CHAPTER 283: CATTENACIO

Arsenal’s first defeat came under George Graham in the 1994/95 League Cup.

The second followed in a pre-season friendly ahead of the 1996/97 season—once again at the hands of Manchester City.

And now—a third defeat?

This isn’t just a bad result. It’s a pattern.

The real issue runs deeper: pride.

Arsenal have long carried themselves as one of the strongest clubs in London. But how long can a giant continue to ignore the sting of repeated failure? How can a club of such stature swallow three straight losses without confronting the cracks beneath the surface?

After conceding, Arsenal instinctively reverted to their old ways—dropping deep, tightening the backline, and relying on swift counterattacks to claw their way back into the match.

Even Winterburn and Dixon became more cautious when pushing forward. Thanks to this, City maintained composed control over the game’s tempo, forcing Arsenal to tighten their defense.

City’s short passing combinations were impressively smooth, and with Arsenal’s box growing increasingly crowded, City’s midfielders—like Van Bommel and Pirlo—grew bold enough to push forward, finishing attacks with long-range shots

What Richard shared with O’Neill was, in truth, a simple idea. He hadn’t known George Graham personally, but he understood his philosophy very well

To be honest, Arsenal was a team worth studying. Like disciplined defensive line, structured shape, and commitment to clean sheets, this was complemented by direct transitions, strength on set pieces, and physical dominance—hallmarks of traditional English football.

If one closely observed their tactical evolution over the years, it was easy to assume they were merely following trends—adopting elements of the Italian catenaccio and blending them with the demands of the English game.

Well, that’s only partly true, actually. That’s because in over a century of football, only one nation has truly elevated defense to the level of art: Italy.

Even in eras when broadcasting was rudimentary and football culture still finding its footing, Italy had already left an indelible mark on the European game.

Their influence ran so deep, it compelled many in the modern football world to pause and ask: how did the game evolve into this?

From 1985 to 1989, Italian clubs reigned supreme, winning five consecutive league titles. Their defensive records during that span were astonishing—some sides conceded as few as 14 goals in a season, with none allowing more than 19. Offensively, they were measured and methodical. Aside from Inter Milan’s explosive 67-goal campaign in 1989, most champions scored between just 41 and 43 goals.

It was during this same period that George Graham took the helm at Arsenal.

Whether consciously or not, Graham seemed inspired by the Italian model. He built a team rooted in strict defensive discipline, one that came to embody the famous mantra: "1-0 to the Arsenal."

The echoes of catenaccio—Italy’s storied system of defensive mastery—were unmistakable. Even as late as the 1993/94 season, Italian football’s obsession with defensive perfection remained unshaken.

That year, AC Milan clinched the Scudetto with a staggering statistic: just 36 goals scored in 34 matches—but only 15 conceded. Their success was built largely on an imperious backline, anchored by the legendary duo of Franco Baresi and Paolo Maldini.

Of course, whether Italian tactics were truly the most advanced or simply the most polarizing isn’t for someone like Richard to decide. The Italian league—often dubbed the "mini World Cup"—had long been a lightning rod for debate.

To some, it was anti-football: ugly, cynical, and suffocating. To others, expecially it represented the height of strategic beauty—a game of patience, calculation, and control.

What cannot be disputed is the meticulous care with which Italian coaches studied and refined the art of defending.

Coaches like Fabio Capello, Arrigo Sacchi, Marcello Lippi, and even Borussia Dortmund’s Ottmar Hitzfeld were obsessed with structure and discipline. Their commitment transformed catenaccio from a mere tactic into a philosophy—one that helped Italy cultivate not just great teams, but an entire footballing identity

Italian clubs soon began to dominate European competitions—not just qualifying for the Champions League, but routinely reaching its final stages. Their backlines were fortresses: organized, intelligent, and almost impossible to break.

And with that, Italy became the ultimate proving ground for attackers from around the world—each one eager to test their skills against the game’s most unyielding defensive systems.

Of course, in England, things were different. Arsenal’s brilliance under George Graham proved difficult to sustain. Their rigid defensive style—once hailed as revolutionary—began to stifle the players themselves.

After tasting the sweetness of championship success, many of Arsenal’s players began to feel creatively suffocated. The structure that had once brought them glory now felt like a cage—draining their drive, muting their passion, and gradually wasting their prime years.

The club needed change—more than just a new manager, they needed a mentor. A visionary.

Arsène Wenger’s decision not to rush back to Europe, instead choosing to spend time in Japan, proved—at least in hindsight—a wise one. It gave Arsenal the breathing room they needed to begin their transition.

Though Bruce Rioch lacked the pedigree of a superstar coach, he played a vital role during this period of adjustment. He helped the team gradually loosen its grip on the past, making the eventual transition to Wenger’s philosophy smoother and more sustainable. At the very least, he provided the players with the necessary time to adapt to a new style, easing the challenges that came when Wenger finally took over.

Back on the pitch, the situation laid bare Arsenal’s current struggles.

In the minutes following Manchester City’s opening goal, they played cautiously, pushing forward with only three men. Their attack, once fluid and daring, had become timid and mechanical.

Unable to watch the stagnation any longer, their full-backs began to push up—but without conviction. The early goal had rattled them. Confidence was fractured. Indecision reigned.

What other choice did they have?

They were known for their narrow 1–0 victories.

But now, they were already trailing.

From the VIP box, Richard watched intently, his expression unreadable. But inwardly, the thought struck him like a bell: ’If we score again, it will break them completely.’

Then came the mistake.

WInterburn, under pressure, played a poor pass that was intercepted by Steve Finnan, who quickly drove forward before slipping a short ball ahead.

Lennon picked it up and looked left, where Ronaldo was already tearing down the flank. But instead of releasing it wide, Lennon surged forward himself, drawing defenders toward him.

Then, with perfect timing, he threaded the ball into the path of Van Bommel, who had timed his box-to-box run to perfection—ghosting into space at the edge of the penalty area, completely unmarked.

This time, rather than pulling the trigger from distance, Van Bommel chose to carry the ball into the penalty area, trying to outpace Tony Adams.

The two met at full speed.

Adams, ever the master of timing, committed to a sliding tackle.

But Van Bommel, accelerating just a step too fast, suddenly lost his footing and went down hard inside the box.

Adams crashed to the turf as well. The ball spilled loose and was cleared by the recovering defense.

PHWEEEEEE!

A sharp whistle pierced the tension.

The crowd erupted in chaos—cheers and jeers breaking out in equal measure.

The referee was already sprinting forward, pointing decisively to the penalty spot.

Penalty to Manchester City!

"Adams’ challenge brings down Van Bommel in the box—though replays suggest he got a touch on the ball first. Still, Van Bommel had already begun to lose his footing. It’s a tight call, but the referee isn’t hesitating."

"And with it—City now have a golden chance to double their lead before halftime. This could be a hammer blow to Arsenal’s fragile momentum."

Tony Adams sprang up in disbelief, veins bulging, face red with fury. "You’re kidding me! I got the ball! I didn’t even touch him!" he shouted, storming toward the referee.

Van Bommel lay still for a moment, then slowly rose, offering no protest, no embellishment. The controversy wasn’t of his making—but the damage had been done.

FIFA had introduced stricter rules on tackles from behind back in 1994, but enforcement remained inconsistent. Referees still leaned heavily on instinct, and this one had made his call.

Arsenal players surrounded him, pleading their case, arms flailing. But the referee simply shook his head and pointed again toward the spot.

There would be no reprieve.

Ronaldo, the team’s primary penalty taker, naturally took the ball first—but then, to everyone’s surprise, he pointed toward Van Bommel, signaling that he would be the one to take it.

The Brazilian looked over, silently asking if he wanted the honor. Van Bommel simply nodded once—"I’ve got this."

Naturally, Van Bommel had no objections, though he still glanced toward the sideline. Seeing no protest from the coaching staff—and with the rest of the City players already taking their positions along the penalty box line, ready for any rebound—it was clear: the decision had everyone’s quiet approval.

The stage was his.

Van Bommel picked up the ball, placed it down, and took five slow steps back.

David Seamen n front bounced on the line, arms wide, eyes locked on the Destroyer.

PHWEEEEE!

The whistle blew.

One stride. Two. A stutter step. Then a thunderous right-footed strike—low and to the left.

Seamen dove the right way—but the ball was too powerful.

It slammed into the net.

Arsenal 0–2 Manchester City

The Arsenal Stadium erupted. Van Bommel didn’t over-celebrate. He raised both arms, turned to the bench, then thumped the City crest on his chest.