Sob Story In The Sleet

Top versus bottom. Title charge versus survival scrap. Five minutes in, we're ahead. Sixty minutes in, we're cruising. Ninety-plus, we're staring at the abyss as the ball pinballs off a post, off Riccardo Calafiori, and into our net like some cruel physics experiment designed by north London's least favourite deity.

Two points? Gone. Title momentum? Jolted. Blood pressure? Elevated.

Saka Through the Middle: Arteta's Gamble (Mostly) Pays

After the Wigan experiment, Mikel doubled down. Bukayo Saka through the centre again. Five minutes later: vindication.

Gabriel Martinelli tees up Declan Rice, Rice floats it delicately, and Saka ghosts in to nod home. Fifteen games without a goal? Over. Clinical. Intelligent. Ruthless.

It also extended our scoring run against Wolves to 37 consecutive meetings — which sounds impressive until you realise that runs mean nothing if you don't win the match attached to them.

Rice nearly made it two. José Sá went full octopus to deny Madueke and Martinelli in quick succession. We were dominant without being devastating — and you know how that story ends.

The sleet came down. The tempo dropped. Wolves stopped and started with injury breaks that killed rhythm. Classic midwinter away performance: efficient, unspectacular, controlled.

Until it wasn't.

Hincapie's Moment — Then the Unravelling

Ten minutes into the second half, Gabriel slices Wolves open with a pass that would make a neurosurgeon nod appreciatively. Piero Hincapié times the run, shrugs off a defender, finishes emphatically.

Flag up. Groans. VAR intervenes. Onside. First Arsenal goal after 23 games.

Two-nil. Game management time.

Except this Arsenal side does not do simple.

Five minutes later Hugo Bueno — who had previously looked about as threatening as a damp sock — bends one into the top corner. Spectacular finish. Raya stranded. Game on.

Suddenly Molineux remembered it had a voice.

Calafiori and the Cruel Gods of Molineux

Thirty minutes of scrappy football followed. Conditions worsening. Control slipping. Neither keeper especially troubled.

Then chaos.

A late collision sees Trossard off, Calafiori on. Within moments: calamity.

Cross in. Gabriel and Raya hesitate — never a good sign. Raya punches half-clear. Tom Edozie shoots. Post.

And then…

It hits Calafiori. On the line. Spins in.

There are own goals. And there are own goals that feel like a punchline delivered by fate itself. This was the latter.

You could see it on Calafiori's face. The kind of stunned disbelief reserved for lottery winners and defenders caught in physics they didn't sign up for.

The Bigger Picture

Let's be blunt:

• Wolves had lost 10 of 13 at home.
• We were two goals up.
• We allowed belief to creep back in.

Title winners suffocate games at 2–0. They don't let right wing-backs cut inside uncontested. They don't miscommunicate in stoppage time.

Arteta's midfield tweak worked offensively. But once Wolves punched back, we lacked composure. There's a fragility in these moments that feels psychological as much as tactical.

And now?

What's Next: No Time to Sulk

Sunday: north London derby away.

Then Chelsea at home.

Then Brighton away.

Three matches that will define tone and trajectory.

You don't get to mourn own goals in February. You respond.

If we channel the frustration correctly, Wolves becomes a footnote. If we don't, it becomes the chapter people point to in May.

As for Calafiori — he'll bounce back. He's not the villain. Football is cruel, especially in sleet.

But if we're serious about silverware, we must learn one simple lesson:

When you have the boot on the throat, don't ease up.

COYG.