Oh boy, what a contrast. You know, rolling from the soaring euphoria of Real Madrid to… well, Brentford. It was strange. Not a total downer, but definitely a weird kind of vibe shift. Like wearing your party hat to a meeting. Team tweaks everywhere, mostly due to folks like Ben White’s mystery training-ground mishap, leaving some stars like Bukayo Saka and Martin Odegaard warming the bench, staring at a potential cameo.
And then there was Kieran Tierney, who almost sent one home with a delightful header. But of course, high-tech wizardry had to intervene, ruling it out for offside. I think it happened super fast, which is kind of unusual. And no, thank you very much, they didn’t even display it on the big shiny screens for a public debate. Maybe my fascination with the guy in the row behind me distracted me again.
Oh, and let’s not gloss over that Norgaard vs. Martinelli moment—a scuffle that screamed caution! The ref flashed a yellow card, but on viewing Arteta’s face, you’d think someone snatched his lunch money. This tackle was one for the books, like playing pinball with loyalty points. Martinelli himself wasn’t shy, giving an earful post-match, one not afraid to mutter the “R” word—red. But hey, it’s PGMOL land, where card colors are often just a mirage.
In Martinelli’s words: if his foot had stuck, we wouldn’t be recounting delightful misses. He called it a red—couldn’t quite blame him, considering the threat-level orange tackle he endured. Kind of makes you wonder how many leg-snap near-misses are recalled in hushed tones over season breaks, eh?
Anywho, the game ticked on. Martinelli almost sparked magic with a fantastic pass from Saliba—our knight in shining football kit that day, in my humble opinion. Just before the curtain closed on the first half, Trossard gave the keeper some work. But all in all, a quiet start, like whispers in a library.
Now, let me tell you about something we don’t see with Arsenal very often—a breakaway goal. Raya, he of the peculiar shorts-and-socks combo (like, seriously, what was that about?), plucked a Brentford corner from the chaos, bowled it out to Rice, and off he went like he was late for the last bus. Zipped past one, dished it to Partey who’d streaked downfield like a marathoner, and bam! Goal time!
Fast forward ten minutes (because, let’s be real, the rest was a blur), and—whoops!—in went Brentford’s equalizer. I swear it was a mess of limbs and misjudged clearances right there. Wissa, lurking inside the danger zone, slotted one home, reminding everyone why defenders keep their therapists on speed-dial.
Subs marched onto the field—cue dramatic music and spotlights—Odegaard, Lewis-Skelly, and Saka added some zing. Partey had a hiccup and Timber tagged in. Even Mikel Merino took a dramatic bow-in for Declan Rice, leaving poor Jorginho sidelined, chuckling sadly at the cruel joke of playing with 10 men.
Saka had a swing at it, narrowly missing the mark, which seemed like a fitting end note to a match that felt less like a crescendo and more like wandering Bass notes. Another draw, but hey, given midweek escapades and party prep against Madrid, this one gets a pass.
Mikel Arteta summed it up post-game: let’s criticize ourselves where it hurts, and focus on nailing Europe’s grand showdown midweek. Jorginho’s rib injury rumors loom large, Partey’s knocks need babysitting, but fingers crossed, they stay fit.
And now, excuse me while I drag myself, aches and all, back to Dublin after a nostalgic 5-a-side match yesterday, swaths of laughter with old pals to celebrate a legacy. Right now, ice packs and moans are my anthem. Stay tuned for Arsecast Extra, maybe featuring Brentford-bashing boy wonder from the stands behind me. Until then, savor your Sunday!
