The final dress rehearsal played out under the kind of sun that flatters everything it touches. The Emirates shimmered in August warmth, each seat a red petal in a vast flower, each voice leaning into the last song before the real music begins.
Bilbao arrived, proud, historic, but strangely muted. Maybe it was the heat, maybe it was us. We were sharp, cohesive, close to complete. This wasn’t perfection — the season will forge that — but there was a sureness, a hum in the air. Three goals, no concessions, and for me, the privilege of seeing the little truths you can only catch in person. The runs unseen on TV. The quiet commands. The moments that don’t make highlights but win matches.
From my seat, I kept coming back to Zubimendi. Not loud, not spectacular, but constant — the tide beneath the surface. In a game familiar to him, he seemed to know where every current would flow. That calmness, the easy welcome of the ball even when it came with pressure, was a platform. Rice surged forward more than I’ve seen him, as though Zubimendi had unlocked a hidden gear in him. And when Zubimendi himself stepped into enemy territory, Rice simply slid back, no fuss, no flinch. It felt like trust had already been signed in ink.
Ahead of them, Gyökeres prowled. First home goal, and it was the sort of strike Arsenal have gone without for too long — a cross, a header, a net that shook before you’d even looked up. But what thrilled more was his instinct: every attack, he was there, cutting a line to the penalty spot like a train to a terminal. Sometimes the pass came, sometimes not. But that presence — that reliability — changes everything. Saka will learn it, feel it, and one day soon he won’t even glance before sending the ball in. Gyökeres will already be there, leaning into a defender, about to end the debate.
Later, Havertz arrived into a quieter game, yet still found his own punctuation mark. Half a pitch to himself, defender chasing, time to overthink — but instead, power to hold off, calm to finish. A nudge to us all: I still have this.
The wings told their own story. In the first half, Calafiore on my touchline was a picture of control — a defender in silk gloves. Drop of the shoulder, a little drag back, a ball stroked into stride. Injuries have hidden him from us, but in those 45 minutes, you could see the value if fate is kinder this season. Across the field, Timber offered balance. Martinelli, for his part, worked but found blind alleys.
And then the second half brought Madueke, direct where Martinelli had been intricate. Head down, body forward, taking on tired legs, fizzing one-twos. No goal, no assist, but enough edge to sharpen the man he might replace.
By the final whistle, the scoreline had been set, the afternoon wrapped in applause. Pre-season is over. I’ve seen it mean nothing before — the Invincibles stumbled through theirs. But still, you can feel the links forming, the partnerships knitting.
Next is Old Trafford. Their house loud, their hope fresh. We go there with our own story beginning to write itself. Pre-season done. Curtain up. Arsenal, let’s have you.
Victoria Concordia Crescit