CHAPTER 507: 1

"Perspective," Mrs. Palette said, dabbing blue paint. "It is how we see the world. From here, the wave looks huge. From far away, it is just a ripple. You must change your angle to see the truth."

Alex sat at his easel. He was drawing a football pitch. But not from above. From the perspective of the ball.

"Interesting choice, Alex," Mrs. Palette said, looking over his shoulder. "The world looks very chaotic from down there."

"It is," Alex said. "Lots of feet. Lots of danger."

Mark sat next to him. Mark was not painting. He was covered in clay. He was trying to sculpt a statue of himself.

"I AM MICHELANGELO!" Mark shouted. "THIS IS MY DAVID! BUT FASTER! AND WITH BETTER HAIR!"

"Mark," Mrs. Palette sighed. "That looks like a potato with legs."

"It is abstract!" Mark argued. "It represents my inner speed! The potato is aerodynamic!"

"Please wash your hands before you touch anything else," Mrs. Palette said.

The bell rang.

Alex packed his brushes.

Perspective.

He needed it.

Tonight was the last game of the Premier League season.

Arsenal vs Tottenham.

The North London Derby.

At Tottenham Hotspur Stadium.

If Arsenal won, they won the league.

If they lost, Manchester City won the league.

It was the ultimate pressure cooker.

Alex walked out to the car park.

Milo was waiting.

Milo was dressed as... a Fortune Teller.

He was wearing a purple turban and a robe covered in stars. He was sitting at a small table with a crystal ball (which was actually a goldfish bowl turned upside down).

"I SEE THE FUTURE!" Milo wailed in a spooky voice. "ALEX! CROSS MY PALM WITH SILVER! I WILL TELL YOU THE SCORE!"

"Milo, there is a goldfish in your crystal ball," Alex said.

"THAT IS THE ORACLE!" Milo whispered. "HE KNOWS EVERYTHING! HE SAYS YOU WILL SCORE! OR MAYBE HE SAYS HE IS HUNGRY! IT IS HARD TO TELL!"

"We have to go, Milo."

"THE SPIRITS SAY... GOOD LUCK!" Milo shouted, packing up his fish.

They drove to the stadium.

Steve, the manager, was waiting on the bus.

"This is it," Steve said. "38 games. It all comes down to this."

He looked at the team.

"Tottenham want to ruin our party. They hate us. They would rather lose every other game than see us lift the trophy in their stadium."

He looked at Alex.

"Professor. The atmosphere will be toxic. They will whistle. They will scream. Do not listen. Change your perspective. See the noise as energy."

"I will turn the volume down," Alex said.

Tottenham Hotspur Stadium.

It was a cauldron of hate. Sixty thousand Spurs fans.

Alex stood in the tunnel.

He looked at the Spurs players. Son Heung-min. Maddison. Romero.

They looked motivated. They wanted to spoil the day.

"No trophy for you," Romero whispered to Alex. "Not here. Not today."

"We will see," Alex said.

The whistle blew.

The game started.

It was fast. Furious.

Tottenham pressed high. They tackled hard.

In the tenth minute, Son got the ball. He ran at Ben White.

Son cut inside. He shot.

Raya saved.

The crowd roared.

"They are hungry!" Mark yelled. "They want to eat us!"

"Be the bad food!" Alex shouted back. "Give them indigestion!"

Arsenal struggled to find their rhythm. The pitch felt small. The pressure felt huge.

In the thirtieth minute, disaster struck.

Saliba slipped.

Maddison took the ball. He played it to Richarlison.

Richarlison scored.

Goal.

One zero. Tottenham.

The stadium exploded. The Spurs fans celebrated like they had won the World Cup. They didn’t care about their own season. They just wanted to kill Arsenal’s dream.

Alex stood in the center circle.

He looked at the clock. Sixty minutes left.

He looked at his teammates. Heads were down.

"Perspective," Alex thought. "From here, it looks bad. From the future, it is just a plot twist."

He clapped his hands.

"Heads up!" Alex shouted. "It is just one goal! We are the champions! Act like it!"

Arsenal restarted.

Alex took control.

He demanded the ball.

He started to dictate the play.

Pass. Move. Pass. Move.

He made Tottenham run.

Forty fifth minute.

Alex got the ball on the edge of the box.

He saw a wall of white shirts.

He saw Rico on the wing.

Alex faked a shot. The defenders flinched.

Alex passed to Rico.

Rico danced past Porro. He crossed.

Saka was there.

Saka volleyed.

Goal.

One one.

"Game on!" Saka screamed.

Halftime. One one.

Steve was calm.

"You have them," Steve said. "They scored early. Now they are scared. They are scared of losing the lead. Pressure does strange things to the mind."

He looked at Alex.

"Professor. Find the angle. Find the solution."

Second half.

The tension was unbearable.

News came from Manchester. City were winning 3-0. Arsenal had to win. A draw was not enough.

Sixty minutes. Seventy minutes.

Time was running out.

Tottenham were defending deep. They were wasting time. The goalkeeper was taking ages to take goal kicks.

"Play the ball!" Mark yelled. "Stop having a picnic!"

Eighty fifth minute.

Five minutes left.

Alex had the ball.

He was tired. His legs burned.

He looked at the Tottenham defense. Romero. Van de Ven. They were solid.

There was no way through.

Unless...

Alex looked up.

He saw the goalkeeper, Vicario, standing slightly off his line.

He saw the wind blowing the corner flag.

He remembered the art class.

Change your angle.

Alex was thirty five yards out.

He did not look for a pass.

He looked at the top corner.

"No," Mark whispered. "Professor, that is too far."

Alex ignored him.

He stepped up.

He hit the ball.

It was not a knuckleball. It was not a curve.

It was a "Dipper".

He hit it with top spin.

The ball flew high. It looked like it was going into the stands.

Vicario watched it. He thought it was over.

But then, physics happened.

The ball dropped. It dropped fast.

It fell out of the sky.

It went over Vicario’s head.

It dipped under the bar.

Goal.

Two one. Arsenal.

The stadium went silent. Except for the away end.

Alex ran to the corner. He stood still. He put his finger to his lips.

"Silence," Alex whispered.

Mark jumped on him. "YOU ARE CRAZY! YOU SHOT FROM THE CAR PARK!"

"I saw the angle!" Alex laughed. "Perspective!"

Tottenham threw everything forward. Even the goalkeeper came up for a corner.

But Arsenal held on. They were a rock.

The final whistle blew.

Arsenal 2. Tottenham 1.

Champions.

Again.

Alex fell to his knees.

They had done it. Against all odds. In the enemy’s home.

The trophy was brought out.

The red ribbons were tied.

Alex lifted it.

Confetti rained down.

Milo ran onto the pitch. He was wearing a suit made of gold foil.

"THE GOLDEN MAN!" Milo screamed. "I AM THE TROPHY! ALEX! I AM SELLING PIECES OF THE NET! I CUT IT WITH MY TEETH! TEN POUNDS A STRING!"

"Milo, leave the net alone," Alex laughed.

"I AM AN ENTREPRENEUR!" Milo yelled.

They walked a lap of honor.

Alex looked at the fans. He saw his mum and dad. He saw Maya holding a sign that said ’STATISTICALLY IMPROBABLE BUT EMOTIONALLY SATISFYING’.

He smiled.

He looked at Mark.

Mark was wearing the Premier League trophy as a hat (again).

"It fits perfectly!" Mark said. "My head is champion sized!"

Alex looked at the stadium.

The Spurs fans had gone home. The stadium was red.

The Dynasty was secure.

Three league titles in a row.

"What now?" Rico asked, draping a Brazilian flag over his shoulders.

Alex looked at the sky.

"Now," Alex said. "We graduate."

"School?" Mark asked. "We still have school?"

"A-Levels next week," Alex said.

Mark groaned. "Can I pay someone to take them for me? With pizza?"

"No, Mark."

"Fine," Mark sighed. "But I will write my essays in fast forward."

They walked down the tunnel.

The season was over.