That wasn’t “frustrating.”
It wasn’t “a tough night.”
It was a full-blown, self-inflicted collapse.
Two–nil up against a Wolves side who’ve spent the season auditioning for relegation. Game under control. Crowd flat. Opposition offering very little. And somehow we walked away with two points dropped and momentum shredded.
We score after five minutes. Rice cross. Saka header. Perfect start. Exactly what you want in a game like this.
And then… nothing.
Possession without purpose. Passing without penetration. Urgency without conviction. It was the footballing equivalent of scrolling on your phone while the house slowly fills with smoke.
The midfield? Disjointed. Rice looked off it. Zubimendi neat but safe. Nobody grabbing the game by the throat. Against a deep block you need imagination and movement. We offered recycling and vibes.
And that front three. My God. Martinelli–Madueke–Gyökeres doesn’t just lack chemistry — it actively repels it. There’s no rhythm, no understanding, no cohesion. It’s football by committee and nobody’s chairing the meeting.
Then we go 2–0 up almost by accident. Hincapié finishes, VAR confirms, and at that point any serious title contender kills the game stone dead.
Not us.
We concede almost immediately. Because of course we do. Slow to close down. Slow to react. Raya beaten. Suddenly the air changes. The confidence drains. The panic creeps in.
And that’s the most alarming part: we looked scared.
This team, the one we praise for control and maturity, looked rattled by Wolves. Wolves. A side with 18 losses. A side most teams dispatch without existential crisis.
The substitutions didn’t fix it. Timber started hoofing the ball into orbit. Martinelli couldn’t beat a traffic cone. Jesus came on and managed to look busy without actually doing anything decisive — again.
Then the equaliser. A hopeful cross. Gabriel under it. Raya comes when he doesn’t need to, spills it into the danger zone. Debutant scores. Of course it’s a debutant. It’s always a debutant.
If you come for that ball, you claim it. No half-measures. No flap. It was panic, pure and simple.
ICYMI: Wolves vs Arsenal Highlightspic.twitter.com/xkKOnzytwL
— Mannie (@EightLW) February 19, 2026
This isn’t a one-off. It’s a pattern. Late goals conceded. Leads not managed. Control evaporating the moment pressure rises. Two wins in seven. That’s not title form. That’s wobble form.
Arteta said we have to “swallow it.” Fine. Swallow it. But don’t pretend this is just variance or bad luck. There’s something mentally brittle about us right now. The famed control? Gone. Replaced by nerves and hesitation.
And here’s the uncomfortable truth: it didn’t feel shocking when they equalised. It felt inevitable.
That’s the worst part.
This season is now teetering. Either this is the punch in the face that wakes us up, or it’s the beginning of the slow-motion stumble off the cliff.
We’ve spent a fortune. Built a deep squad. Talked about standards and mentality monsters.
Now it’s time to prove it.
Because if we’re going to throw away 2–0 leads at home to relegation fodder in March, we can forget about lifting anything except regrets.
Angry? Yes.
Overreacting? I genuinely don’t think so.
Sunday just became enormous.
