Tales From The Madness

Chelsea vs. Everton : 16 January 2016.

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THE FIRST HALF : pallid, boring, slow, inert, lethargic, quiet, lukewarm, tedious, frustrating, dull.

THE SECOND HALF : dynamic, rousing, intense, dramatic, noisy, warming, entertaining, heartening, emotional, breathless.

The third home game of the week paired us with Everton, in a game which certainly made me nervous. Although Roberto Martinez’ team often flatter to deceive – what a lovely football only phrase – we all knew too well that on their day, they can be a tough nut to crack. We only have to recall our away game in September and Steven Naismith’s finest hour.

Looking back though, our home record against the Evertonians is very healthy. Our last league defeat to them occurred way back in the late autumn of 1994, with a Paul Rideout goal giving Everton a win on a day when the then North Stand officially opened. Although we lost on penalties to Everton in an F.A. Cup replay in 2011, we were looking for our twenty-first league game in a row without defeat at Stamford Bridge against them. I had been present at all previous twenty games. They are familiar visitors.

It was a quick and easy commute to our place of pilgrimage, with myself back behind the wheel once again, and I was joined by Andy from Trowbridge in addition to Parky and PD. It was a perfect winter day. The fields touched by early morning frost, but blue skies overhead. A proper blue and white day in fact. The others dropped in to “The Oak” on the North End Road – one of the few remaining old school pubs left – while I headed down to meet up with Charles from Dallas, still in England and knee deep in the delights of London town. On the walk back up to “The Goose”, I made sure he called in to the “CFCUK” stall, where he picked up a copy of Mark Worrall’s book from 2013 “Making History Not Reliving It.”

It was a cold lunchtime in London, but not unbearably so. There was no bitter wind.

It was, again, a perfect day for football.

“The Goose” was as packed as I have ever seen it. It was crazy. The cricket was on the TV, and garnering a fair bit of attention. I introduced Charles to a few close friends, and wondered if he needed a crash course in the basics of our summer sport. A few quick wickets in Johannesburg in South Africa were met with raucous cheering in the pub. Meanwhile, Charles got stuck in to a plate of fish, chips and mushy peas. Another box ticked for him on his whirlwind tour.

Inside Stamford Bridge, I was rather astounded that Everton had brought a full three thousand. It doesn’t always happen. Last season, the number was around two-thousand. In that midweek game, almost a year ago, a very late Willian goal gave us three points. It is strange to think that at that stage Willian’s attributes were widely unrecognised by the majority of the match-going faithful, despite a loudly sang ditty in his name. I can remember thinking throughout the season that never had there been such a miss-match between Chelsea supporters’ love of a song and love of a player.

Guus Hiddink had fine-tuned from Wednesday. In came Nemanja Matic to sit alongside Jon Obi Mikel, allowing Cesc Fabregas to move alongside Pedro and that man Willian. Pedro’s presence in our team seemed to leave many cold. He reminds me of Florent Malouda, to be honest, in that he is ostensibly a wide man, yet seems to dislike running past his marker.

To my pleasant surprise, there were few empty seats in the stadium. Before the game, in “The Oak”, the lads had been approached by six Swedish tourists, nervously concerned about the validity of the tickets that they had bought off the internet. The tickets, for the West Lower, normally sell for around £50, yet these lads had paid £150 apiece for them. It annoyed me so much that they had paid out £600 extra between the six of them for these tickets.

Regardless, Stamford Bridge was full.

The game started slowly. Very slowly. It was not until the fifteenth minute that a well-worked move found Willian scampering down the right wing, but his shot was well saved by Tim Howard. Ross Barkley is one of the few bright hopes in the English game that I admire from afar, and his shot was well-blocked by Kurt Zouma, with Bryan Oviedo flashing the rebound wide.

This was pretty dire stuff in the main. Charles, for his second game at Stamford Bridge, had swapped ends and was watching in the lower tier of the Matthew Harding. With the atmosphere eerily quiet, I was desperate for the game and the atmosphere to improve. It took a full thirty-five minutes for the first significantly loud song to permeate the cold Stamford Bridge air.

Out of nowhere, “Amazing Grace.”

“Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea.”

On the pitch, Chelsea were dominating possession no doubt, but movement off the ball was virtually non-existent. It was painful to watch. I lost count of the number of times Pedro played it back to Dave, or Brana played it back to Willian, only to push the ball further back. It really was dire. A lovely sliding tackle by Kurt Zouma – sure to become his trademark, in addition to a no-nonsense hoofed clearance – was almost a highlight for us. I was expecting a little more from Romelu Lukaku, but he was well-marshalled by Kurt Zouma and John Terry.

Just before half-time, an impressive turn by Kevin Mirallas took him past Kurt Zouma and his low shot was well struck, but equally well-saved by Thibaut Courtois.

At the break, I was pleasantly surprised that there were so few boos from the Chelsea stands. Booing is something I abhor. I just can’t stomach it. Although Chelsea had dominated, Everton seemed a little more dynamic in possession. But really, this was a tedious game of football. I was glad that my pre-match drinking had been kept to two coffees and a “Coke.” Sleep was not an option.

Soon in to the second-half, a strong run from Lukaku and I immediately sensed danger. We seem to cope poorly when balls are switched quickly to our flanks. Barkley moved the ball on to Baines. I muttered the words “low cross” to PD, and – ugh – the ball was whipped in. There was a blur of bodies and the ball ended up in the net.

“That had a goal written all over it” I mumbled.

Soon after, Barkley rattled the post after being set up by Mirallas. Things were looking shaky.

Oscar replaced the disappointing Matic. Again, I was surprised that there were no boos. At least that was pleasing.

However, a well-worked move from our visitors across our box resulted in a cross towards Mirallas, who swivelled and connected well. We were 2-0 down and the Evertonians in the far corner were bouncing and buoyant.

Chelsea 0 Everton 2.

I turned to PD.

“Well, we’ll never score two.”

“Nah.”

The away fans were now full of noise.

“Martinez said he’s not for sale and I was satisfied.

Chelsea want those kind of things that money just can’t buy.

I don’t care too much for money.

Money can’t buy me Stones, can’t buy you Stones.

Money can’t buy you Stones.”

Never known for their volume, I think it was the loudest that they have ever been at Chelsea. However, Chelsea then reacted. The stands reverberated to the sound of the supporters rallying and getting behind the team.

As it should be.

If we are winning, sing and cheer.

If we are losing, sing and cheer louder.

I was so proud. Fabregas attempted a very audacious flick with his back heel, which looped up towards goal, but Howard tapped it over. Soon after, a long ball from Cesc was aimed, hopefully, towards Diego Costa. A calamitous mix-up between Phil Jagielka and Howard allowed the ball to roll free. Diego swooped and slotted the ball in to an empty net.

Game on. The crowd erupted and Diego pumped his fist towards the MHL.

Barely two minutes later, the ball was worked between Fabregas and Costa, with the former taking a speculative shot at goal. A deflection took it the despairing dive of Howard.

2-2.

The Bridge roared again.

Kenedy replaced the poor Pedro.

We were attacking at will now, with the crowd fully involved, and fully supporting the team. Diego stretched at a cross from Dave, but was too far away to connect. Sadly, our number nineteen was hurt in a challenge and was replaced by Loic Remy with ten minutes remaining.

Still the noise echoed around The Bridge.

“And its super Chelsea, super Chelsea FC.”

Mikel, another fine game from him, blasted wide. This was a pulsating game and we watched nervously as that man Mirallas broke through on goal, but Courtois blocked well. In the last minute of normal time, an Everton corner was cleared, but as substitute Deulofue swung a ball in, the Chelsea players appeared to be ball-watching. At the far post, another substitute Ramiro Funes Mori stretched to hook the ball in.

2-3.

“Fuck.”

The Everton players again ran over to their fans in the far corner.

I turned to Alan and said “this season doesn’t want to go away, does it?”

We had played well for so much of the second-half, but how typical of our season that our efforts would go unrewarded. I felt unsurprisingly low. To my annoyance, a notable number of Chelsea supporters upped and left, despite the PA announcing a hefty seven minutes of extra time.

Insert comment right here :________________________________________

However, the noise continued and we urged the boys on. Willian struck a shot which flashed wide. We never ever gave up. As the clock-ticked by, the crowd were on tenterhooks.

With surely not long left, a long ball was pumped forward. I spotted that John Terry was up, supporting the attack. I snapped as Ivanovic headed on. I missed the most delicate of touches from Oscar, but as the ball fell towards John Terry, an unlikely recipient, I snapped as he attempted the most ridiculous of flicks with his heel. I watched, mesmerized, as the ball was touched by Howard, but the momentum could not stop the ball flying up and in to the goal.

The stadium gulped and then quickly roared.

I remained remarkably calm and snapped away as John Terry, boiling over with emotion, ran towards the supporters in the MHL. I watched as he stepped in to the crowd, then snapped further as he became engulfed by fans and team mates alike.

“Bloody hell, Chelsea, we did it.”

My photos complete, I looked over and saw Alan, his face contorted with joy.

I had a little moment to myself, crouching, breathing it all in. It was hardly a Munich moment, but I was just acknowledging how utterly amazing this wonderful game of football can be. What heights of emotion it can bring. I was in awe of the game itself – football, you beauty – as much as the goal.

It was a stunning end to a ridiculous game of football.

As a few friends chatted to me as we breathlessly spoke about the match, I had one recurring thought :

“And that is for the knobheads who left at 3-2.”

After a mundane and tedious first-half, the second-half was simply exceptional. There was a lovely mix of surprise, joy and relief on the Fulham Road as I walked back to the car. It certainly felt like a win. And although we gained only one point, I was hopeful that it would represent so much more. It might just give our team and club a little more belief and, that elusive commodity, a little more confidence. 3-3 draws in the top division seem all the rage of late, and this one will live long in the memory banks.

I exchanged messages with Charles, who I would later learn that night was right in line with John Terry’s leap into the Matthew Harding Lower, and who was able to catch the madness on film. I was so pleased that his four thousand mile journey to London had been worth it.

To complete a fine day of football, I soon learned that my local team, mired in a relegation place in the Southern League, had won a tough away game with a goal in the ninetieth minute.

It was one of those days.

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