My Only Worry (Chelsea v Liverpool)

November 22, 2011

Champions Cup Group G
Chelsea v AS Nancy Lorraine, Stamford Bridge
Chelsea 6 (Didier Drogba 18 59, Fernando Torres 21 27 36, Michael Essien 65) – AS Nancy Lorraine 0
MoM: Torres (9.6)
Attendance: 41,287. Referee: J’erôme Laperrière

Did it work?

I can’t help but laugh. Yeah, it worked. Too well, maybe.

Too well? Ruud’s voice is puzzled.

Six. Four nothing at halftime. Ruud whistles, low and steady. Ja.

Well, at least you qualified. You can do whatever you want against Fiorentina.

Ik denk.

You’re not happy? His voice is concerned and puzzled in equal measure.

No, I am. Torres was magnificent, Didier had two. Only thing that went wrong was Efoulou, who was pretty poor.

Efoulou?

Alo’o Efoulou. For Nancy Lorraine’s. Another one on the fringe for January.

Ah. So …

So?

So, what’s wrong?

I sigh. We have City and then Liverpool in the League Cup. We needed to qualify, but we need our squad for both of those, too. I should have kept Drogba for City.

You can’t do that.

What? I began to line up the reasons in my mind why it would have made sense, why Belfodil would have been a perfectly good choice to start, when Ruud continued.

You can’t double guess yourself like that. You did what you thought was needed and the only way to do this thing is one game at a time.

One game at a time?

Ja.

I smile, warming myself with the conversation. Never thought I’d hear you resort to clichés.

November 27, 2011

Premier Division
Manchester City v Chelsea, City of Manchester Stadium
Man City 0 – Chelsea 0
MoM: Joe Hart (7.4) Chelsea’s Best: John Terry (7.4)
Attendance: 44,524. Referee: Howard Webb.

November 30, 2011

This was not the way I wanted this to happen.

Apart from a few moments from Balotelli, another from Milner, and a final few minutes when Essien was absolutely everywhere, the game against City was one of the absolute worst I’ve ever seen. A miserable day with a wet, driving wind and a complete lack of passion.

Just absolutely fucking nothing.

And that, of course, has the faithful quite concerned: the wins against Burnley and Nancy-Lorraine are dismissed through the lack of quality of opposition, and the win against Real Madrid—Real Madrid for fuck’s sake—is ignored because it was only the Imposter’s Cup. Only.

Honestly, I’ve had it up to here with the damn faithful. I’ve heard them chant things at their own players I wouldn’t dream of saying. And it seems like every other month there’s a police investigation into their behavior somewhere. It terrifies me what they will end up screaming at Leigh the first time she lets a goal in or hacks someone down in the box.

Actually, they’d probably like that. The hacking down in the box bit.

Ruud and I fought about her yesterday. I don’t remember how it started. I think he just asked me how her arm was healing.

And then? he asked. I shrugged. Come on, you have a plan. You always do.

I don’t know. Really. I mean she’ll be on the bench in Italy. And she’ll go to that silly FIFA World Cup kletskoek.

And after that?

We’ll see, I said.

We’ll see?

What do you want from me? We’ll see. We’ll see how she does, we’ll see when the right time is.

The right time? I nodded. You can’t protect her, Danyil.

I’m not trying to protect her, I protested.

You are. If you weren’t, your only worry would be if she was healthy and whether she could help the team. Starting, from the bench, whatever.

That is my only worry, I protested.

Then what’s all this about the right time?

I think I stormed out of the room at that point, I’m not sure. I do know we barely spoke and when I came to bed, he was facing the other way, his back a dark wall, imposing and unyielding and this morning was cold and distant, a silence broken only by the soft percolation of the coffee machine and the brittle clink of our silverware on our plates.

I told him I loved him just before I left, and his only response was, Ja, Ik weet, but when I checked my phone after we arrived, there was a text from him that read, Ik hou ook van jou.

So, we’ll get through it.

I pushed thoughts of both Ruud and Leigh away: we had a quarterfinal match in the League Cup to play today at what was, I think, the most hostile environment on earth for Chelsea. Old Trafford was loud, and some of the smaller clubs spouted vitriol at our players with a vengeance. But Anfield was unique: incredibly loud with a bitter edge that always seemed to teeter on the verge of violence, on and off the field.

We are closer to fielding a first-choice team than they are: both Luis Suárez and Steven Gerrard are injured, leaving Javier Aguirre to start young Hungarian Krisztián Németh up front with Maxi Rodríguez, Dirk Kuyt, and Eden Hazard behind him.

It’s an ugly day, and the lashing rain has the crowd a little quieter than usual. Or it may just be the wind in my ears that is drowning out the noise of their shouts. Either way, I have the collar of my jacket turned up against the weather and am standing with my arms crossed as Mark Clattenburg starts the game.

I can’t stay still for long: Lucas is called for three fouls in the first five minutes, and I can’t restrain myself, waving my arms and yelling, Mark! Mark! Come on—persistent fouling is a card. It has to be a card! Aguirre glares at me as I finally turn to sit down, and I am pretty sure that whatever goodwill there was between us a few years ago had faded entirely.

In spite of my protests, it’s Bane who gets the first card after pulling down Hazard on a breakaway: a clear yellow, but no more than that despite the screams of protest that rise above the wind. I grimace and dig my hands deeper into my pockets.

The first thirty minutes are a picture of what’s wrong with everyone’s current fascination with possession. We have all of the ball, but the Reds have five shots on goal and we have none.

Finally, we see a glimmer of life when Torres skips by Fábio Aurélio before sending a cross towards the far post, but Drogba’s header skims wide. After that, at long last, Clattenburg summons Lucas to show him a yellow card. I resist the temptation to clap sarcastically.

The half ends entertainingly: a lovely drive from Maxi Rodrígeuz elicits a dive at full stretch from Cech and then, with four minutes to go, Drogba winds up for one of his shots from thirty yards out that leaves you shaking your head—first at the apparent idiocy of the shot, given that he had no angle and was off-balance, and then at the incredible skill as the ball dips in and clatters off the woodwork.

But it spells danger for the home side, and only a minute later, Lampard chips the ball into the box where Didier has spun around a largely immobile Jamie Carragher, and brings the ball down and instantly under control with his right foot, shooting between Skrtel and Daniel Agger and just under Reina.

Drogba turns around both hands clenched in fists as he screams in celebration. He continues the rush two minutes later, easily splitting Skrtel and Agger again to lay the ball off into the path of a streaking Torres who taps it in for a two goal lead. Anfield quiets dramatically with the second goal, and the wind is dampening the noise coming from our support in the far corner. It’s a bit surreal: the ground seems almost peaceful in the sudden drop in volume. I look around and I see stunned faces, and a few contorted in screams, but I hear nothing but the wind.

Both goals were moments of brilliance from Drogba, something that has been in short supply this season. He is slowing down and his physical dominance isn’t what it once was, but this shows that, on any given day and especially one where the elements are forcing a slower pace on the game, he can still be a dominant player.

We’re in stoppage time when Lucas hacks down Torres. I’m screaming for the red, but Clattenburg, after dramatically gesturing other players away, lets the Brazilian midfielder off with a warning. Twenty seconds later, however he does it again and by now Clattenburg has no choice: Lucas has been looking for an early shower for the past fifteen minutes and, seconds before halftime, he gets it.

To start the second half, Aguirre brings on Charlie Adam for Németh, sliding Kuyt up top but, despite a spirited ten minutes when as so often happens the team that is short a man outplays their opposition, Liverpool are unable to overcome the man disadvantage. At full strength, we looked unlikely to leave with the victory, but Lucas’ sending off, combined with a couple goalline clearances—one from Terry’s head on a drive from Hazard and the other a sliding save from Larsen—allow us to close out the second half relatively comfortably.

Hazard scores on the final touch of the game to prevent the clean sheet, but it’s cold consolation for the Anfield faithful, who trudge out into the wet and the wind, leaving us celebrating on their hallowed ground.

That night, I call Ruud three times before he answered.

Ja, he said.

Not even a hello. A pause.

Hello, Danyil.

I sigh. Please don’t. I’m sorry for what I said. I am. You know I am.

There is a pause, and then a softening. I know.

I just … nobody’s ever done this. I mean, of course, it’s harder on her. She’s the one who has to go through it on the field. But nobody’s ever managed this either.

You’re doing fine. Really.

I frown. It feels like he is patronizing me, but I’m not up for another fight. You watch? I ask.

Of course.

And?

And I’d hate to be Lucas tomorrow.

League Cup Quarterfinal
Liverpool v Chelsea, Anfield
Liverpool 1 (Eden Hazard 90+5) – Chelsea 2 (Didier Drogba 43, Fernando Torres 45)
MoM: Drogba (9.0)
Attendance: 45,362. Referee: Mark Clattenburg.