Defeat in Europe — particularly under the lights at home — draws its critics like moths to a flame. It beckons analysis, invites reflection, and demands both introspection and the ever-compulsive glance outward. And as the final whistle screeched into a cool North London night, the autopsy began. Some were fair: acknowledging that Paris Saint-Germain, in all their blistering rhythm and technical sharpness, were perhaps the better side on the night. A side that could — and maybe should — have put the tie to bed. And yet, still, some saw the fight. They saw the moments Arsenal might have altered the narrative: a deflection here, a stride timed better there, a Donnarumma save not quite as imperious. One-nil — not a hammering, not a humiliation, but a hurdle. One that could yet be cleared in Paris.
But the other side of the footballing world — that lurid, click-chasing circus of overreaction — could not resist. They danced gleefully on Arsenal’s bruised ego, bellowing headlines not for accuracy, but for attention. “PSG run Arsenal ragged” cried the headlines — though anyone who watched the full 90 knew such words were more pantomime than prose.
Yes, there were moments we hung on. Yes, the first 20 minutes were electric from the Parisians, and yes, towards the end, we teetered. But for the bulk of the contest, it was a battle — not a battering. We were not blitzed, not broken. Just bent, briefly, by a side of immense quality.
But as I browsed for balanced post-match analysis — something thoughtful, something nuanced — I found myself caught, grimacing, in the web of talkSPORT. The headline? “Subdued atmosphere at the Emirates may have made the difference.” The voice behind the sentiment? Wayne Rooney, speaking with the nonchalance of a man who once fed off Old Trafford’s roars — and now finds fault in ours being quieter.
This, apparently, was the reason. Not the missing fulcrum that is Thomas Partey — our quiet conductor in midfield, the shield against precisely the kind of chaos Dembele inflicted. No mention of the tactical chess match that unfolded. No dissection of Luis Enrique’s precision. No analysis of the imbalance caused by a false nine who drifted too far and a front three that never quite aligned. Just a finger, pointed outward, toward the stands.
It is easy, isn’t it, to blame the silent. Easier still to accuse 60,000 people of not screaming hard enough than to recognise that football, at this level, is decided by margins far more tangible than decibels.
We have worn this accusation like an old, unwelcome coat — heavy, unfitting, unfair. It has clung to us through the years, this tired refrain: that Arsenal’s home is a library, its soul borrowed, its sound sterile. That the Emirates — for all its shimmering steel and sweeping curves — lacks the lifeblood of belonging.
And yet, to anyone who has truly listened — who has stood in Block 32 when the lights are low and the stakes are high — they will tell you: the voice is there. It has always been there. Sometimes quiet, yes. Sometimes tentative. But lately — in the swell of this Arteta era — it has grown teeth, grown weight, grown volume. This place has become something again — something worthy of the crest it shelters.
And last night, it began in kind. Hopeful. Hungry. Humming with European anticipation. But football, in its cruel efficiency, knows how to extinguish joy. And Dembele’s dagger — early, incisive, ruthless — drained the colour from the night. In an instant, jubilation became hesitation. The Parisian tide surged, wave after wave, and we — stunned and staggering — could not find our footing. Every duel was theirs. Every second ball. Every cruel bounce. We huffed, we puffed, but there was trepidation now — the scent of something ominous in the air.
And yes — we saw them, our players, lifting their arms, urging, pleading, imploring the crowd to rise with them. The gestures were not hollow. They were human. Because this connection — between player and supporter — it does matter. It always has. This is not sentiment. This is science. This is sport. It is heartbeat and breath. When the crowd surges, the players soar.
But there is a truth here too. One that must be said.
Tuesday night, we needed heroes on the pitch more than songs from the stands. Not just orchestra conductors, but soloists — someone to strike the chord. Someone to throw themselves into a tackle so seismic it would shake the rafters. Someone to find a pass no one else could see. Someone to crash a shot through bodies and gloves and doubt.
Because sometimes — not always, but sometimes — it cannot be the duty of the faithful to provide the fire. Sometimes it is the responsibility of those on the pitch to light it. And these are not weekend warriors. These are elite professionals, tuned and tempered to thrive under pressure. They are the reason the seats are sold out and the broadcasters pay fortunes. They are the ones we come to see.
And yet on Tuesday, they looked not to carry the crowd, but to be carried by it. And football — cruel, glorious football — does not always allow that. Sometimes, the noise must follow the moment, not precede it.
The stage was set. The silence, deafening. The spark, missing.
Wayne Rooney. A legend on the pitch, indelible in England’s story, etched into Premier League lore. But at pitch side — how far removed from that brilliance you once summoned with the ball at your feet.
You see, with punditry comes a duty. A duty not to simply spew the easy line. Not to lean into cliché. Not to cast blame on the very people who spend their hard-earned wages to fill a stadium, to chase that ever-elusive feeling we call hope. And yet — with all the cameras, all the production, all the platform — the conclusion drawn was this: the crowd weren’t loud enough.
To reduce a performance — one of grit, of tactical tension, of moments both missed and made — to a lack of volume is, frankly, insulting. And it reeks of a kind of punditry that lazily rolls through TV and radio waves alike: where former players play to the gallery, and nuance is a currency long since spent.
And so I say this — with all due respect: please, Wayne. Do better. We don’t tune in to be lectured by finger-waggers. We don’t sit down after a gutting result to be told it’s our fault. We watch for insight. For intelligence. For that little slice of understanding that only a player of your calibre should be able to give us. But Tuesday night, we got pub talk on a Prime stage.
And if that’s the standard, I’ll do what I’ve come to do with Sky Sports — reach for the mute button before Neville and Carragher tumble into parody, and spare my family the expense of another coin in the swear jar.
Because next week, in Paris, the cauldron will bubble. The volume will rise — a Parisian wall of sound. And high in the gods, where the away end clings to the rafters, a corner of red will sing their hearts dry. Fewer in number, louder in soul.
And when the noise is not in our favour — when the roar belongs to the other side — what will the excuse be then?
If you can’t lift yourself for a Champions League semi-final, you are in the wrong profession. But that wasn’t the problem last night. The problem was not hunger, not heart. The problem was execution. The margins were fine. The timing was off. The chances were spurned. The better team won.
But let’s not twist that into something it was not. Because goals change games. Because if Martinelli scores before the break, that place erupts — it breathes, it lives, it devours. And that, Mr. Rooney, is the spark players must create, not wait for.
So please. Let us not reduce the beautiful complexity of football into something so absurdly simplistic. Let us not replace analysis with accusation. Let us respect the supporters, even in disappointment. And let us demand of our pundits what we demand of our players: craft, care, and courage.
Because the next chapter awaits. And if this tie is to be turned, it won’t be by noise alone — it will be by belief, by bravery, and by a team that still dares to dream.