For the Cabinet

November 9, 2011

Premier Division
Chelsea v Burnley, Stamford Bridge
Chelsea 5 (Fernando Torres 6 56, Frank Lampard 14, Simon Vukcevic 18, John Obi Mikel 49) – Burnley 1 (Matt Derbyshire 82)
MoM: Lampard (9.3)
Attendance: 40,629. Referee: Howard Webb.

November 13, 2011

Shaking his head as the familiar theme music started up, Danyil stood in the archway that opened into their small living room. He held two glasses of wine in his hands and, crossing the room, he offered one to Ruud. Why do you watch this silliness?

Ruud smiled, and the two men gently touched glasses before he answered. It amuses me. And sometimes, they even show pictures of you.

Danyil rolled his eyes as the logos of the teams in the Premier League morphed one into the next, ending with a cartoon cluster of cannons firing behind the Arsenal logo. Whatever. It’s silly. Just a litany of goals and fouls with the occasional save thrown in.

Ruud adopted a shocked expression. What, there’s more to football than that?

Oh, hush you.

The two settled in next to each other and as the television screen showed a parade of two lines of players, one in red and the other in blue, exiting the tunnel, Ruud turned towards Danyil. Wow. You win five one and still don’t get first billing.

Danyil only nodded as the parade of goals by Manchester United unfolded. The Red Devils had beaten Wigan 7-0, continuing their unbeaten run at the top of the table.

Ruud’s face turned serious as Dimitar Berbatov knocked in the final score, an easy volley past Ali Al Habsi in Wigan’s goal after he had deflected a shot from Rooney that looked destined to net United’s star a hat-trick on the day. You think you can catch them?

Danyil nodded without hesitation. Those Brazilian twins can’t play like this the whole year. And I really think they let too much good talent go—Young to Inter. Nani leaving in January. They’re weaker than they were.

Even with Busquets?

Danyil shrugged. I like any of our three more.

Sure, but how long will you have them?

Yaya and Essien, forever. Well … Essien at least for a few more years. De Rossi … Danyil paused to take another sip of wine. Well. We haven’t gotten any offers for him. But I wouldn’t be surprised to see him return to Italy. He sees the writing on the wall.

Ruud nodded, his eyes flickering back to the screen. He smiled and nodded towards the TV. Ah, look, there you are.

The opening shot was of the players in blue lined up before the game, the camera stopping at the brown-haired visage of Fernando Torres. And then, a goal most who saw would remember for quite some time: Torres, taking a quick pass from Frank Lampard well inside his own half and then out-sprinting most of the Burnley defense. At the last moment, André Bikey crossed to force him hard to the touchline, but the Spanish international deftly changed direction and fired a shot from a near-impossible angle beyond Dorus de Vries’ dive.

A shot of the players in a celebratory huddle was followed by a close up of Danyil’s face, largely expressionless as he watched. The female announcer’s voice-over continued, But the single goal seemed not to satisfy Danyil Oranje on the Chelsea sideline. Luckily for the Dutch manager, more were to come.

Danyil snorted. I loved the goal. The look was about Bikey.

Bikey?

Yeah. His on the fringe for the Cup of Nations.

He won’t have to face Torres.

Before Danyil could reply, the show continued with Chelsea’s domination of Burnley: a Lampard drive from thirty yards, a solid volley from inside the box from Vukcevic, a header near the end to give Torres his brace. But the largest celebration shown was when, just shy of an hour in, Jon Obi Mikel took a diagonal pass from De Rossi and, from a few steps outside the box, sent a looping shot that ducked just inside the upper right corner of the goal.

It was a rare score for the Nigerian playmaker, who was seeing less and less playing time as the Chelsea squad’s depth at holding midfielder kept him mostly to the reserves. This time, when the camera found Danyil, he was clapping enthusiastically, a broad smile on his face.

November 19, 2011

We were in Madrid. We were playing Real Madrid. But we weren’t playing at the Bernabéu. Instead, we were at a small stadium, home to some second rate Spanish team.

Sometimes the bureaucracies of modern international football confound me.

Instead of a neutral site—which is what the competition demands—we are playing what is in essence a home game for Los Blancos in front of fifteen thousand screaming fans.

It’s only this Imposters Cup thing, but Manuel Pelligrini is fielding a good side, if not quite his first choice. The same could be said of us, with Ochoa in goal, young Danish international Michael Larsen in the starting eleven and with Daniel Sturridge playing a largely unfamiliar central role behind Dzeko and Torres. It’s not his natural position by a long shot, but with the freedom Yaya and De Rossi have to move forward, he’ll spend plenty of time on the wings where he belongs.

It could be tough going on both sides of the ball: we need to break down a back line of Sergio Ramos, Arbeola, Pepe, and Raúl Albiol and defend against an attacking four of Kaká, Higuaín, Raúl and, of course, pretty boy Cristiano Ronaldo.

The game starts at a breakneck pace: five minutes in, Iker Casillas sees that Ochoa has moved off his line and sends a free kick high and deep towards our goal. The crowd roars as the ball is in the air, thinking Casillas has a shot at a goal that will live forever, but Ochoa moves back in time to calmly catch the ball, much to their dismay.

A few minutes later, De Rossi takes a free kick outside their penalty box and absolutely lashes the ball, which takes a deflection off Pepe and into the corner of the net. It’s a lucky goal, but a goal nonetheless, and despite the whistles from the crowd, we enthusiastically celebrate being up by one.

Both Xabi and Higuaín miss by inches within the next ten minutes, Xabi looping a shot off the top of the crossbar that has Ochoa beaten, and our Mexican keeper barely able to tip a curling shot from Higuaín around the post.

Despite the frantic pace, we’re beginning to exert our will on the game, especially in the defensive half, where De Rossi and Touré are intercepting more passes than Real Madrid are able to connect. This is frustrating the Real Madrid players and, just over twenty minutes in, Xabi takes it out on Edin Dzeko, who falls to the ground with a yell, clutching his ankle. It’s bad: he doesn’t move, just lays there with his hands around his leg, mouthing a silent scream of pain.

Drogba warms up in a hurry and after he enters the game, play calms down with the only moments of note a dipping shot from Ronaldo that grazes the side post and a mazy, twisting run from Torres that leads an attack for us that ultimately fizzles out.

Sturridge is thriving in the center—his pace is too much for them, but so far, their back line has held off our attacks and we go into halftime up the one goal but with everything left to play for.

The second half seems them in the ascendancy, with us hanging onto our lead by our fingernails. On the hour, a foolish foul by Essien gives them a free kick from just under thirty yards out and an opposing manager’s worst nightmare unfolds before my eyes: the chiseled face of Cristiano Ronaldo gazing at your defenders lined up in a wall as he prepares a free kick. It’s on target, a rocket that seems destined for the corner of our goal until Sturridge is able to kick it away at the last moment with a sliding effort. He was out of position for his defensive assignment, having lost Xabi Alonso in the shuffle, but luckily was in the right place to preserve the clean sheet.

It only underscores how narrow our advantage—if we have any—is.

But football is a fickle game and just a few minutes later, we move the ball quickly from Larsen to Drogba to Torres, who sees that Christoph Metzelder (on for Lassana Diarra), Albiol and Pepe have all pulled too tight towards his side of the field. Torres lays the ball into the open space where a streaking Sturridge is able to meet it squarely, sending it just under Casillas’ dive.

Only two minutes later, Larsen sends the ball long towards their defense. Everyone in the stadium—including the Real Madrid back line—sees Drogba, who is well offsides. He stands still, letting the ball bounce past him and, before the defenders in white are able to react, Torres is onto the ball at full speed. He takes one touch and powers a shot past Casillas that seems like it will burst through the back of the net, it’s hit so hard and true.

I don’t know if we deserve it, and when Ochoa gets his revenge on Casillas with ten minutes left, sending a goal kick almost into their penalty box where it is again corralled by Torres who scores our fourth, the scoreline is undoubtedly unkind to our hosts.

But it holds, and we successfully defend the Imposter’s Cup, something that will pale in comparison to the Premier League or the Champions League, but is still some hardware for the cabinet.

Imposter’s Cup Final
Real Madrid CF v Chelsea, Nuevo Vallecas Teresa Rivero
Real Madrid 0 – Chelsea 4 (Pepe 8og, Daniel Sturridge 67, Fernando Torres 69 82)
MoM: Torres (9.3)
Attendance: 15,524. Referee: Steve Tanner.