February 2, 2011
Premier Division
Fulham v Chelsea, Craven Cottage
Fulham 1 (Steven Fletcher 90+4p) – Chelsea 0
MoM: Didier Drogba (7.6)
Attendance: 25,661. Referee: Chris Foy.
January 5, 2011
So, what’s the plan for today?
I roll onto my side, propping my head up by folding one of those too-small hotel pillows in half and pinning it to the bed with my elbow. I try to raise one eyebrow above the other and adapt an Italian accent. Plan? What makes you think I have a plan? We go out, we play as a team. I can’t keep it going and just shrug. Ruud smiles indulgently.
Your Ancelotti needs work.
So does his English. My arm slips. Goddamn hotels. I toss it across the room and through the door that separates the bedroom from the odd space that qualifies this as a “suite.” I sit up, leaning against the headboard. What is that? They give you eight pillows each, but they’re all tiny.
It’s the price of privacy.
I close my eyes for a moment then look at him. What do you want from me? I don’t want the price. I don’t even know if I want the privacy.
He draws back for a moment. Of course you do. You do this all the time, you know? You act as if I’m keeping us in the closet. It’s .. He swallows as his words crack in his throat, then looks at me, his face flushed and his voice tight. It’s the last thing you want. The endless interviews, the jeers from the crowd. Your own players, how would they get on?
I feel something rising from deep within but I just sit there, staring at him. I’m not sure what’s come loose from its moorings inside my torso, but something has and the sheer size of it alarms me. I’m not the emotional one—not about us at least. I can yell and scream on the sidelines, I can weep at the sound of a song, but not for us. I start to shrug and something breaks inside as I do so and my chest heaves silently. I bury my face in my hands, unable to speak until I feel his arms around me. I lean into his shoulder, feeling the tautness of the muscles beneath his skin. There are no tears, just an emptying that seems to go on forever, a gasping for breath that will not end, and I cling to him like a drowning man to driftwood.
I push my head up and look at him. His eyes carry a sense of surprise, almost shock, at what is happening and behind that, something akin to wonder. I can’t hold his gaze for long.
He is making noises as I rock in his arms, soft sounds meant to soothe me and as my shaking subsides and I settle into stillness, we both quiet down. Afterwards, the room seems muted, as if a thick curtain were draped across us, preventing any quick movement or deep outbursts. We’re cautious but tender with each other, feeling our way in the same way you probe around a recent bruise, both looking for and afraid of finding the area where the pain begins. We speak of mundane things—when I have to leave, where he will go, where we will meet later.
Eventually as always, we come back to the game. He comes out of the bathroom, wiping the last trace of shaving cream from his face with a hand towel. So, the plan?
I am knotting my tie in the mirror. Well, Fulham pretty much tore it apart. We were supposed to come good in that game, all rested for this one. He smiles sympathetically before returning the towel to the bathroom. It was a hard game. We never seemed to hit our stride, but still looked likely to earn a draw at Craven Cottage until JT committed a silly, stupid foul in the box in stoppage time. It was his second yellow and a penalty, and Fulham’s new favorite son, Steven Fletcher, stepped up and calmly beat Cech with only seconds remaining.
Ruud returns, smiling patiently. And so, the plan?
I laugh. You are nothing if not persistent. I hold three fingers up. First, not get flagged for offsides. We had the ball in the net twice against Fulham, only to see each called back for offsides. Two. Keep Cahill on the ground. Three. What is that American saying you told me last summer in South Africa?
He thinks for a moment, then smiles. Let the big dogs hunt?
That’s it. We will let the big dogs hunt. Today is about Edin and Didier. I make a noise from deep in my chest, a soft approximation of something like a bark. He laughs, nodding.
Good. All three are good. But especially the last. He eyes me carefully and straightens my tie slightly. OK. U ziet er goed ult.
I incline my head in appreciation and clap him lightly on the upper arm. We are slowly separating, going through the small rituals that prepare us for our public life. At some unspoken signal, we are ready. He pulls out his cell phone and walks over to the window, speaking softly into it. Moments later, there is a knock on the door. Ruud gives me a final smile, then crosses to the door and opens it, speaking quickly in Dutch to the man who is waiting. Without looking back, he leaves as I am pulling on my dark blue coat.
Moments later, my phone vibrates. That’s the signal that everything is clear. I pat my pockets one last time, look around the room, sigh, and head down the empty hallway to the stairwell. I emerge into the sunlight where a car is waiting and duck into the back seat for the short drive to Goodison Park where, in a few hours, we will meet Everton.
It’s an important game: they have been in the top four all year, and an away win here would make quite a statement.
We start brightly, forcing saves from Tim Howard twice in the opening two minutes. However, we also show a vulnerability that has emerged all too often this year, as James Vaughan gets behind us momentarily on a break. We scramble and recover, but someday we need to figure out how to cope with pace.
It’s a physical game from the get-go and Howard Webb will have his hands full all afternoon. It’s how Everton have survived this long towards the top of the table: a hard-nosed, gritty defense that is playing above their heads, paired with a quick and opportunistic offense centered around the speed of Vaughan, the aerial skill of Cahill, and the creativity added by Landon Donovan, who—along with Clint Dempsey at Fulham—is putting to lie the myth that Americans cannot play in this league.
Ten minutes in they find some space in open play, with Vaughan slotting home past Cech after holding off Carvalho to take a well placed header from Donovan inside the box. The crowd loves it, but it certainly feels like the game holds more goals than this. Still, I’m not pleased—we are giving them too much time, and Donovan is too good on the ball and Cahill too good away from it for us to let that continue.
Frank! Frank! Get Michael and Daniele on board, all of you! Tighten up!
We’re pounding at their goal, but Howard seems to be in a groove and is up for it so far. Vukcevic and Lampard both have had shots squarely on target, and De Rossi narrowly missed a floating corner at the back post. It is, in some ways, the worst possible outcome: Howard is at his best when he’s scrambling, letting his athleticism and his reactions carry him along from save to save.
Webb is blowing his whistle almost constantly. Come on Howard, at some point it has to be a card! Persistent! Persistent!
My protests fall on a deaf ear, and are followed by another great save by Howard, this time denying Drogba after he found some space to turn and lash it at goal.
Halftime is quiet: we’re playing well, we just need to find the back of the net. After Daniele reviews some adjustments to our shape, I close by preparing them for the end of the match. OK. Questions? Good. After we take the lead. Didier starts clapping, and many of the rest of the team smile and nod. That’s right. After we take the lead. I want three points here today, and we’re going to make sure we get them at the end. I turn to the midfield players on our bench. Nemanja, Jon, expect to see some action. And don’t be surprised if we end the game with only one up front. If we stay focused, they can only hope to score on the break, so we’ll keep that from happening. Anything else? No? Good.
Coming out of the locker room, we equalize almost immediately when Essien feeds Dzeko outside the box and the big Bosnian winds up and sends it high and hard towards goal. It’s too much for Howard, curling away from him and into the upper right corner—a fantastic goal by any standard.
Everton respond immediately, keeping the ball at our end for the next few minutes, but we manage to tip it away each time.
An hour in, I swear we are going to take the lead. Simon leads Drogba who looks up to see Howard off his line and sends in an arcing chip from thirty yards, but it just sails over the goal. Didier has been fantastic today, an irresistible force even if there is little on the scoresheet to show for it.
When we do find a chance, it’s not through Dzeko or Drogba, but rather Vukcevic. Dzeko leads him into the box and, instead of coming straight at Howard, Simon cuts to the touchline, evades the American goalkeeper’s dive at his feet, and calmly slides it home from a short angle. It was a great choice: Howard has been well up to anything sent his way in the air, but by getting him to come out, Vukcevic found an open goal.
Everton pours forward after our goal, and we are saved first by a poor first touch from Donovan, and then Fellaini’s aggression leading to fouls on two occasions and a well-deserved yellow card on a third. Everton has two strikers up front now, having brought on Yukubu, and the extra pressure is keeping us on our back foot. Ten minutes from time, only a diving save from Cech keeps Donovan from tying the score with a shot from the edge of the box that looks destined to sneak inside the post.
I remain true to my word, overloading the midfield at the end to clog the passing lanes and retain possession. It works, but when the final whistle blows, it is relief more than elation.
Premier Division
Everton v Chelsea, Goodison Park
Everton 1 (James Vaughan 9) – Chelsea 2 (Edin Dzeko 46, Simon Vukcevic 70)
MoM: Dzeko (8.2)
Attendance: 38,467. Referee: Howard Webb.
MKNN 