Overlapping with Those Great Figures Seen from Behind! [Second Update]

Oscar and Lampard played as dual attacking midfielders.

Oscar possessed exceptional passing and playmaking abilities.

Lampard was renowned for his knack for making late runs into the box to score—he was, after all, a powerhouse midfielder who ranked among the top five all-time goalscorers in the English Premier League.

Although he was advancing in age now, he was by no means a spent force.

Coming on as a substitute for the final ten or twenty minutes, he could still perform at his absolute peak level.

With one controlling the tempo and the other seizing every opening to unleash a shot, the threat they posed was immense.

Combined with the constant danger Hazard created by breaking down the flanks, Chelsea’s attacking momentum surged dramatically after Lampard’s introduction.

After Chelsea manufactured several dangerous scoring opportunities, Arsène Wenger could no longer sit still.

He made his tactical substitutions.

Olivier Giroud came off, and Francis Coquelin came on.

Taking off a central forward to bolster the midfield was designed to match up against Chelsea’s heightened offensive pressure.

At the same time, this substitution signaled a conservative shift, aiming to protect a one-goal lead over the final ten minutes.

Additionally, Lukas Podolski was withdrawn, making way for Theo Walcott.

This move intended to exploit Walcott’s blistering pace for swift counterattacks.

As a result, the support Lee Mo received was suddenly and significantly reduced.

This noticeably alleviated the defensive burden on John Terry.

Yet Lee Mo did not slow his pace; he patiently awaited his own opportunity.

Arsenal began to drop deeper, compacting the space in their own half.

Their offensive tactics simplified accordingly: deploying long balls toward the two forwards, relying on their individual abilities to fish in troubled waters.

In truth, nobody expected them to score directly; as long as they could pin back Chelsea’s defensive line and deter players like Terry from joining the attack, it would be an immense contribution to the defense.

After all, Arsenal was currently in the lead.

The atmosphere at Stamford Bridge remained electric, yet a palpable wave of anxiety undercurrented the chants of the home fans.

This anxiety inevitably transmitted to the Chelsea players on the pitch.

The young Brazilian Oscar began to lose his composure.

He opted to unleash a shot from outside the penalty area.

With the box densely packed with bodies, his effort posed zero threat to Wojciech Szczęsny.

Instead, the ball struck the stalwart defender Fernando Torres, deflecting straight into the path of Santi Cazorla, who had retreated to the edge of the penalty arc to assist in defense.

Cazorla trapped the ball, took a quick glance, and immediately launched a towering long pass toward Walcott!

"Arsenal on the counterattack... Walcott! He’s picked up speed!!!"

The atmosphere in the commentary box shifted instantly.

A chorus of deafening boos swept across the stands of Stamford Bridge.

Walcott was practically unmarked!

After receiving the ball on the flank, he took a touch forward.

The Little Tiger unleashed his full velocity, his footsteps blurring into phantom afterimages.

lightning fast!

Cameras, fans, and commentators alike fixed their attention squarely on Walcott.

Yet John Terry did not spare Walcott even a single glance.

His eyes remained locked relentlessly on Lee Mo.

The moment Walcott collected the ball, Lee Mo had darted straight toward the box!

Terry pursued him relentlessly.

Seeing that David Luiz had neglected his attacking duties, tracking back diligently to slant across and block Lee Mo’s anticipated path, Terry breathed a sigh of relief.

As long as he and Luiz coordinated to close down the space, they could successfully entangle Lee Mo.

By then, any potential threat would be neutralized.

Just at that moment, Lee Mo executed a sudden, sharp stop!

Terry had no time to ponder Lee Mo’s intention.

He could only brake violently, spin around, and lunge toward Lee Mo.

He hadn’t even watched what Walcott was doing—experience alone told him that Walcott would almost certainly deliver the pass at this exact juncture!

Just as Terry lunged back toward Lee Mo, the latter suddenly sidestepped backward a few paces, shifting toward the space behind Terry.

Terry spun around once more—it was truly astonishing that a thirty-two-year-old central defender could execute two consecutive, limit-pushing turns of this caliber.

These rapid pivots had genuinely pushed Terry to the edge of his physical boundaries—fortunately, his athletic conditioning remained top-notch.

Otherwise, an ordinary defender would have completely lost his balance and crashed to the turf from those two sharp turns alone.

By now, the pair had reached the edge of the penalty area.

Realizing that his recovery speed could no longer match Lee Mo’s, Terry abandoned his lunge, cutting diagonally across Lee Mo’s anticipated trajectory instead.

He intended to make one final, do-or-die stand in the forward’s path.

As for Lee Mo’s immediate movement...

David Luiz was there to take over.

Luiz timed his intervention impeccably, seamlessly stepping into Terry’s shoes to prevent Lee Mo from shaking off his markers through mere movement—though he had slipped past Terry, Chelsea still had another central defender in reserve.

Meanwhile, Walcott was confronted by an equally seasoned veteran.

A former Arsenal player: Ashley Cole.

Widely regarded as one of the finest left-backs in Premier League history, the veteran possessed vast experience.

He knew he could never outpace Walcott in a footrace, so he refrained from diving into a reckless tackle, choosing instead to shadow him tightly on the inside.

Allowing Walcott to reach the byline for a cross was dangerous, but the far greater threat was a direct drive into the penalty box.

Between two evils, Ashley Cole naturally chose to guard the more lethal zone, leaving the flank entirely to Walcott.

A decade younger, Ashley Cole would have possessed the confidence to press aggressively, trapping both the ball and Walcott in his wake.

Presently, however, his physical condition forbade such heroics.

Ashley Cole retreated step-for-step, sealing off Walcott’s route toward the interior of the box.

Unable to find a pathway inside, Walcott had no choice but to look toward Lee Mo.

By this point, Lee Mo had begun to decelerate.

Uncertain of how Walcott would execute the pass, he could only wait.

Advancing any further forward would risk straying into an offside position.

At that exact moment, Walcott delivered the cross, lofting the ball into the penalty area on the run.

Lee Mo, who had slowed his pace to bide his time, suddenly erupted into a sprint.

His explosive acceleration was so ferocious that it instantly left David Luiz trailing in his wake.

Now, only John Terry stood between him and the goal!

Fixing his eyes on the airborne ball, Lee Mo adjusted his stride and charged forward!

Terry also tracked the flight of the ball, though his footwork was far more awkward.

He was forced to retreat backward while watching the ball and simultaneously monitoring Lee Mo’s positioning.

Despite his cumbersome body posture, his advantage was glaringly obvious.

Positioned in front of Lee Mo, Terry enjoyed a superior likelihood of making contact. Provided his judgment of the landing spot was accurate, his exceptional aerial ability would allow him to clear the danger with ease!

Lee Mo was acutely aware of this reality.

Consequently, his chosen countermeasure was to take off ahead of Terry!

Terry felt a sudden rush of wind from behind.

Instinctively, he launched himself into the air as well.

At that instant, the world narrowed down to the football alone.

"Walcott... delivers the cross!"

The ball soared into the sky, carving an aerodynamic arc toward the Chelsea penalty area.

The box was sparsely populated—Chelsea’s desperate all-out assault moments earlier meant only four players remained inside.

Chelsea goalkeeper Petr Čech, central defenders David Luiz and John Terry, and Arsenal striker Lee Mo.

The spatial relationship among the four was crystal clear: Čech stood glued to the goal line, muscles taut, primed for a desperate save; David Luiz loitered near the edge of the box with an expression of panic; while Terry and Lee Mo occupied the penalty spot, their positions running parallel to the goal line as they leaped upward in tandem.

Lee Mo took flight a fraction of a second earlier, with Terry following a beat behind.

Their bodies converged mid-air.

As the ball descended, both players targeted the exact same spatial coordinate!

Unquestionably, both Lee Mo and Terry possessed impeccable judgment regarding the ball's trajectory.

The Chelsea supporters watched with bated breath, brimming with anticipation.

Conventional wisdom dictated that Terry held the upper hand; positioned in front, he was heavily favored to clear the ball away before Lee Mo could reach it. After all, a forward attempting to score via header needed to generate both immense power and precise placement to beat the keeper, whereas a defender merely needed to redirect the ball away from the frame of the goal without any demands for power or precision—a subtle graze would suffice.

Thus, a successful defensive clearance would preserve Chelsea’s hopes of salvaging a point at home—at this stage, few among the Stamford Bridge faithful dared dream of all three points; a draw would feel like a victory.

Terry believed he would succeed.

Though he had launched himself backward into his jump, defensive positioning afforded him the edge; this intervention should have been routine.

Yet Petr Čech, stationed directly in front of the goal, saw the unfolding scene with crystal clarity.

The moment Lee Mo took off, the goalkeeper’s expression morphed from calm assurance to sheer terror.

He bellowed, "John!"

Simultaneously, from behind the goal, the die-hard Chelsea supporters let out a piercing shriek of alarm.

"Watch out!!!!"

The cry was so jarring that even Terry, airborne, shuddered involuntarily.

Then, he felt the crown of his head connect with a solid wall...

Lee Mo was equally conscious of the formidable challenge of scoring a header over John Terry.

He poured every ounce of his being into the effort, channeling his entire explosive capacity into the leap.

His timing was a fraction earlier than Terry’s, a microscopic margin that allowed him to reach the apex of his jump first.

Compounded by his forward momentum and dynamic run-up, contrasted with Terry’s backward-leaning ascent, Lee Mo’s absolute jumping height eclipsed Terry’s by a noticeable margin.

Even so, Terry’s defensive pressure remained a constant obstacle.

Driven by sheer desperation, Lee Mo’s features twisted into a fierce snarl.

"I’m putting it all on the line!"

Mid-air, he forcibly adjusted his posture from perfectly upright to leaning slightly forward.

This subtle inclination caused his collarbone to collide violently with Terry’s skull as the defender rose to meet him.

The human cranium is notoriously hard—at least far harder than Lee Mo’s clavicle.

The impact sent a sharp wave of agony rippling through Lee Mo, causing him to wince.

Yet this sacrifice cemented his altitude advantage permanently.

Disregarding the searing pain in his shoulder, Lee Mo met the dropping ball, dispensing with any preparatory waist-torsion for extra power.

Fortunately, Walcott’s delivery possessed tremendous velocity.

Even without maximal muscular force, redirecting the ball toward the goal frame ensured the shot traveled at a staggering speed.

Thud!

The ball struck Lee Mo’s forehead squarely.

Lee Mo whipped his neck around, snapping his head forward to generate extra trajectory!

Sweat droplets flew from the tips of his hair in glistening arcs.

His gaze locked relentlessly on the football, now hurtling toward the far top corner of the net.

His body began its descent.

Petr Čech exploded into the air, body fully extended, lunging toward the upper corner!

He stretched his arms to their absolute limit.

Yet... he failed to make contact.

Bang!

The sound of the ball crashing against the goalpost echoed sharply.

Swish!

The sound of the ball skimming the side-netting as it bulged into the interior of the goal followed.

Thud!

Having lost his balance, Lee Mo crashed heavily onto the turf.

Plummeting alongside him were Čech and Terry.

Among the finest goalkeepers in the Premier League, paired with one of its greatest central defenders.

In this moment, both were reduced to mere backdrops for Lee Mo’s masterpiece.

"The game is sealed! The game is sealed! The game is sealed!!!"

"Oh, wow! Brilliant! Brilliant! A magnificent header!!!!! Can you imagine?! This header was scored right over the head of John Terry! Lee Mo headed it past Terry! It’s utterly unbelievable!!"

"Lee Mo defeated Terry in his absolute strongest domain! Seventeen-year-old Lee Mo conquered thirty-two-year-old John Terry! Terry, who is still at the absolute peak of his powers!!"

"A header! A header!! A gorgeous header! A header dripping with sheer dominance!!!"

The commentary box erupted in a frenzy.

Lee Mo picked himself up off the ground, having been tangled with Terry during their descent, nearly knocking the wind out of him.

His collarbone throbbed with a dull ache.

Yet at this moment, none of that mattered.

This was the quintessential striker’s goal!

A goal forged through sheer, unadulterated physical combat!

A goal scored by overpowering John Terry head-on!

Lee Mo had scored countless goals in his career—spectacular volleys, acrobatic overhead kicks.

Yet... if asked which one brought him the greatest rush of exhilaration?

Unquestionably, it was this one!

Lee Mo bounded to his feet from the turf.

Clutching his shirt in his hands, veins bulging along his neck, he bellowed a primal roar of triumph as he sprinted toward the sidelines.

Mid-stride, he tore his jersey completely off, baring his chiseled, muscular torso.

Charging toward the corner flag, he vaulted agilely onto the advertising hoarding.

He swept his jersey through the air in a triumphant flourish, clenching his fists and flexing his taut muscles.

The visiting supporters stationed in this sector joined his celebration in unison.

"Roar!!!!"

The deafening roar of jubilation reverberated across the entirety of Stamford Bridge!

Snap, snap, snap!

Photojournalists hoisted their heavy professional cameras, crouching low with lenses angled upward, capturing every conceivable angle of the historic scene!

"From this moment onward! He is a true center-forward! A true center-forward, dammit!! He is a true center-forward!!!!"

Arsène Wenger was incoherent with excitement, embracing coach Steve Bould while shouting in ecstasy.

Stamford Bridge had been conquered by the traveling Arsenal faithful.

A two-goal lead.

Factor in the stoppage time, and the match had at most five or six minutes remaining.

Did Chelsea harbor any hope of a comeback?

Judging by the dense throngs of home fans already streaming up the exit corridors of the Stamford Bridge stands, the answer was clear.

The vast majority of Chelsea supporters had completely lost faith.

Having hopped down from the advertising boards and finished celebrating amidst the swarm of jubilant Arsenal teammates, Lee Mo caught sight of the referee clutching a yellow card.

"Damn... got a bit too carried away."

Lee Mo wore a helpless expression as the referee approached, brandishing the yellow card first—removing one's jersey during a goal celebration carried an automatic booking.

Then, the official reached into his pocket once more, pulling out a red card.

A second yellow transformed into a red.

Lee Mo was dismissed from the match.

Joy giving way to sorrow.

Arsène Wenger shook his head repeatedly, having entirely forgotten that Lee Mo was already playing on a yellow card.

Fortunately, very little time remained on the clock.

Lee Mo trudged off the pitch resignedly, bypassing the dressing room entirely to stand vigil in the player tunnel.

Sure enough, over the final few minutes, Chelsea launched wave after wave of desperate attacks.

Yet... time had simply run out.

As the referee blew the final triple-whistle, the match came to a close!

Elated Arsenal players flooded the pitch to celebrate their hard-fought victory in the London derby.

Lee Mo sprinted onto the turf with arms raised high, though he crossed paths with John Terry along the way.

"Well played, lad," Terry said.

"Thank you."

"Let’s swap jerseys."

"Deal!"

Lee Mo pulled off his shirt, revealing a sprawling, dark purple bruise blooming prominently across his left collarbone.

Terry handed over his own jersey in exchange.

The two men slapped each other on the back before parting ways toward their respective tunnels.

"He’s a very impressive young man, isn’t he?"

Petr Čech walked up beside Terry, gazing at the red Arsenal jersey draped over Terry’s shoulder.

"He is," Terry replied, turning his head to look back at Lee Mo, whose tall, slender frame was nonetheless packed with densely defined muscle.

That silhouette seemed to merge with the memory of a familiar, dark-skinned figure in his mind.

It overlapped with the silhouettes of all the great center-forwards Terry had encountered throughout his career.

"He’s a proper center-forward," Terry said, turning his gaze back to Čech.

"He reminded me of Didier Drogba."

Čech echoed Terry’s exact unspoken thought.

"Next time we meet... I will beat him!"

Terry’s tone was tranquil, yet from this moment onward, he regarded Lee Mo as a peerless, legitimate adversary!