There comes a moment, even in the ever-churning carousel of football discourse, when the soul seeks silence. I have taken a sabbatical—from the din, from the digital battleground once called Twitter, now rebranded as “X”, as if in pursuit of some futuristic reinvention. But a name change cannot mask its nature. At its best, football social media is spirited, even celebratory. At its worst—it is venom cloaked in anonymity. A tribalism not born of camaraderie but of contempt.
Each summer, I step away. Not in apathy, but necessity. Yet now, as the transfer window creaks open and rises like smoke from the embers, I return—not to shout, but to observe. To sift through the fog of fiction for fragments of truth.
A Fanbase at War With Itself
This week, the name of Benjamin Šeško dances through the rumour mill once more. A striker of slender frame but swelling potential. Reports suggest he may arrive with a release clause tucked quietly into his contract—a detail, if true, that hints at both ambition and caution. Yet instead of unity in hope, we find ourselves—again—at war with ourselves. Not enemy fans. Our own.
It is Šeško versus Gyökeres. Tribal lines drawn not between rival clubs, but within the walls of our own Arsenal home. You are either one, or you are the other. No room for nuance. No room for balance.
And I, for one, see the beauty in both.
Šeško, raw as rain on a Sunday morning, is a glimpse into tomorrow. Long-limbed and lean, a striker still writing the early chapters of his tale. Mikel Arteta is said to want him—and if that is true, then I trust the manager who has turned potential into poetry before.
But Gyökeres… he is now. He is here. A forward of frightening force, with goals that fall like thunder and a frame that would not blink in the Premier League’s storm. At 27, he would not walk in to learn. He would arrive to lead.
Yet voicing such an opinion online is akin to heresy. To favour Gyökeres is, apparently, to discard Šeško. To back Šeško is to deny the Swede. This binary is absurd. It is childish. And it is exhausting.
But what a luxury this debate truly is. Two strikers of such stature willing, it seems, to be wooed by Arsenal. A club once an afterthought in such sagas is now a front-runner, a destination. Berta and Arteta have earned this. We are no longer begging at the banquet—we are carving the meat.
The Silence Behind the Strategy
Still, the familiar worry returns. The pacing. The waiting. Why do Arsenal take so long? Why do we delay?
And yet… in the hush behind the curtain, there is movement.
Not the frenzied rush of the fan’s timeline, but something quieter. Calculated. Controlled. The kind of patience only the experienced can afford. A stillness that speaks of a plan.
It is July they wait for. The turning of a financial calendar. A shift not of players but of paperwork.
And while I do not claim to understand the labyrinthine corridors of Financial Fair Play, amortisation, or accounting windows—I have read enough, heard enough, to know this much: this is not dithering. This is design.
To delay… is not always to dawdle.
Sometimes, it is to position. To time the strike. To prepare the draw of the bow before the arrow is let fly.
If deals are being lined up behind the scenes, if contracts are being quietly prepared, signatures poised but paused, then so be it. This is why the recruitment minds are paid what they are. Not to win headlines on a Monday morning, but to win battles in boardrooms—to stretch a pound as far as a player will run.
Take Zubimendi. All but done. The Spaniard, flew into London days ago. His arrival not in doubt, but merely delayed. Not because of doubt, but because of design. A stroke of fiscal prudence. A footnote in an annual report that may gift us flexibility elsewhere.
And so yes, I feel the itch of impatience like every other Arsenal soul. I refresh the feeds. I crave the Here We Go. But increasingly, I find solace in the silence. Because silence does not mean absence. It can mean intent. It can mean readiness.
So if the purse strings are to be loosened—not by fantasy, but by formula—then let July come. Let the dominoes fall when the timing is right. I would far rather a slow, sure revolution than a hasty, hollow one.
For transfers, like titles, are not won in a moment. They are built over many.
And if we must wait a little longer before we raise scarves to the sky and welcome the new, then so be it.
I’ll wait.
Because Arsenal, these days, is not guessing.
They are planning.
Martinelli and the Temptation to Trade Fire for Flicker
And then there is Martinelli.
Oh, sweet Gabriel—the gazelle on the left. A blur of red and white, all energy and elegance, tearing down the flank with the abandon of youth and the purpose of a veteran. He plays football as though it’s been lit on fire. Relentless. Fearless. Beautiful.
And now, Bayern Munich—serial champions, kings of Bavaria, architects of eras—have turned their imperial gaze towards him. They, who have long danced in the same transfer ballroom as us, also seek a left-sided weapon. They courted Nico Williams. They cast admiring eyes toward others. But now their binoculars fix upon north London. Upon our number 11.
Should we be surprised? No. This is the game. This is the cost of developing brilliance.
Should we be flattered? Yes. When a colossus comes calling, it is a nod of respect—an acknowledgment that your orchard is bearing fruit.
But should we sell?
Now that is the question where romance and reason go to war.
There are those who see the logic. That Martinelli, for all his dynamism, could be cashed in. That the treasure he commands in the market could be redirected toward a shinier piece. A Rodrygo, perhaps. A crown jewel prised from Madrid.
But here is the truth: that path is paved with risk. With reduction. Because to sell Martinelli simply to replace him—even with a player of Rodrygo’s pedigree—is to stand still. To substitute, not to strengthen. You gain style, maybe. But you lose spirit. You lose the fighter, the flint, the chaos.
And more importantly—you lose numbers. You do not swell the squad. You do not deepen the well. And come the cold stretch of February, when legs are heavy and fixtures pile like snowdrifts, you will feel that shortage. Again. Just as we did last season.
Yes, we were bruised by injuries. But we were also betrayed by depth. And the answer to that pain cannot be subtraction.
Martinelli is not the problem. He is the prototype. What we need is not his sale, but his stimulus. A rival on the left to push him, to pressure him, to provoke the next level. That is how great teams are built—not by replacement, but by reinforcement.
So let the Bavarians knock. Let them admire. Let them covet.
But let us not be tempted.
For Gabriel Martinelli is not just a player. He is a presence. A pulse. A promise.
And this Arsenal project—this thing of youth and belief and beautiful ambition—cannot afford to auction off its heartbeat.
We do not trade away fire.
We build around it.
And somewhere in all this—beneath the noise, beyond the argument—is the game itself. The thing we all love. The ball. The goal. The roar.
Pre-season is near. The curtain will rise. And I, like many, just want the cast in place before the spotlight hits. Whether it be Šeško or Gyökeres, or a name from left field—give us a striker. Give us a focal point. Let us dream.
Because I did not return to be drawn into digital duels with fellow Gooners. I came back because the stage is nearly set. Because the drama is coming.
Let us be ready.
And above all—let us be together.
Victoria Concordia Crescit