April 13, 2011
Premier Division
Aston Villa v Chelsea, Villa Park
Aston Villa 2 (Petr Cech 64og, John Carew 71) – Chelsea 4 (John Terry 29, Didier Drogba 37 50, Daniele De Rossi 77)
MoM: Drogba (9.0)
Attendance: 42,460. Referee: Howard Webb.
April 19, 2011
Ruud changed pubs regularly. Not that he wanted to, he longed for a place he could go a few nights a week where he would be greeted by a friendly nod of the head, where a pint of his favorite would be waiting before he could ask for it. He had tried a few times, but the results were always the same: after a while, he would start to strike up friendships, casual at first, Doing alright? Hard week. Bloody hell, you hear about Scotland? That kind of thing. But the fictions became too hard to maintain, he was no good at remembering which story he told which person, and eventually, of course, the talk turned to football. And if there were one thing Ruud couldn’t stomach, it was talking football with most people. So, he moved on.
He would often watch Danyil’s matches at home, but today he needed to get out, to at least be in the vicinity of other people, to hear the clipped rhythms of conversation around him, to feel like even a disconnected part of some larger organism. His work had slowed, and the apartment was becoming oppressive: the view was lovely, but it was only four rooms, and sitting and watching afternoon television was only amusing for a few days. Besides, today was an important game: Genoa was visiting Stamford Bridge in the UEFA semifinals, and a convincing win would put Chelsea on track for a possible triple: they were first in the league and would meet Everton at the end of May in the FA Cup Final.
Ruud tucked his hands into his pockets, lowered his face against the wind, and wound his way through the narrow streets until he found his current occasional haunt, The Wayward Raven. It was small and quiet and pleasantly non-descript: a third of the wooden tables were occupied in twos and threes by a clientele of mostly older patrons huddled close together in conversation or in silence. The bar was a long wooden affair, running down one wall and studded with small placards advertising Guinness and Harp. There was a mirror, dull with age with a couple dozen bottles stacked neatly on shelves and a bartender who was efficient while still giving off the decided impression he would rather be somewhere else. A flatscreen TV hung from a corner, perched somewhat precariously on a stand made for something else. Ruud found a spot where he was mostly hidden in the shadow of the side of the bar, where it curved around to join the wall, but where he could face the TV without drawing attention to himself.
A couple of young men stood at the bar, hunched over their stools like protective hounds, each dressed in Chelsea blue. Mid-twenties, maybe a little older: men just emerging from a prolonged adolescence, blinking in confusion at the challenge of whatever came next. They weren’t particularly loud, but the rest of the patrons were nearly silent, so their voices carried well enough for Ruud to listen to their conversation as he nursed his drink.
The smaller of the two men—close-cut dark hair, wiry frame, a nervous energy that kept him in constant motion—shifted on his stool towards the other. So, what do you think?
I think you’re a bloody fool for selling the tickets.
Fuck off. Three hundred quid, I got.
I know. Just means you’re buying. Jesus man, he said, gesturing toward the television. We could’ve been in there.
Fuck off.
The other man was broad shouldered and already carrying a large belly on a muscular frame. His shirt, emblazoned with Lampard 8 on the back, clung to him and he would occasionally reach down and try to pull it away from his ample midsection. He shook his bald head regretfully. You’re fucking buying. All week. He waved to the bartender and signaled for two more drinks. His friend complained, but dutifully reached into his pocket for the coins, sliding them across the bar.
Ruud turned his eyes back to the TV. The volume was too low to hear, but he could follow along well enough: a talking head behind a microphone, then a picture of Alexis Sánchez, Genoa’s $47 million purchase from Udinese in January, then a quick video of Sánchez twirling through the Milan defense with a lovely move before powering in a strike from twenty yards out. It was a great debut: in his first three games, Sánchez scored five times for his new side.
Ruud heard the voices again, but although he listened intently, he carefully kept himself from turning around.
That’s a good one there.
One of them snorted—Ruud was unsure which, but thought it was the heavier man. Like hell. Those defenders ran away from him. Let him try that against us, we’ll knock the little cunt on his ass. Send him back to wherever the fuck he’s from.
There was a ripple of silence in the bar, a vague sense of disapproval hanging for a moment in the air before people returned to their conversations and their drinks. Ruud stifled a sigh. For the past three days, he and Danyil had talked of little else than the young Chilean attacker. Genoa played an odd shape, a rough 3-4-3 with Robert Acquafresca and Mehmet Yildiz up front, but it was Sánchez that stood out. Chelsea should be able to control the game, but the Italians were always looking for the counter-attack, always trying to free those three into space.
Who do you fancy in the other game?
Doesn’t matter. We’re winning this thing.
OK, but who do you think we’ll play? A pause.
Barcelona. Definitely. Inter can’t keep up with them.
A shot of Danyil on the sidelines, huddled together with his two top assistants, Daniele Tognaccini and Valter Di Salvo, flashed on the screen. Much was being made of what the press called Chelsea’s “Italian Connection,” beginning with those two coaches and continuing with Francesco Mauro and Daniele Baldini on the sidelines, in addition to De Rossi’s continued world-class performances in midfield and the half dozen Italian players in the reserves and youth squads. Their pictures flashed into a border around Danyil’s face—Massimiliano Mazzoni, Mirco Russo, Simone Martini, Hernán Coccia, the loanee Comotto. Ruud smiled to himself: Danyil looked good, his dark blue tie offset against a gray shirt and black sports coat, his face calm and assured, then laughing at something to the left of the camera. The cut to Genoa’s coach, Gian Piero Gasperini, was followed by the typical UEFA marketing: rows of beer bottles crowned by the UEFA logo. Ruud got up and fetched another drink, avoiding eye contact with the increasingly boisterous youths, and settling back in his chair just as Manuel Gräfe blew the whistle for kick-off.
Thirty seconds in, yells erupted from the bar when Maurizio Domizzi yanked down Drogba when he was set free on goal by a pass from Dzeko.
Penalty!
No, he was outside.
Fuck he was! It’s a penalty! What?
Told you.
Fucking hell. At least it’s a fucking red card! Come on!
Gräfe disagreed, much to the fury of the two men, showing the veteran defender a yellow and positioning the ball a good three yards outside the box. Vukcevic’s kick curled towards the far corner, but the ageless Alessio Scarpi got up well and managed to turn it around the post.
Nine minutes in, the pair were yelling again when Ivanovic was forced off, unable to put any weight on his left foot.
Ah, fuck. He’s done.
Done? Shit. Who’s coming on?
The French kid with the stupid hair. Sakho.
Sakho? He’s done alright for us.
He’s French.
You hear what Jimmy was saying? He thinks he’s the future.
Fuck Jimmy. If the future is French and dark, I don’t want any part of it.
Hey! It’s a new voice, presumably the barman. Ruud can’t help but shift slightly in his seat, keeping one eye on the screen where Ivanovic hops for a few steps, one arm around John Terry for support, before falling to the ground to wait for the medics and the red plastic stretcher. The barman moved towards the two men.
None of that. I won’t have it in my bar.
The smaller man nodded and began to move his hands in a placating gesture, but before he could say anything, the larger one shoved himself backwards from his stool, his shoulders hunched forward, arms bent slightly at his sides. You don’t want us? To hell with you. We don’t want to drink here anymore. How’s that? Fucking darkie lover. Come on, Robbie. Let’s get the fuck out of here. Find a proper English pub. He slapped out with his arm, spilling the remaining lager and sending his pint glass over the edge of the bar. A smile creased his face as he heard the glass break and, lifting his arm behind him with two fingers upraised, he strode out of the bar. The smaller man followed, giving a sheepish look backwards before disappearing through a sliver of sunlight.
As the door swung shut, a vacuum of silence settled over the room. There was a pause, a moment where the interruption in the usual happenings was absorbed and slowly faded away. The barman, who had held his ground throughout, dropped his shoulders and turned around, grabbing a rag to clean up the spill. Ruud watched for a moment before returning his attention to the screen, hearing the faint scrapes of glass as the pint was swept up behind him. The game had resumed, with the young French defender taking Ivanovic’s place at right back. The game was uneventful for most of the half—even with the substitution, Chelsea’s back line was formidable, and the Italian side were covering their flanks well, with Marco Rossi and Domenico Criscito continually tracking back to help against the runs up the touchlines by Zhirkov on the left and Sakho on the right.
Genoa’s most dangerous player had been the veteran Rossi, whose darting runs down the right side and hard crosses into the box were a constant worry, but were so far well cleared by Terry and the ever-present Petr Cech in goal. The substitute situation evened out when Domizzi had to come off with an injury to his thigh. With it, Gasperini reverted to a flatter back four, so Chelsea adjusted as well, attacking more directly and looking for Drogba and Dzeko to continue their incredibly productive partnership.
Five minutes before halftime, a lovely turn in the box gained some space for De Rossi, but his blast was well covered by Scarpi and then, in stoppage time, Drogba showed that he’s still young at heart, using his back foot to change the direction of the ball, then leaping over a diving tackle from the young Greek international, Sokratis Papastathopoulos. However, Andrea Ranocchia—Domizzi’s replacement—closed immediately and what looked like a great chance turned into a harmless corner.
As the whistle blew for halftime, Ruud exhaled hard and took his now empty glass up to the bar.
Another?
Yes, please. The barman nodded and began to pull the pint. He nodded towards the screen.
They look alright though, yeah?
Ruud nodded. They’ve had the best of it. But they look a little frustrated—you see that last shot from Essien? Too far out.
The barman shrugged. He can make them. Lampard, too. You remember his game against Real Madrid in that, whatever they call it?
The Imposter’s Cup?
That’s it!
Ruud forced a smile and a nod, thinking to himself, That’s another one I can’t talk to. How hard can it be? He returned to his seat, reviewing the first half in his mind and imagining Danyil’s talk at halftime.
Frank, Michael. Maybe wait until you’re across midfield to shoot, yeah? Just an idea.
Petr, I would expect them to keep the three up front—you’re going to have to be aggressive on the crosses. Trust your line.
Ruud smiled to himself. The last one was him and not Danyil: Danyil’s gift was connecting with his players, motivating them, cajoling this one and yelling at that one. He knew his tactics, sure, but Ruud was the one forever moving salt and pepper shakers into positions, wondering what the right response would be if they just moved their left midfielder up thirty yards in possession.
Ten minutes into the second half, Genoa’s other Chilean, midfielder Carlos Carmona, picked up his second yellow for a blatant leg hook on Vukcevic. With over half an hour to go, Chelsea had a man advantage. Ruud turned to catch the barman’s eye, who nodded, a wide grin across his face.
See, that’s the thing. We have them now.
Genoa maintained the three forwards, even down a man, leaving five at the back and only the young and tireless Uruguayan, Marcel Román, carrying water in the midfield. It was an unorthodox move, but it looked feasible as long as Román could maintain the constant effort: the extra attacking players kept Chelsea from committing fully forward, and the five defenders were able to do a good job of plugging the box. The English side maintained possession, most of it in the Italian’s half of the field, but nothing would come of it.
Twenty minutes from time, Genoa gained a rare breakaway with Sánchez by himself with only Terry and Carvalho between him and Cech. He split the two Chelsea defenders and, from twenty yards out, sent a curving bullet into the top corner of the net. It was only Genoa’s second shot on target all day, but it put them in the lead on the road. It was a stunning goal, made all the greater by the stage where it occurred: a darting run, the acceleration to beat the veteran defenders, and then the power and control to place a tracer of a shot into the corner.
How did he do that?
Ruud smiled wryly. That’s what forty-seven million buys these days, I guess.
The barman looked confused. Forty-seven million?
Yeah, that’s what Genoa paid for him in January.
Forty-seven million? He shook his head. No wonder.
With the lead, Genoa finally dropped one of the strikers, replacing Acquafresca with Leonardo Ponzio, a defensive minded midfielder, and despite throwing everything they could forward, Chelsea were unable to find an equalizer, their last chance coming from a strong header from Dzeko that Scarpi somehow was able to keep out of the net.
At the final whistle, Ruud got up, pulled on his coat, and headed out. Hey, thanks for that, by the way.
For what? The barman looked puzzled.
For handling those two kids.
He nodded and shrugged. Idiots. I just want a quiet place, you know?
Ruud nodded. Cheers.
Cheers.
UEFA Cup Semifinals Leg One
Chelsea v Genoa, Stamford Bridge
Chelsea 0 – Genoa 1 (Alexis Sánchez 72)
MoM: Sánchez (8.3) Chelsea’s Best: Michael Essien (7.7)
Attendance: 41,438. Referee: Manuel Gräfe.
Later, a near-empty bottle of Mercurey between them, Danyil sighed and leaned back against the black couch. How the hell do we do that? Up a man, dominating play, and we lose? Ruud was quiet. There wasn’t a lot to say: Chelsea had been playing so well over the past month that it came as a bit of a shock for them to give away a game like this. Danyil’s hands slammed down on the leather, an empty slap that seemed to echo slightly in the small room. Damn! And Essien and Bane will miss the second leg. Stupid foul by him to get the yellow, too.
Ruud nodded, then asked, How is Ivanovic?
Danyil ran a hand through his hair. Out about a month. Ankle.
A month?
High on the ankle.
Oh. That’ll do it, then.
And we have City in what, four days?
Ruud smiled. You hear it’s being called the match of the season?
Danyil laughed ruefully. Until the one the following week, yeah.
MKNN 