Premier League: Arsenal 2-2 Crystal Palace
And so, last night, under the soft, amber haze of a spring sky, there was a hum outside Anfield. A gathering of hope. Cameras poised. Dreams dusted off. The city of Liverpool — millennia of defiance in its bones — dared to believe that this would be the moment, their moment, when red ribbons would once again embrace the Premier League trophy. A record-equalling twentieth crown, so tantalisingly close they could almost taste it. All they needed was an Arsenal slip.
And oh… how close they came to sipping the champagne.
Because once again, Arsenal offered up a night that has become all too familiar. A performance that has echoed through this campaign like a weary refrain. A game controlled… then lost. Not in defeat — no, that might have been easier to explain — but in that most frustrating of results: the draw. Number thirteen. A baker’s dozen of regrets.
Another lead squandered. Another night where dominance slowly gave way to doubt. Against a side, with respect, that should have been swept aside. But Palace stood tall, and Arsenal, as they have so often this season, found a way not to win.
And it is here, in these margins, where titles are decided. Not under the lights of the Etihad. Not on Super Sundays against the grand names of English football. But here — on the crisp, bruising nights when jobs need to be carried out to their fullest. When your season needs you to be pragmatic, ruthless, grown-up. Against Everton. Against Brentford. Against Crystal Palace.
Had half — just half — of those thirteen draws been turned into wins, Arsenal would stand now, shoulder to shoulder with Liverpool. But they don’t. Because for all the talent, for all the brilliance, there is still a fragility. A sense that in the moments that matter, this team still asks the wrong questions and offers up all the wrong answers.
It is not that they don’t know how to win. It is that they are becoming artists in the dark discipline of letting others take what was never theirs to have.
And so, the night ends not with a coronation, but with a question. One that echoes not just through the halls of Melwood, or the stands of Anfield, but through North London itself:
How many more times can we gift the crown before it is no longer within reach?
Earlier in the season, it was ill-discipline — moments of recklessness, flashes of red, and the curse of controversy — that shackled Arsenal’s early promise. Cards brandished, tempers flared, decisions questioned. There was a youthful abandon, raw and untamed, that saw progress punctuated by punishment.
And then came the winter. A colder, crueller stretch. A season’s spine shaken. The captain — Odegaard — absent when calm was most craved. The conductor without his baton. And as he returned to steady the ship, another storm brewed — the loss of the Saka, and others, to the unrelenting curse of injury. These were not minor setbacks. These were holes torn in the very fabric of this team.
Can injury be offered as an excuse? Perhaps. But only to a point.
For if you glance across to the soon-to-be crowned champions, you’ll find a side untroubled by such afflictions in the areas where it matters most — the final third, where games are won, and titles are claimed. That is not bitterness. That is not envy. It is acknowledgment. For they have been the best. Unquestionably. Relentlessly. Champions not by default, but by design.
And yet… we must look inward.
Because while the early season was marred by discipline, and the heart of the campaign was punctured by injury, this — this latest chapter — has brought fewer justifications. The names have returned. The rhythm, at times, restored. But still, a crucial piece has been missing. A centre-forward, yes — but more than that: a clinical edge, a mental sharpness, a refusal to blink.
And in that critical moment last night, the game — the points — were thrown away not through misfortune, but by mistake. Familiar. Painful. Avoidable. The ball was at William Saliba’s feet — a man of grace, of composure, so often a metronome of calm. But again, as in Madrid, he lingered. Too long. Too casual. And Palace pounced.
In Paris, such hesitation will not be forgiven. There, the forwards are not kind. They are ruthless. They hunt. They harry. They do not need a second invitation. And if Saliba — whose ceiling is skyward, whose talent is evident — cannot rid his game of these lapses, then the consequences will not just be domestic. They will be continental. Brutal. Final.
Twice, in the space of a week, the unthinkable has become the truth. And while it did not cost us in Europe, it did cost us here.
Big Willy must rise. Not just to his promise, but to the pressure. Because if Arsenal are to write their names where they believe they belong — etched into the fabric of champions — then these are the moments that cannot repeat. Not once. Not again.
And so, to the game itself — under the North London lights, with echoes of celebration drifting prematurely from the north-west. For in Liverpool, they had gathered. They had dared to believe. The streets readied. The cameras primed. And within minutes, those hopes — that chorus of red jubilation — were silenced.
A perfect start. A hammer blow struck early. And the man? Jakub Kiwior — not just a scorer, but a sentinel. A figure of understated resolve who, on this night, stood tall. His finish was instinctive. His block — later, at 1-1 — was perhaps even more significant. A sliding, sprawling intervention to deny Nketiah, who might have reversed the night. In a performance full of questions, he delivered answers. The Pole, once doubted, is turning whispers of scepticism into murmurs of trust.
Indeed, on a night when his partner — the usually immovable Saliba — faltered once more, Kiwior was the steadier soul. The less heralded half of a defensive pairing, emerging as the more composed. That, in itself, is worthy of applause.
But early leads are curious things. They calm. They flatter. They soothe when perhaps they should stir. And from the moment Arsenal struck, there was a sense — subtle, but lingering — that they had exhaled too deeply. Palace, meanwhile, were bristling. Threatening. Always a flicker away from fire.
And so when their equaliser arrived, it came not as a shock, but as the inevitable. Eberechi Eze — the conjurer — destined, surely, to leave Selhurst for grander stages come summer. With elegance in his stride and venom in his technique, he caressed the ball on the volley, sending it cannoning off the post and in. A goal of rare balance. A player of rare poise. One-one, and deservedly so.
But Arsenal stirred again. And as if guided by fate, it was Leandro Trossard — once of Brighton, now of brilliance — who bent the narrative to his will. Maligned by the Palace faithful, mocked for what he once was. But here, he was the man of the moment. A swivel. A shimmy. A shot — deflected, yes — but destined. It nestled into the net, and the Belgian’s celebration was laced with theatre. Hands to ears. Eyes locked on those who doubted. A statement made, a point scored beyond just the goal.
And perhaps now, a place secured. For next week, against PSG, at the Emirates — where moments matter and margins are microscopic — Trossard will be needed. He has grown into the shirt, into the system, into the season.
This was a game of sparks in the mist. Four goals, but long stretches of forgettable football. It was not classic. But it was chaotic. And from that chaos, truths emerged.
Kiwior ascending. Saliba wobbling. Trossard answering back.
And somewhere, in the far-off streets of Merseyside, the champagne remained corked. For now.
And so, the game ebbed. The tempo, once flirtatious, grew lethargic. By the hour mark, it was a procession more than a pursuit. Arsenal — cautious, perhaps complacent. Palace — distracted by the scent of Wembley. Two sides locked in neutral, idling through a contest that had long since misplaced its pulse.
And then — enter the colossus.
Jean-Philippe Mateta, summoned from the shadows of the bench, strode onto the stage with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball. A giant of a man, he did not ease into the action — he ignited it. Arsenal, lulled into a sense of safe control, suddenly found themselves contending with chaos. Mateta brought with him urgency, unpredictability, and most of all — menace.
And the pendulum swung.
Of course, questions will be asked of David Raya — stranded, strayed, drawn far from his line. But the finish? Oh, the finish. Mateta’s strike was audacious and immediate — a goal sculpted from instinct and steel. It was not overthought. It was felt. Executed with a deftness that defied the bulk of his frame.
The reaction, in the aftermath, veered into the poetic. “Goal of the season,” some dared to whisper. Perhaps too loudly. It was, undeniably, a special moment. But in the cold light of perspective, maybe not epoch-defining. Still, the statement was made: Mateta is no longer merely a name on the teamsheet. He is Premier League-proven. And like Eze, his time at Selhurst may well be winding down. Eyes — Arsenal’s included, perhaps — will be watching.
And as Palace surged in those dying embers, there were hearts fluttering across the northwest. Liverpool eyes, fixed on a screen, pulses skipping. Because for a fleeting moment, it looked like Palace might do more than just level. They might steal it. But in the end, a draw it was — and, curiously, it may serve Liverpool best. They now go home, to Anfield, to face a Tottenham side in tatters. They hold the cards. The stage is theirs.
For Arsenal, this was the game in hand. The final piece of the scheduling puzzle. A chance to stretch the table, to apply pressure. But instead — it was familiar. Frustratingly so.
It echoed recent weeks. Arsenal, for all their precision, seemed short on passion. For all their structure, lacked spark. Declan Rice buzzed with intent. Martinelli offered bursts of menace. Raya tried to quicken the tempo from deep. But it never truly clicked. Never roared. And it left the fans — and perhaps Arteta — longing for more.
There were gears left untouched. Levels unscaled. This side can be so much more — and yet, too often lately, they’ve seemed hesitant to rise.
And so, we look again to the horizon. Newcastle still chase. City, ever the spectre, still loom. There is distance in the table — yes — but not yet safety. Anfield awaits. Newcastle again awaits. This second-place finish, while probable, is far from sealed.
And with performances like this — forgettable, flat — the margin for error tightens. It is not just points on the board now, but momentum in the bloodstream. Arsenal cannot sleepwalk their way to silver.
And yet, we move on. The weekend brings pause — not peace. As others play, we will watch. As others chase, we must reflect. And though this one stings — that sense of “what might’ve been” still clinging like mist — there is still purpose, still pursuit, still the promise of what could be.
C’est la vie. But only just.