- Author
Posted September 24, 2010
As these seasons end, I'll be moving them into their own threads--I just think five separate threads are going to be easier to manage than the unwieldy beast of this one. The first of those has started, with David Barron's ongoing adventures in Haiti now found here. As they say, further updates as events warrant ...
Chelsea
Touchline Report, Chelsea v Aston Villa. March 3, 2010
8:40 AM.
Woke up in a foul mood. Bad taste in the back of my mouth, stomach bubbling. ****ing Indian last night. Doesn’t matter. Big game today, a game that may decide how long I stay here: Villa are coming to town, one spot behind us in the table.
They’ve had a good year, but we catch them a little down and out. John Carew broke his leg horribly, and Tom Huddlestone has a separated shoulder, so that’s two big threats off the pitch. Still, Gabby Agbonlahor and Emile Heskey are both in form, and Stephen Warnock and Curtis Davies are playing fantastically this year. The fans should enjoy it: we should be able to score on them, so the worst case should be a shootout.
Ooooooooooooh. Where’s that newspaper? ****, all I can find are these ****ing tabloids. Urgh, doesn’t matter, gotta’ get to the toilet fast.
1:15 PM
A knock at the door. It’s JT. Followed by Thierry Laurent, one of our physio’s. That’s not good.
Coach?
I nod, wave them in. Terry has a frown on his face. He takes a deep breath and looks at me.
I can’t go today. I can give you some if you need late, but somethings wrong with my back.
I turn to Laurent with a questioning look.
He’ll be fine—there’s a muscle thats seized up on the left side. He’ll be good. Just not today.
John never begs off a match. Christ, he never begs off training. This must be some serious pain. I nod.
Don’t worry about it, JT. Take care of yourself. You good to watch with the team?
He nods, but looks a little uncertain.
John. Look at me. You know your body. God knows it’s served you well through the years—and will for a few more. You just need to tell me. That’s why we have Alex and Bran here, and you’re no good to us if you’re out for a long time.
He looked down. Thanks, coach.
Thierry, anything else?
No, rest of the squad looks good.
Thanks. Can you give us a minute?
He leaves, leaving JT looking at me.
John, can I ask you to do something?
Sure.
I know it’s been a rough year in spots. And I know some of the team is pulling apart. Can I ask you to call a session, get them to air it out? Players only. And all I want to know is you did it—whatever is said in there, stays in there.
You sure? I think most of the squad is good with you, honestly. Some of ‘em even like you.
I smiled.
Yes, I’m sure. It’s costing us performance on the pitch. And that’s more important than the risk.
He nodded. OK, I’ll do it. Probably tomorrow, maybe Friday.
Thank you, John.
As he left, I felt a little guilty. I wasn’t sure how to handle the end of his career—a Chelsea man his whole career, only a handful away from 300 appearances with the club. But he’s on the downslide. A little slower, a little less quick to turn. A problem for later. Hopefully, much later.
6:45 PM
I leave the pregame talk to Butch. He loves to wind them up at home, talk about the tradition, about the kids in the stands who just bought their first scarf, about doing it for the pride of wearing the shirt. Pretty much ********, but the heads nod.
I busy myself looking at some pregame information.
Brad Friedel is older than I am. Just saying.
7:49 PM
Pretty simple game. Kick the ball off, pass it around a bit, let Zhirkov find De Rossi in a little bit of space outside the box, let De Rossi beat Friedel hard to the far post. Thirty seconds in, we’re up 1-0. Nothing to it.
Yury! Yes! Pass like that all day! Daniele! Magnifico!
Friedel’s still got a great leg, and almost makes us pay three minutes in—a towering kick falls to Agbonglahor near our box, but he’s offside, thankfully.
Good call, Mike. Way to be on top of it.
Ashley Young is giving us fits, and only a fingertip save from Cech keeps us ahead. But we’re also very close to the magical second goal. And twenty-eight minutes in, it comes in the best possible way.
Alex takes control of a cleared corner, and the ball works quickly in nearly a straight line up the pitch—Zhirkov, Ballack, De Rossi, Kalou, and a ball slid onto Drogba’s right foot as if drawn by a magnet. He knocks it cleanly past the old man in goal, and we’re up 2-0, and maybe Didier has regained his form.
Hey, Butch, nothing like Route 1, huh?
He looks at me, clearly uncomprehending, but smiles and nods.
Come on, Mike. Don’t be afraid to use your cards—it’s been a foul every time Drogba’s gone up for a header. One of them deserves a yellow.
We have a string of headers, none of which amount to anything.
Butch, have we scored on a corner yet this year?
Don’t think so.
Anything we can do about that?
I’m on it.
I look up to see another free kick, this one less than a yard outside the box, but Ballack sends it over.
Butch, can we do something about those, too?
Yeah.
From my mouth to God’s ears.
He laughs. Still don’t think he likes me much. But at least I make him laugh. Little smiling gnome. All due respect and all that.
Heskey fairly steps on Zhirkov trying to get under another Friedel kick.
Jim! You’re kidding me, right? There’s no card there? Yury will never have children, and it’s just a whistle?
Hey, look, I made someone else laugh. I should be a damn standup comedian. Laughing refs don’t give any more calls, unfortunately.
We’re up 2-0 at halftime, and the team is in great spirits. As they head up the tunnel, I grab Wilkins.
Butch, I want no praise when we’re in there. Don’t even acknowledge the performance. They keep it up, we’ll give them love after. Right now, I want tactics—go hard on Young, watch the right flank, swap on the forward push, all that stuff.
Danyil, you know I don’t agree with all your methods, yah?
I nod.
But today, you’re spot on. Got it.
I nod again, clap him on the shoulder, and paused outside the locker room. I hear noise, shouts, laughter from inside.
I opened the door slowly. It was mostly quiet by the time I entered, except for Mikel and Ivanovic laughing in the corner. I needed to watch those two—I was losing them and we needed everyone. I stared at them until they shut up.
Watch Young. They’re only stopping us by fouling—give back as good as you get, and take advantage of their willingness to leave their feet. Everyone feeling OK?
Nods all around.
Good. This is where we set the tone for the next weeks. Control the play out there. Let’s finish it.
I walk out, and hear Butch’s voice take over.
We do well in the second half—almost all of the possession, and playing with a calm confidence that should make people remember the Chelsea club of, you know, last year. Ten minutes in, a spectacular header by Zhirkov frees Kalou towards goal, but Friedel makes a fantastic save to deny our 3rd goal.
Yes, Salomon, yes! Yury, fantastic!
On the header, Friedel and Alex collide and Alex falls heavily to the ground. He’s holding his leg, not sure if it’s quad or groin, but it’s not good.
****, so we win but we lose half the squad? Is that it? Drogba slips through, but misses the shot. Worse, he drops to the pitch, stock still. If he were hoping for a penalty, he’d be rolling around. Stock still is no good, and stock still clutching the knee, even worse. He gets up, but I don’t want to take any chances
Butch, get di Santo finished up.
Mike! Mike!
Hey, what the hell, Jones? They did give you cards for this game, didn’t they? Those little yellow things? I’ve heard one of them is even red?
Every game this happens … minutes when we lose our focus, get in each other’s way, lose control of the game. This time, we have a corner. The clearance falls to Carvalho who evidently still fancies himself a midfielder and launches a shot towards goal. The problem is that Drogba is in the way—it catches him in the back of head and bounds the other way, towards midfield. The team looks a bit shocked, and react too slowly.
Everyone reacts slowly. Except Agbonlahor, who headed towards our goal at a sprint. Cech gets there first, but he makes a bollocks of the clearance and it falls right back to Agbonlahor. He easily moves Cech the wrong way, and the young Nigerian makes easy work of the shot, slotting it into the far corner. So much for the clean sheet.
Drogba comes off at the restart, during which I call Essien and Ballack over.
You, you two. Settle them down. We have twenty minutes, and I want another goal. Get it together out there.
As they head back to the pitch, I walk over to the bench, where Drogba is pulling on his vest.
Didier, you were strong out there today. Well done. You’re only coming off to protect the knee.
He nods and smiles. Thank you. Whether for the honesty or the information, I don’t know.
Two minutes later, almost the same thing: Agbonlahor on a break, all alone. This time, Cech is up to it.
COME ON! Tighten up back there, and move the ball up front.
Alex is laboring out there.
Bane, you ready? You’re on for Alex. Get strong back there, and add some energy. Let’s end this strong.
It’s the first time all year that he and Carvalho have been together in the middle and it shows—this may be our back line of the future, but it needs some time to gel. We’re lucky when Heskey’s header comes off the bar.
Bran! Talk to Ricardo! Find the right place to be and shut those bastards down!
What’s this? O’Neill is taking Heskey off. ****, yeah. I like that. I glance over at him. No idea why he did that.
There it is. All day Ballack has been seeing fantastic places to pass, but we couldn’t do anything with it until the 82nd minute, when he finds Lampard sliding behind his man in the box. A touch—and a missed interception—later, and Friedel has no chance against Lampard’s drive.
Jon Obi.
He heads over to me, looking down.
Yeah, Coach?
Ah, ****. Not now, Mikel. He’s a little sullen, he’s looking towards Butch and not me. I don’t need this now, and I don’t need it from him.
Jon Obi, you’re on for Daniele. Drop back, pair with Michael. Bring this one home.
OK, Coach.
And, Jon Obi. I don’t care if you don’t do it for me. Do it for them.
I don’t really care who he thought I meant—the kids, the crowd, his teammates. But now he knew that I knew, and we’ll see what happens.
We hold it, and the 3-1 win feels good. A quick handshake with O’Neill and I head up the tunnel.
OK men. Well done. There’s not much else to say: you were strong, composed, and dominant out there. That is the Chelsea we need for the rest of the year. You can do it. Butch and I, and the rest of the staff can help. But it comes down to you. And if you do what you did today, we’ll be standing proud in a few months.
Light day tomorrow—orange schedule. I’ll see everyone at 4:00 for the film session on Fulham. Daniele, Didier, Salomon—you okay with doing the media thing in 45 minutes?
Premier Division,
Chelsea v Aston Villa, Stamford Bridge
Chelsea 3 (Daniele De Rossi 1, Didier Drogba 28, Frank Lampard 83) – Aston Villa 1 (Gabby Agbonlahor 71)
MoM: De Rossi (8.3)
Attendance: 41,761. Referee: Mike Jones.
