Arsenal stared into the abyss against Wolfsburg and thought: nah

T he pale sun hits the river and smashes into diamonds. Some fans soaking up watery rays on the grass bank in front of the Volkswagen factory. It’s a nothing and everything kind of day in Germany’s 64th biggest city: bit breezy, bit warm, bit cold, bit sunny now, maybe a bit wet later. The noise in the stadium is pleasant, bordering civil. Moral of the story: the elements aren’t going to help you out here. Nor is the crowd. All the fire and sulphur you need to fortify you for this game, you’re going to have to provide yourself.

This is not the only reason Arsenal find themselves 2-0 down after 25 minutes. But somehow quiescence has lulled them into acquiescence. There is a fatalism and inevitability to the way Wolfsburg score, almost as if Arsenal have lulled themselves into believing it was always going to turn out this way. Lia Wälti has her hamstring strapped in flesh‑pink bandages. Arsenal keep giving the ball away 20 yards from their goal. Their Champions League campaign, their season, is hanging by fingernails on crumbling rock.

And of course this isn’t about the injuries, but in a way it also is. First Beth Mead goes down in November. Next Vivianne Miedema. Then Caitlin Foord and Kim Little and finally – as a kind of gratuitous sick joke – Leah Williamson at Leigh Sports Village on Wednesday night. The Arsenal bench is now staffed exclusively by goalkeepers, children and computer regens. Perhaps it is no surprise that as Rafaelle Souza squares the ball straight to Sveindís Jane Jónsdóttir for an easy tap-in, you begin, on some involuntarily cosmic level, to feel a little sorry for yourself.

Moreover, if you are a footballer in the midst of this maelstrom, perhaps the acuteness of your plight begins to bear on