The Worst Part of the Day (Chelsea v Newcastle)

April 11, 2012

Premier League
Birmingham v Chelsea, St. Andrews
Birmingham 0 – Chelsea 2 (Edin Dzeko 24, Frank Lampard 45)
MoM: Petr Cech (8.5)
Attendace: 24,937. Referee: Michael Langford.

April 17, 2012

Premier League
Burnley v Chelsea, Turf Moor
Burnley 0 – Chelsea 2 (Didier Drogba 45, Frank Lampard 56)
MoM: Yury Zhirkov (8.4)
Attendance: 22,516. Referee: Martin Atkinson.

April 21, 2012

Ruud whistled to himself as he busied himself in the kitchen at halftime. He glanced at the clock, thinking to himself, Forty-five minutes, then an hour, then another for him to be here. Three hours. He set the oven, listening for the soft whoosh as the gas jets came to life, and sprinkled a final dusting of dark red spice onto the rack of ribs resting gently above a tinfoil lined baker’s sheet, propped up by a series of carefully spaced steel prongs.

Two first half goals had put Chelsea comfortably ahead of Newcastle. Ruud smiled: he had liked the young Mexican defender Guillermo Salinas when they watched him in South Africa at the World Cup and had been pleased that Chelsea had signed him the previous year. Today, Salinas had showed another glimpse of his development, taking a pass outside of the box and dribbling past Tamás Kádár before sending the ball into the back of the net. The second goal involved more traditional actors, with a perfectly-weighted thirty yard pass from Simon Vukcevic setting Daniel Sturridge free at the edge of the six yard box for a simple tap-in.

The oven dinged softly and Ruud slid in the sheet in, pausing to wipe his hands and carefully fold the kitchen towel over the oven handle. He set the timer and headed back into the small living room, just in time to see the camera cut from Newcastle’s Chris Hughton  to Danyil before Kevin Friend blew his whistle for the start of the second half.

Danyil looked good, confident and sure of himself, arms crossed as he stared across the field. Ruud thought he could see the slightest hint of a smile at the corners of his lips. Ruud took a magazine from a pile and flipped through the pages, not really seeing the glossy images of locally-grown vegetables smothered in brilliantly colored sauces.

Newcastle came out strong in the second half and when Jonás nods home a cross from the right win off the foot of Marco Marchionni, it couldn’t really be called a surprise. Chelsea’s lack of response, however, could, and there were more than a few cat-calls from the home support when, just past an hour, some quick footwork from Martin Paterson setup André-Pierre Gignac for a hard volley from fourteen yards out that beat Cech to his near post, tying the match at two.

Ruud slapped his palm on the sofa, sending the magazine tumbling to the ground, the flat sound echoing momentarily through the apartment. Damn, he thought. That is not going to help his mood. Indeed, when the camera swung over to the Chelsea coach, all traces of good humor had vanished from his face, and his posture was tight, his shoulders hunched into the wind. He had gathered Daniele De Rossi and Michael Larsen nearby and was speaking intensely, his hands drawing shapes in the air, the two midfielders listening intently between gulps from their squeeze bottles.

Whatever Danyil told them helped, but was not sufficient to swing the contest back to Chelsea’s favor, and as the game wore on, Ruud moved less and less until he was absolutely still, a brown skinned statue on the black couch, only his eyes trailing the motion as it flowed across the flatscreen.

Twenty minutes from time, Paterson capped a brilliant second half with a volley from twenty-five yards that curled around Cech’s dive, sending the visiting support into screams of joy and sending a wave of silence across the rest of Stamford Bridge. Ruud cursed to himself and slumped against the back of the couch, all of the earlier tension flowing dispiritedly out of his body and leaving him limp, a deep frown etched on his face.

Just after the fourth official held up the sign indicating three minutes of extra time, Frank Lampard chipped a ball out towards the edge of the box where Branislav Ivanovic was able to control it and then turn, sending a hard shot through Fraser Forster’s arms. Chelsea’s reactions were muted: salvaging a point from a game they should have won was not a cause for celebration as much as relief, and Ruud, after an initial clap of celebration at Ivanovic’s shot, stared mutely at the screen until the soft pinging of the timer on the oven snapped him out of his reverie.

He moved a little vaguely, as if in a daze, returning to the room after slopping another round of sauce onto the ribs and resetting the timer.

His mood soured further after he returned to the couch, pausing to smooth out the pages of the magazine and replace it on the side table: a first half goal from Mounir El Hamadaoui had given Bolton a shock 1-0 victory over Manchester United, meaning a win today would have closed the gap between Chelsea and the behemoth at the top of the league table. Ruud turned off the TV and watched his reflection ghosted on its pale surface. He sat in silence until the oven again demanded his attention in the kitchen, where he busied himself until he heard a heavy tread on the stairs and the metallic scratching of Danyil’s key in the lock.

Ruud felt the tension rise in his body. Danyil had surely seen the Bolton score by now and would be all too aware of what the slip against the Magpies had cost. He turned as Danyil entered the kitchen, composing his face into a small smile. Danyil shook his head. It’s just not our year. He crossed and leaned heavily on the island in the middle of the kitchen. Just not our year. Danyil inhaled and looked up curiously. What is that?

Ruud grinned and grabbing a pair of oven mitts from the counter, opened the door, filling the small kitchen with the tang and spice of the ribs. He placed the baking sheet on the counter with a flourish. Just for you.

Danyil’s smile was slow in coming, but the appreciation in his eyes was true. He reached out and pulled Ruud to him, placing a hand on each cheek. You amaze me. Their lips touched briefly before Ruud turned back to the oven, a smile on his face as he quickly created two plates.

You know what the worst part of the day was?

Ruud wiped his lips before asking, Not the game?

Danyil shook his head. That idiot Jones is back. The teenage prick. Jonathan. A few months on loan at Derby—Derby for fuck’s sake—and he thinks he should waltz right into the starting lineup.

He does?

He said as much to me before the game.

Ruud arched an eyebrow. And?

And? I told you about Bane, right? Ruud nodded. If Ivanovic thinks you’re a little shit, the odds are you’re a little shit. Danyil waved his fork in the air emphatically. He’s gone.

Premier League
Chelsea v Newcastle United, Stamford Bridge
Chelsea 3 (Guillermo Salinas 13, Daniel Sturridge 22, Branislav Ivanovic 90+1) – Newcastle 3 (Jonás 58, André Pierre-Gignac 65, Martin Paterson 85)
MoM: Jonás (8.3) Chelsea’s Best: Salinas (7.8)
Attendance: 52,387. Referee: Kevin Friend.

More than Anticipated (Chelsea v Lincoln)

January 18, 2012

League Cup Semifinal Leg Two
Hull City v Chelsea, The Circle
Hull 0 – Chelsea 2 (Michael Essien 3, Didier Drogba 56)
MoM: Mamadou Sakho (9.0)
Attendance: 25,404. Referee: Mark Clattenburg.

January 21, 2012

Danyil was neatly barricaded in the cramped visiting manager’s office at Sincil Bank: there was enough room for an old desk and a rickety chair, but little else. Metal bookshelves covered one wall, and a painting of the Lincoln City crest was peeling off another. He had spent three hours that morning doing press for the game, mostly because Leigh would again start. He had danced around the question of when she would play in the league in more ways than he thought possible. And if the questions weren’t about her, they were about how the club could hope to survive the loss of the half-dozen players who had shipped out for the African Cup of Nations.

Danyil smiled to himself at that—he wasn’t too sure how much those players would help their countries in their first few games, as hard as they had been worked against Hull.

Still, he was exhausted and needed some time to focus before the game.

A knock interrupted his thoughts and he instinctively answered, Come in.

Danyil looked up and paused momentarily. It was Branislav Ivanovic, Chelsea’s stout Serbian defender. Danyil’s brain began moving quickly, assimilating details, fragments of the past few days, scanning back through the weeks and months and years since he first met Ivanovic. It was instinctive: an inventory of the recent past followed immediately by a search for more distant context.

They had a solid relationship, or at least Danyil thought they did.

But when a player who has never sought out the manager’s office in two years suddenly knocks on your door, it’s usually not good.

He wasn’t playing tonight, but he had been getting regular playing time, so that wasn’t it. Danyil’s thoughts paused for a minute, catching on the possibility that could indeed be the issue: John Terry made it clear that he desperately wanted, no, needed to play in any competition that had a trophy at the end of it. But Ivanovic didn’t seem to be cut from that particular cloth.

What else was there? He seemed to enjoy moving back and forth between the right wing and the center of defense. So that could be it, but Danyil didn’t think so. He hadn’t heard of any real friction between Bane and his teammates. It wasn’t easy playing on Chelsea’s back line: Terry allowed nobody to forget that he was in charge back there and shouting matches weren’t uncommon on the practice field. But that was generally accepted as competitive fire, and with all the focus on either Chelsea’s influx of foreign defenders or on Leigh’s future, there was little attention paid to those flare ups.

Still, that must be it, thought Danyil, already rehearsing a speech in his mind about Bane’s importance to the club, about how Terry was moving towards the end of his career, and the back four would be essentially Ivanovic’s to command until the youngsters grew into their roles.

Danyil had been put in this position often enough to trust the speed of his thought process. He considered an instant longer between addressing Ivanovic by his nickname or not and decided it showed more respect not to. Branislav. Come in.

Ivanovic nodded slightly and slid inside the door. Danyil gestured to the rickety chair across from the tin desk and shrugged apologetically. Not much, but it’s what we have. Sit.

Ivanovic eyed the chair suspiciously and shook his head. It’s OK. It’s quick.

Alright. What can I do for you?

The tall defender looked around for a moment. I heard that Jones was sent out on loan?

Jones? Which? Danyil spun through the three candidates in his mind: Jonathan Jones was a promising, annoying teenager in the youth side, full of seventeen year old swagger. Halo Jones was being kept largely to give Leigh a roommate, an arrangement that seemed to be working poorly for both of them. Phil Jones had been picked up in the fall and had yet to impress Danyil, although the scouts loved the gangly teenager for some reason. He was the closest to the first team, and the one who played most similarly to Ivanovic. That must be it.

Jonathan. He almost spat the name.

This was a surprising turn to the conversation and Danyil was intrigued. Jonathan? Yes, Derby.

Ivanovic nodded. Good. He’s … He paused, running a hand through his short hair. He’s a little shit. We don’t need him here, Coach. I know we need some help outside, but he’s not worth it. He shook his head, his lips tight.

Did he do something? No, never mind. Danyil took a breath before continuing, He’s a kid. I can’t write him straight off. But right now, right now, you’re right. We sent him down there on purpose—if anyone can get him under control, it’s Nigel Clough.

A brief smile crossed Ivanovic’s face. Yeah. True enough. He brushed his hands across his tracksuit.

Anything else? Ivanovic shook his head. Your ankle ok?

It’s fine. He nodded towards the hallway. I need to get ice on it.

Alright. Branislav turned to go. Bane. Before you go. He’s always rubbed me wrong, too. We’ve got enough going on without that. It was a gambit on Danyil’s part, perhaps an opportunity to get Ivanovic’s opinion of Leigh, but that avenue of discussion remained closed, as the dark-haired defender just nodded before leaving the room.

Danyil stared at the door for a moment before returning to preparations for the day’s game. It’s Lincoln, he thought. We should be able to play our weakest eleven and win here. Terry would start, because he insisted and De Rossi because Danyil wanted some experience to hold the defense together and to work the transition game. But the rest were used to reserve games and bench appearances: Larsen, Mikel, young Josh McEachran. Danyil’s goal was to get Sturridge and Belfodil off the field within an hour as well, hopefully to take a closer look at Sanogo or Kakuta or even Töre.

The first fifteen minutes showed both sides of the gamble: eight minutes in, a fantastic pass inside the box by Sturridge was neatly volleyed home by Belfodil. But five minutes on, the new defender, Marius Moldovan, committed a silly foul inside the box, and Lincoln—to the deafening roar of the home supporters—tied the game when the veteran David Prutton slammed the ball past a diving Cech from the ensuing penalty kick.

But in the end Chelsea—and Sturridge specifically—were too much for the minnows, with the young striker picking up a hat trick within twenty minutes of the first half.

Moldovan strained a muscle midway through the second half and instead of bringing on John Keen, who really looked to have no future with the club, Danyil turned to Hernán Coccia and told him he was going in. Tell Leigh to slide out to the right, OK? You and JT in the middle.

Coccia nodded and headed to the fourth official while the trainers were working on Moldovan for the second time in five minutes. Danyil tracked the young Italian defender as he moved onto the field, motioning to Leigh. She clearly made him repeat the instructions, and then her head turned to the Chelsea bench.

Danyil pointed to the other side of the field, nodding.

She reached up and tightened her ponytail, nodded, and jogged over towards the far touchline.

He allowed himself a slight smile as the game restarted—yet again, she had not shown a whit of resistance when asked to do more than anticipated.

FA Cup, Fourth Round
Lincoln City v Chelsea, Sincil Bank
Lincoln 1 (David Prutton 14p) – Chelsea 5 (Ishak Belfodil 9, Daniel Sturridge 17 22 37, Yaya Sanogo 59)
MoM: Sturridge (9.6)
Attendance: 10,120. Referee: Kevin Friend.

November, 2011 Awards

November of 2011 saw a lot of press for players on our featured teams, from Addis Ababa to London to Port-au-Prince to Houston. For the African side, Kennedy Dube, Pierre Delorme, Adugna Deyas, Mesfin Ayenew, Ishmael Ishmael, Mulalem Regassa, and Andrew Sinkala all featured in the Team of the Week. Saint George players also swept the individual awards with Sinkala topping teammates Bereket Addisu and Ishmael Ishmael in the Player of the Month voting and Addisu and Ishmael finishing first and second for Young Player of the Month.

In London, Chelsea players Yury Zhirkov, Frank Lampard, and Fernando Torres all were selected to the Team of the Week, with Lampard finishing third behind Aston Villa’s Stephen Ireland and Manchester City’s David Silva in Player of the Month voting; a finish matched by Guillermo Salinas for Young Player of the Month with the young Mexican defender finishing behind Manchester United’s twins, Rafael and Fábio. Chelsea’s young Jonathan Jones, on loan at Portsmouth, finished third in the voting in the Coca-Cola Championship League in both the Player of the Month and Young Player of the Month awards, which were won by West Brom’s Jonas Olsson and Huddersfield’s Jordan Rhodes respectively.

For the Comets, Leonel Saint-Preux, Alioune Gueye, Tristan Bowen, and Tomas Pekhart each made the Team of the Week, with Bowen finishing second behind Communicaciones’ Marlon Pérez in the Young Player of the Month voting. Sixteen year old Guinean defender N’Faly Kouyate won the Player of the Month Award, beating out Pérez and Marquense’s Víctor García. It was Gueye, however, who opened the most eyes, with his long curling strike against The Santa Fe Red Devils being selected the NADI Goal of the Month.

Finally, Racing Club Haïtien’s surprisingly successful season was crowned with Kofi Dil and Devon Frederick both being selected to the NADII Team of the Week and Frederick walking away with the Goal of the Month award.

Elsewhere:

• Defender Drew Savage of the Honolulu Spinners was the NADII Player of the Month.
• After a month without hardware, Colorado’s teenage sensation Nick Johnson picked up his fourth NACL Player of the Month award in November.
• At the top of the North American pyramid, Estudiante Tecos’ teenage defender Joaquín García was selected NASL Player of the Month while Querétaro’s Gustavo Martínez picked up his second consecutive Young Player of the Month honor.
• After winning the award two consecutive months, Tranmere’s Ash Taylor finished second to Coventry’s Javi Ros in the Coca-Cola League One Young Player of the Month.

Self-Righteous Quite a Bit (Chelsea v Genoa)

April 25, 2011

You see this?

Ruud shook his head. What?

Danyil looked back down at the newspaper and began to read.

While Leigh Musicek has received most of the attention this year, there are those that believe the best sixteen year old in Chelsea’s ranks is promising English defender, Jonathan Jones. Jones, closing in on twenty-five appearances between the reserves and the early season cup matches, has had a solid season in his English debut, including his first cap at the Under-21 level where, alongside West Ham’s Andy Graham, he was one of the two youngest members of the side.

We caught up with Jones on the sidelines after Tuesday’s reserve match, which Chelsea won 3-1 over West Ham, cementing their lock on first place in the English Reserves Group One. Blah blah blah … ah, here it is … Jones had been seen practicing with Chelsea star Branislav Ivanovic, but when asked about the pairing, seemed unimpressed with the Serbian national. “He’s alright. I mean, it never really worked between him and me. We’re just different players, you know?”

Danyil set the paper down gingerly. Can you believe the little shit?

Ruud laughed. Come on. You were sixteen once, too, you know.

You don’t see Leigh mouthing off like that.

That’s not fair. She’s … unique.

Danyil shook his head. Unique. She’s solid, that’s what she is. He’s a little shit. He paused. You know what? Ruud shook his head. He just cost himself a trip to Italy. We have to take a fill-in bench on Wednesday, and he was going to be on it. But now … I think Meneer Caldirola deserve the spot.

Luca Caldirola? He’s back from loan?

Yes, he is. Had a right good time at Swansea, too. Scored a goal and everything.

Ruud laughed lightly. You’re lucky you’re attractive when you’re self-righteous.

Really? Lucky?

Yeah, lucky. You’re self-righteous quite a bit.

April 27, 2011

The conversation with Jones went about as well as could be expected. I made it clear that sixteen year olds had no place spouting off like that, and that he had cost himself a shot at playing in this game. He was frustrated and angry, but—to his credit—kept his composure. I do worry about this bench: Alex, Kalou, and Brunt are strong. And I’m thrilled to have Marc Mateu back—he did well for us last year, essentially in the role Matic has claimed this season. The full season at Preston seems to have gone quite well for him, indeed by most reports he was their best player all year. But behind him we have Luca Caldirola in place of Jones and eighteen year old Finnish sensation Jaakko Rantala. Rantala deserves the chance: he split the year between Cardiff and Peterborough, and scored twenty-four goals between the two. He’s probably a year away, but not more than that and should be knocking on the door for some playing time as soon as next year. But that’s not a lot of experience for a game of this magnitude: European semifinals, on the road, down a goal.

Genoa maintains their trick formation, but Sergio Floccari starts up front alongside Sánchez and Acquafresca, moving Mehmet Yildiz to the bench. So it’s the same tactical challenge: use the space they are ceding in midfield to push forward while keeping a close watch on their attacking trio. Especially Sánchez.

Just under two minutes in, Vukcevic lines up a free kick from thirty-five yards out. The Genoa defense—and Alessio Scarpi in their goal—expect him to serve the ball in towards the mixer, but instead Simon blasts it at the top left corner of the goal. He hits it perfectly and Scarpi has no chance. We’re less than two minutes into the match, and back on level terms overall.

There are some differences from the first leg: Acquafresca looks much more dangerous, and he has a shot from thirty yards out that Cech is lucky to turn over the bar. He’s moving well, and our defense is having to keep its focus now both on the young Italian striker and on Sánchez on the other side.

As importantly, we are seeing as many fouls as the first game, but Cyril Zimmerman is keeping the cards in his pocket. It results in several more chances for Vukcevic, one of which rolls away from goal and into the path of a hard-charging Edin Dzeko, who sends it back across, just inches beyond the reach of Drogba’s sliding effort.

Genoa are playing better than they did in England, but we are more prepared. Just as I think that, however, Sánchez gets free just inside the box for a low volley that Cech barely contains.

Daniele! Jon Obi! I raise my hands questioningly. We cannot afford to allow him those touches. I miss Essien back there alongside De Rossi—Jon Obi is playing well, but he is nowhere near the defensive presence of Essien, and we may well need that by the time the game ends.

In stoppage time, Andrea Ranocchia grabs Lampard’s shirt in the box as he moves onto a nice pass from Mikel. Zimmerman has no choice but to point to the spot, and Frank coolly beats Scarpi to his left. The penalty is the final act of the first half, and we are up by one on aggregate, with the precious edge in away goals.

The penalty changes everything: I have a few minutes to rearrange my halftime points, switching into a more calm, professional mode.

Daniele, I want you to pull back now. Everyone, play smart defensively. If the chance is there to push up, take it, but we have this now. Keep your heads, keep them contained, and we’ll hold. Jon Obi, you’re doing wonderfully—keep looking for those passes.

Gasperini comes out in the second half having dropped two of his midfielders further back, almost playing five along his back line. The wide players are cutting down what we can do on the wings, so we so we move the focus of our attack to the middle of the pitch, trying to connect from De Rossi and Mikel through Vukcevic and Lampard to the forwards.

But our real friend here is the clock: we keep possession and we keep our composure, and we never lose sight of their three forwards on the counter.

Twenty-five minutes from the end, I wander over the substitutes. Marc, Chris, over here. Mateu and Brunt jog over. Both of you are going to see some time today. I need you to close this out strong: play smart out there. Keep the ball and don’t force anything, OK? Marc, you first. The young Spaniard looks surprised: he had assumed Brunt would be first off the bench. Yeah, you. I want to keep it as stable as we can, so you’ll be in for Frank, then in about ten minutes, Chris, you’re on for Simon. Straight up. Marc, you remember how we do it here?

He smiles, but there is some nervous energy at the edges. I do. He glances at Brunt. We’ll bring it home for you.

Good job. Chris, when you’re on, take charge out there, OK? Keep it tight.

Brunt has to come on sooner than I thought he would: Vukcevic and Silvano Raggio Garibaldi go up for a ball near midfield and Simon comes down with the worst of it. He’s grabbing at his right side and immediately waving to the sidelines before he sinks to his knees, hands outstretched.

Turns out he cracked a rib—at least that’s what we think now. He’s rushed off for x-rays, and during the delay I manage to get about half the team gathered around.

Fifteen minutes. Didier, give me another five up top, then we’ll switch to Salomon and Chris out wide, Edin alone up there, OK? Keep it going. This is what we came here to do. Fifteen more minutes.

In between gulps of water and Gatorade, they nod. As I turn away, I hear JT’s voice.

Come on everyone. Full concentration out there. Ignore your legs, use your head.

I smile to myself and try to remember that. Not a bad slogan at all.

Just after the restart, we put it out of doubt in a surprising fashion: Mikel lays the ball up just outside the box for Mateu, who feints back in before touching the ball to the outside. Raggio Garibaldi either doesn’t know he has a left foot or is still feeling the effects of the collision with Simon. In either case, he gives Marc far too much space to line up a low hard shot that squirts by Scarpi for our third goal. It’s his first goal for us ever, and he picked a fantastic time for it.

We switch to the loan striker, but three minutes later, we’re forced to finish the game short-handed when a hard tackle leaves Dzeko bleeding heavily from his shin. He needs more treatment than we have time left, and I wave him off to the dressing room.

It’s a formality at that point, and we manage to hold the ball for most of the final four minutes. It’s one of our best games: coming off a disappointing run, winning by three on the road with all the pressure on us. It feels fantastic, and even finding out the Vukcevic will miss about a month doesn’t dampen the mood of the team.

It means that, at the end of May, we’ll be facing Inter in the final who, in something of an upset, used a goal from Falcao to squeak by Barcelona by virtue of a higher number of away goals.

The next five weeks will be quite intense: three matches in the league against Liverpool, Fulham, and Tottenham with a shot at the league championship, then the Champions’ Cup final, and finally the FA Cup against Everton. We have a shot at the triple, and a shot at being shut out.

UEFA Cup Semifinal, Second Leg
Genoa v Chelsea, Luigi Ferraris
Genoa 0 – Chelsea 3 (Simon Vukcevic 2, Frank Lampard 45+4p, Marc Mateu 78)
MoM: Peter Cech (8.4)
Attendance: 36,536. Referee: Cyril Zimmerman.

Touchline Report, Chelsea v Houston Dynamo

August 30, 2010

Hyatt Regency Downtown, Houston. 8:23 AM.

Danyil.

Hi, Jessica. You’re up early. Or, late. I bet I know why you’re calling.

France? What are you doing in France?

OK, OK, we’ll do our own scouting. So. What can I do for you?

Yeah, I know. We heard last night.

No, we were serious. Absolutely. We were one hundred percent serious.

I don’t know why the work permit was turned down.

Yes, I know.

Well … it’s not all that surprising, is it?

No, no, nothing. I’m just saying. There are certainly some people who hate the idea. I mean, as soon as we made the announcement we started to get a flood of complaints. Sure, some were supportive. But a lot were … crude.

I don’t know. You should talk to someone in marketing, customer services, whatever. Call Ron, he’ll know.

Yeah, maybe. Sure.

Yes, we considered that. But three years in Belgium seemed a bit of a waste—as good as Joanie is, she’ll be over here before then. We can always bring her in then.

Yes, I know. But we are Chelsea after all.

What? No of course not. That’s silly. Look, Jessica, we have two coming in the next few months. Joanie not working out had nothing to do with us. It was someone in the work permit process—the whole fucking thing isn’t exactly transparent, you know? It’s going to take a few years, and there will be some resistance. It’s just the way it is.

I promise. Really. We’re on the same side here.

OK. Bye.

Robertson Stadium, Houston. 11:37 AM

Butch, who the hell is that over there with De Rossi?

That? That’s our new reserve at right back. Gianluca Comotto.

What? Butch shrugs and nods up to the owner’s box. I look at him incredulously. Really?

His eyebrows arch upwards. I was as surprised as you. Comotto’s good, but … he trails off and turns back to the field. What the hell was this? Roman had stayed out of the day to day running of the club for the past year and this was a pretty unexpected way for him to step back in. Nobody was happy that Bane had gone down, but Mancienne would do fine in the interim, and we had precious little money left in the transfer kitty as it was.

I whip out my phone, remembering a note from Gourlay earlier in the morning that I hadn’t read. There it was.

Danyil,

On my advice, we have arranged for an Italian defender, Gianluca Comotto, to join us on loan from Fiorentina through the end of December.

He’s a veteran, highly rated by our scouts, and should give us the cover we need back there. Roman signed the papers on the 28^th and he should have a few practice sessions before tonight’s game. Perhaps he can see some time and you can evaluate his proper role.

-Ron

I stare at the screen, waiting for the anger. It doesn’t come. That’s odd. I turn to Butch.

He good enough to play for us?

His face is wary. I think so. Don’t know if he’s better than Mancienne, but we’ve naught else back there.

I nod and give a soft whistle. I must be growing up. Few years ago, I would have marched up to the Russian and screamed a bit. But we’re not going to do that. We’ve got more important things.

He gives me a grim smile. Yeah, that and you pretty much like this job.

I stare at him. You think I wouldn’t?

Butch’s face softens and he smiles that impish grin of his. I think you shouldn’t, that’s all.

Is that it? Roman Abramovich is clearly not a man to fool with. Was I just cowed? Time to ruminate on that later. I turn back to look at Comotto. Not particularly big, but he’s clearly an athlete. How long has he been here?

Two days.

Jesus, a man goes away for a day and everything changes. I shake my head.

He know the system?

Well enough. Better than Jones. He inclines his head across the field, where Jonathan Jones is listening intently to Meco. I suspect he is concentrating more because of Manuel’s accent than his studious impulses. Jones never struck me as the most intellectual of kids.

Ah. Well enough to protect a four goal lead, you mean.

That’s our edge against Houston going into this game, so we’re sending out what amounts to a second team for us. The Dynamo, of course, are coming at us with all they’ve got. That means we get some time to look at Brian Ching, Stuart Holden, some other players that could hold their own in England. Well, not Ching, not anymore. But Holden definitely, maybe Omar Gonzalez, maybe even Ricardo Clark.

2:42 PM

Ron? It’s Danyil.

Sorry to call you late. Yeah, it’s afternoon here. Nearly three.

Good. Give her my best, and tell her I’m still waiting for that recipe.

Ron, I met Gianluca this morning.

I hope so.

Well, no, actually. I think it was … well, nevermind. If he can help, that’s good. But, Ron, I won’t have it down the road. We’ve worked really hard to pull together a squad here, and I need that to get where we need to go.

No, I understand.

Well, maybe we need to do that. See when he’s available when we’re back, and I’ll make time.

Yes, no, no problem. If Gianluca can help, he’ll play.

Actually, that’s not why I called. It’s about Kalou. What’s the latest?

Really? That’s what we asked for, right?

Any news on Neymar?

OK.

No, I think we have to pass. We can move him in January if we need to, but without knowing that Neymar is coming, we need Salomon.

Yes.

I know. I’m sure.

OK. Do I need to check the papers tomorrow, or are we good?

Good. Thank you.

We will. It may not be pretty, but we will.

Alright, talk to you tomorrow.

7:38 PM

We don’t get our usual first minute goal. Hell, we don’t even see the ball for the first four minutes. And we only get it then because we have to lineup for another kickoff. Ricardo Clark’s cross is parried away by Aréola, but it falls directly to Bernard Parker who has a very simple put back. We’re down 1-0, which is a little disconcerting. But more than that, we’ll learn a bit about how these players can bounce back.

It’s a mix and match team: Aréola in goal, who will see no real time for us this year, but Sakho and the young Brazilian Rafhael playing alongside the veteran Brazilian Alex in back, along with the two French kids, Sanogo and Belfodil, up front. And, of course, Comotto.

We’re half an hour in, and have yet to get a shot off. They have had all of the ball and corner after corner after corner. But we’re holding on, and I can see the team out there beginning to recover.

That said, we still have no shots.

Just before halftime, we have our second corner, and Ballack sends it to the far post. With Belfodil attracting all the attention, Yaya slides behind his man and heads it home. We’re level, and even if it is against the run of play, we are clearly safe through at this point.

Alex has been down twice today with knocks, one to his knee and the last a nasty gash on his arm. I would rather make changes elsewhere, but if he has to come off, that’s fine, too. I catch him as he runs back upfield after the goal. Alex! Can you finish?

He glances down at his arm, where we both can see blood seeping beneath the hastily applied bandage. Yeah, sure. I’m fine. Just a knock.

That’s that, then.

The game is, well, boring. Ballack and Sakho are having good games for us, but Houston’s back line is holding, and Ricardo Clark and the Canadian, Andrew Hainault, are both impressive out there. But neither Ching nor Luis Ángel Llandín are doing much up front for them, and we’re happy, quite honestly, to just knock the ball around a bit and coast through to the next round. I turn to the bench, and find the sixteen year old kid.

JJ, come here.

He hops off the bench quick enough. Yes …

You ready for ten minutes? His eyes get a little bigger. He knows this game matters, even if the result is in hand, it’s not a friendly. I glance out to the field and take a breath.

Look, I know you think I’m mean and I don’t like you. It’s not true. Well, I may be mean, but that’s not the point. I pause. His anxiety is pretty palpable. You have to understand, you’ve chosen to do this. I wave at the field, the crowd. And doing this is hard. You’ve got talent. You need to work to make that talent turn into something. Ten minutes. Keep your side clean, move the ball. Go.

Llandín abuses him with his first touch: a fake gets Jones off balance, and then he is muscled out of the way by the burly Dynamo forward. He’s angry when he gets up, and he looks at the referee, and then at me.

Go! You’re fine, go!

I turn to Butch.

Think he’ll turn into anything?

Butch shrugs. Maybe. We’ll know in three years.

I look around the field: it’s a college stadium, a boxy American thing with brick and steep rows of seats that are half empty. There are ten, maybe twelve minutes left in the game.

Butch, you ever figure out how what to do at times like this? He looks at me quizzically. Game’s good as done. No way they score enough goals in the time left to make it interesting. You just sort of wait for the whistle, hoping nobody does anything stupid enough to make you have to yell.

He looks at the field a moment, then back at me. We’re in America. I just watch the cheerleaders.

I force a laugh. The end is uneventful, and we proceed in the competition. And we have ourselves a new reserve right side defender.

Imposter’s Cup First Round Leg 2
Houston Dynamo v Chelsea, Robertson Stadium
Dynamo 1 (Bernard Parker 4) – Chelsea 1 (Yaya Sanogo 44) [Chelsea win 5-1 on aggregate]
MoM: Ricardo Clark (7.9) Chelsea’s Best: Michael Ballack (7.7)
Attendance: 27,694. Referee: Steve Tanner.

From Danyil Oranje’s Diary, August 12, 2010

August 1, 2010

Friendly
Chelsea v Sevilla FC, SAD, Stamford Bridge
Chelsea 2 (Simon Vukcevic 32p, Andrés Palop 78og) – Sevilla 0
MoM: Ricardo Carvalho (8.7)
Attendance: 39,075. Referee: Clive Oliver.

August 4, 2010

Friendly
Parma v Chelsea, Ennio Tardini
Parma 0 – Chelsea 2 (Yaya Sanogo 7, Ishak Belfodil 58)
MoM: Yury Zhirkov (7.4)
Attendance: 15,362. Referee: Emidio Morganti.

August 6, 2010

Friendly
Chelsea v RSC Anderlecht, Stamford Bridge
Chelsea 1 (Michael Ballack 17) – Anderlecht 1 (Sébastien Siani 89)
MoM: Salomon Kalou (8.5)
Attendance: 26,713. Referee: Neal Swarbrick.

August 8, 2010

Friendly
Chelsea v Fenerbahçe SK, Stamford Bridge
Chelsea 2 (Daniele De Rossi 45+4, Edin Dzeko 89) – Fenerbahçe 0
MoM: Simon Vukcevic (9.0)
Attendance: 40,529. Referee: Grant Hegley.

August 12, 2010

Friendly
Besiktas JK v Chelsea, Besiktas Inönü
Besiktas 2 (Alphonse Aréola 67og, Cem Balaban 90) – Chelsea 2 (Gaël Kakuta 43, Daniel Sturridge 87)
MoM: Yaya Sanogo (7.1)
Attendance: 15,801. Referee: Babak Rafati.

August 12, 2010

Well, that’s that.

I’m on the plane back from Cameroon. The friendly against Ethiopia was a laugher, but it was supposed to be. Eto’o, Webo, and Emana were fantastic, and the only negative was giving up another penalty: I love Mbia, but need him to keep his control inside the box. His reputation precedes him, unfortunately. Well, not quite the only negative. The other goal was idiotic, just a total lapse in concentration in back combined with a piss-poor job on recovering. I pretty much lost it on the sidelines, and the only shot that made the paper, of course, was me waving my hands like some idiot and yelling. Figures.

Back to Chelsea, with two days until the league opens against Portsmouth. It’s been a good preseason—Butch called before I boarded, and we won in Turkey last night. So that brought us to 3-0-2. We weren’t dominant, but we were mixing and matching a ton of players, so there’s no shame there.

Yaya scored the goal of the preseason against Parma—a fabulous strike, where he eluded four defenders before beating their goalkeeper. But we played well, and got plenty of time on the field for some of the youngsters. Our season starts pretty soft: Portsmouth, Middlesbrough, and Newcastle. Nine points is possible, seven should be the minimum.

There are a few concerns, of course. Alex thought he would be a starter this year, and is upset to be stuck behind JT and Carvalho. Mikel is still frustrated to have such a great midfield in front of him. They just need to be patient: we’ll face some injuries soon enough.

And the kids will be tricky. The young defender, Jonathan Jones, is evidently very upset with me. He thinks I am too hard on the team. People keep telling me he’s sixteen, and I need to be gentle with him. Bullshit. He needs to learn what it means to be a great player. But he’s down with the reserves now, and unlikely to resurface very often, so maybe he’ll have a thicker skin next time I see him.

I don’t understand that, though. Either you’re good enough to play at the top or you’re not. You find your level. But if you’re at the top, you have to cope with the fact that it’s a nasty, brutish game full of disappointment and fleeting moments of elation. Deal with it.

From Danyil Oranje’s Diary, July 11, 2010

June 9, 2010

Imposter’s Cup Group G
Chelsea v ABC FC, Stamford Bridge
Chelsea 4 (Simon Vukcevic 38 56, Ishak Belfodil 64 79) – ABC 0
MoM: Belfodil (9.2)
Attendance: 31,839. Referee: Martin Atkinson.

July 7, 2010

Imposter’s Cup Group C
Racing Club de Montevideo v Chelsea, Parque Osvaldo Roberto
Racing de Montevideo 1 (Sebastian Olivera 8) – Chelsea 1 (Michael Ballack 4)
MoM: Ballack (8.2)
Attendance: 5763. Referee: André Mariner.

July 11, 2010

I was horrible to them before the match. I’ll admit that much. But after our performance in Brazil, it was warranted: we were awful. Lifeless. Bored. I know it was a young group—only Cech, Mikel, and Ballack were first team regulars. But it was an unacceptable performance.

So I let them know that. In no uncertain terms. And I didn’t take it easy on the kids. This sixteen year old that the internal folks are all hot on, Jonathan Jones, was almost in tears when I was done with them, and Belfodil was obviously furious with me. I’m ok with that: they need to learn what it means to play at the top of the pyramid, learn what it means to be professional. Accountable.

The rematch was a similar side. Kalou was in there, and Yury. But we also played this 17 year old Finnish kid, Jaakko Rantala. We’re trying to send him out on loan. And find an English teacher. So, we’ll see. If they play better, I’ll have to make sure to find time with JJ and Belfodil and give them some love to go along with the ass-kicking. Carrot, stick, carrot, stick.

We sent Sam Hutchinson to Derby on loan. In addition to Rantala, we’re looking for temporary homes for Alípio, Patrick van Aanholt, and Luca Caldirola. Caldirola was part of the most recent wave of signings—I don’t know most of them, they’re all teenagers that scouts found looking under rocks or whatever in the nether reaches of Europe. All cheap, all with some talent I guess. But all a year or three away from helping.

This year? Well … McEachran will see some first team time. So will Sonogo and Belfodil. Probably Kakuta and Töre as well. And, of course, there’s Leigh. Fuck. I am not looking forward to that media circus. So far, we’ve kept it pretty much under wraps. But we have to submit her to the league at some point, and then all hell is going to break loose. They’ve already built a little private shower and changing room for her. Right now, it’s marked “Cleaning Supplies.” Figured that was the best way to keep anyone from going in there. She was … young in South Africa. But I like her—there is clearly a strength there, and the little I’ve seen of her on the field is stunning.

Jesus, if these other kids think they have it tough …

Imposter’s Cup Group G
Chelsea v Racing Club de Montevideo, Stamford Bridge
Chelsea 5 (Mamadou Sakho 10, Josh McEachran 12, Juan Núñez 20og, Yaya Sanogo 77, Ishak Belfodil 87) – Racing de Montevideo 0
MoM: Yury Zhirkov (8.9)
Attendance: 34,898. Referee: Howard Webb.