Arsenal 2, Brighton 1 – Dec. 27, 2025
As the Gunners (mostly) rolled to victory in the first of two “festive” League fixtures during the holiday season, there was much to celebrate: Declan Rice bossing the game while playing out of position at right back, Martin Ødegaard rediscovering his once-shimmering form, David Raya doing Spanish Dave things to prevent a costly late equalizer. Not even an injury during the warmup to our Italian Stallion could derail the day.
Had the game turned out 2-2, however, I’m pretty sure we’d all be losing our collective shit about one extremely visible under-achiever in the group.
Oh, Victor Gyökeres. Did I, this past summer, spend untold hours combing through articles that promised “updates” and “revelations,” (with, by the way, zero quotes and zero named sources, just screenshots of posts on X from sites like “the Portugal Daily” or “Football Fanatics”); did I scour these flimsy texts like religious tomes for some divine insight into whether this battering ram of a Swede, Big Vic, was coming to the Arsenal to fill that Giroud-and-Aubamayeng-shaped hole at the center of our front line and, dare I say, the recesses of our trophy-starved hearts?
I did. I did that. I’m sure you did too.
And did I herald Big Vic’s arrival in North London months later as the messianic return of Thierry Henry? Well no, I saved that for Ebere Eze, God’s favored son. (Where is he, by the way? Please Lord, bless him with another hat trick, and soon). But I had hope, faith even, that Gyökeres would not only work out, but would become a deciding force in bringing home our first title in 23 years — that he would become a legend.
My, how he hasn’t. I’ll spare you the stats — they’re not good, look ’em up, I’ll be here — but suffice it to say that he’s not scoring, he’s not creating, he’s not winning duels, he’s not taking shots, he’s not even holding the ball up. Most worrisome is that his teammates (in particular the guy to his right who blazes past fullbacks at will and could, if he wanted to, send him the ball on a plate in front of goal) are still [still!] not passing to him.
They are not passing to their center forward. Let that sink in.
Call me deranged, but I’d rather have Darwin Nunez — yes, THAT Darwin Nunez, the Uruguayan ex-Liverpool no. 9 whose spirit animal is half unicorn half donkey — than Big Vic Gyökeres. Things happened when he was on the pitch, if only by virtue of his deeply chaotic vibe. And sure, he found new ways, every single day, like some kind of demented performance artist, to miss absolute sitters in front of goal, but his teammates (and here’s the key) his teammates kept passing to him. No matter how many chances he missed, how many he blazed over the bar — hell, no matter how many times he slid into the goal post testicles-first like some kind of drunken kangaroo on a slip n’ slide — his teammates kept passing to him. More often than not, passing to Nunez led to a chance, and when you create, or generate, or whatever Darwin did (manifest?) chances in football, good things happen. How many goals are the result of some pinball melee in front of goal? Those moments come from some initial chance-creation: a shot, an inch of space created with a short, well-timed sprint, the slightest of feints, a flick. Create enough chances, and the ball goes in. It doesn’t have to be pretty, but it does need to happen.
Now to be fair to Gyökeres, he is doing something: occupying defenders. Teams are still worried about what he *might* do. Let’s not forget that a year ago we were all of us surreptitiously watching Sporting Lisbon’s UCL highlights during our lunch breaks for a glimpse of that cousin-of-Thor galloping through some hapless Belgian defense before nearly tearing the net off the frame with another thunderbolt. Lewis Dunk watched those highlights, too, and defenses naturally sink to cover him, creating space for the likes of Saka, Ødegaard, Eze. That’s good – but is it enough?
For €70 million, obviously not. As the season’s progressed, I think it’s simply undeniable that if we wanted a “win the league this season” no. 9, we should’ve just paid Ollie Watkins’ release clause and washed our hands of the European striker drama. The case against Watkins was always his age — at 29, this could be his last contract — but I dunno, have you heard of Harry Kane? Danny Wellbeck? Shit, Callum Wilson? At 29, Watkins has delivered in the Prem since 2017. (For reference, Mourinho was managing United and Burnley qualified for Europe). This transfer would have been low-key and sensible, more like buying an extra center back than a game-changing center forward — another sharp quiver in the arrow.
It’s time we admit, to ourselves and to the Almighty, that we all got a little carried away with Gyökeres, a little caught up in the charm of that umlaut and the possibility of nabbing the next Erling Haaland. Watkins is from Devon, has three very milquetoast English first names (Oliver, George, Arthur), and any Premier League fan has seen every single up and down of his career. I can’t begrudge going on vibes — despite Mikel Arteta’s tendency toward control, this club is nothing if not Romantic at its core, perhaps to the point of being neurotic, subject for another day — but shit man, we bet on the wrong horse.
I really hope I’m wrong. Ollie Watkins and Villa await. On Tuesday we’ll confront, for the second time in a month, the tactical and emotional hydra that Unai Emery always unleashes against the club who sullied his good name (in reality, he was responsible for much of the sullying, but cmon now, this was ages ago!) Martin Ødegaard will be legally obligated to shake the hand of Emi Martinez at the start, and our stomachs will knot as the game gets underway, and the Villa away end bays for blood as one of ours goes in for the first big tackle against one of theirs, white and red, claret and blue, green beneath and sky above: a moment where anything is possible.
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