Arsenal FC and the Atlas Lions of Morocco

By Frank Ofili

Arsenal Football Club are, without question, a magnificent institution. A colossal stadium. A global fanbase that stretches from North London to Lagos, from Accra to Kuala Lumpur. A smart boardroom. A cultured coach. Players who pass the ball as if it were silk rolling across glass. On paper and on grass, Arsenal look like football royalty.

And yet, when trophies are handed out, Arsenal are usually somewhere in the background—clapping politely, smiling bravely, and carrying… towels.

Year in, year out, the story repeats itself like a badly written soap opera. Arsenal start strong. They dominate possession. They top the table by Christmas. Pundits begin to whisper: “This might be the year.” Fans begin to dream dangerously. Then spring arrives, pressure knocks, and Arsenal suddenly remember who they are.

They are the nearly-cannot-kill-a-bird club.
This is a team that aims, pulls the trigger, and somehow scares the bird into flying away—unharmed, unbothered, and later posing with the trophy. Arsenal don’t miss chances; they caress them, overthink them, and escort them gently out of contention.

Watching Arsenal in a title race is like watching a luxury car stall just before the finish line. Everything works perfectly—until it really matters.

In this sense, Arsenal are the club version of Morocco’s Atlas Lions: talented, brave, tactically impressive, aesthetically pleasing… and permanently distracted by the opposing goalkeeper’s towel.

At AFCON after AFCON, Morocco arrive with a squad full of stars, discipline, and swagger. They beat big teams, announce themselves loudly, and raise expectations sky-high. Then, just when the trophy is within reach, someone is busy removing a goalkeeper’s towel—symbolic victory secured—while the actual cup quietly slips away.

Arsenal do the same thing in Europe and in England.

In the Champions League, they announce their return with flair. They play champagne football. They dominate midfield battles. But when the defining moment arrives—when killers are needed instead of artists—Arsenal are busy perfecting triangles while the opposition perfects silverware.

In the Premier League, they lead for months, only to develop a sudden allergy to April and May. Pressure games turn into philosophy seminars. Title deciders become moral victories. “We played well” becomes the anthem of a fanbase that knows football is not scored on vibes.

This is not a club short of quality. Arsenal have defenders who can pass, midfielders who can dominate, and attackers who can mesmerise. What they lack is the ruthlessness of champions—the cold instinct to finish the job, step on the throat of a title race, and lift the trophy instead of applauding the effort.
Arsenal don’t lose because they are bad. They lose because they are too nice, too poetic, too emotionally attached to the idea of how football should be played rather than why it is played.

Football, at the highest level, is not about beauty alone. It is about killing the bird when it lands. It is about grabbing the trophy, not the towel.

Until Arsenal learn that difference, they will remain football’s great nearly-men: admired, respected, romanticised—and annually empty-handed.

Like the Atlas Lions, they will keep winning hearts, dominating conversations, and returning home with stories… while someone else returns with the silverware.

And in football, sadly, history remembers trophies—not towels.