There are moments in life when football, even in its grandest, noisiest form, falls away into something quieter.
After the wonder of Madrid — after Arsenal strode into the Santiago Bernabéu and etched their name against the great walls of history — I disappeared.
South.
To the very edge of Cornwall, where the land falls into the sea, where the signal dies and the noise of the world is reduced to the hush of the waves.
No Wi-Fi. No radio.
Only the soft crunch of coastal paths underfoot and the laughter of my family as we walked together, suspended, if only briefly, outside the modern world.
And in that rare quiet, the enormity of it all had room to breathe.
Arsenal. My Arsenal. Conquerors in the backyard of kings.
Madrid, not merely defeated — but unpicked, undone, unseated.
Yet even in the wilds of the Cornish coast, whispers floated through.
Snippets caught on the wind — fragments of fallout from the capital of Spain.
Of course, I savoured it. Of course, I drank in the fanfare.
Who among us doesn’t?
The praise, the applause, the swelling pride of belonging to something so bright.
But woven through the music of celebration was a note of caution.
It is, after all, only a quarter-final.
The journey is not yet complete. The mountain still looms.
And there were murmurings too — familiar ones, old questions made new again:
“Is Bukayo Saka world class?”
“Is Declan Rice truly among the elite?”
As if such greatness could be so easily measured, so hastily assigned.
As if the feats we had just witnessed — the artistry, the audacity, the sheer belief — were not answer enough.
Some muttered of a ‘poor’ Real Madrid, a weakened giant.
Yet even a giant stumbling through shadows is a giant still —
And Manchester City, no less, had found them too mighty to fell.
No, in moments like these, perspective matters.
The path is long. The triumph incomplete.
But Arsenal, our Arsenal, have planted their flag where few dare tread.
And whatever awaits beyond the horizon — they have already carved something unforgettable into the fabric of this season.
And into the hearts of those who love them most.
This is the conversation that can ignite a thousand arguments, that can rouse and rile and ripple through fanbases the length and breadth of a nation.
It is the question that stirs passion, that sharpens tongues — the question of what it means to be world class.
And perhaps I am of a forgotten age —
A romantic age, a simpler time before numbers told stories, before data defined dreams.
In my world, you know world class when you see it.
You do not need assists and goals tallied like coins.
You do not need passing percentages, or xG graphs, or lists of neatly ordered comparisons.
You do not need permission.
You feel it.
You live it.
The great ones declare themselves — not with spreadsheets, but with spirit.
And so, to Bukayo Saka and Declan Rice.
Two young men carrying the weight of hope, of expectation, of history.
And I can say — with the conviction of one who has watched, who has felt —
That one of them has stepped fully into the rarefied air of the world class.
The other? He stands at the door, hand poised upon it, but not yet through.
Let us address the elephant in the room.
Let us name the name.
It is Declan Rice who is not quite there — yet.
And yet, how he has knocked!
Over two legs against the mighty Real Madrid — the 15-time kings of Europe — he was not merely present;
He commanded.
He did not simply play;
He owned the field.
Two performances that were, without question, world-class.
Two displays of such assurance, such authority, that he made the grandest stage look like a home pitch.
He outshone names written into legend —
And he did it with a calm that belied his years, and for some, even his talent.
For those two nights, he was a giant.
But world-class status is not forged in a fortnight.
It is not gifted for a brace of matches, however glorious.
It is earned — over seasons, over scars, over unrelenting excellence.
We have seen it before.
Jack Wilshere, once, at the Emirates.
A boy who, for one unforgettable night, stood toe-to-toe with the gods of Barcelona.
Xavi. Iniesta.
For 90 minutes, he outplayed two of the finest midfielders the game has ever known.
And yet, his story ended not in coronation, but in heartbreak.
Because world class is not about moments.
It is about eras.
Declan Rice has shown us a glimpse — a tantalising glimpse — of what he might yet become.
The door stands open.
Now he must walk through it — and stay there.
Let me be clear — not for one heartbeat do I believe that Declan Rice is bound for the heartbreak of Jack Wilshere.
That is not the story being written here.
What I am saying — what must be said — is that a handful of glittering games, however transcendent, do not a world-class player make.
Two games, three, a dozen even — they are chapters, not the book.
Consistency is the final judge.
It is the relentless march of excellence — season upon season, stage upon stage, that lifts a man into the rarest air.
It is not enough to shine.
You must endure.
You must elevate — yourself, your team, your nation.
You must not only play the game — you must carry it, define it.
And in Declan Rice, you see the embers of that greatness burning brighter by the week.
A leader, already —
Technically evolving under Mikel Arteta’s careful tutelage.
Mentally, a fortress, with a strength beyond his years.
This is a young man ascending, a player quickening toward his potential.
To compete in the Champions League, to challenge for the Premier League title — even if the summit proves just out of reach this year —
All of it is forging him, shaping him for what is to come.
If he stays on this track — if the arc of his development holds —
Then yes, Declan Rice will find himself spoken of in that sacred breath reserved for the finest midfielders of his generation.
No doubt.
There is a snobbery, an old-world sneer sometimes cast toward English players, toward the Premier League itself.
But in that coliseum of history — the Santiago Bernabéu — Declan Rice stood tall, shoulder to shoulder with the elite, and could say:
“I was better than you.”
Because he was.
And yet, I say again — two games are not a career.
They are a signal, not a seal.
The belief is there.
The tools are sharpening.
The price tag — £100 million, once whispered with scepticism — now seems, in some corners, a snip.
The world is watching now.
The conversations have begun.
And if he continues — if he sustains — then in two, three, five years, we will not speak of Declan Rice as simply a top-tier midfielder.
We will speak of him, without hesitation, as world class.
But not yet.
Not yet.
And then we come to Bukayo Saka.
Now a man — Once A boy, a boy who has stood at the heart of Arsenal for half a decade.
A man in red and white.
A talisman, a hero, a symbol of everything Arsenal aspire to be.
His absence was felt not in whispers but in roars.
When he was missing, Arsenal felt it tenfold —
The spark dulled, the edge blunted, the dream faltered.
And though the reasons are many — though critics will point to the lack of a true centre-forward —
You cannot take out something so iconic, so transformative, without the side losing part of itself.
Remove Mohamed Salah from Liverpool.
Remove Erling Haaland, from Manchester City.
Remove Alexander Isak from Newcastle United.
Even the giants lose their magic.
So it was with Arsenal.
We survived — we fought — we made the quarterfinals of the Champions League.
We stayed in the title race longer than many believed we would.
But with Bukayo Saka, truly with him,
We could have soared higher still.
We could have lived one of the greatest seasons in our modern history.
Saka has delivered — not in flashes, but in rhythm, in repetition, in relentless brilliance.
Two-time England Player of the Year,
A leader with a humility rare in the gilded halls of modern football.
Maturity beyond his years.
Character beyond his wealth.
A spirit that glows every time he touches the ball.
And now, with all he has done — with the sheer consistency of his excellence —
You must, if you are honest, say it aloud:
Bukayo Saka has nudged, has edged, has earned his way into the world-class bracket.
Of course, the detractors will come.
“Show us the medals,” they will cry.
“Where are the titles? Where are the crowns?”
But that — forgive me — is a miserly, small-minded way to measure greatness.
World-class is not a trophy cabinet.
It is an essence, a level, a mastery — seen with the eyes, felt with the heart.
Would you dare say that Paul Gascoigne was not world-class?
Would you stand and argue that Harry Kane — for all the golden boots, all the moments of genius, all the national pride — was not world-class?
Neither lifted the Premier League trophy.
Neither needed to.
Greatness is not gifted by medals.
It is carved in the memories you leave behind.
And Bukayo Saka is already doing that.
The panenka against Real Madrid — foolish, perhaps, but the response was elite.
He rose, he ran, he roared again.
He silenced the doubts with the simplest, purest answer in football — another goal. Another moment.
And so his name now stands in a list of Arsenal greats who have gone to the homes of the mighty and left their mark.
Thierry Henry at the Bernabéu.
Cesc Fàbregas at San Siro.
And now, Bukayo Saka.
He belongs.
Not in the future.
Now.
And as for those who scoff about “only” an FA Cup —
Let them.
Their voices will grow quieter with every season that Saka shines.
Because what he is building — what he already is —
Needs no medals to be real.
World-class is not coming.
World-class is here.
And his name is Bukayo Saka.
Victoria Concordia Crescit