23 hours Ago By Sunita Iyer
An angry and heartbroken Arsenal fan laments the team's failure to rise to the occasion in their Champions League semi-final loss to PSG.We did what Mikel Arteta asked.We tuned in early.
We sang loud. We roared until our throats gave out.We believed.
And yet, as the final whistle blew in the Emirates on one of the biggest nights in our club's modern history, there was only one truth echoing through the cold silence that followed: Arsenal’s players didn’t show up.They say you don’t lose a Champions League semi-final in the first leg. But what about when you forget to compete in it?It’s hard to describe the sense of anticipation before kick-off.
You could feel it in your bones. The stands weren’t just full — they were ready. The stadium throbbed with a rare and beautiful energy.
This wasn’t just any European night. This was our night. Our home.
Our time.But four minutes in, it was already over.Ousmane Dembele cut through our defence like it was a training drill, pinging a one-two with Khvicha Kvaratskhelia before finishing coolly past David Raya.
A dagger straight through the heart of the Emirates. Just like that, the noise died.And it never quite came back.
This was not the Arsenal side that threw punches at Real Madrid a few weeks ago. Not the team that danced with belief and fire. That side had swagger, venom, and defiance.
This one? It looked scared. Confused. Lifeless.
Bukayo Saka, who usually flies down the right wing like a man possessed, barely got a touch. Declan Rice, the quarter-final hero whose free-kicks against Madrid still echo in our dreams, looked spent. And without Thomas Partey anchoring the midfield, the structure crumbled.
Vitinha and Joao Neves owned the middle of the park like they’d put their name on the deeds.Where was the fight? Where was the urgency?PSG didn’t just beat us — they dominated us. Dembele, Kvaratskhelia, Barcola.
.. they didn’t play like a team looking for their first Champions League title.
They played like a team that had already won it five times.We were spared further humiliation only by the woodwork and Raya’s reflexes. Goncalo Ramos clipped the bar.
Barcola missed a sitter. And Desire Doue nearly snapped Raya’s wrist with a vicious drive.And still, there was hope.
Brief. Flickering. Cruel.
When Gabriel Martinelli burst through just before the half, we stood. The finish lacked conviction — straight at Donnarumma. We sat.
When Mikel Merino’s header found the net early in the second half, we erupted. For five glorious seconds, we were alive again. Then VAR struck.
Offside. The screen didn’t need to say it. Our hearts knew.
When Trossard’s low drive was finger-tipped wide, we clenched fists. Gritted teeth. Whispered prayers.
But the equaliser never came. Arsenal chased shadows. PSG took their foot off the gas — they didn’t need to embarrass us.
One goal was enough.And that’s what stings the most. They didn’t need to be extraordinary.
Just better than us. And they were — effortlessly.Arteta asked us to bring the energy.
We brought it.He asked us to believe. And we did.
But belief isn’t enough when the players you believe in forget to turn up.Now, we head to Paris — not with hope, but with desperation. Maybe that’s what it’ll take.
A backs-to-the-wall performance. A miracle. Because that’s what it is now: not a match, not a comeback — a miracle.
We’ll be there, Mikel.We’ll bring the songs again.But this time, make sure the players bring their boots.
And their hearts..
