By the next morning, the sun over North London broke clean and soft, as if the weather didn't yet know the war that was about to be waged beneath it.
The roads leading toward the Emirates grew tighter with foot traffic, banners unfurled, and the red of Arsenal began to flood the scene. Murmurs turned to chants.
Chants turned to songs.
Songs into mantras that were being echoed around
"Here they come," a puny voice said, causing the fans around to turn towards the blacked-out Arsenal bus that was approaching.
…The blacked-out Arsenal bus rolled slowly up the drive, headlights cutting clean lines across the swelling tide of red and white.
Security formed a tight lane, arms stretched, radios crackling, but the fans pressed forward anyway—safely, urgently, wanting to see them, to feel that surge of hope manifest in flesh and sweat and resolve.
The bus pulled into the parking area behind the East Stand, brakes hissing softly, engine humming down to silence.
