A Long Time Coming: Arsenal’s Night of Redemption
It was 2015, the Premier League had just kicked off. I sank into a recliner, the television glowing with Arsenal’s first game of the season. My son, nine years old and already fluent in the language of football, flopped onto a beanbag beside me.
“Are they champions?” he asked, eyes wide with hope.
“No,” I said. “They were once, but they’ve lost their way.”
“We’ll get there soon,” I continued, Hoping that a child would not see through the misplaced confidence.
Year after year, we watched together. We groaned at leaky defences that made schoolboy football look elite. He slumped when Arsenal conceded late goals to bottom rung clubs, and he leapt with joy when Martinelli sprinted past defenders or Saka curled one into the corner. Through despair and delight, we stayed loyal.
Cut to 2026
Just last week, City lifted the Carabao Cup after brushing aside a lacklustre Arsenal. My son squirmed in his seat, but something felt different this time. There was a resilience about it. The football wasn’t beautiful but it was effective.
I never imagined I’d wait eleven more years before barging into his room at 2 a.m., waking him with the words: “We’ve done it.”
He rose, bleary‑eyed, walked to the hall, and stared at the screen as Pep Guardiola disappeared with his shoulders slumped down the tunnel at the Vitality stadium.
My son turned to me and smiled. Just a smile—no words.
The wait was over.
From Bridesmaid to Bride
Three years of being second best. Always close, never crowned. Hard work, little glory, endless stick from rival fans—many of whose clubs languished in mediocrity but still found joy in Arsenal’s failures.
And yet, despite the hiccups and heart‑stopping campaigns, the Gunners endured. Bournemouth’s rousing performance sealed the title race before the final day, sparing us the agony of waiting.
For Arsenal supporters, victory meant more than silverware. It meant vindication. We knew that when we finally won, we’d be insufferable—and unapologetically so.
After the Wenger years wound down with patched‑up defences and fading glory, Mikel Arteta arrived with promise. Hopeful, but burdened by history, we wondered: would this too end in mediocrity?
It didn’t. Slowly, steadily, he built. While Klopp and Pep hogged headlines, Arteta mapped a journey. Pep’s protégé was learning, inching forward each season. And now, crowned champions, Arsenal’s patience has been rewarded.
As the final Sunday dawns with Arsenal on top, I know one thing: my colleagues and friends who talk Premier League will have to suffer me for years. I will revel in this, unashamed. That hint of a squint in the eyes of my friends when I told them I was an Arsenal fan will still be there, I suppose.
But then I don’t care..
Because after eleven years of waiting, of slumping on couches and screaming at televisions, of despair and hope shared with my son—this triumph is ours.
Indulge me.
Once the dust settles, we can talk of football. Analyse the game, the season and poke fun at Pep. For now it is about letting it sink.
Sudhir Bhattathiripad
