2011/12 Season Review: Italy

June 20, 2012

Serie A

Palermo rode the best defense in Serie A all the way to the championship, finishing three points ahead of Genoa—a result that must be seen as harsh on I Rossoblu, who were probably the better overall side on the season. Those two will be joined by Juventus and Roma in the Champions League with Inter, Fiorentina and Napoli playing in the EURO Cup.

Livorno’s existence in Serie A will last at least another season but both Cesena and Brescia will return to Serie B next season, joined by Siena.

The shock of the year in Italy is the continued fall of AC Milan: seventh last year, Marco van Basten’s team fell all the way to thirteenth this season, bringing fans back to the misery of the mid-nineties.

Top Goalscorer: 28, Robert Acquafresca (Genoa)
Top Rated Player: 7.96, Juan Manuel Vargas (Fiorentina)

Mirko Vucinic—the top scorer in the league the past two seasons—moved from Roma to Juventus and put in a fine, if injury limited, season. Vargas had a great season, providing quality on Fiorentina’s left wing that managed to displace the incomparable Giorgio Chiellini as the league’s top-rated player.

Lazio’s Argentine playmaker, Mauro Zárate, was selected the Player of the Year, the Fans Player of the Year, and the Foreign Player of the Year—a deserved medal haul for a fantastic season. Most of the rest of the medals went to Juventus: Amauri was the Italian Player of the Year, Gianluigi Buffon was the Goalkeeper of the Year, and Ciro Ferrara was named Manager of the Year.

Elsewhere, Catania’s young Japanese striker Takayuki Morimoto was the Young Player of the Year, Napoli’s Simon Kjær was named Defender of the Year, and Nicola Rizzoli was the top referee in Italy.

Serie B

Regular season champions Atalanta will be joined by Regina and Ascoli in Serie A, while Rimini, Taranto, Gallipoli, and Lumezzane are all headed down a division.

Top Goalscorer: 25, Francesco Pittaresi (Padova)
Top Rated Player: 7.96, Federico Rizzi (Mantova)

Evidently the key to promotion in Serie B is to employ Milan Djuric: the young Italian was the best player in the league last season in helping Cesena to promotion; this year, he changed teams twice, ending the season by playing a key role for Reggina’s successful end of season charge.

Serie C1/A and C1/B

Frosinone, Modena, Valle del Giovenco, and Verona all gained promotion while Cittadella, Prato, Juve Stabia, Paganese, Portosummaga, and Viareggio are headed down.

Top Goalscorer: 25, Diogo Tavares (Frosinone); 19, Gionatha Spinesi (Pescina Valle del Giovenco)
Top Rated Player: 7.67, Giovanni Marchese (Modena); 7.62, Fabio Lauria (Crotone)

Tavares helped Frosinone not miss a beat from last season, even with top-rated Younès Belhanda being recalled to AS Roma from his successful loan last season.

Serie C2/A, C2/B, and C2/C

Reggiana, Rodengo (yes, Terry Langford’s old club), Foligno, Lucchese, Spezia, and Nocerina all escape from Italy’s third division while Carpenedolo, Itala, Rovigo, Sangiustese, Avellino, Nuovo Campobasso, Olbia, Cuneo, and Domegliara fall out and will vie in lower competitions like the Ethio-Italian Friendship Cup in 2012/13.

Top Goalscorer: 23, Mirko Gasparetto (Rodengo); 18, Federico Turienzo (Sporting Lucchese) & Luis Arcamone (Melfi); 23, Roberto Palumbo (Nocerina)
Top Rated Player: 7.63, Andrea Ardito (Como); 7.86, Andrea Milani (Foligno); 7.71, Francesco Stanzione (Nocerina)

Anderson, who dominated this level for two years, did well before blowing out his knee midway through ProVercelli’s run in Serie C1 last season. Nocerina’s Palumbo is a repeat performer on this list.

The Least I Could Do (Chelsea v Blackburn)

January 25, 2011

When I open the door, Ruud is there with a glass of chardonnay and a mischievous smile on his face. I look at him quizzically. What’s this?

His smile grew slightly—Ruud loves being the one to break news to me. You haven’t heard?

No, what?

He offered me the glass, which I took, following him into the kitchen. They fired him.

Who?

He picked up his glass from the counter and slowly unrolled the words, savoring the moment. Tottenham. Hij klaar is.

A grin moved across my face, mirroring his. Dat meen je niet.

No. They lost again today, and that was that.

I raised my glass to him and drank, savoring the dryness on my tongue. That made it an exceptionally good day: we destroyed Blackburn and Marco van Basten was now unemployed. Do you think I should call him? Offer my condolences?

Ruud grinned and shook his head. You’re awful.

Me? I raised my hand in protest. I am merely concerned for his mental and emotional well being. It’s the least I could do for him. De bastaard. I shook my head and took another drink. I would guess that means he is no longer the chosen one to succeed van Marwijk?

Ruud’s eyes sparkled. No, I would think not. And if the Oranje come calling, would you abandon your West Africans?

I shrugged. Any news on who will replace him?

Ruud shook his head. I heard Backe’s name. A few lower level English. And someone from North American I had never heard of. Coaches in Houston.

I raised my eyebrows. Nowak’s not American.

No, not him. The other Houston team.

There’s another Houston team? Oh … yeah … I struggled to remember the name. The Comets.

Ruud nodded. Ja, dat is het. De kometen.

I moved to the wooden rack that lines the far wall and found another bottle. As I opened it, I heard the announcer’s voice going through Blackburn’s starting lineup. I called out, You sure you want to watch it?

I just want to show you something. Some things.

I thought for a minute as I removed the cork from the corkscrew. I missed real corks, the smell of them, the way you could slowly crumble off small pieces with your thumbnail, the pattern of dark and light material mixed with the stain of the wine at the bottom edge. Judge?

He laughed. Natuurlijk.

I sighed and joined him. He played the game from the kickoff, and just over a minute in, Blackburn’s young Irish international darted towards the end line, jinking past Zhirkov and sending a cross across the face of goal. It was a squarely hit ball, never moving more than a yard inside the field of play and the angle caught us by surprise. Nikola Kalinic outjumped Essien at the far post to nod the ball in and less than two minutes in, we were down to an inferior team.

I nodded. Pretty bad.

Ruud agreed with a shrug. Not much you could do—it was a lovely cross and sometimes they score. He hit fast forward, much to my surprise.

Hey, what are you doing?

Moving to the interesting parts.

What, our goals don’t interest you?

He hit pause and looked at me, then patted the couch next to him. Come. Sit. No, not really. You beat Blackburn, Danyil. You’re supposed to beat them.

They were good goals. They were—and there were five of them. After Kalinic’s score it only took two minutes for us to strike back when Vukcevic fed the ball to Essien just inside the box. Essien had time to wind up his leg and hit the ball as hard as humanly possible, slamming it into the near post. It caromed back towards the field and bounced off Paul Robinson’s thigh before crossing the line to tie the score.

Unlucky as it was for Blackburn, it turned a switch for us: another two minutes and Dzeko pushed past two defenders to free himself in the box for a low and unstoppable shot and then, just after the half hour mark, Vukcevic drew three players towards him in the box before chipping the ball to Drogba for the easy volley. Just before halftime, Simon took one himself with a screamer from thirty yards.

Ja, ja, ja, they were good goals. But look here. He stopped about twenty minutes in for a few moments. And here. And here. Each time, it’s Judge. And each time he is free on the wing to send a cross into the box.

I nodded. I know. I don’t understand it. Yury is faster than he is.

He’s not a defender.

Yury?

Ruud shook his head ruefully. I love him, Danyil, I do. But he’s not a defender. I don’t know where he belongs for you.

He had a point. Zhirkov is a stunningly talented player, but he would be best as an attacker with the freedom to roam on the left wing. He did hit the corner at the end. Our final goal came from JT, off a lovely floating corner from the Russian.

He’s a very good player. He may be a great one. But not for you if you keep this shape.

I looked at Ruud intently, at the square line of his jaw, at the clarity of his eyes. I don’t say this often enough to you. I am lucky to have found you, and lucky that you put up with me.

He waved a hand dismissively, but I could see a blush rising on his cheeks. Don’t change the subject.

I’m not, and I mean it. You know more about this game than anyone else I know. Ik hou van je.

Just for my football?

I reached out and took the remote from his hand. No. Er is meer.

Premier Division
Chelsea v Blackburn Rovers, Stamford Bridge
Chelsea 5 (Paul Robinson 3og, Edin Dzeko 6, Didier Drogba 32, Simon Vukcevic 45, John Terry 59) – Blackburn 1 (Nikola Kalinic 2)
MoM: Vukcevic (8.9)
Attendance: 41,136. Referee: Stuart Attwell.

I Never Claimed to be Particularly Mature (Chelsea v Tottenham)

December 11, 2010

Premier Division
West Ham v Chelsea, Upton Park
West Ham 0 – Chelsea 1 (Didier Drogba 66)
MoM: Edin Dzeko (7.9)
Attendance: 34,980. Referee: Martin Atkinson.

December 14, 2010

We barely scraped by West Ham, scoring on a long pass from Dzeko to Drogba. It was a win, and at the end of the year it will be forgotten. But it is troubling, and even though we are improving, we are nowhere near where we need to be. It made for a hard training session—they needed to know that playing down to the level of our opposition was unacceptable.

There were some grumbles, especially from the new guys who haven’t been through this with me before. But also from Mikel, which is disappointing. He’s in a hard position—he’s young, supremely talented, and absolutely on the fringes here. And he can’t really complain: he’s not about to unseat Essien, De Rossi, or Lampard. But he needs to grow up, to see that Lampard is growing older and he will have his chance. He’s got more talent than Matic, but right now Nemanja is working harder and earning more time.

Today, we face Tottenham, who may be the most talked about team in England this year. They were champions last season, finishing with 88 points, seven clear of second place Arsenal and ten above us. Their celebration was really a coronation of Harry Redknapp, and his decision to retire stings all the more given their struggles this season—the fans are already calling for the head of his replacement, Marco van Basten. Van Basten and I go way back, and it’s not pretty. I was always jealous of what he could do on the field—his touch, his vision, his power. But he’s not the brightest bulb in the box, and I may have ridiculed him a time or two. To his face. In front of our teammates.

So, there’s something personal on the line today, too.

Tottenham is still struggling, although they have shown some signs of recovery, winning four of their last five in the league. But their start was so horrible—winless in their first nine games with five defeats—that they may not recover. And while they have some fantastic young talent, especially in Luka Modric and Gareth Bale, Robbie Keane and Peter Crouch up front are beginning to show some signs of age. A season without European soccer would be hard for their budgets as well. So maybe we’ll sign Gareth after all.

The pregame handshake is a chilly affair, one we both endure because there will be less media nuisance if we do it than if we don’t. Marco greets me in Dutch, but I answer in English, knowing I am more comfortable in the language than he is. As I do so, I hear Ruud’s voice in my head, chiding me for my childish behavior.

I know my feelings towards Marco may cost us in the end: I’m giving starts to Sakho, Mikhel, and Sturridge, hoping both Essien and Drogba can take the day off. I’ll admit, not only do I want to beat Marco, I want him to know I beat him with less than my best.

I never claimed to be particularly mature.

Two minutes in, we get the first hint it may not be our day: Carvalho has to come off after a collision with Defoe, grabbing his midsection. I think it’s a broken rib, but I won’t know until later.

The crowd at Stamford Bridge is treated to a great, great game to watch: it’s wide open, with each team pushing when they are in possession. Cech and Gomes are both strong in goal, and our aim from distance is a touch off. Not for the first time, I’m thankful for Cech, this time because he’s really not that much shorter than Crouch.

I’m screaming at Lee Probert: Sturridge has been called for offsides three times, Dzeko once. Marco yells over at me, Hey, Danyil! Ophouden met zeuren! They were miles offsides. Mijl. Moments later, I just turn to him, my arms wide: Crouch has just beaten Cech with a nifty move, only to see the flag up. Marco scowls at me and turns away, cursing.

It may be a good game to watch as a spectator, but it’s a maddening one to coach: we have chance after chance, with nothing to show from it. They do, too, and the tension on the sidelines is growing.

The second half brings more of the same until, with fifteen minutes to go, we lose Peter Crouch and this time he is well onside before sliding the ball past Cech’s near post.

What the hell? How do you lose track of Crouch? He’s the tall one, you know? Come on back there!

Van Basten can’t help but smirk. We never liked each other, but I could usually make him laugh. Probably kept him from kicking my ass a few times. You like that, Marco? Loop naar de maan.

We push forward hard after Crouch’s goal, but Gomes is up to it, and Tottenham makes a real statement about their not being written off yet this season. For us, it’s a little stunning: we aren’t supposed to lose at home to them, not now, not this year. And not with a massive clash with the best team in the league right now—Liverpool—looming in only a few days’ time.

Premier Division
Chelsea v Tottenham, Stamford Bridge
Chelsea 0 – Tottenham 1 (Peter Crouch 76)
MoM: Luka Modric (8.7) Chelsea’s Best: Daniele De Rossi (7.0)
Attendance: 41,679. Referee: Lee Probert.

At the bottom of the table, West Brom finally broke through—and in a big way—getting two goals each from Chris Wood and Robert Koren, and another from Marek Saganowski against West Ham to hammer the Hammers, 5-2. West Ham wasted goals from Valon Behrami and Jordan Spence in a game played in a downpour that hovered just enough above freezing to produce the worst kind of cold, nasty rain possible. So, it could have been worse: we could have been at the Hawthorns.