Call it "Own-Goal Opera," "Saka the Sorcerer," or simply "Finally — Luck Wears Red. " Whatever you want to call it, tonight hard work edged out dodgy officiating and dogged defending. And somehow, against the odds, we left the Emirates five points clear at the top. There are wins that feel routine,wins that feel deserved, and wins that feel like you’ve nicked them while the football gods were briefly distracted. This was very much the third.
An own goal deep into stoppage time sealed a breathless, borderline farcical victory over Wolverhampton Wanderers. We survived a late-night rollercoaster and kept our perch on top of the Premier League. Anyone expecting a procession between league leaders and a side lingering at the bottom was quickly reminded that football has a wicked sense of humour. The first half was flat,tense and oddly anxious — the sort of half where the crowd starts checking phones and muttering about banana skins.
Our opening effort summed it up: Jurrien Timber nodded over from a central position while Viktor Gyökeres stood nearby wondering why the ball hadn't come his way. Wolves weren’t interested in lying down. Hwang Hee-Chan burst 50 yards through on the counter and David Raya had to make a solid stop to prevent an early embarrassment. That moment came at a cost — Ben White pulled up with a muscle injury, and Myles Lewis-Skelly was thrown into the action on the half-hour.
We probed and pressed, but chances went begging. Gabriel Martinelli somehow missed three times in ways that defied geometry: a free header wide, a shot blocked from a vicious Saka cross,and a loose poke after Sam Johnstone spilled a corner. By half-time, somehow, we still had no shots on target. Wolves even had the best late chance of the half before the break, only for Piero Hincapié to slide in heroically and deny Strand Larsen.
It felt ominous — the kind of half with “punished later” written all over it. The second half crawled into life before Arteta reached for the cavalry. Ødegaard, Trossard and Merino came on and suddenly the tempo lifted. Declan Rice went close twice — a free-kick tipped over and then a fierce effort from the edge of the box that Johnstone somehow clawed away. It had been 46 years since we last failed to score against Wolves; mercifully, we didn’t make history.
On 70 minutes Bukayo Saka did what Bukayo Saka does. His corner curled wickedly,kissed the inside of the post, smacked Johnstone on the head and bounced in. A goal that belonged half to physics, half to mischief, and entirely to momentum. The Emirates exhaled. Ødegaard hit the side-netting,Gyökeres flashed one wide, and Trossard rolled a clever effort inches past the post. Chances came and went, and with every miss the nerves crept back in. Then the nightmare we know too well unfolded.
As the clock ticked into the 90th minute, Wolves suddenly found belief. Matheus Mané crossed, Tolu Arokodare flicked, and the ball deceived Raya before nestling in the net. The Emirates groaned. History felt like it was about to repeat itself. Except this time, in the fourth minute of added time, the drama went our way. Saka swung in another menacing corner,Gabriel Jesus attacked it, Mosquera panicked,and the ball ricocheted past his own goalkeeper. Chaos, limbs, absolute bedlam.
For once, the late drama worked in our favour. Was it pretty? Not really. Was it controlled? Absolutely not. Was it massive? Without question. And was Hwang Hee-Chan’s challenge on Timber a red-card offence? Absolutely — studs up and planted low on Timber’s standing leg. Reckless, dangerous and potentially career-threatening. Yet the VAR nest chose otherwise. It’s hard not to feel we get less protection from officials when it suits opponents. Still, grit beat gloss tonight; fortune beat fluency.
We didn’t fold. We kept knocking until luck remembered who’s been knocking all season. Top of the league. Five points clear. And finally — finally — a late goal that wasn’t inflicted on us. A week to recover frayed nerves before we head to the Hill Dickinson Stadium to face Everton on Saturday, December 20. Then Crystal Palace at home in the Carabao Cup quarter-final on December 23, and Brighton arrive in north London two days after Christmas.
If this season is a marathon, nights like this are the blisters you learn to walk through. On we go.