You can sense trouble brewing for Arsenal the moment they go on the attack. This sounds paradoxical, but once you’ve watched a club like this for long enough reading the early signs of calamity becomes a sort of sixth sense, an almost shamanic instinct, like being able to see tomorrow’s weather in the pattern of a leaf. Perhaps it’s the way Nicolas Pépé retreats indeterminately towards the touchline, killing the momentum stone dead. Or the way Bukayo Saka advances just a few more yards than is probably wise. Perhaps it’s simply the breath of the wind on your cheek. Either way, you just know.
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