The pale sun hits the river and smashes into diamonds. Some fans soaking up watery rays on the grass bank in front of the Volkswagen factory. It’s a nothing and everything kind of day in Germany’s 64th biggest city: bit breezy, bit warm, bit cold, bit sunny now, maybe a bit wet later. The noise in the stadium is pleasant, bordering civil. Moral of the story: the elements aren’t going to help you out here. Nor is the crowd. All the fire and sulphur you need to fortify you for this game, you’re going to have to provide yourself.
This is not the only reason Arsenal find themselves 2-0 down after 25 minutes. But somehow quiescence has lulled them into acquiescence. There is a fatalism and inevitability to the way Wolfsburg score, almost as if Arsenal have lulled themselves into believing it was always going to turn out this way. Lia Wälti has her hamstring strapped in flesh‑pink bandages. Arsenal keep giving the ball away 20 yards from their goal. Their Champions League campaign, their season, is hanging by fingernails on crumbling rock.
And of course this isn’t about the injuries, but in a way it also is. First Beth Mead goes down in November. Next Vivianne Miedema. Then Caitlin Foord and Kim Little and finally – as a kind of gratuitous sick joke – Leah Williamson at Leigh Sports Village on Wednesday night. The Arsenal bench is now staffed exclusively by goalkeepers, children and computer regens. Perhaps it is no surprise that as Rafaelle Souza squares the ball straight to Sveindís Jane Jónsdóttir for an easy tap-in, you begin, on some involuntarily cosmic level, to feel a little sorry for yourself.
Moreover, if you are a footballer in the midst of this maelstrom, perhaps the acuteness of your plight begins to bear on the decisions you make. Do you still make that lung-busting sprint in the knowledge that this is a 180-minute tie and you will likely be required for all of them? Do you commit fully to the crunching slide tackle, or do you limit the damage and jockey for position instead? Arsenal’s first half here bore all the hallmarks of a team with the letters “ACL” resounding around their heads, still glum and still brooding, preoccupied above all with getting out of the game unscathed.
At which point, something largely unforeseeable happened, and in order to grasp how unforeseeable, you need to go to the history books. After this game I went back through Wolfsburg’s results to see the last time they went 2-0 up and didn’t win. After several thousand clicks and a half-hour odyssey I was beginning to curse with every fibre of my body, I finally discovered the answer: a 2-2 home draw with Freiburg in October 2015. Put another way: in those eight years, Wolfsburg’s record when going 2-0 up is played 172, won 172. Game 173 just so happened to be Arsenal in a Champions League semi-final.
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So how do they do it? You could pick out little tactical fragments: the way Frida Maanum in a slightly withdrawn midfield role squeezed the space and forced errors, the way Stina Blackstenius closed down the dangerous Lena Oberdorf, the discipline and spacing of the defence. But really this was a tale of resolve and courage and conviction, a determination not to go gently, the collective roar of a team that stared into the abyss and thought: nah. From the moment the whistle blew to begin the second half Arsenal’s commitment was total, their physicality unstinting, their belief in the plan unwavering.
And as well as in all the big ways, you could see it in little ways, too. The tactical fouling and the casual time-wasting. The way Katie McCabe stood tall and took a full-blooded clearance in the face. (After a worrying few minutes of treatment and a thorough concussion assessment, the ball was pronounced fit to continue.) They got lucky, of course. Jónsdóttir could easily have scored a third. Twice Tabea Wassmuth drifted unnoticed to the back post.
But somehow, after everything, it was hard to begrudge Arsenal their little slice of providence. They left the pitch to the sweetest sound: a chorus of boos, the cordial home fans finally goaded into anger, one of Europe’s most street-smart teams given a taste of their own brew.
Afterwards the Arsenal players drifted towards their own fans, a sea of flags and “Get well soon Leah” banners. The rain had held off, and if you strained the gaze you might even reckon the clouds were on the verge of parting.
