twenty-second minute, the sense was unmistakable: neither team intended to give an inch, but the cage could not hold forever.

As the match went into deadlock, it looked to go either way, but all watching knew that one side would eventually have to give in, and take a few risks, and those would either make or break them.

...

In living rooms across Europe, the first twenty-odd minutes of the semi-final had done little to stir adrenaline.

The Emirates was deafening, but to those watching on television, the game carried the cagey weight of two sides trying not to blink first.

Inside a dimly lit pub in Manchester, three friends had claimed their usual corner booth, pints lined up, eyes glued to the big screen.

"Mate, I've never seen a Champions League semi this… dull," one of them, Craig, muttered, swirling the foam of his drink with a bored expression.

"This is supposed to be Arsenal against PSG, not a chess exhibition."

His friend Dan leaned back, not as quick to pass judgment.

"Oh come on, it's only the half-hour mark. Both teams are just feeling each other out. You know what's coming: one mistake, one slip, and this thing will light up. They're not going to play like statues all night."

Craig wasn't convinced.

"Nah, don't dress it up. It's PSG sitting deep until they spring Dembele or Kvara, and Arsenal trying not to bottle it in their own backyard. You could've told me this was a pre-season friendly and I'd have believed you."

From the other side of the table, Lewis chimed in with the kind of smirk only a neutral troll could wear.

"What did you lot expect? Arsenal versus PSG. They're both serial chokers. It's like watching two blokes trying to out-bore each other until one trips over."

A/N: Sorry guys, this is the last of yesterday. Sorry for the late release and thanks for reading.