On the drive up to London with Paul and Parks, I mentioned how often those of us in the Chelsea support had mentioned the term “early goal” in the build-up to this game.
“I’d like a tenner for every time one of us has used that phrase.”
For although I was not expecting us to recover from those horrific last twenty minutes at Parc des Princes the previous Wednesday, I cannot lie and say I didn’t momentarily daydream about it.
At work during the day – another 4.30am alarm call, another 6am to 2pm shift – I self-deprecatingly called this return leg “The Miracle Of Stamford Bridge” and awaited the response from co-workers. They weren’t biting. They knew it was a lost cause too.
But that early goal kept me keen.
Steve, Salisbury: “you never know, we get an early goal, and we might get some momentum going.”
Glenn, Frome: “an early goal and it’s game-on.”
Rich, Edinburgh: “we score an early goal, I fancy us.”
Steve, Philadelphia: “we get an early goal, and we are right back in it.”
That’ll be forty-quid please. Thanks.
But I also came up with another title that could, sadly, fit the day’s events. This wasn’t St. Valentine’s Day in Chicago in 1929, but after the game is ended, it could become known as the St. Patrick’s Day Massacre.
Gulp.
As soon as I had left Melksham, I told my two passengers of a tale of woe that I had suffered on the Monday. I have some holiday to use up and so highlighted a stay in Falmouth to take in Frome Town’s fixture in one week’s time, on Tuesday 24 March. On the Sunday after the Newcastle game, I booked up a two-night stay at a nice B&B for just £100. I was looking forward to this; a little stay away for myself. However, on Monday evening I received a rather concerned call from the guest house, enquiring when I would be arriving. It turned out that I booked that night, rather than the two nights of the following week. And the booking was unable to be transferred. Suffice to say, the two lads were full of empathy and commiserations. And if you believe that…
While Paul and Parky spent a few hours in the pub, I parked up and trotted down to Fulham Broadway, and squeezed myself in at “Zia Lucia”, a pizza restaurant that I had not tried before. It was fully booked from 6pm, but I arrived at just the right time. The food was tasty. It kept me from thinking too much about the football.
I decided to spend an hour or so out on the Fulham Road, taking in the pre-match atmosphere and the sights and sounds that accompany a European night at Stamford Bridge. I bumped into a few mates along the way. None of us were remotely confident. I arrived at the main gates just as two PSG coaches arrived and slowly made their way over to the East Stand. One of the coaches was fully liveried. Back in New Jersey in the summer on the way to Meadowlands, our Uber had to pull over and let the PSG team coach fly past. A similar 3-0 win on this night in deepest SW6? Highly unlikely.
I continued snapping away; the rather old-fashioned wooden matchday board, the half-and-half scarf sellers, The Butcher’s Hook where the club was formed in 1905, the “CFC LDN” branding that seems to upset so many, the forecourt, the fans.
This would be the ninth time that I would see PSG face Chelsea. This game was the fifth time at Stamford Bridge, plus there were two visits to Parc des Princes – in 2004 and 2014 – plus three matches in the USA; at Yankee Stadium in 2012, in Charlotte in 2015 and in New Jersey last summer, the final game of 2024/25.
In European competitions, they have caused us some grief for sure.
We triumphed in 2004/5 and 2013/14 but were beaten in 2014/15 and 2015/16.
PSG are certainly, along with Barcelona, one of our new European rivals.
I am no fan of the extended “league” format of the current competition, but when I watched the first leg at Glenn’s flat the previous Wednesday, here was a game that at last felt important. It had that dramatic edge to it. There were copious amounts of noise generated by the home fans, and I even heard our support gamely trying to respond.
It turned out to be a great spectacle. And we played so well until “you-know-when”. It felt like a proper cup tie. Despite those three late goals that hurt us all so badly, I felt rejuvenated in seeing a knock-out UEFA game with two teams playing good football and with that added drama of everything hinging on just two games. I wished that every UEFA tie was like this.
Outside Stamford Bridge on a mild night, there were foreign voices everywhere; not just French, but voices from all over Europe. One young chap – aged about twenty, maybe from The Netherlands from his accent – asked a souvenir stall owner “where is the Chelsea ground?” and he was only thirty yards from the entrance to the West Stand.
I rolled my eyes.
You would think the drift of people heading to the ground would have been evidence enough.
I was in early at 7pm, an hour to go. There had been an odd interchange at the security check; one chap saw my SLR camera but waved me in. As I took my place inside The Sleepy Hollow, only a few spectators were in as early as me. Gary was one of them. Like me he had stumped up £72 for this game; the highest that I had ever paid for a ticket at Chelsea. The price initially shocked me. But what choice did I have?
“It’s what I do.”
PD arrived and he told me he overheard two blokes talking about “an early goal” on the tube journey up from Putney Bridge.
We then shared a laugh ourselves.
“Imagine us mate. On seventy-five minutes. Still waiting for that early goal.”
The stadium slowly filled. I didn’t expect every seat to be occupied. I had seen that some tickets were trying to be shifted leading up to the game. The PSG lot, who had massed up along the Fulham Road before marching together according to a mate – “well organised, no aggro” – were surprisingly quiet. There was not a peep from them. Mind you, it is hard to compete with pounding dance music.
From the segregation lines, it looked like 2,500 of them.
Just after 7.45pm, a loud “Carefree” sounded out from the Matthew Harding. This initiated a response, a volley of noise, from them, and it was “game on.”
Lovely.
The stadium grew noisier.
“Our House” was played. This is a great recent addition to our match-day.
The atmosphere was building nicely.
Paul and I shared another laugh. Fast forward to our drive home.
“Traffic’s quiet mate.”
“That’s because 20,000 spectators left an hour ago.”
It was time to check our starting eleven. What a terrible loss Reece James would be.
The CL flag, the flames, the fireworks, the “2025 World Cup” crowd-surfer, the flags in The Shed, the anthem.
I looked around. Yes, there were empty seats. But the atmosphere seemed to be at decent levels. The PSG ultras, some bare-skinned, seemed up for it now. I think they had been conserving their energies until kick-off. Very wise.
Chelsea in blue / blue / white.
PSG in red / red / red.
PSG won the toss and forced us to attack the Matthew Harding in the first period.
The match began.
My God the noise from us was incredible. Considering that many of our rank-and-file supporters plus a large amount of our younger element had been either priced out of this one or, bluntly, didn’t fancy it, there had been a real concern from me that we would be left with the geriatrics – thinks about raising hand, but decides that can’t be me – who are less likely to holler support, and the timid middle classes and the tourists who wouldn’t know a lump of celery from a bunch of rocket.
But this was very heartening stuff indeed. It showed that the support hadn’t given up. It showed that on our day we could get behind the team. The difference between this cacophony of noise and the morgue-like atmosphere of Saturday’s game with Newcastle was simply incredible.
In those opening minutes, it seemed like that we had collectively remembered the noise in Paris and had said
“This is our house. Now it’s our turn.”
Song after song rattled out of the Matthew Harding and The Shed; Stamford Bridge came alive.
“Carefree – Wherever You May Be.”
“And It’s Super Chelsea.”
“Come On Chelsea – Come On Chelsea – Come On Chelsea – Come On Chelsea.”
And then, bloody hell, a break down their left, our right, instigated by a long punt from their ‘keeper Matvey Safonov. Their strong striker, whose name is difficult to spell let alone pronounce, ably collected the ball, and turned past our defender as easy as you like. His shot was calmly rolled past Sanchez at the far post.
Six minutes had gone.
Bollocks.
There was that early fucking goal.
Fuck you Kyhyvistcha Kvaratsarsetskhekliaylia.
I wanted to cry. Not only because we had conceded so early, but I knew the atmosphere would instantly deteriorate. Damn it. And damn Reece James’ injury.
Sigh.
There was a smattering of chances from us in the immediate period after the goal from Palmer, Joao Pedro, Enzo and Neto
But the aggregate score, now, was 2-6.
Four goals? Nah.
Fourteen minutes were on the clock. Two very-late arrivals sat between PD and me. A move down their right caused me instant angst. Achraf Hakimi advanced, easily, and passed to Bradley Barcola, easily. He was, dear reader, unmarked. I was right behind the shot that he neatly volleyed into Sanchez’ goal. The two lads next to me had only been in their seats for five seconds.
Fackinell.
So, 0-2 down on the night and 2-7 on aggregate.
I was numb.
PD summed it up: “two attacks, two goals.”
I continued the grim news : “Christ, they have scored five goals against us in thirty minutes.”
The game, of course, continued. We couldn’t exactly hold up any white flags.
On twenty-two minutes, a cross from Palmer to Joao Pedro and a header that I thought was in. It was glanced just wide.
PSG’s away support was cheering every touch of the ball as a move continued on, and on, and on. There was constant noise from them. I couldn’t remember how their fans had performed in 2005, nor 2014, nor 2015, nor 2016, but their support was impressive. It wasn’t always very loud, but it never stopped.
On thirty-one minutes, Kvaratsarsetskhekliaylairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch scored but he always looked like being offside.
VAR got it right.
Anyway, his name is always bloody offside.
On thirty-four minutes, I found myself clapping – briefly – a magnificent ball out from a PSG defender to a player on the left touchline. It was a magnificent pass, hit with pace, on the volley, and with a beautiful fade that meant the ball dropped perfectly to his teammate’s feet.
“What a ball, PD.”
On thirty-five minutes, a lovely piece of opportunism from Joao Pedro almost paid off as he ran onto a long ball from Sanchez but was forced wide and Safonov saved. The Russian ‘keeper, to my eyes, didn’t look particularly happy all night and seemed to flap at our corners.
The two late arrivals left before the break and never returned.
PSG continued to impress.
“We’re losing all the battles all over the pitch, PD.”
The first half finished with, in the circumstances, a decent spell of “to-and-fro” from both teams. A fine save from Safonov from a Palmer effort, an equally good save from Sanchez from Barcola at the near post after a break down the right with Palmer in chase, then another save from Safonov after a Chalobah header.
It helped lessen the pain. Kinda.
There were boos at half-time.
There was nice appreciative applause for Josh Acheampong as he replaced Sarr at the break.
The away fans continued to sing, and they provided quite a varied songbook, one of which seemed to go on for ages, and sounded like an old French folk song; it sounded like it could easily have been warbled by Edith Piaf in a Parisien nightclub in the 1930’s.
On fifty-five minutes, Joao Pedro’s curler was just wide. He had been our best player on the night and was the only player who had genuinely looked like scoring thus far.
Still the PSG ultras sang. I had this horrible feeling that one or two of the melodies would be rattling around my head in the morning. Nor for the first time, the chorus from Bonnie Tyler’s “It’s A Heartache” had been sampled in one of a European team’s songs.
Heartache was about bloody right.
On the hour, a triple substitution.
Liam Delap for Joao Pedro.
Alejandro Garnacho for Palmer.
Romeo Lavia for Enzo.
These substitutions seemed crazy at the time, but – well, damage limitation, managing resources et al.
Alas, on sixty-two minutes, a shot from outside the area was blocked but Senny Mayulu latched on to the ball and found the net and with that, hundreds exited.
Chelsea 0 PSG 3.
We were 2-8 down.
“God, PD – there’s half-an-hour to go.”
I found myself, legs crossed, turned away from the game. I simply found it hard to watch.
The PSG ultras, had the same idea, but they did their version of “The Poznan.”
They were far happier.
This was horrible.
The rest of the match was a blur really.
Garnacho had a couple of “Groundhog Day” efforts, then on the third run, he bizarrely chose to go wide and hit the ball with his very-unfavoured left peg. One effort came after a nicely “gung-ho” dribble from Chalobah from deep.
“God, PD – there’s still twenty to go.”
On seventy-one minutes, Rosenior replaced Cucurella with Tosin.
“Fuck me, he must have a sense of humour.”
Tosin, I ask you.
When Kvaratskhelia, the star man, was substituted soon after, a few Chelsea supporters clapped, me included. He had been excellent all night.
Caicedo, out of sorts for a while now, dragged a shot wide, and there was an effort from Delap, who at least looked lively.
The saddest moment of all was the sight of Our Trev being stretchered off and we finished with only ten on the pitch. I absolutely sensed that with the Chalobah withdrawal, PSG collectively decided not to inflict any more pain on us and didn’t go for any more goals.
Even the referee Slavko Vincic felt sorry for us and blew up exactly on 90 minutes.
I have not seen that ever before.
What a terrible night.
At the final whistle, I shook hands with a few loyalists.
“See you at Everton.”
Interestingly – or not – the gate on a very reliable website immediately after the game gave the attendance as 35,811 but Chelsea gave it as 37,242. I wonder who to believe?
I walked back to the car, disconsolate.
On the way home, I grumbled to PD.
“Well, not one single away trip in Europe for me this season. And I can’t even book two nights in bloody Falmouth correctly.”
Chelsea were amid a run of away games against Arsenal, Aston Villa, Wrexham and Paris St. Germain; this midweek fixture at Villa Park was being talked about within many Chelsea circles as a “must win” game, bearing in mind Villa’s place in the league – just ahead of us – but also because they were on a run of poor form.
This had been a simple enough flit up the M5 for me – via a curry at “The Vine” in West Bromwich – and I was parked-up on Bragg Road around fifteen minutes from the away turnstiles at 6.30pm. I fastened my coat and walked east. Kick-off was an hour away.
It was the usual scene at Villa Park; the police vans parked on the roundabout where Witton Road meets Aston Lane, the approach along Witton Lane, the bloke with the “God Is Love” placard, the red bricked buildings, the souvenir sellers, the floodlights in the distance. I did notice a new pre-match hospitality area as I got closer, a good use of those old existing buildings. Villa have plans to enlarge the existing North Stand, and they have plenty of space to enlarge the hospitality areas further.
I was sat in the second row alongside John; alas Alan and Gary could not make this one. Parky and PD were down in the lower tier.
The famous old stadium slowly filled, and we were soon treated to the usual pre-match rituals at Villa of “Hi-Ho Aston Villa”, flames, and fireworks, and dear old Ozzy belting out “Crazy Train.” Other clubs – yes, including ours – have gone for the “Flames & Fireworks” as a pre-curser to the match, but Villa have taken it to a different level. If you were to rate their pre-match claret and sky-blue pyrotechnic trickery, it would certainly be top of the pile. In fact, Villa are so desperate for silverware these days that we might soon find this in their honours section of their match programme.
Amid the sulphurous fumes, the teams made their way onto the pitch.
We were dressed in our all-black kit, and I had immediate memories of us in that colour at this venue in other years, most memorably the Frank Lampard game in 2013 when he equalled and then surpassed Bobby Tambling’s 202 goals. I also, and oddly, remembered the black-shirted Alexandre Pato’s penalty kick in a 4-0 win in 2016.
The game began with us attacking the towering Holte End. I spent the first few moments trying to work out who was where on the right side of the field. Was Reece at right back, but able to push into midfield with Malo Gusto as a right-sided attacker – unlikely, I know – or was Gusto at right back, with Reece alongside Caicedo in midfield? The positioning of Enzo and Palmer seemed to confuse me more than help me. I think it was the initial position of Gusto, so high on that far side, that had baffled me. Within those first fleeting moments, we had won a corner but then got caught on a rapid break from the home team. I took a couple of photos of Leon Bailey teasing away down below us. He got the better of Hato and drove a low ball into the box, where Douglas Luiz delicately and deftly touched it past Jorgensen.
Only three minutes had passed, and we were already 0-1 down.
Fackinell.
I was shell-shocked.
The home support was enlivened.
“Holte Enders in the skoy.”
Two minutes later, Garnacho on the left curled a great cross over for Joao Pedro to head down but Emilano Martinez saved well.
Soon after, at a Chelsea corner, we noticed how the Villa team left four players up, and of course it meant we had less numbers in attack. It was a new and novel approach to defending corners, though I seem to remember Jose Mourinho leaving three up in his first stint with us.
Palmer shot weakly at Martinez on a quarter of an hour, and up until now our support was getting increasingly frustrated with the slow approach play from the back. Chalobah must have touched the ball more than anyone else in this period.
“Get it forward!”
I heard that Arsenal were 1-0 up at Brighton and I told John “I hate football.”
On twenty-one minutes, another chance for Palmer inside the box after a great ball into him, but his finish was as weak as before. Then, two minutes later, and with Chelsea picking up the pace and finding some good angles and spaces, a lovely move set up Enzo, but his effort was hit tamely at Martinez. By now, Garnacho was getting more and more involved out wide and giving Matty Cash a real test.
The game was hotting up. We had, also, quietened their crowd, always a good sign.
Out on the far side of the pitch was Ian Maatsen, our former player, and I could not help noticing how short he seemed in comparison to the other players. I had only been commenting to Alan, I think, at a recent home game how we never see short players at football these days. It’s a mark of the modern game; how most players need to be tall and physically strong, and especially fast, in this era. Gone are the days when will o’ the wisp players…cheeky wingers, midfield dynamos…were everywhere…our own Pat Nevin, our own Mickey Thomas, our own Gianfranco Zola spring to mind. All these players – and Maatsen – were 5’6” and it’s an oddity that there seems to be a shortage – sorry! – of these players today.
Maybe I noticed Maatsen because I am 5’6” too.
We continued to be press forward.
Just after the half-hour I turned to John to say “it’s a much better game now.”
We had thrown off our shackles and were now having a real go at Villa. There was a shot from the energetic Garnacho, and the Chelsea choir were now getting behind the men in black. But Villa were still an occasional threat and Ollie Watlkins perhaps should have tested Jorgensen better when one-on-one.
On thirty-five minutes, a wonderful ball from Enzo was sent over the Villa defence to the onrushing Gusto. He spotted the run of Joao Pedro and I sensed a goal. I mouthed “here we go” at the exact moment that he arrived to slide the ball home.
GET IN YOU BEAUTY.
More Chelsea pressure, Garnacho revelling in the space out wide.
“Go on son, get past him.”
Cash was being run from arsehole to breakfast time.
In the third minute of added time, Hato – who was enjoying a very solid game – dribbled into the Villa box with ease but his shot was blocked.
Then, a rapid Villa break, and I kept an eye on the passage of play, trying to spot if an offside was about to happen. The ball was passed out to Ollie Watkins who struck the ball past Jorgensen. The Villa hordes roared again,
To me, it looked onside. Thankfully, VAR ruled otherwise. Phew.
Then, with five minutes of added time played, Chelsea were again knocking on the door, and Garnacho was involved once more. He found Enzo who wriggled into some space and lifted an exquisite ball into Joao Pedro. He nonchalantly guided the ball past Martinez.
Now it was our turn to roar again.
Then, to our horror, VAR was called in to rule on a potential offside.
Nah. The goal stood.
At the break, we were 2-1 to the good.
“Great recovery that, John.”
I just hoped that we could continue in the same fashion. Sometimes we just can’t seem to play two consecutive halves in the same way, can we?
Joe Cole, with former Chelsea fan Peter Crouch on TV duty, were spotted a few times and Joey walked over to pose for some photos with a few Chelsea supporters in the break.
Before the second period, more “Crazy Train” and another Chelsea huddle on the centre-circle that seemed to irritate the Villa players.
The second half began, and there were two early chances for Garnacho but he spurned them both.
On fifty-five minutes, we broke when Caicedo won a ball inside our half and we moved the ball quickly – no honest, we did, I was there – via Palmer and Joao Pedro and found Reece on the wing. His low cross was punched away by Martinez, but only as far as Palmer. The Palmer of old – er, two seasons ago – would have struck it home easily, whereas the little less confident Palmer of 2026 might struggle. I watched to see which version would prevail.
He struck the ball with venom. Its trajectory was unhindered. The back of the net rippled.
GET IN.
I watched Palmer cup his ear as if to say “what’s that you been saying about me?” and then saw his trademark celebration.
Snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap.
“Palmer again, ole, ole.”
We were 3-1 up.
Beautiful.
We continued to purr, and the Chelsea fans were energised and happy. This was just how I wanted us to play. With more freedom. With more pace. With more style.
Chelsea is all about style.
But this was still an open game – Mourinho would have hated it – and chances for Palmer and Garnacho were matched occasionally by Villa. Watkins was put through, one on one with Jorgensen but he dallied, enabling Chalobah to twist his body and dig out the ball, a fine piece of defending.
On sixty-three minutes, former blues Jadon Sancho and Ross Barkley were among the three substitutions made by Villa.
A minute later, Caicedo – from deep – swept the ball out to Gusto, who touched it to Palmer. His trusted left peg floated the ball out to Garnacho. I photographed his surging run, deep into the box, and watched as he very unselfishly played the ball square to Joao Pedro who guided the ball in, his hat-trick.
The goal immediately reminded me of that Lampard goal from 2013.
The scorer raced over to the Chelsea section, and I was lucky enough to capture his beatific smiles.
4-1.
Fackinell.
Not long after, there was an audacious bicycle kick from Joao Pedro.
On seventy-two minutes, Tammy Abraham came on and so Villa now had four ex-Chelsea players in their eleven.
In the last fifteen minutes, Rosenior rang the changes.
75 minutes : Romeo Lavia for Gusto.
79 minutes : Marc Cucurella for Enzo.
79 minutes : Tosin Adarabioyo for Fofana,
85 minutes : Liam Delap for Joao Pedro.
85 minutes : Andrey Santos for Palmer.
John and I had a little laugh about Lavia and his unfortunate habit of getting injured. I envisaged a scenario where he is chosen to start a game and lasts the entire match. He comes into the Chelsea dressing room at the end of the game and sits on the bench alongside his teammates.
Liam Rosenior sees him and asks “what the fuck are you doing here?”
With the game won, and the number of changes, it was no surprise that the game drifted towards the end. It was nice to see the former Chelsea players again, and Barkley had a trademark shuffle through the middle and shot.
“I can actually see them scoring” I said to Gary, just as Barkley floated a ball in and Abraham leapt to head the ball on to the top of the bar.
In the stadium, the home fans were drifting away, and the Chelsea crowd aired the “fire drill” chant.
The game finished and the men in black had triumphed. This was a lovely surprise, a great Chelsea performance – admittedly against an increasingly disheartened Villa team – and a perfect response to the doom mongers after Arsenal. The plaudits must got to Joao Pedro and his sublime touch, and his ability to drift in and score, but Garnacho was a revelation, his best game for us by a country mile. A special mention for Hato, too; what a polished performance.
I was able to take a selection of photographs at the end as the Chelsea players celebrated down below. I loved the way Enzo was serenaded. He has many admirers at Chelsea. And I loved how we sang Tammy’s name as he walked, slightly, towards us. The photo of him with Trevoh is my favourite of the whole night.
And so that was that. A great away win in a “must-win” game, and a nice fillip before trips to Wales and France.
Oh, there were three extra bits of drama that I won’t bore you with that took place during the afternoon and evening involving Parky’s ‘phone, my SLR camera and my wallet.
“I still can’t download the ticket. I reckon I’m knackered.”
“You can’t bring that camera in. There’s a “drop-off” place just over there.”
“The team are doing a sweep of the stadium; it’s going to be an hour mate. Will you wait here to see if we can find it?”
Our first home game in this season’s Champions League, er, League phase, pitted us against Benfica, the eagles from Lisbon. Over the years, we had played them on four other occasions. The most memorable? Probably the home leg of our pairing in the 2011/12 Champions League quarter finals, a 2-1 triumph, that followed a 1-0 win in Portugal. We were treated to a Frank Lampard penalty and a blooter from Raul Meireles that night. But that game at Stamford Bridge has perhaps grown more important over the years because of the eventual winning of that competition in Munich. Had we not prevailed in Germany, maybe that game would have slid down in our preferences. Surely the 2013 Europa League Cup final in Amsterdam against Benfica was equally important and memorable, though this unsurprisingly felt a “lesser triumph” when compared to the unequalled joys of the previous year. We won 2-1 in that game, with goals from a trim finish from Fernando Torres and a looping header from Branislav Ivanovic. The last encounter, just over three months ago, took place in Charlotte in the “round of sixteen” of the FIFA Club World Cup, that crazy weather-damaged game that took over four hours to complete. In that one, we eventually won 4-1.
This game, then would be our fifth game against Benfica.
Thus far, four games and four wins.
Players.
The pairing of the two teams made me think back to those players that have played for both. As far as I could remember, I thought that this number stood at six.
There was David Luiz. There was Ramires. There was Raul Meireles. There was Nemanja Matic, who played for us twice either side of a stay in Lisbon. There is now Enzo Fernandez. The first one? None other than Scott Minto, who – mysteriously I thought – decided to leave Chelsea after our first piece of silverware for twenty-six years in 1997.
But I was way out. I have now checked, and it stands at a mighty eleven.
There was Tiago Mendes, who played for us during just one brief league-winning season in 2004/5. There was Maniche, who also had a short-lived stay at Chelsea in another title win in 2005/6.
We had Emerson Thome and Joao Felix.
But also Eduardo Carvalho and Diego Moreira, who were on our books but never played for the first team, and who I had forgotten about completely.
Managers.
The talk throughout the day at work concerned the return of former Chelsea manager Jose Mourinho. I commented that I would probably clap in appreciation of past times but not go so far as to sing his name. We all used to worship him of course. And it’s hard to believe that he was in his prime with us at Stamford Bridge twenty years ago. He was a breath of a fresh air in 2004, our Jose, our leader, and the players thought the world of him. In the second part of those twenty years, his decision to manage Manchester United – understandable, perhaps – and then Tottenham Hotspur – not so – altered my stance on him, but I was interested how I would react to see him in the flesh, in front of the East Stand, once again.
At the Chelsea vs. Benfica game in 2012, we learned of another Benfica / Chelsea managerial link. At half-time in that game, Neil Barnet introduced former Chelsea defender John Mortimore, who managed Benfica over two spells from 1976 to 1987. Mortimore played for Chelsea from 1956 to 1965 and passed away at the age of eighty-six in 2021.
Modern Football – Part One.
My views about this new style approach to the three UEFA competitions have been aired before. I am not a fan of this seemingly endless run of random games against one-off opponents that now form the basis of the Champions League, the Europa League and the Conference League. With teams allocated to a huge league listing and not distinct groups, I think we miss out on so much. What on Earth was wrong with the home and away format, where narratives from one game were likely to carry on to the other? Of course, we all know why. Expanding this phase by two more games – eight compared to six – raises more funds for UEFA and their partners and is likely to safeguard the progression of the larger clubs, who carry more sway in the corridors of UEFA, to later stages. No matter that supporters face additional match-going costs, no matter more games are squeezed in, including an extra “play-off” round in the New Year.
The UEFA mantra has always been “more is more” and I think it is a false approach.
Modern Football – Part Two.
I didn’t like the way that Chelsea season ticket holders – you could argue the most loyal fans – were seemingly bullied into buying Champions League packages of the four home games, with the threat of not being able to buy individual games later. Clubs should not treat their supporters like this. For my seat in the MHU, I had to fork out £212. And although I know that Chelsea used to offer discounted bundles for Champions League games many years ago, at least in those days you knew what the saving was. And your seat was saved for you to buy it on an individual game basis. In 2025, individual game prices were not shared, so I just “hoped” that the £53 per game price was a decent cost-saving.
Modern Football – Part Three.
Although I was yet to knowingly hear it, apparently Chelsea have been playing “Chelsea Dagger” by The Fratellis every time we scored a goal at Stamford Bridge. It’s hard to believe that I had no recollection of this, but I wore it as a badge of honour; that I was so caught up in celebrating, and probably trying to get a few photographs, that I did not hear it. But others had heard it and were up in arms, quite rightly. There is no need for that hideous intrusion that blatantly bludgeons its way into our celebrations. Simply, that isn’t Chelsea. I signed a petition for it to stop during the day.
If you feel the same way, please sign the petition.
Before joining the chaps at a very quiet “Eight Bells”, I again visited “Koka” restaurant on the North End Road. Some tasty calamari, and a hot and spicey pizza set me up for the evening. The pub was as quiet as I have known it, but we don’t usually visit it on weekdays, preferring instead to drink nearer the ground. PD, Parky and I were joined by Nick the Greek, Salisbury Steve, and Mehul from Berlin via Detroit and India.
At Stamford Bridge, and outside “Kona Kai”, the place was swarming with vloggers. As I passed one bloke with a microphone, I heard him ask a Chelsea fan what he thought of the return of “Jose” with an H.
“You mean Jose” – with a J – “mate” I indignantly barked out.
There were new huge blue neon outlines of our two Champions League trophies on the front of the West Stand, and it re-emphasised that this was, for the first time since that loss to Real Madrid in 2023, indeed a special night, a Champions League night, in SW6.
It was also a muggy night, and I took off my flimsy rain jacket, thus allowing me to smuggle my SLR into Stamford Bridge via Method 65/C for the first time this season.
I was in at 7.45pm.
Teams.
Enzo Maresca chose this starting eleven.
Robert Sanchez
Malo Gusto – Trevoh Chalobah – Benoit Badiashile – Marc Cucurella
Moises Caicedo – Enzo Fernandez
Pedro Neto – Facundo Buonanotte – Alejandro Garnacho
Tyique George
Kick-Off.
Our European take on the approach to games kicked in.
“Our House”, “Parklife”, then fireworks flew off The Shed and the Matthew Harding. Flags were twirled in front of the West Stand, a huge “tifo” of a Chelsea Lion guarding a vast haul of our continental and inter-continental trophies and “Liquidator”. Flames shot into the sky in front of the West Stand, the teams entered the pitch, the Champions League logo, the Champions League anthem.
Chelsea in blue, blue, white, a classic.
Benfica in red, white, red, and a very light and bright red too.
The First-Half.
From the very first minute, the white-shirted Mourinho was serenaded – Jose, with a J – by the Matthew Harding – and I clapped along. I remember once, on one of his returns with Manchester United, I completed avoided looking at him, and it wasn’t even through conscious choice, I had just moved on. This time, it seemed different. I kept glimpsing over and checking on him. He looked well. He has aged better than I have since 2004.
I liked the noise and the atmosphere generated by both sets of fans. Despite my loathing of the new format, this felt special, and it wasn’t only due to Mourinho.
The game got off to a very energetic start. We witnessed a strike from Enzo that flew past a post, but the visitors carried a threat themselves, with them dominating the first ten minutes.
There was a distinct lack of communication between Sanchez and Badiashile, and as they both were lured to attack a high ball, they almost clashed heads. Not long into the game, Sanchez got down to save from Dodi Lukebakio, and the ball rebounded onto a post.
After a quarter of an hour, it seemed like there had been half a dozen decent attacks from Benfica, with a sizeable number of them resulting in efforts on goal. This seemed to be the antithesis of Mourinho football.
On sixteen minutes, Pedro Neto flashed just wide after cutting in from the right.
Just after, on eighteen minutes, Neto tee’d up a cross.
I yelled out “let’s have someone arriving late” – I had Frank Lampard in mind – and a cross to the far post picked out the onrushing Garnacho, who had already teased away menacingly on the Chelsea left. The cross was met by a swipe by Garnacho – I presumed from our perspective that it was a shot on goal – but the ball was diverted into the net by a Benfica defender.
GET IN.
And then my night got worse.
“Chelsea Dagger” was indeed played, and – even worse – I turned around in disgust only to see many many fools behind me gurning away and even joining in.
My heart sank.
I spotted Lee putting his fingers down his throat and I shared his disdain.
Bollocks to that, that ain’t us, that ain’t Chelsea.
I hate modern football.
The rest of the first half was spent trying to cajole the team into putting moves together, and although we tried, it wasn’t particularly effective. I struggled to fathom why Gusto and Neto out on the right were in loads of space, but we often focussed on attacking down our left. Was their right back really that shite?
It always annoys me that probably two least skilful players on the pitch, the two centre-backs, are often given the ball more often than anyone, and that is left to them to start and build moves.
On thirty-nine minutes, Enzo was pelted with various items as he prepared to take a corner in front of the Benfica supporters.
Just after, a Neto free-kick was headed just over by Benoit Badiashile.
Tyrique George went close with a prod late on but the Benfica ‘keeper Anatoliy Trubin easily saved.
The Second-Half.
The second period began tamely, but there was a buzz on fifty-four minutes when Estevao Willian appeared as a substitute for Buonanotte.
Not long after, Garnacho set off on a run over forty yards in front of us and came inside to shoot. Sadly, he shot wildly, and the ball landed somewhere in Patagonia, while we all groaned a thousand groans.
On the hour, two more substitutions.
Jamie Gittens for Garnacho.
Joao Pedro for George.
This was a virtual full house, and all parts were full. Even the upper echelons of the West Stand were full. It was from this area – now called West View – that one lone supporter caught my attention.
He stood, and began bellowing “Zigger Zagger”, that old war-cry from the days of yore. He received a decent response too, which surprised me.
“Zigger Zagger, Zigger Zagger.”
“OI OI OI.”
It just caught my imagination. I remembered the good old bad old days when the West Stand seats used to be occupied by hundreds of our – how shall I say? – most noisy and exuberant supporters. These intimidating fellows used to continually bait the away fans on the crumbling north terrace. But they also used to form a heartbeat of noise, a pulse, for the rest of the West Stand, and perhaps the whole stadium. They were a formidable sight and sound, and I used to look up at them from The Benches – the more youthful element – in awe.
I just had this thought of how amazing it would be if Stamford Bridge still had pockets of noise that got up, stood up, and got the whole stadium rocking? Just like, I suspect, we would have imagined Stamford Bridge to be like in the future, a compact and close stadium, manned by a noisy fan base.
If only, eh?
If fucking only.
After the abuse suffered by Enzo in the opposite corner, I was pleased to see the Chelsea support singing his name loudly when he took a few corners down below us. I saw it as a nice bonding moment.
We dominated play for a while, and a Neto cross was headed away, then a cross from Enzo was headed at goal by Estevao but saved.
On eighty minutes, two more substitutions.
Reece James for Gusto.
Josh Acheamponmg for Badiashile.
Then Benfica forced a few chances, and it got a little nervy. Sanchez, up to his old tricks, gathered a shot from a corner but then bowled the ball out directly to a Benfica player.
We howled.
It was odd to hear the away fans singing a song to the tune of “Banana Splits”, as their team threatened late on.
Jamie Gittens seemed to be perfecting the lost art, previously practiced by Jesper Gronkjaer among others, of running for great distances with the ball at his feet but then falling over as soon as he was met with the semblance of a defender’s foot.
In a ridiculous denouement, Joao Pedro was sent off for a high kick in the face of a Benfica player.
For the third game in a row, we finished with ten men.
At least it was so late in the game that Maresca didn’t have any substitutions to get wrong.
It now stood at five wins out of five against Benfica,
Let’s Go Home.
It wasn’t the best quality of games, but we just did enough. And I was surprised how much I enjoyed it. It reminded me of so many fantastic European nights in previous years. And whisper it, but – yes – it was good to see the old fox Mourinho again.
We quickly made our way out of London, but road closures on the M4 from Theale meant that I came home via the A4, another old Roman Road.
Manchester United vs. Chelsea : 20 September 2025.
In the short few days of build up to our game at Manchester United, one thought kept bouncing around inside my head.
“Twelve years. We haven’t bloody won at Old Trafford for twelve years.”
That 1-0 win in May 2013 was the last time we had returned south with a full three points. A Juan Mata shot that nutmegged the gurning giant Phil Jones, deflecting slightly off his left kneecap, gave us the three points. I remember that I took a photo of that exact moment. It affected Sir Alex Ferguson so much that he announced his retirement the next day.
It all seems so long ago now. Our team that day reads like a list of Chelsea giants :
No Terry, though, jettisoned to the sidelines under Rafael Benitez. Torres and Ake were the two playing substitutes.
My closing paragraphs in my “Tale” from that that day sums up the joy of that moment.
“I glanced at Alan, who was screaming, his cheeks red, his face ecstatic. I spotted Juan Mata sprint down to the corner flag. It was his moment to tease, torment and tantalise. I clicked away. I was surprisingly cool. After taking around ten photos, my time had come. I clambered onto the seat in front and screamed.
YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES! GET IN!
That was it. It was time for some bombastic, triumphant chanting.
“Amsterdam. Amsterdam. We Are Coming. Amsterdam. Amsterdam. I Pray. Amsterdam. Amsterdam. We Are Coming. We Are Coming In The Month Of May.”
Our battle song of 2013.
The Chelsea fans around me were full of smiles and joy. I stood on the seat in front for the next few minutes. I was only vaguely aware of the late red card for Raphael as I was still full of song. I felt my throat getting sore, but this was no time to relent.
“Champions Of Europe. We Know What We Are.”
Despite a few last-ditch United chances, we held on. This was my eighteenth visit to Old Trafford with Chelsea and only the fifth victory. It wasn’t comparable to the pivotal win in 2009-2010, but it was a close second.
I raced back to the waiting car with the United fans moaning away all around me. I listened to “606” on the drive through Sale and Altrincham. Dave Johnstone’s voice was the sole Chelsea voice to be heard. Many United fans were phoning in.
They weren’t happy.
How dare “United” lose a match.
To be honest, I could hardly believe my ears at the ruthlessness of some of their fans. They were irate with Ferguson for playing a second-rate team (I hadn’t noticed) and one chap was so fed up with Fergie’s dictatorial nature that he wasn’t renewing his season ticket next year.”
Twelve years on, we had been lured back to Old Trafford once more.
I collected PD at 10am and Parky at 10.30am. I was well aware that this would be my thirtieth visit to Old Trafford to see Chelsea play Manchester United, the most-ever visits to an away stadium, but my record was rather humble.
Played 29
Won 5
Drew 10
Lost 15
To make it worse, two of those paltry five wins were way back in 1986, my first two visits. So, stretched out over almost forty years, just three wins in twenty-seven games tell my own personal story of misery.
For those of a certain age, Chelsea always used to have a decent record at Old Trafford, with our most successful period between 1966 and 1986. In thirteen league visits in that twenty-year span, we were unbeaten. It all came to a crashing end on a hot bank holiday Monday in August 1987, a game that I sadly watched from a cramped away enclosure.
Anyway, enough of the past. This was 2025, and I – worryingly – was travelling north with a smidgeon of optimism. As we all know, Manchester United have been quite awful so far this season under Ruben Amorim. I had no doubts that the four Manchester United supporters that co-exist alongside me in our small office of ten were nervous of the weekend’s game. I had kept my lips tight, not wishing to tempt fate, but was hopeful.
With the game kicking off at 5.30pm, a four-and-a-half journey stretched out in front of me.
The skies darkened as we advanced past Birmingham. We became enmeshed in slow-moving traffic, partly caused I think by teeming rain and copious surface water, and so we had to reappraise our pre-match plans. Rather than stop off at a pub en route, we decided to aim straight for the stadium.
In the last hour or so, the rain didn’t stop, and the clouds were so low that it seemed we had to duck to avoid them.
The Sat Nav sent me towards Old Trafford via a different route than usual, avoiding the M60 Orbital, past Didsbury, through the massive Southern Cemetery, a sombre experience in the Manchester rain, through Chorlton-cum-Hardy – a district that always makes me chuckle like a twelve-year-old – and then on towards Old Trafford. For a few minutes, I found myself driving on Kings Road in Stretford, where Morrissey once lived. In 2004, I saw Morrissey in concert at the Old Trafford cricket ground, a genuine home coming, and he opened with the line –
“Hello, Weatherfield.”
Due to my two co-passengers’ issues in walking, I dropped them off outside The Bishop Blaize pub on the Chester Road at around 4.15pm, then turned around and headed down to my usual parking place near Gorse Hill Park. As they exited my car, the rain lashed against them, my car, the roads and the pavements. I had left my house at 9.45am, and I had dropped the lads off six-and-a-half hours later. It was, despite no end of laughs between the three of us, a real slog.
I paid my £10 – it was £15 last season, are United now worth 66% of their 2024 value? – and zipped up my jacket, donned my baseball cap, and away I went, fearing the worst. The rain still lashed down, and I expected to be drenched by the time I reached the familiar slope of the forecourt underneath the Munich clock.
Thankfully, the weather lightened on my twenty-minute walk to Old Trafford, and I decided to take a few photos from a couple of fresh angles, with the huge steel structure of the stadium looking over the terraced houses below.
I noted the “20 Zone” street sign next to The Bishop Blaize and quizzically wondered if that was a nod towards the local team’s title haul. Maybe I would have been happier if it had said “20 Limit.”
They have won enough, surely.
On the busy corner of Chester Road and Sir Matt Busby Way, there was the usual agglomeration of United fans from many parts of the British Isles and further afield. For a few moments, all I could hear were Irish accents.
After a slight wait at the security check, and with Chelsea fans shouting about flutes, and a lone United fan shouting about rent boys, I finally reached the cramped away concourse.
Phew.
It was just before 5pm.
The rain had recommenced and – my goodness – Old Trafford looked as quintessentially Mancunian as it is ever likely to.
A depressing wash of clouds overhead, the grey steel of the roof, the mesmerising sight of millions of speckles of rain lashing down and across the massive void of the stadium.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry that my seat, in row 2 above the corner flag, had just missed the drip, drip, drip from a hole in the stand a hundred feet above me. Even worse was the fact that two of the disabled spectators in the section right in front of me were experiencing the full effect of a leaky roof too. It seemed that their red United rain jackets would be in for a tough assignment during the early evening’s entertainment.
Shocking.
Both the home and away sections took a while to fill.
At 5.25pm, I recognised a song.
“This Is The One” by the Stone Roses started and would welcome the teams onto the pitch. Flags and banners fluttered in The Stretford End, looking like a less colourful Kop, and I took a few photos.
I posted one on “Facebook” with the words “This Is The One.”
And please God, let this be the one, a win at last in rainy dreary Weatherfield.
Then, next up, a John Denver / Pete Boyle mash-up.
“Take me home, United Road.
To the place I belong.
To Old Trafford, to see United.
Take me home, United Road.”
I had sensed a quiet nervousness both outside and inside from the home support, and there had been little pre-match jousting on the terraces from either set of fans.
As always, we attacked the Stretford End in the first half.
However, in the first six minutes, we didn’t attack the Stretford End. It was all United in this opening period.
It didn’t take long for the goal at our end to be the central focus. New signing Bryan Mbeumo forced a decent save from Robert Sanchez after only two minutes, and then Reece James was on hand with a timely interception very soon after, saving a likely opener.
This understandably roused the home support, whose noise then stirred the away support into life.
“Just like London, your city is blue.”
Around this time, we were treated to two Sanchez miskicks to United players, but very soon there would be an even bigger calamity.
Just as I was reviewing how wet the seats were to my right, and where my away pals Gary and John should have been standing – where were they? – I had momentarily looked away as the United ‘keeper had walloped a ball forward. To be honest, I didn’t see the build-up, only the ill-timed rush out of our penalty area by Sanchez and the catastrophic swipe at Mbeumo.
Oh bollocks.
The referee issued a straight red.
What a mess.
It seemed that those little hopes of success on this miserable day had been immediately washed away.
But then, as the United players crowded around the site of the free kick that would follow, Maresca chose not to make one substitution but two and we all scratched our collective heads.
Filip Jorgensen for Estevao, Tosin Adarabioyo for Neto.
Bloody hell, our two wingers, our two “out balls”, what was the manager thinking?
“That just invites them on” uttered a local Chelsea fan, who I am sure stood in front of me at Old Trafford on a recent visit.
From the free-kick, Bruno Fernandes thankfully wasted the chance to take the lead.
We struggled to put two passes together, and on fourteen minutes, a cross came in, and Patrick Dorgu’s header fell nicely for Fernandes to sweep the ball in. He raced away to the far corner and as the home fans roared, I felt ill.
“Well, that was too easy.”
Here we go again.
Unbeknown to me straight away, there was a VAR review, but that amounted to nothing.
Just after, Gary and John arrived, soaked, the victims of slow-moving traffic on the M6.
We were awful. I had to wonder who on Earth thought that it was a smart move to knock it about nonchalantly at the back when United had a spare man and who could put us under great pressure. It was nonsense tactics. Especially, when we had nobody to hit if we ever managed to play it past this press.
After twenty-one minutes, a further substitution, Andrey Santos for Cole Palmer.
I texted some mates.
“White flags.”
I was utterly perplexed. But then the rumour went out that Palmer was injured.
Down below us, a move developed and Casemiro bundled the ball in from an Amad Diallo cross, but the ball had gone out behind the goal-line in the build-up.
On thirty-four minutes, a very rare excursion into the Stretford End penalty box, and Joao Pedro tumbled. It was too far away for me to judge.
On thirty-seven minutes, a cross to the back post, a header back into the six-yard by Patrick Dorgu wasn’t cleared. James attempted to do so but only added to the panic. A Luke Shaw header then dropped down and Casemiro was on hand to nod in. His race towards our corner was just horrible to witness.
Fackinell.
In injury-time, a coming together of Santos and Casemiro, and they ended up on the floor. The referee took his time, seemed to review what he had just seen, then signalled a yellow.
The Mancunian next to me, bless him, had remembered another yellow.
“Second yellow. Off.”
I roared.
For a few seconds I overdosed on positivity.
“Now we have some space. We’re back in it.”
Or so I thought.
The half-time came and went, with much muttering and moaning from the faithful.
The second half began, and we tried to get at United, but at times we were rather pedestrian.
It took a while for us to build anything of note.
I expected a lot more from Enzo.
Wesley Fofana headed in from a James corner but there was an offside flag.
Soon after, a double substitution.
Tyrique George for Fofana.
Malo Gusto for Cucurella.
The addition of George was a head-scratcher.
Alejandro Garnacho, who had been booed by the Stretford End while he was warming up, would have been many Chelsea fans’ choice for a late appearance. Here was a player that had an extra dimension to his game, and a massive point to prove. A moment like this does not come around too often. The moment was meant for him. Alas, Maresca chose not to gamble, perhaps the story of his managerial life thus far.
God knows what must have gone through Garnacho’s head as he sat down on the bench, overlooked.
For all of the change in personnel, and for all of the possible variations of attack, Reece James stuck with what he knew, out wide, making angles with overlaps, and became our only effective attacking threat.
It was his cross that was ably headed down and in by Trevoh Chalobah with ten minutes to go.
The Mancunian next to me : “3-2, you watch.”
I wished that I shared his optimism.
We kept going, but without much of a clue as to how to get into areas that would hurt United.
At the other end, a flashing shot from Fernandes was ably saved by Filip Jorgensen.
The rain had relented slightly but then came on strong again in the closing minutes.
At the final whistle, I turned and headed up the steps, bracing myself for a long and wet walk back to the car. First, that bloody slope on the forecourt which is always a fun experience, being serenaded by the home fans.
I had to laugh as I walked back in the darkness when I was overtaken by a United couple. Despite the win, they were as morose as we were.
“Ten versus ten, we lost.”
That’s the spirit.
With PD and Parky unable to walk quickly, we did not get back to the car until 8.30pm, and by then I was absolutely soaked.
We hit the M6 at 9.30pm, the road conditions awful.
I stopped at Stafford Services for junk food – Scottish themed, Tunnocks tea cakes and Irn Bru – and we bumped into Allie and Nick from Reading again. There was a final stop at Strensham for some petrol, and at last, nearing Bristol, the rain finally relented.
With the semi-final against Fluminense won, and with surprising ease, the third day of my eight days in Manhattan began with a lovely positive feel. I woke in Dom’s flat at around 9am, suitably rested after the football-related wanderings of the previous day, and for a while I just chilled out.
However, there was no rest for the wicked. This day was all about securing my ticket for the final on the Sunday. Tickets were to go on sale at 10am local time on the FIFA CWC App. Unlike the previous game, I was thankfully able to navigate this correctly. To cut a long story short, the $195 tickets in the upper deck, what the Americans call “nose bleeds”, soon went, leaving me to buy up one of the remaining tickets in the lower deck for a mighty $358.
Of course, this was much more than I wanted to pay, but I needed to guarantee a ticket for the final. After all the tickets disappeared on the FIFA App, more than a few US-based friends had missed out and I felt terrible for them. Their route to tickets would be via the secondary market, namely “Ticketmaster”, but there were many who were hoping that FIFA, in their desire to fill the stadium, would again offer free tickets to US-based supporters clubs as they had done for the semi-final.
After chatting to many friends about the ticket scenario, I eventually set foot outside at midday. It was another hot day in Manhattan. I devoured some pancakes at the “Carnegie Diner.”
“Take a jumbo across the water.
Like to see America.”
I chatted with a mother and daughter from Philadelphia who were all dolled-up and about to see a show. They were sat at the counter alongside me, and I entertained them for a few minutes with my tales of football fandom. I had to stifle a groan or two when they asked me, full of glee, about Wrexham.
Americans and football. It’s still a conundrum to me.
I then set off on a leisurely excursion down to the tip of Manhattan and took the – free – ferry to Staten Island. While I enjoyed the journey and the fantastic views of the harbour, I was aware that the second semi-final was taking place at The Meadowlands no more than ten miles away.
Who did I want to be victors?
Here was a dilemma, but not much of one. From a football perspective, it would undoubtedly be better for Chelsea for Real Madrid to win. I think that everyone involved with football would have agreed that PSG, the newly crowned European Champions, could claim the title of the greatest current club side in world football. Therefore, if we fancied our chances of winning this whole tournament, a game against Real Madrid would be preferred.
But with Real Madrid’s massive fan base – a former line manager from Latvia was a supporter, go figure – there is no doubt that this would induce a price hike on “Ticketmaster” and FIFA would have no problems in shifting all possible spares via their App. In a nutshell, Madrid reaching the final would mean less tickets becoming available for the Chelsea supporters.
So, my mind was easily made up. I wanted PSG to win so that more of my friends, mainly in the USA, could get tickets for the final.
It was simple as that.
On that ferry trip across the harbour, I soon heard how PSG had obliterated Real Madrid, scoring three goals in the first twenty-six minutes, and had eventually won 4-0.
So, the final on Sunday 13 July would be Chelsea vs. Paris St. Germain. This would be a very tough game, a very tough game indeed. Honestly, I was worried, as worried as hell. Secretly, I was just hoping that we would not get embarrassed. I hated the thought of a 0-3, a 0-4 or worse. PSG were an established team, while we were still growing.
Later that afternoon, I overcame some personal anxieties and visited the area that is now called “Ground Zero”; the memorial that now marks the footprints of where the twin towers of the World Trade Centre once stood prior to the terrorist attack on 11 September 2001. I had walked around the bases of these two skyscrapers in the June of that year and had witnessed the events unfold as I was at home on the afternoon of the attack. In the intervening years, I had avoided re-visiting the area as it was all too difficult for me. However, while returning to Manhattan the previous evening with Alex, he had told me that he had lost no fewer than twelve friends on that day. That fact alone stirred me to visit. I did not regret it.
That evening, I rested in the apartment. I needed it. A lot had happened over the previous five days.
I decided to try not to think too much about the final on the Sunday. After all, in addition to following the team, I was of course on holiday. I owed it to myself to try to relax a little, to put negative thoughts about the final to one side, and to enjoy myself in – probably – my favourite city of them all.
From the Thursday to the Saturday, life was great.
I was in no rush to get up too early on Thursday. For starters, I had no real plan of what I might do with myself. This was now my nineteenth visit to the city in the past thirty-six years and there wasn’t too much left that I wanted, or needed, to see.
There had been historical landmarks, cathedrals from the inside and out, breathtaking ferry trips, towering skyscrapers, famous department stores, shopping sprees, walking tours, bridges, verdant parks, visits to Madison Square garden and five individual baseball stadia – and the site of one former ball park, Ebbets Field in Brooklyn – beaches, art galleries, museums, sports bars, dive bars, restaurants and diners. That I have been able to spend so many days in New York with many top friends, plus even one day in 2010 with my mother, makes all these memories all the more sweeter.
So, what was left?
Thankfully, I soon came up with a plan. Not far from where I was staying in Hell’s Kitchen was the Museum of Modern Art on 53 Street. I had only visited “MOMA” once before, and that was during the first few days of my very first trip to New York, and the US, in September 1989. I was long overdue a return visit.
I was out at 11am. It had rained overnight, and everything was a little cooler. I dropped in for another breakfast, this time at the “Roxy Diner” and at last found a decent coffee.
“Take a jumbo across the water.
Like to see America.”
I reached MOMA at just after midday and stayed for three hours. At times it was almost too overwhelming. I loved so many of the pieces on display, but especially some work by Gustav Klimt, Edward Hopper, Vincent van Gogh, Claude Monet and Andy Warhol. The place was busy, almost too busy, and I needed time to myself on a few occasions.
I remembered that during that first visit in 1989, my college mate Ian and I were rather perplexed by the number of visitors who – rather crassly in our eyes – took great happiness in being photographed in front of their favourite paintings.
I also remember myself taking a photo of just one painting, Marilyn Monroe by Andy Warhol. I tried my best to locate it in 2025, and had almost given up, but eventually spotted it.
With an ironic nod back to 1989, I recorded a video of myself in front of this iconic painting and sent it to Ian via Messenger. He then quickly sent a video back to me of him in his kitchen in Fareham with a painting over his shoulder.
This was great. It felt like Ian was with me at MOMA after all these years. With that, I exited out through the museum shop just as “Blue Monday” by New Order was being played.
Perfect.
Back at the apartment, there was some Chelsea stuff to sort out. We had heard that Claude Makelele was to make an appearance at “Legends”, the large bar on 33 Street that hosts the New York Blues, on Saturday evening. It was ticket only so I spent a few moments sorting out that, more Apps, more QR codes, oh boy.
I passed this news on to a few Chelsea supporters who were making their way over to New York for the weekend. I looked forward to seeing more familiar faces from England in the city.
That evening, I fancied a very chilled and relaxing pub crawl around Manhattan. I was out early at 4pm and started off at “McSorley’s”, seven blocks from where Glenn and I had stayed on East 14 Street in June, and just one block where my friend Roma and I had stayed in 2001. It was great to be back; I made it my fifth-ever visit.
Next up was a visit to the Chelsea Hotel. I had twice stayed in the Chelsea district, in 1989 and in 2015 but this would be the first time inside. Of course, those of us of a certain vintage remember the infamous nature of this hotel in 1978 and 1979; Nancy Spungen, Sid Vicious, what a mess. It’s a cracking hotel, though, and I loved spending the best part of an hour at the bar, but I made sure that the small bottles of Kirsch lager, at $14 a pop, took ages to drink. I wanted to savour every drop.
Just along from there, on the same street, was a very funky place called the Trailer Park Lounge, and I popped in for a drink. This had the feel of a southern dive bar, maybe jettisoned from Florida or somewhere, and was a nice distraction.
Next, “Grey Bar”, a reasonable bar, but nothing special. Here I chatted to the barman, a Yankee fan, while messaging many folk about tickets for the game on Sunday. It seemed that Chelsea would not let me completely relax.
Lastly, I dropped into “Legends”, underneath the towering Empire State Building. Here I chatted at the bar to a guy from New York, Jeff, who was an Arsenal supporter, and whose main claim to fame was that he was, rather fortuitously, at the last-ever game at Highbury in 2006. My friends Leigh and Ben, from England, called in for the last few beers. We could hardly believe it when Jeff said he wanted us to win on Sunday.
“Mate, there’s no Arsenal fan back home that wants us to win the final.”
“I know, but I’m an American.”
Yes, it was still a conundrum alright.
I had enjoyed this relaxing amble around Manhattan, with two bars in Chelsea, but as far as pub crawls go, this was all very sedate. I was back inside the apartment at midnight.
Friday was to be busier. I was up early and was soon on my way to meet my friend Stacey at the “Tick Tock Diner” outside the Port Authority Bus Terminal. I have to say that of all of Manhattan’s fine sights, there is no nothing worse than seeing the arse end of the Port Authority as you approach it on foot from the west.
No surprises, I devoured a mighty fine breakfast at this lovely diner which I last visited with Stacey, to my reckoning, almost thirty years ago.
“Take a jumbo across the water.
Like to see America.”
The agenda for this morning’s activities was set as soon as my return visit to New York took shape. Back in June, we wanted to drop in to the International Centre of Photography, but it was closed until 19 June. We took a subway and then spent an enjoyable ninety minutes inside its interior. It was, amazingly, very quiet. At times it felt like we were the only visitors. We are both keen photographers and so this was just right. The main exhibit was by Edward Burtynsky, who takes magnificent photographs of the many various landscapes that he visits. I loved the scale and the clarity, and the composition of many of his photos.
Sadly, and much to my annoyance, the FIFA World Club Cup kept getting in my way. It seemed that, without warning, FIFA had removed tickets in the top tier from friends’ Apps, and in doing so had caused widespread panic. My ticket, in the lower level, remained. While at the photography museum, I had to spend many a moment messaging various friends.
Meanwhile, I heard on the grapevine that either FIFA or Chelsea – or both – had been contacting US Supporters Groups to offer free – yes, free – tickets to the game on Sunday.
On the one hand, I was happy for those that had not yet been able to secure tickets.
On the other hand, I was fuming that I had forked out $358 for mine.
So, in a nutshell, it appeared that in a move to make the lower tier as full as possible, FIFA were moving people down from the top tier – but without telling them first – and were offering up free tickets too.
Fackinell.
I had arranged to meet another old friend Lynda near Ground Zero, so said my “goodbyes” to Stacey. I hadn’t seen Stacey for almost ten years and had then saw her twice in three weeks.
I first met Lynda in 2010 when she came over to Stamford Bridge for a game and we have stayed friends ever since. When Chelsea played New York Red Bulls in 2015 I stayed one night with Stacey and her husband Bill in Flemington, New Jersey and then spent two nights with Lynda and her partner Tee in River Edge, New Jersey.
The night before the game in Newark in 2015, there had been another get-together at “Legends”.
It was Tuesday afternoon – around 5pm – and we sped over the George Washington Bridge into Manhattan. Our excitement was palpable; we would soon be meeting up with many friends in a bar under the shadow of the Empire State Building, but there was an added – and wondrous – twist. Not only would former players Bobby Tambling, Mario Melchiot and Paul Canoville be making an appearance, but arrangements had been made – hush hush and all that – for Frank Lampard to make an appearance too.
What excitement.
My friend Roma, with her friend Peggy, from Tennessee arrived at about 6.30pm. Roma is a familiar figure in these Tales and has been a fantastic friend over the past twenty-six years. Roma has attended games at every one of Chelsea’s previous eight US tours (she is “one up” on me, since I missed the 2013 tour), and was doing all three of this summer’s games. However, when I calmly informed her that her hero Frank Lampard would be in the bar later in the evening, her reaction was lovely. To say she was excited would be an understatement. She almost began crying with joy. Bless her.
What a lovely time we all had. In addition to being able to reconnect with many good Chelsea friends, including the usual suspects from the UK, we were treated to an hour or so of valuable insights into the four guest’s views on various subjects. Munich often dominated the questions. Frank was very gracious and answered each question carefully and with wit and sincerity. I loved the way that he listened attentively to the other players. Near the start, the New York crowd began singing :
“We want our Frankie back, we want our Frankie back.”
Frank smiled and responded :
“I’ll be back.”
Lynda and I chatted at a restaurant next to the Hudson River for an hour or so, and it was lovely to see her again. Lynda was a keen footballer when she was younger, and I was reminded of the time when Chelsea and PSG first met in New York.
No, dear reader, it wasn’t the game on 22 July 2012 at Yankee Stadium.
Oh no.
The day before, on the Saturday, the various supporters’ groups within the US had arranged a six-a-side tournament involving supporters from across the US, but there was also, as a finale, a game between the supporters of Chelsea and Paris St. Germain.
It was one of my greatest honours to be named as the captain of the Chelsea team that day, and I include some words and pictures.
As the fans’ tournament, involving four teams of Chelsea fans from throughout the US, was coming to an end, I was as nervous as I have been for years. I had been chosen to captain the Chelsea team to play in the Friendship Cup game against Paris St. Germain.
When I had heard this news a few weeks back, I was very humbled, certainly very proud, but the over-riding feeling was of fear. I hadn’t played for two months, and I was genuinely concerned that I may pull a muscle, or jar my once troublesome right knee, or give away a penalty, or run out of gas after five minutes or just look out of my depth. This is typical of my times in various school football teams over thirty years ago when I would tend to be shackled by fear and a lack of confidence in my ability on the pitch.
Once the game began, my fears subsided, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself. We lead 3-1 at the break but soon allowed PSG to scramble some goals. At 4-4, I managed to squeeze in a goal and my heart exploded. Could we hang on? In the end, PSG went 8-6 up and my disappointment was real.
Lynda played in the Chelsea team, along with my long-time friends Steph,Pablo and Mike, too. The game was refereed by Paul Canoville and Frank Sinclair. Watching upstairs in the gallery was Ron Harris. I couldn’t help but sidle up to him after and tell him, with a twinkle in my eye, that I saw him play around fourteen times for Chelsea, but I was still waiting to see him score a goal. And yet he had seen me score for Chelsea after just twenty minutes.
Lynda, and Tee, and their two children Tori and Kai, had attended the Fluminense game on the Tuesday, but were off on a family trip to the coast at the weekend. We said our “goodbyes” and hoped to see each other in London again soon.
This was a busy day, and I caught the subway from one end of Manhattan to the other, and beyond. I was off to see the New York Yankees play the Chicago Cubs in an inter-league game in the South Bronx. Dom’s mate Terence had bought some tickets for this game and, luckily, had a spare. We were to meet, as always, at “Stan’s.”
I arrived at 4.30pm, perfect. I had arranged to meet up with Scott, Paul and Gerry and they were stood drinking at one end of the bar. The three of them had been based in Philly for the entire tournament apart from the last day or two. They were with a chap, Martin, who I had only seen for the first time on Tuesday afternoon at the Fluminense game. This surprised me since he lives in Sherborne in Dorset, just twenty-five miles away.
It was lovely to see some Chelsea faces in “Stan’s”, following on from my visit with Glenn, Steve and Mike in June.
“A “Rolling Rock” please, mate.”
Dom, Terence and three other lads arrived, and we had a grand time. Scott and Gerry became fans of baseball around ten years ago while seeing Chelsea in the US, and Scott is a Cubs fan. This was his first visit to Yankee Stadium. “Stan’s” sits right opposite where the original Yankee Stadium stood – the first version from 1923 to 1973, the second from 1976 to 2008 – and of course I regaled them with the fact that Ray Wilkins made his England debut “across the road” in 1976.
I got talking to Martin about baseball and Chelsea in equal measure. He has visited tons of baseball stadia over the past fifteen years or so. I mentioned how my love of the game has sadly diminished since around 2008.
I mentioned that the game against PSG on Sunday would be one hundredth live game of the current season, and I trotted out the numbers.
“54 Chelsea games, 42 Frome Town games, 3 games in Rio de Janeiro and 1 game at Lewes when we played Brighton in the FA Cup.”
Martin smiled and replied, “I went to that game, too.”
Fackinell.
Seeing a few Chelsea supporters in “Stan’s” took me back to that PSG game in 2012. I had stayed in Portsmouth, New Hampshire for a week, then came down to New York for the game at Yankee Stadium, meeting up with tons of good friends in the bars of Manhattan and then the stadium.
First up, “Legends.”
Despite the game against PSG not starting until 7pm, I had arrived at Legends bang on midday and awaited the arrival of friends. I soon bumped into Tom, a fellow Chelsea home-and-away season ticket holder, who was revelling in his first ever visit to the US. His comment to me struck a chord.
“This is the most surreal experience I’ve had, Chris. This pub is full of Chelsea, but I don’t know anyone.”
Of course, to Tom, this was akin to supporting Chelsea in a parallel universe. I think he was amazed at the fanaticism from these people who he didn’t personally know. For Tom, it must have been unnerving. This scenario is so different to our experiences in the UK and Europe where the close-knit nature of the Chelsea travelling support has produced hundreds of friendships. In Wigan, in Wolverhampton, in Milan, in Munich, there are faces that are known. On this afternoon in the heart of Manhattan, fans kept entering the pub, with nobody leaving. I wondered if it would collapse with the volume of people in both bars. Thanks to my previous travels to the US with Chelsea, wherever I looked, I managed to spot a few familiar faces. I was sat at the bar, chatting with Scott from DC, his brother David from Athens, Phil from Iowa, Mark from England, Andy from California, Stephen from New Orleans. The blue of Chelsea was everywhere. Down below in the basement, a gaggle of around twenty-five PSG fans were singing, but their chants were being drowned by the boisterous chants of the Chelsea fans.
It dawned on me that the Chelsea fans that I would be encountering were not just English ex-pats or not just Americans of English extraction, but Americans with ancestors from every part of the world. Just the previous week in Portsmouth NH, I had met a young lad who had seen me wearing a pair of Chelsea shorts and had declared himself a massive Chelsea fan. His birthplace? Turkey. I asked him if he was a fan of Galatasaray, of Besiktas or of Fenerbahce, but he said that Chelsea was his team. This frankly amazed me. It confirmed that Chelsea has truly gone global.
The simple truth in 2012 is that people like Tom and me, plus the loyal 5,000 who make up our core support at home and away games in the UK and Europe are in the massive minority amongst our support base. For our millions of fans worldwide, the typical scenario is just what Tom had witnessed at first hand in NYC; a pub in a foreign land, bristling with new Chelsea fans, fanatical for success.
From “Legends” in 2012 to “Stan’s” in 2025…
We left “Stan’s” and moved further north along River Avenue and into “The Dugout” bar. Time was moving on and I seemed to be the only one who was keeping an eye on the clock. First-pitch was at 7.05pm, and with a logistical precision that I would be proud, despite missing the “Star Spangled Banner”, Dom and Terence finally sorted out their QR codes and ushered us in. We arrived in our seats in the front row of the top deck just before the final out of the bottom of the first inning.
That will do for me.
I even saw the end of the famous “roll-call” from the fanatics in the Bleachers, an echo of The Shed back in the ‘seventies.
Our seats, six of us in a row, were magnificent and only around fifteen yards from where we were sat against the Angels in June.
It was lovely to be back again.
At the PSG game in 2012, we were in the lower tier.
“The hardcore of the Chelsea support – maybe 2,000 in total – were spread out along the first base side, like different battalions of confederate soldiers at Pickett’s Charge in Gettysburg, ready to storm the Yankee lines.
Down in the corner, behind home plate, were the massed ranks of Captain Mike and his neat ranks of soldiers from New York. Next in line were the battalion from Philadelphia and the small yet organised crew from Ohio. Next in line were the wild and rowdy foot soldiers of Captain Beth and the infamously named CIA company. On the far-right flank stood the massed ranks of the Connecticut Blues who were mustered under the command of Captain Steve.”
In that game, Paris St. Germain went ahead in the first but Lucas Piazon – remember him, he only appeared on foreign tours – equalised in the second half.
So, the two games in Manhattan and the Bronx in 2012 had not given us a win.
Chelsea 6 Paris St. Germain 8.
Chelsea 1 Paris. St. Germain 1.
I wondered how the third game across the river on Sunday would end up.
The baseball game played out before me, and it was a fine night to be a Yankee fan. Cody Bellinger hit three home runs as the home team walloped the Cubs 11-0. It was my sixtieth major league baseball game, my 41st Yankee game, my 32nd Yankee home game and my biggest Yankee victory.
Two-thirds of the way into the game, we walked down to the centre-field Bleachers, the very first-time that I had watched a game from the Bleachers in either Yankee Stadium.
After, we decamped to “The Dugout” and then “Stan’s” before heading back to Manhattan.
It had been a fine night in the South Bronx.
On the Saturday, after the beers of the Friday night, I succumbed to another lie-in. I met up with Dom and Terence at the nearby “Jasper’s” on 9th Avenue just as the women’s final at Wimbledon, being shown on the TV, was nearing completion. There was a bar snack and I then caught a cab to the Guggenheim Museum. Although the temperature outside wasn’t too oppressive I just couldn’t face the walk up through Central Park. This was my second ever visit to this museum, and I loved it. It’s a remarkable building, and there was the usual array of fine paintings inside.
In the evening, we reconvened at “Legends” once more, and – as to be expected – the place was packed, although surprisingly maybe not to 2012 levels. I think there are quantifiable reasons for this. The 2012 summer tour was announced in good time and gave many supporters the chance to plan and attend, unlike the knock-out format of this competition. Also, I still sensed an innate reluctance to support this “money grab” of an extra FIFA tournament from many Chelsea supporters in the US.
And I can understand that.
But here we were, in Manhattan on a Sunday night and it felt like a gathering of the clans. Outside I chatted to Lorraine and Colin from Toronto and Pete from St. Petersburg In Florida. Ex-footballer Troy Deeney was flitting about in his role for “Talk Sport” and inside I spotted a few from the UK that had just arrived including Big John, who sits in front of me in The Sleepy Hollow, and Kev from the “South Gloucestershire Lot”.
There was an insipid Q&A with Claude Makelele, but it annoyed me that there were so many people chatting that I found it difficult to hear what the great man was saying.
It was quieter when Frank held court in 2015.
After fifteen minutes of excruciatingly banal questions, I decided to go downstairs to the “Football Factory” for some respite and some beers. Here, I spent a fantastic time talking with Alex, who has so many funny stories up his considerably long sleeves, but there was also great fun seeing folk that I had not seen for ages. Most importantly of all, it seemed that everyone who needed tickets for the final, had them. Fantastic.
It’s funny, my modus operandi for the Saturday night was “don’t have too many beers, don’t want a hangover on Sunday.”
Well, I failed.
Many beers were sunk at “Legends” and I even had to time to slope off to “O’Donohue’s” near Times Square where I met up with a gaggle of lads from the UK who had arrived to join some chaps who had been out in the US for a while.
I met up with Neil, newly arrived via Rome, with Big Rich, plus Tommo, Tombsy and a few more.
At 2am, I made it home.
Sunday arrived, and I was only nursing the very slightest of hangovers. By the time I had left the apartment at 9.45am, it had disappeared. I took the subway down to meet up with Kathryn and Tim from DC, near “Macy’s” to catch the PATH train to Hoboken at 10.30am. Outside Penn Station, at the exact spot where Glenn and I had posed for photos in the drizzle in June on our first few minutes in Manhattan, I took a photo of Cole Palmer on an electronic billboard with the Empire State Building in the background.
What an image.
It wasn’t like this in 1989 when I only met one other Chelsea fan in almost ten months in North America.
I could hardly believe it all.
The plan was to get over to “Mulligan’s” again for a brief pre-match gargle and then heading out to the parking lots that surround MetLife to meet up with the New York Blues for a tailgate.
Delays with the trains meant that we only arrived at “Mulligan’s” at around 11.30am. But the usual crowd were inside again, and it was excellent to bump into Kristen and Andrew from Columbus, Ohio, and Adam from Texas, but also Ian, Kevin – who sits a few feet away from me in “The Sleepy” – and Becky, who had experienced a nightmare trip out via Istanbul.
Dom and Terence were with Alon at the bar, everyone together. With a couple of “Peronis” inside me, I was buoyed, and a bit more confident about the game. I was able to relax when the QR code for the game suddenly appeared on the FIFA App.
We needed to get moving, so Kathryn ordered a large uber to take Kristen, Andrew, Tim, herself and myself over to the stadium. As we tried to enter a main road, a police car blocked our entrance, and we waited for ages as the traffic on the main road cleared and a cavalcade of cars drove ahead of a coach carrying the Paris St. Germain team. I cannot confirm nor deny if there were any requisite hand signals aimed towards the passengers in the coach.
We were dropped off near Parking Lot D at around 1pm; just right. I spent just over an hour here, drinking with some friends from all over the north-east of the US. It was a pleasure to see Sid and Danny from Connecticut, Tim from Philly and Steve from Staten Island especially. The weather was hot, but the beers were cold. It was a perfect mix. There wasn’t much talk about the game. Deep down, I was still concerned about us getting hammered. The New York Blues had provided a great array of beers and food. I gulped down a hot dog; just enough to stave off hunger pains, my only food so far during the day.
The younger element was getting involved with some singing, but I left them to it. My days as a willing cheerleader on these occasions are in the past now.
With about three-quarters of an hour to go before the 3pm kick-off, I made my way towards the stadium. We heard the buzz of three helicopters circling overhead, and with news that the President of the United States was to attend the game, many match-goers looked towards the heavens. I cannot confirm nor deny if there were any requisite hand signals aimed towards the passengers of the helicopters.
I was making good time, and I knew exactly where to aim for; the Chelsea end was now at the northern end of the stadium, opposite from Tuesday.
The security check and the QR scan was easy. I was in.
I spotted my mate Callum with a few of his mates from London, and I took a photo of them with their St. George’s flag. They had come over for the final, though Callum was at the two Philly games too.
Time was moving on, but I wasn’t rushed. This was just right. I got to my seat location at around 2.40pm. I was in a great location, around half-way back in the lower tier, just to the right of the goal frames. There were clouds overhead, and it didn’t feel too uncomfortable.
Then, what a small world…I suddenly realised that Rich, the guy that I had lambasted at the Manchester City game at Yankee Stadium in 2013, was stood right in front of me. I tapped him on the shoulder, and we virtually collapsed with laughter. I was in front of him in 2013, he was now in front of me in 2025.
Fackinell.
Pretty soon, the pre-match kicked in. First up, a set of musicians – dressed in the gold and black of the tournament – and mainly drummers as far as I could tell, and yellow plumes of smoke. Were they a college marching band? I immediately entertained memories of the “Marching Mizou”, from the University of Missouri, who were also dressed in gold and black, at Stamford Bridge against Derby County in 1975.
Next, a singer appeared out of nowhere, gold lamé suit, silver hair.
I turned to the two local lads to my right.
“Who’s that prick?”
“Robbie Williams.”
“Bloody hell, I was right.”
I had fleeting images of seeing him at Stamford Bridge in 1995, and his album cover that featured the Matthew Harding Stand that came out a few years after.
The boy from Burslem belted out a song that I had not heard before.
“Aim high, fly by, destiny’s in front of you. It’s a beautiful game and the dream is coming true.”
One of the lads to my right, both dressed in Chelsea paraphernalia, asked me for my prediction, and I had to be honest. I looked him in the eye and said “we’ll lose 0-2.”
This obviously took him back, and I said what I needed to say. We chatted a little about his Chelsea story and he said that the memorable 3-2 at Goodison in 2006, all three goals being belters, was a key moment in him becoming Chelsea.
By now, my senses were being pummelled visually and audibly. Not only was the sky full of plumes of smoke, but the PA guy was booming out over the speakers. This idiot wasn’t just talking loudly either; he was shouting, and the PA was turned up to eleven.
“Let’s see who are the loudest fans!!!”
I turned to the bloke to the right.
“None of us are as loud as you, you prick.”
It was all too much. The noise was deafening.
Next up, the American national anthem was played out and there were immediate boos. The natives squinted over to the left to see if they could see the president.
Awesome.
With all this hullabaloo, it was somewhat difficult to come to terms with what I was part of here. I looked around and it seemed that the stadium was virtually sold out. There was a knot of PSG fans grouped together in the lower tier opposite, though it was later pointed out to me by Callum that their ultras had been forced to evacuate their prime seats behind the goal by some law enforcement agents.
Things were happening so quickly now. The players walked on to the pitch, and were introduced one-by-one, how crap.
Our team surely picked itself.
Sanchez
Gusto – Colwill – Chalobah – Cucurella
James – Caicedo
Pedro Neto – Enzo – Palmer
Joao Pedro
At last, Chelsea in blue, the first time for me in this competition. The Paris kit, all white, included an image of the Eiffel Tower.
I turned around and spotted Karen and Feisal, whose wedding I photographed back in 2021, just a few yards away. They looked confident. I wasn’t so sure.
Next, Michael Buffer and his ridiculous “Let’s Get Ready To Rumble” bollocks. He had appeared at Stamford Bridge a few years back, and I was impressed then as I was now.
Next, a countdown to the kick-off.
I snapped as Enzo played the ball back to a teammate and the FIFA Club World Cup Final 2025 began.
It was surreal, it was mad, it was preposterous. Thirty-two teams had entered this inaugural expanded competition, and I bet hardly any Chelsea supporters expected us to get to the final. Yet here we bloody were.
And you know what, we began incredibly well. We seemed to be first to the loose ball, fitter and faster than the lauded opposition, and soon started to construct fine moves that stretched PSG in all areas of the pitch.
After five minutes, it was virtually all us, and I was so happy. Moises Caicedo took my eye at first, robbing players of the ball, and moving it on intelligently. But very soon it was obvious that Cole Palmer, being afforded more space than usual, was “on it” and the Chelsea supporters all around me sensed this.
After just seven minutes, a lovely passage of play featuring a few players moving the ball down our left resulted in Joao Pedro setting up Palmer right on the penalty box line. His shot was clean, curving slightly, and only just missed the left-hand post. Many thought it was in.
“A sighter” I chirped.
The guy to my right was still asking if I thought it would be a 0-2 defeat, and I smiled.
With Pedro Neto running back to provide valuable cover for Marc Cucurella, with Enzo Fernandez probing away with neat passes, and with Caicedo taking on the role of enforcer with aplomb, we were on top.
But PSG threatened on a couple of occasions. There was a great block from Cucurella, and a great save from Sanchez.
After a quarter of an hour, I leaned forward and spoke to Rich.
“Great game of football.”
On twenty-two minutes, a sublime kick out from Sanchez was aimed at Malo Gusto. The tracking defender Nuno Mendes was confused by the proximity of Gusto and took his eyes off the flight of the ball. With a degree of luck, the ball bounced on his head but released the raiding Gusto. He travelled into the box and set himself to shoot by coming inside. The shot was blocked, but Gusto received it back and calmly played it into the vacant Palmer. He seemed to immediately relax, and stroked the ball in, past the dive of Gianluigi Donnarumma.
The Chelsea section went wild.
There were bodies being pushed all around me and I lost myself.
I screamed.
I shouted.
I yelled.
“FUCKING GET IN YOU BASTARD.”
Bloody hell mother, we were 1-0 up.
Fackinell.
Rich’s face was a picture.
It seemed that I was indeed right about Palmer’s “sighter” a quarter of an hour earlier.
It was all Chelsea now, and PSG looked tired. Was our extra day of rest really that important?
During a break in play, I popped over to say hello to a gaggle of lads from England to my right. None of us could believe what we were witnessing.
We continued to impress. Many attacks came down the right, with Gusto in fine form. On the half-hour mark, a long pass out of defence from Levi Colwill – how unlike us, maybe Enzo Maresca has been reading my notes – released Palmer. He took the ball under his control with ease and advanced, sliding in from an inside-right channel, across the box, using the dummy run from Joao Pedro as a distraction, sending two defenders the wrong way, moving into a central position, then there was one extra touch. At that exact moment, I just knew that this extra touch had bamboozled Donnarumma’s timings. I just knew that he would score. From virtually the same place as eight minutes earlier, he rolled the ball in.
YES.
We were two up.
This time there were double fist pumps – downwards – from me as I stood bewildered amongst the exultant throng, very much aware that others were losing it.
This was mad.
The rest of that first-half was a blur. Chelsea were bossing it, and the world was a beautiful place. There were honest shouts of “Come On Chelsea” permeating throughout our section and I even forgave the locals for yelling that loathsome “Let’s Go Chelsea, Let’s Go” nonsense.
Additionally, I realised that I now loved the way that the word “wanker” has permeated into US football culture.
We weren’t finished yet.
On forty-three minutes, we watched as a pass out of defence from Trevoh Chalobah found Palmer, ten yards inside his own half but ridiculously unmarked. I brought my camera up and watched him advance. Just outside the box, he split the space between two ball-watching defenders and passed to Joao Pedro who had made the finest of runs behind. As our new forward clipped the ball over the Paris ‘keeper, I snapped. I saw the ball clear Donnarumma and caress the netting.
Good God.
I simply stood still, silent, my arms outstretched, pointing heavenly, like some sort of homage to Cristo Redentor.
We were three-up.
I had this thought. Didn’t everyone?
“They can’t catch us now.”
At half-time, I contacted my mate Jaro who was watching with his whole family a few sections along. He came over to see me and we could hardly talk to each other.
This was unbelievable.
Up above us, on a stage so ridiculously high, a few acts sang, and the half-time show was rounded off by Coldplay.
“Cause you’re a sky, cause you’re a sky full of stars.”
I was more pleased to see Jaro than I was Chris Martin.
But with the sky above the MetLife, now clear of clouds, filled with fireworks and smoke, this only exaggerated the sense of incredulity in my eyes, and I am sure others too.
That first-half, let’s not kid ourselves here, was up there with the very best I have ever seen us play. It had everything.
I am shuddering now just at the memory of that moment.
I always talk about the first half when we beat Everton 5-0 in 2016 as being sensational, but Everton are no PSG. I remember the first-half against Barcelona in 2000. I remember other games, too many, perhaps, to list.
But at the MetLife on Sunday 13 July 2025, was that first-half the best?
I think it has to be.
The break lasted forever or seemed to. I think someone timed it as twenty-five minutes. That’s not football. It’s wrong for players to be kept waiting. Muscles tighten. Injuries are more likely. Stop that shite, FIFA.
But what a twenty-five minutes, though. If only all half-time breaks could be as joyful.
And I was convinced there would be no Chelsea Piers 2012-style second-half recovery from this PSG team either.
Not surprisingly, PSG started on the front foot in the initial moments of the second half. On fifty-one minutes, they worked the ball through, and a low cross was poked goalwards by Ousmane Dembele, but Sanchez reacted magnificently well to push the ball around his far post.
“Strong wrists there, Rich.”
Sanchez saved again, and although PSG enjoyed more of the ball, we were able to keep calm and limit them to few chances.
Off the pitch, I liked the noise that we were making in the stands. PSG, by contrast, over the course of the whole game, had made least noise compared to Flamengo, Tunis and Fluminense.
On sixty-one minutes, Andrey Santos replaced a tiring Enzo.
On sixty-eight minutes, Liam Delap replaced Joao Pedro.
Very soon after coming on, Delap was set free by Santos and advanced forcefully. At one stage he seemed to be running right at me. He did everything right, moving his defenders, and unleashed a cracking shot that really deserved a goal, only for Donnarumma to pull off a fine save to his left. The same player then cut in from wide but was unable to finish.
On seventy-eight minutes, two more changes.
Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for James.
Christopher Nkunku for Pedro Neto.
I didn’t see the incident on eighty-three minutes, but Cucurella hit the deck, clutching his head. VAR was called in to action and Joao Neves had pulled Cucurella’s curly locks.
A red card was issued.
In the closing moments, we all loved Cole Palmer taking the piss in the corner away to our left in front of the Chelsea support. If Palmer was – quite rightly – the man of the match, we all soon agreed that Robert Sanchez, enjoying the game of his life, was next best.
As the clock ticked down, we all relaxed a little and began celebrating.
The gate was announced as 81,118.
And that, dear reader, was just about it.
At the final whistle, a shout of relief.
Then, with the players in blue running towards us and celebrating, “Blue Is The Colour” rang out and I almost lost it. My bottom lip was going at one stage.
“Pull yourself together, Chris, mate.”
I recorded this moment on my phone and have shared it here.
“Cus Chelsea, Chelsea is our name.”
I am not a fan of the ubiquitous use of “Freed From Desire” at virtually all football stadia these days and I am glad we no longer play it at Chelsea at the conclusion of our games but I did love the way that the players, Enzo especially, were cavorting at the end while the supporters were singing along to it.
“Na-na-na-na-na-na-na, na-na-na, na-na”
Fackinell.
On a very surreal day, things became odder still. As we all know, the President of the United States took a greater role in the presentation of medals and the trophy than anyone could have expected.
I’ll leave it there.
I loved the way that Reece James was able to lift the golden trophy to the heavens a second time, and not long after my bottom lip started behaving even more embarrassingly.
But these were joyous times.
I kept thinking to myself.
“32 teams.”
“32 teams and we fucking won it.”
And I thought back to my comment to Glenn in Philadelphia when Pedro Neto put us 1-0 up against Flamengo :
“Back in England, there are fans of other teams saying ‘fucking hell, Chelsea are going to win this too’…”
When I left the stadium, a good hour after the end of the game, I was alone, and very tired, and very dazed. I honestly could not believe what I had just witnessed. Originally, I had this notion of getting back to Hoboken and taking an evening ferry across the Hudson, with the setting sun reflecting off the skyscrapers of Manhattan. It would be a fitting climax to my one hundred games season; the World Cup metaphorically placed in my back pocket.
But I was so tired and just wanted to rest. My feet were on fire, after standing for hours. I made my way towards the lines for trains and coaches to take us free of charge back to Secaucus Junction.
In the line, I saw a very familiar face. Allie is from Reading, and I see him everywhere with Chelsea. He had the intention of attending some group phase games but decided against it. Imagine my joy when we clocked each other.
“Can’t miss a final, Chris.”
We stopped for the inevitable photo.
I took the bus to Secaucus, and I was just happy to sit for twenty minutes and take the weight off my feet.
I took the train back to Penn Station, and I snapped a photo of the Chelsea players celebrating the win on the same billboard that had depicted Cole Palmer in the morning. Now, Reece James’ celebratory roar beamed out beneath the New York skyline.
Those photos provide nice bookends to the day.
I ended up having some food, all alone, near Penn Station, and I just wanted to get back to the apartment. I was so tired that I didn’t even think to call in at “Legends” to see if anyone was around. I had heard that the Empire State Building was to be illuminated in blue in honour of Chelsea Football Club, 2025 World Champions, but this magical moment was to take place from 10pm until 11pm.
And I took a cab home at 9.15pm.
Although I was truly knackered, it saddens me that I just couldn’t hang on for one final hour and one final photograph.
Seeing the Empire State Building illuminated in Chelsea blue would have been a magical moment and a killer photograph, the perfect ending to a monumental season.
Sigh.
However, should we qualify for the next World Cup in 2029, which is expected to take place in Rio de Janeiro – where my longest ever season began last July – I wonder if Christ the Redeemer will be illuminated in royal blue after the final.
Because we never win these trophies just once, do we?
In the report for the match in Philadelphia against Tunis, I penned this closing segment :
“I did say – tongue in cheek – to a few mates “see you at the final.”
Should we beat Benfica, we would return to Philadelphia on Independence Day, and should we win that, who knows.
This rocky road to a possible denouement in New Jersey might well run and run and run.”
First there was the crazy “weather-delayed” marathon match in Charlotte, North Carolina against Benfica. Winning 1-0 until late on, with a goal from Reece James mid-way through the second half, the game was then delayed for two hours due to the threat of lightning with just a few minutes of normal time remaining. I fell asleep and set the alarm for the re-start but watched in horror as Angel Di Maria equalised. I then dropped off again, but was awake to see goals from Christopher Nkunku, Pedro Neto and Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall secure an eventual 4-1 win. The match finished at around 6am on the Saturday morning in the UK.
Next up was a match in the quarter final with a game back in Philadelphia against Palmeiras.
I had been away from work for a fortnight. In that spell, I had watched the game against LAFC from Atlanta on TV in a bar in Manhattan, the two games live in Philadelphia, and now the game in Charlotte on TV at home.
However, before our next match in the US on the Friday, something equally important was happening in my hometown of Frome in Somerset.
And it’s quite a story.
This story, this sub-plot, began on Saturday 2 October 2021 when the usual suspects gathered in our usual hostelry, “The Eight Bells” in Fulham for a home game against Southampton.
“We were joined by friends from near – Ray, Watford – and far – Courtney, Chicago. I first bumped into Ray, who was meeting a former work colleague, at the Rapid friendly in Vienna in 2016. I had never met Courtney before, but he had been reading this blog, the fool, for a while and fancied meeting up for a chinwag. It was good to see them both.”
Bizarrely, the next time that I met Courtney, was exactly two years later, on Monday 2 October, for the away game at Fulham. We gathered together, obviously, in the same pub and it was great to see him once more.
We kept in contact at various times over that season.
Last summer, Courtney contacted me about attending a Frome Town match during an extended visit to see Chelsea play at Anfield on Sunday 20 October. He had obviously noted my support for my local non-league team within this blog and on “Facebook” and fancied seeing what the noise was all about.
As I detailed in the Liverpool match report, Courtney arrived at Manchester airport on the Saturday morning, ahead of Frome Town’s home match with Poole Town, and then drove straight down to deepest Somerset.
“With five minutes of the game played, I looked over and saw Courtney arrive in the ground. I waved him over to where we were stood in a little group at the “Clubhouse End” and it was a relief to see him. Courtney had made good time and was now able to relax a little and take in his first ever non-league match.”
Ironically, the Frome Town chairman had asked, that very week, about extra support for the club, which had been struggling for some time. Over the next few weeks, Courtney spent many hours talking to the Frome Town board.
To cut a very long story short, Courtney became vice-chairman of Frome Town Football Club in December. I next met him when we enjoyed a Sunday lunch in a local village pub and then drove up to the Brentford home game on Sunday 15 December, ending up yet again at “The Eight Bells.”
I last saw Courtney at a Bath City Somerset Cup away game during the following week.
Throughout the first six months of 2025, there have been strong and determined discussions concerning the future of Frome Town Football Club with Courtney at the fore. On Thursday 5 June, at the Town Hall, I attended an extraordinary meeting of the Frome Town Council, who had saved the club a few years earlier through a very generous taking over of all debts, to discuss the release of the land that Frome Town have called their home since 1904. At this stage, all directors and supporters were totally behind Courtney taking over the club.
Unfortunately, the vote did not go Courtney’s way that evening, and we were all crestfallen. There was immediate doom and gloom. A few supporters met outside the steps to the Town Hall after the meeting, and I have rarely been so sad. I feared that Courtney would walk away, and our chance lost. However, the council offered a lifeline, and the chance of another offer, but with greater emphasis on the community aspect of the club, and its buildings and its land.
A second meeting was to be held on the evening of Wednesday 2 July, just two days before Chelsea’s game with Palmeiras in Philadelphia.
I was unable to obtain a ticket to attend but watched the “live feed” of the meeting in “The Vine Tree” pub just two hundred yards from Badgers Hill, the ground at the centre of all the attention.
On a hugely memorable evening, the Frome Town Council, God bless them, approved the sale of the ground to Courtney, now the chairman, and I have rarely been happier. The group of around twenty supporters were joined my more, and several directors, and the management team joined us too.
We were euphoric.
Of course, I had to take a photograph.
It’s what I do, right?
As the voting took place, and with the mood becoming increasingly positive at every decision, I had looked over at the pavement on the other side of the road. During the first few weeks of season 1970/71, I would have walked along that very pavement with my mother, hand in hand I suspect, as a five-year-old boy, on my way to my first-ever Frome Town game, and my first ever football game.
My memory was of just my mother and I attending that game, and of a heavy Frome Town loss.
However, by a bizarre twist of fate, I had bumped into my oldest friend Andy, who used to live opposite me in the five-hundred-year-old street in the same village where I type these words now. I see him very rarely around town but bumped into him on the Sunday before the first meeting back in June.
“I reckon I went with you to your first-ever football game, Chris.”
This caught me on the hop. I knew he couldn’t have been referring to a Chelsea game, so we spoke about Frome Town.
In the summer of 1970, my parents and I stayed in a caravan for a week at West Bay in Dorset. In the next caravan, we met a couple from near Bath, and the husband was to play for Frome Town in the new season. His name was Mike Brimble, and he invited me to his first game at Badgers Hill.
Andy reminded me that and his family were holidaying at Bowleaze Cove, not so far from West Bay, at the same time, and we apparently visited them, though this is long forgotten by me. Amazingly, fifty-five years later, Andy was able to remember that a Frome footballer had invited us to a game, thus backing up his claim that he was with me on that day in 1970.
I think we were both amazed at our memories.
I was amazed that Andy remembered the footballer.
Andy was amazed that I remembered his name.
Fantastic.
With the incredible news about Frome Town buzzing in my head – I think it was utterly comparable to the CPO refusal to accept Roman’s “buy-out” bid in 2011 – all my focus was now on Chelsea and the game with Palmeiras on the evening of Friday 4 July.
I was so pleased that my friends Jaro, and his son, and Joe, and his daughter, were able to go back to Philadelphia, but even more elated that Roma and a family group from Tennessee were heading there too.
It was not lost on me that an English team were playing in Philadelphia on 4 July.
Meanwhile, I was doing some logistical planning of my own, and – should Chelsea be victorious against the team from Sao Paolo – I had squared it with my boss to head back to the US for the semi-final on the following Tuesday and, here’s hoping, the final on the following Sunday.
This was never really in the plan of course. Prior to the start of this tournament, I don’t honestly think that many Chelsea supporters would have given us much hope of getting further than the last eight.
But here we were.
The Friday night arrived, and I got some much-needed sleep before the 2am kick-off.
Sod’s law, the DAZN feed broke up, so I missed Cole Palmer’s opening goal. Alas, I saw Estevao Willian’s amazing equaliser and I wondered how the game, and the night, would finish.
As I tried to stay awake, my eyes heavy, it dawned on me that I loved the way that our boys were playing. We were showing great maturity for such a young team and squad. I began to entertain slight thoughts of winning it all.
Just imagine that.
Sssshhh.
During the last part of the match, I set up my laptop to see if the flights that I had earmarked were still available. My attention was momentarily on that, and I just missed the exact moment when the winning goal ricocheted in off a defender from a Malo Gusto cross. For such a moment, my reaction was surprisingly subdued. But it meant that I now had to leap into action.
I refreshed the flight options.
Within minutes of the final whistle in Philadelphia, I was booked on an ITA Airways flight to JFK via Rome on Monday 7 July. I was out via London City, back via London Gatwick.
For a few moments, my head was boiling over with crazy excitement.
Originally, I had never really planned to return to the US. But three factors came together. Firstly, my friend Dom had offered me the use of his apartment in Manhattan for the week. Secondly, I had just received an unexpected bonus at work. Thirdly, I was owed some holiday from the previous year that I needed to use by the end of July.
I messaged Dom, and we had a fruitful back-and-forth.
I fell asleep, somehow, with dreams of heading back across the Atlantic.
That I celebrated my sixtieth birthday on the Sunday seems as irrelevant now as it did then.
It had been, dear reader, an incredible three days.
Wednesday evening: a stressful day that led to an amazing decision enabling a fantastic future for Frome Town.
Friday night : Chelsea reached the semi-finals of the FIFA Club World Cup and – smelling salts please, nurse – a date with Fluminense, and Thiago Silva, who had defeated Al Hilal 2-1 in their game on the Friday.
On the Sunday, my birthday was very subdued. I wrote up the Tunis match report and planned what I needed to take to New York. I just about had time to squeeze in a lunch at a nearby village pub, the same one that I had taken Courtney in December.
After a relatively small amount of sleep on the Sunday night, I woke at 1am in the small hours of Monday 7 July. This was going to be a ridiculously long day of travel, but this is something that I live for; you might have noticed.
I quickly packed my small “carry-on” bag (to keep costs to a minimum) and I set off at just after 2.15am. As I drove up the A303, I turned on “Radio 2” for some company. The first full song was “Breakfast In America” by Supertramp, how very apt.
I reached my mate Ian’s house at Stanwell, near Heathrow, at 4.15am, and caught a pre-booked Uber to take me to London City Airport at 4.30am, unfortunately the only – expensive – way that I could get to the airport on time. This was a first visit for me and the driver dropped me off outside the super small departure lounge at 6am. There was immediate concern about my ESTA not registering but that was soon sorted. The 8.30am flight to Rome Fiumcino left a little late, maybe at around 9am.
In the back of my mind, there was the niggling doubt that should we lose to Fluminense the following afternoon, in addition to the sadness, there would also be the completion of an annoying circle.
On 4 July 2024, my first game of this ridiculous season featured Fluminense in Rio de Janeiro. Should we lose against them at the MetLife Stadium in New Jersey, my last game of the season would feature them too.
And – maybe just as bad – I would be stuck on ninety-nine live games this season.
Considering these worries, it’s surprising that I managed any sleep on the flight to Fiumcino.
There was to be a three-hour wait at the airport, and this gave me more than enough time to relax, buy a couple of cheap Benetton T-shirts (the spirit of 1984/85 lives on…) and grab a snack and a drink. Unfortunately, we missed our allotted slot and were delayed by almost two hours. We eventually took off at just before 5pm local time.
Thankfully I had a window seat and managed four hours of sleep during the eight-hour flight.
My thoughts returned to Rio last summer. I remembered how amazed I felt as I visited the original Fluminense stadium at Laranjeiras on the very first day.
“I stayed around ninety minutes, fittingly enough, and I enjoyed every second. The terraces are still intact, and the main stand is a lovely structure. I was able to fully immerse myself in my visions of what it must have been like to see a game here. And especially a game that took place on Sunday 30 June 1929, exactly ninety-five years ago to the day.
All those years ago, Chelsea played a Rio de Janeiro XI at Estadio Laranjeiras. The game ended 1-1. Included in the Chelsea team were stalwarts such as Sam Millington, George Smith, Sid Bishop, Jack Townrow and Tommy Law.
I clambered up into the main stand and took photos of the beautiful stadium. It reminded me a little of the fabled Stadio Filadelfia in Turin. I loved the floodlight pylons in the shape of Christ the Redeemer, and I loved the tiled viewing platform, no doubt where the VIPs of the day would watch in luxurious chairs.
Down at pitch side, I spoke to one of the ground staff – a Flamengo fan, boo! – and when I told him about only arriving in Rio that day, and the Chelsea game in 1929, he walked me onto the pitch. There was a frisson of excitement as he told me to look over the goalmouth to my right, to the west. He pointed out the huge statue of Christ the Redeemer atop the Corcovado Mountain. It would be the first time that I had seen the famous statue on the trip.
My heart exploded.
This was a genuine and real “Welcome to Rio” moment.
At this stage, I had not realised that I was visiting Laranjeiras on the exact anniversary of the game in 1929. If I had been told this at that exact moment of time, I surely would have feinted.”
I was over in Rio for nine days, and to my sadness a Fluminense home game had been bumped because of the floods that had hit Brazil earlier that summer. However, typical Brazil, on the third day of my visit I found out that a Fluminense vs. Internacional game had been squeezed in on the Thursday. I was ecstatic. Alas, Thiago Silva was not going to be playing, but at least I would see his team, and my favourite Brazilian team.
“I took an Uber and was dropped off to the north-west of the stadium and I walked into the crazy hubbub of a Brazilian match day.
Street vendors, sizzling steaks, hot dogs on skewers, beer, soft drinks, water, flags, colours, supporters. Replica shirts of every design possible. The Flu fans are based at the southern end and Maracana’s only street side bar is just outside. I bought a Heineken from a street vendor who originally wanted to charge me 50 reais, but I paid 20; just over £3.
My seat was along the side, opposite the tunnel, and I entered the stadium. I chanced a burger and fries in the airy concourse.
Then, I was in.
Maracana opened up before me. Those who know me know my love for stadia, and here was one of the very best.
Growing up in the ‘seventies, the beasts of world football were Wembley, Hampden and Maracana. For me to be able to finally step inside the Maracana Stadium filled me with great joy. Back in the days when it held 150,000 or more – the record is a bone-chilling 199,854, the 1950 World Cup, Brazil vs. Uruguay, Brazil still weeps – its vastness seemed incomprehensible. When it was revamped and modernised with seats for the 2014 World Cup, the two tiers became one and its visual appeal seemed to diminish. Simply, it didn’t look so huge. Prior to my visit this year, I hoped that its vastness – it is still the same structure after all – would still wow me.
It did.
I had a nice seat, not far from the half-way line. Alas, not only was Thiago Silva not playing, neither was Marcelo, the former Real Madrid left-back; a shame.
Fluminense’s opponents were Internacional from Porto Alegre.
It was an 8pm kick-off.
The home team, despite winning the Copa Libertadores against Boca Juniors in 2023, had suffered a terrible start to the season. After thirteen games, Flu were stranded at the bottom of the national league, while the hated Flamengo were top. The stands slowly filled, but only to a gate of 40,000. Maracana now holds 73,139. The northern end was completely empty apart from around 2,500 away fans in a single section. The game ended 1-1 with the visitors scoring via Igor Gomes on forty minutes but the home team equalising with a brilliant long-range effort from Palo Henrique Ganso four minutes into first-half stoppage time. In truth, it wasn’t a great game. The away team dominated the early spells and Fluminense looked a poor team. Their supporters seemed a tortured lot. There were more shrieks of anguish than yelps of joy.”
And yes, I found it so odd that we were up against both of Rio’s major teams in this World Cup competition. I could never have envisaged this while I was in Rio last summer.
The ITA Airways plane landed at a wet JFK at 7.30pm, only half-an-hour late, and I loved it that we arrived via the same Terminal 1 that I had used on my very first visit to the US way back in September 1989. The border control was brisk and easy, and I was soon on the AirTrain and then the Long Island Rail Road once again into Penn Station. It was only just over three weeks ago that Glenn and I were on the very same train.
I quickly caught the subway, then walked a few blocks north and west. I found myself knocking on Dom’s apartment door at around 9.30pm.
It was just over twenty-four hours door to door.
Phew.
There was a lovely warm welcome from Dom and it was a joy to see him once again. After a couple of slices of New York pizza, I slid off to bed a very happy man.
I woke surprisingly early on the Tuesday, the day of the game.
To say I was happy would be a huge understatement.
Here I was, back in Manhattan, staying at a great friend’s apartment for a week, with an appointment with Thiago Silva and Fluminense later that afternoon. Please believe me when I say that I have rarely felt so contented in my entire life.
My smile was wide as I trotted out of Dom’s apartment block at 8.45am. My plan was to head over to Hoboken, on the waterfront of New Jersey, to meet up with a few Chelsea supporters from the UK and the US at 11am at “Mulligan’s“ bar before taking a cab to the stadium. I had time on my side, so I decided to walk through Hell’s Kitchen to Penn Station and take the PATH train to Hoboken just south of Macy’s. First up was a magnificent breakfast at “Berlina Café”
“Take a jumbo cross the water.
Like to see America.”
On my little walk through Manhattan, I spotted around fifty Fluminense supporters, but not one single Chelsea fan. I was wearing my Thiago Silva shirt and wished a few of the Brazilians good luck. I quickly popped in to see landlord Jack at “The Football Factory” on West 33 Street, and saw my first Chelsea fan there, Bharat from Philly. There were a few Fluminense fans in the bar, and they told me that Chelsea now had a great Brazilian. I immediately presumed that they were referring to Estevao Willian, soon to arrive from Palmeiras, but they were referring to Joao Pedro. Unbeknown to me, he began his professional career with Fluminense.
I caught the 1030 train to Hoboken and it took me under the Hudson River. I was in the hometown of Frank Sinatra within twenty minutes.
The morning sun was beating down as I made the short ten-minute walk to the pub, which is run by Paul, who I first met in Baku way back in 2019. My friend Jesus, who I first chatted to on the much-loved Chelsea in America bulletin board for a while before meeting him for the first time at Goodison Park on the last day of 2010/11, was there with his wife Nohelia.
Cathy was there too, and I reminded her that the first time that I ever spoke to her was after she did a rasping rendition of “Zigger Zagger” at “Nevada Smiths” in Manhattan in 2005. This was on the Saturday night before Chelsea played Milan at the old Giants Stadium on the Sunday. Giants Stadium was right next to the current locale of the MetLife Stadium.
A few familiar faces appeared at “Mulligans” including my great friend Bill, originally from Belfast, but now in Toronto. Bizarrely, Emily – the US woman who showed up at a few Chelsea games a few years back and created a bit of a social media stir – was perched at one end of the bar.
Out of the blue, I received a call from my dentist.
“Sorry, I forgot to cancel. I am currently in New Jersey.”
“So, I don’t suppose that you will be making your hygienist appointment either.”
Fackinell.
The pints of Peroni were going down well.
We spoke a little about tickets. I had a brain freeze back in the UK when I attempted to buy – cheaper – tickets via the FIFA App and couldn’t navigate myself around it for love nor money. I panicked a little and ended up paying $141 for my ticket via Ticketmaster.
I would later find out that tickets were going for much less.
Sigh.
The team news came through.
Sanchez
Gusto – Chalobah – Adarabioyo – Cucurella
Caicedo – Fernandez
Nkunku – Palmer – Pedro Neto
Joao Pedro
A full debut for our new striker from Brighton.
“No pressure, mate.”
Tosin replaced the suspended Levi Colwill.
Folks left for the game. Nohelia, Jesus, Bill and I were – worryingly – the last to leave the bar at around 1.30pm. We headed off to the stadium, which geographically is in East Rutherford, although the area is often called The Meadowlands after the adjacent racetrack. Our Uber got caught in a little traffic, but we were eventually dropped off to the northeast of the stadium. With kick-off approaching, I became increasingly agitated as I circumnavigated virtually three-quarters of the stadium. We were in the southern end, but our entrance seemed to be on the west side.
It’s not a particularly appealing structure from the outside; lots of grey horizontal strips cover the outside of the stadium, all rather bland, nothing unique. Right next to the stadium, which hosts both the NFC Giants and AFC Jets, is the even more horrible “American Dream” Mall, a huge concrete monstrosity with no architectural merit whatsoever.
Eventually I made it in, via a security check, and a ticket check. At least the lines moved relatively fast, but the sections were not particularly well signposted.
I heard the hyperbolic nonsense from pitch side.
At three o’clock, the game kicked off just as I walked past a large TV screen, so I took a photo of that moment.
I was getting really annoyed now; annoyed at my inability to reach section 223, but also at the ridiculous lines of spectators missing the action by queuing up for food and drink.
“Can you fuckers not go forty-five minutes without food?”
At 3.06pm, I reached section 223, mid-level, and I heaved a massive sigh of relief.
I was in. I could relax. Maybe.
Fluminense in their beautiful stripes, with crisp white shorts and socks.
Chelsea again in the white shirts, but with muted green shorts and socks this time.
The two kits almost complimented each other, though this was my third game in the US and I was yet to see us play in blue.
There were a few Chelsea fans around me. I spotted a few supporters from the UK in the section to my left. Three lads with Cruzeiro shirts were in front of me, supporting Chelsea, and we shared a few laughs as the game got going.
The stadium looked reasonably full. The lower tier opposite me was rammed full of Flu supporters.
I always remember that their president was so enamoured with the way that Chelsea behaved during the Thiago Silva transfer that he was reported to say that Chelsea was now his favourite English team and that he hoped one day Chelsea could visit Rio to play Fluminense at the Maracana.
“Will New Jersey do, mate?”
In the first ten minutes, it was all Chelsea, and it looked very promising.
The first chance that I witnessed was a shot from Enzo that was blocked after a cross from Malo Gusto.
We were on the front foot, here, and Fluminense were penned in. There was energy throughout the team.
On eighteen minutes, Pedro Neto was set up to race away after a delicate touch by Joao Pedro. His cross into the box was thumped out by Thiago Silva but the ball was played straight towards Joao Pedro. Just outside the box, at an angle, he set himself and crashed a laser into the top right-hand corner of the goal. Their ‘keeper Fabio had no chance.
What a screamer.
And how we screamed.
GET IN!
What joy in the southern end of the MetLife Stadium.
Blur on the PA.
“Woo hoo!”
I thought back to those Fluminense fans in “Legends” earlier in the morning and their comments about Joao Pedro.
Their thoughts were far different to my dear mate Mac, the Brighton fan.
“Good luck with the sulky twat.”
We continued the good work. On twenty minutes, Pedro Neto was again involved and his cross was headed towards goal by Malo Gusto but Fabio did well to parry.
On twenty-five minutes, in virtually the Brazilians’ first attack of note, German Cano was released and struck the ball past Robert Sanchez. Thankfully, Marc Cucurella – ever dependable – was able to scramble back and touch the ball away.
I did my best to generate some noise in Section 223.
“CAM ON CHOWLSEA! CAM ON CHOWLSEA! CAM ON CHOWLSEA! CAM ON CHOWLSEA!”
But I sang alone.
I was standing, as were many, but maybe the heat was taking its toll. Our end was pretty quiet, and the Fluminense fans were much quieter than the Flamengo and Tunis contingents in Phillly.
Then, a moment of worry. From a free kick from their left, the ball was swept in and the referee pointed to the spot, the ball having hit Trevoh Chalobah’s arm.
“Oh…shite.”
Thankfully, VAR intervened, no penalty.
Phew.
On forty-four minutes, a good chance for Christopher Nkunku, but he chose to take a touch rather than hit the ball first time. There was much frustration in the ranks. One of the Cruzeiro lads yelped “primera!” and I understood exactly.
Then, three minutes later, a header dropped just wide.
At the break, all was well. We were halfway to paradise.
I met up with a few English lads in the concourse during the break and decided to leave Section 223 and join them in Section 224A.
I sat alongside Leigh and Ben, and in front of Scott, Paul, Martin and Spencer.
In this half, the Chelsea team attacked the Chelsea end. We began again and it was still the same controlled and purposeful performance. Moises Caicedo fired over the crossbar, and then Cucurella was just wide with another effort.
On fifty-four minutes, Robert Sanchez got down well to save from Everaldo, a substitute.
Soon after, with much more space to exploit, Chelsea broke. Cole Palmer won the ball, and then Enzo pushed the ball out to Joao Pedro on the left. I sensed the opportunity might be a good one so brought my camera into action. We watched as our new striker advanced unhindered, brought the ball inside and, as I snapped, smashed the ball in off the crossbar.
Ecstasy in New Jersey.
There were quick celebratory photos of the little contingent of fans close by.
The worry reduced but although we were 2-0 up, we still needed to stay focussed. In fact, it was Chelsea who carved open more chances. The often-derided Nkunku shot on goal, but his effort was deflected wide.
On the hour, Nicolas Jackson replaced Joao Pedro.
Next, Nkunku was able to get a shot on goal, way down below us, and it looked destined to go in but who else but Thiago Silva recovered to smack it clear.
Twenty minutes remained.
Malo Gusto took aim from distance and his effort curled high and ever-so-slightly wide of the target.
We were well on top here, and I could not believe how easy this was.
I whispered to Leigh :
“We are seeing this team grow right in front of our very eyes.”
On sixty-eight minutes, Noni Madueke replaced Pedro Neto and Reece James replaced Malo Gusto.
Ben went off to get some water; we were all gasping.
Marc Cucurella sent over a lovely cross, right across the six-yard box, but it was just slightly high for all four of the Chelsea players, all lined up, that had ventured forward.
The gate was given as 70,556; happy with that.
On seventy-nine minutes, Jackson robbed the ball from a loitering defender and set off. His low angled shot just clipped the near post, but Palmer was fuming that he was not played in at the far post. Soon after, Jackso forced Fabio into another save.
Two very late substitutions.
Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Nkunku.
Andrey Santos for Enzo.
There was almost ten minutes of injury time signalled by the referee, but apart from an over-ambitious bicycle kick from Everaldo, the game was up.
The Great Unpredictables were in the World Cup Final.
From my point of view, the gamble had paid off.
As “Blue Is The Colour” and “Blue Day” sounded out through the stadium, and as the Fluminense players drifted over to thank their fans, there was great joy in our little knot of supporters in Section 224A.
After a few minutes of quiet contemplation, I moved down to the front row and tried to spot anyone that I knew in the lower deck. I saw Alex of the New York Blues, and shouted down to him, and he signalled to meet me outside.
I was exhausted and began my slow descent of the exit ramps. I waited for a few minutes outside but soon realised that meeting up with Alex would be difficult. I slowly walked out into the area outside the stadium. After three or four minutes, I looked to my left, and there was Alex, walking at the same slow pace as me.
What a small world. Alex is a good mate and let me stay in his Brooklyn apartment for the Chelsea vs. Manchester City game at Yankee Stadium in 2013.
As we walked over to the New York Blues tailgate in Lot D, I turned around and spotted some other fans. I recognised one of them from that very game.
I yelled out.
“I remember you. You were stood behind me at Yankee Stadium and we had a go at each other!”
He remembered me, and we both smiled and then hugged. Rich had been berating the fact that he had paid good money to see Chelsea play but the team was full of youth players. I turned around and said something to the effect of “that doesn’t matter, support the team” and he remained silent, but he bashfully now agreed that I was right.
What a funny, crazy, small world.
I enjoyed a few celebratory beers with the New York Blues, and then eventually sloped back with Alex by train to Secaucus Junction and from there to Penn Station. The two of us stopped by at Moynihan Train Hall for more beers – Guinness for me for a change – and we were joined by Dom and his mate Terence and Alon too.
This was just a perfect end to a magnificent day.
We said our goodbyes, but I dropped into “Jack Demsey’s” for a couple more drinks before getting a cab home at 1.30am.
It had been another long day, but one of the greats.
And yes, my gamble had paid off.
I would be returning to East Rutherford, to The Meadowlands, to MetLife on Sunday.
Way back in 1989, though, on my first visit, it struggled to find its way inside my heart. On that first-ever escapade around North America, I dropped in to the city in the November and spent the day walking its streets with my college mate Ian. We had arrived on a very early train from New York, and I remember a small breakfast in a diner in the city centre. We marched off to visit Independence Hall in the Centre City, and it was important to see such a defining location in the nation’s history.
However, I struggle to understand why I never made a big point of staying a few days in the city, since I was well aware of the story of my shipwrecked relatives and then their subsequent stay in Philadelphia in the mid-nineteenth century. I think that I realised that their story would forever float around in family folklore with no real chance of further investigation.
Of course, I was twenty-four in 1989, and undoubtedly more interested in the “now” than the “then.”
After Independence Hall, we were then a little stuck for ideas. Ian came up with a master plan of visiting “The Mummer’s Museum” – my “Let’s Go USA” book has a lot to answer for – and so we trotted a mile to the south to visit this odd salute to the history of this very particular Philadelphian street parade, complete with fanciful costumes and associated camp finery,
For an hour, we traipsed around, the museum’s only visitors, and the poor museum guide must have been saddened by our continual sniggers.
I still rib Ian about this to this day.
Since then, I have ramped up the visits.
In 1993, while in New York for Yankee baseball, I took a train down to the city to watch the Phillies who were on their way to that year’s World Series. They easily defeated Florida Marins and their aged knuckleballer Charlie Hough 7-1 at The Vet. It was at this game that I first fell in love with their mascot the Philly Phanatic. That night, I returned to New York at 2.30am, another typically late night in pursuit of sporting adventures.
In 2008, while in New York for my last-ever visits to old Yankee Stadium, I spent a day in Philly with a couple of friends; Stacey, from 1989 – and Chris who I met at the Chelsea game in DC in 2005. My first-ever cheesesteak was followed by a first visit to the Phillies’ new stadium, the neat Citizens Bank Park. I was happy that the home team defeated Boston Red Sox 8-2.
In 2010, the year that marked my mother’s eightieth birthday, the two of us stayed a week in Philadelphia since my mother had always spoken about wanting to visit it. In fact, my parents had planned to visit the city in 1991, but their trip around North America was curtailed as my dear mother had developed shingles.
That week was one of the very greatest holidays of my life. We watched Philly baseball – a 2-6 loss versus Milwaukee, alas – then drove to see Stacey and her husband Bill that evening, drove over to witness the Amish region near Lancaster, drove to Manhattan and visited the sites including a baseball game at Yankee Stadium – sadly, a loss to Baltimore – and visited the beach town of Cape May in New Jersey. On the last day, we then drove to see Gettysburg Battlefield Site, and that was one of my most memorable ever days in the USA.
One moment will always stay with me though. On the first evening in Philadelphia, we took a walk into the old historic area and saw Elspeth’s Alley before deciding to have some food at an old-style diner at the intersection of Market Street and 2nd Street, “The Continental”. As we sat there, I realised that it was very likely that our blood relatives had walked down Market Street, or even along 2nd Street where we were sat at a pavement table, and I had shivers. It was one of those moments when the past and the present met and possibly waved at each other.
I explained this to my mother, who was suffering with dementia, and it saddened me to realise that her sweet smile illustrated that she didn’t fully understand the real significance of my words.
Two years later, in 2012, thousands of Chelsea supporters descended on Philly for the MLS All-Star game in nearby Chester. A group of us booked a suite at a complex on Benjamin Franklyn Parkway – a prime site – and we had a real blast. There was another Philly game, a dramatic come-from-behind 7-6 win against Milwaukee, more cheesesteaks, a walking tour with Steve the host, a visit to the Rocky Steps for us to parade the Chelsea banners, a lucky moment for us to meet a few of the players outside their hotel, and many beers and many laughs.
It is telling that in the report of that game – “Tales From An American Away Day” – within the 3,943 words, only these detail the actual game.
“Out on the pitch, I will admit to being thrilled to see David Beckham play one last time, way out on the right in a rather withdrawn position. I have a lovely shot of him joking with John Terry.
The MLS team went a goal up through a Wondolowski effort from close in, only for John Terry to rise high and head home from a corner.
A nice tap in from Frank Lampard gave us a 2-1 lead, but – much to our annoyance and disbelief – the MLS team not only equalised through Pontius but scored the winner in the “nth” minute of extra time with a ridiculous looped shot from Eddie Johnson which ricocheted off David Luiz’ leg and into an empty goal with Ross Turnbull beaten.”
However, the game against the MLS All-Stars in Chester, Pennsylvania will be remembered by those Chelsea fans present not for the performance of the players, nor the result, but for the constant singing, chanting and commotion created by the 1,200 fans present.
We stood the entire game and we sung the entire game.
Friends still tell me that, support-wise, Philly 2012 was the best stop in all of the US pre-season tours. I cannot argue.
Back to 2025, and on my sixth visit to the city, we were licking our wounds after the 1-3 loss against Flamengo on the Friday.
On the Saturday, Glenn and I chilled out during the day, and our little town house would be the perfect antidote to the heatwave that would soon engulf the city. In the evening, we strolled around the centre of the city, and I aimed for the intersection of Market and 2nd. Unfortunately, my worst fears were confirmed; “The Continental” was now closed. However, we settled for some burgers on Market Street just a few yards away, again sitting outside at a pavement table. We then walked over to a bar on 2nd Street but I made a point of standing near where I had enjoyed that meal with my mother in 2010 at “The Continental” and tried to envisage that sweet smile.
On the Sunday, there was a hop-on-hop-off-keep-out-of-the-rain bus tour to a couple of locations with our friends Alex and Rob from London, and some food at “Tir Na Nog”. I am lucky in that I had seen most of Philly’s attractions on previous visits, while Glenn was quite happy to go with the flow. In the evening, Steve and his eldest daughter Lynda treated us to a lovely meal in the Fairmount district. Later, we met up with Alex and Rob for drinks at a rooftop bar atop The Cambria Hotel.
On the Monday, Glenn and I met Alex and Rob at a coffee shop right next to where we ate our meal the previous evening before visiting the Eastern State Penitentiary, which many friends had visited in 2012, and which was entirely fascinating. The jail is atop the highest land in the city, at Fairmount, and it did not take me long to envisage my great great grandparents Benjamin and Barbara White looking up at the imposing stone building during their five-year stay. It would be wonderful, one day, to carry out a deep investigation into their story. I was just pleased that there was no mention of Benjamin White in any of the histories contained within those thick walls.
Glenn and I stopped off for more burgers on famous Passyunk Avenue in South Philly, and as we walked back to our rental house, I think we both realised what a perfect locale it was. The rows and rows of town houses – we would call them “terraced houses”, Steve called them “row houses” – were neat and charming, and it felt like paradise to walk into 2025 Pierce Street, a haven of cool tranquillity.
South Philly, equidistant between the Centre City and the three sporting stadia, was a perfect locale for us, a sanctuary against the heat, but full of character too.
It is a standing joke that each time Chelsea score a dramatic goal, Steve texts me “Pandemonium in South Philly.”
And here we were.
That evening we again assembled at “Tir Na Nog” and it was low key, with only a few from the UK present. I dashed off to try to get a photo of the sunset at “The Sky High” bar atop the Four Seasons Hotel. While I was waiting in the foyer, I spotted some Chelsea players walk through, and I trotted over to shake hands with Liam Delap.
“Welcome to the club.”
There were handshakes with Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall and Levi Colwill too. This was just coincidence. I did not know that Chelsea were staying at this hotel. By this stage, the concierge was nervously pacing around and politely asked me to not approach the players. So, I secretly gave the thumbs up to Tyrique George who looked surprised that I had recognised him. Behdad Eghbali was a few feet away from me at one stage, but ignored my greeting, surprise surprise.
Later, we moved over to “McGillans”, a fantastic bar, and met up with my mate Steve from Belfast and his friend Jason.
Game day against Tunis on Tuesday started with a good old-fashioned American breakfast at a good old-fashioned American diner to the south of the city, and the whole experience was top class. It was just what we needed ahead of the big day and the big game.
By mid-morning, it was already heating up. With this in mind, we retired to the digs to chill out, knowing we had a taxing evening ahead, and then departure on the Wednesday.
At 5pm, we walked into “Tir Na Nog” and, looking back, it was nowhere near as busy as the pre-match in 2012. We met all the usual faces from England, some of whom had been doing some extensive travelling since Friday, but it was great to see some new faces too, especially Pete and his son Calvin from Seattle and David from South London.
I handed out a few signed Ron Harris photos, but it was deeply disappointing to realise he is not so famous in the US.
I approached five Americans.
“Right, spot quiz here. There might be a prize involved. Which player has played more games for Chelsea than any other?”
America was 0 for 5.
Phackinell.
My friend Roma from Tennessee – a friend for almost thirty-six years – had decided, last minute, to drive up with her grandson Keegan and her son Shawn’s girlfriend Nevaeh, and it was amazing to see her again. I last saw Roma in 2016 when she had visited England in 2016 with Shawn and her daughter Vanessa for a Chelsea game.
Time was moving on, and although the drinks were going down well, we needed to move down to the stadium.
I left the bar with Glenn, Pete and Calvin, and met up with David on the subway.
The kick-off for this game was 9pm, but it was still hot as we paced over to the stadium. Unlike on Friday, there was no queue, and we were soon inside. I was desperate for some food so stopped for another cheesesteak. This turned out to be very fortuitous since in the slight delay, we managed to spot Frank and his daughter who had popped into “The Eight Bells” a few months ago with the hope of seeing me and my mates who Frank reads about in these match reports. It was fantastic to see him once more.
We made our way up the ramps to our section in the mezzanine. We had bumped into many Tunis fans throughout our stay in the US, both in Manhattan and in Philadelphia, and we knew that they would outnumber us. It was a disappointment that such a small number of US-based fans had been lured in to this competition, but I almost understand the reluctance; the money-grab, the extra games.
“We all follow the Chelsea, over land and sea…”
Maybe not.
And yet, the Wrexham games lured many in…
I don’t get it.
There was time for photos with friends from back home, plus stragglers not previously seen. If anything, the lower tier below us was more heavily populated than on Friday, which surprised me. It was not even half-full, though.
Oh well.
Alex and Rob were sat close by.
“Tunis look like Partick Thistle.”
Kick-off approached.
Our team?
Jorgensen
Acheampong – Adarabioyo – Badiashile – Gusto
Lavia – Fernandez
Dewsbury-Hall – Nkunku – Madueke
Delap
We needed just a draw, one solitary point, in order to advance to the last sixteen, and there was, therefore, not the heightened sense of worry or concern in our area. The usual lads and lasses from back home were in our section, with only a few from the US.
It was odd that the prices had tumbled over recent days. Us fools had paid top whack, keen as mustard, back at the start of the year, but were now annoyed that prices had fallen.
Chelsea were playing in all white again and attacked the Tunis fans in the northern end of the stadium, who were amassed behind a “Curva Sud” banner. I hoped this discombobulated the team and their fans alike.
With Flip Jorgensen playing in all orange and Tunis in yellow and black shirts, I had to wonder what the late Brian Moore would have made of this colour clash.
“And on the subject of kits, here is a letter from Mr. David Spraggs of 13 Acacia Drive, Merton, who questions why the referee did not ask the Chelsea keeper to change his shirt so that it did not clash with the Tunis shirts. A great point, there.”
The game began. It was still as hot as hell.
Unlike on Friday, when Flamengo often had controlled spells of the ball, we dominated possession in the first half.
A header from Benoit Badiashile from a corner went close, and a shot from Liam Delap from distance forced the Tunis ‘keeper Ben Said to parry. Tunis rarely threatened, and only on the break. Chances continued to mount up and I wondered if we would ever break through.
I liked Malo Gusto in this half, running and probing well.
Enzo went close with a free-kick, and further chances fell to Dewsbury-Hall, Acheampong and Delap.
Throughout, the Tunis fans were singing, massed tightly together. Down below us, I could not hear a whisper.
Chester 2012 was a long way in the past…
I am not sure how many of our fans had disappeared into the concourse for a beverage as the first half drew to its conclusion, but I suspect that it was more than a few. In the third minute of injury time, Josh was fouled just outside the area, and I steadied my camera. I snapped as the cultured boot of Enzo clipped the ball into the danger zone. A leap from Tosin and the header lopped in at the far post, Ben Said stranded.
Snap. And snap again.
GET IN YOU BEAUTY.
Two minutes later, Enzo found Delap with a precise pass and our new striker moved the ball well and calmly slotted in past the hapless Tunis ‘keeper.
We were 2-0 up, and surely safe.
At half-time, there was a light show, the stadia turned various colours, and I didn’t really understand it. I must be getting old.
Correction : I am old.
The second half began, and relaxing in the comfort of a two-goal cushion, a few old songs were aired.
“If I had the wings of a sparrow, if I had the arse of crow, I’d fly over Tottenham tomorrow, and shit on those bastards below, below.”
I turned to Rob.
“You have to say, is the arse of a crow particularly big? Surely there are birds with bigger arses? What do you think?”
Rob replied.
“I think it’s bigger than a sparrow’s and that’s all that matters.”
We continued to dominate, and Enzo went close. He was having a fine, influential game and was pairing well with the more aggressive Dewsbury-Hall.
I wondered what Roma was making of all of this; her little group were down below us and not far from Steve who had visited us in the pub but had then shot off to collect his wife Terry and daughter Lynda.
“CAM ON CHOWLSEA, CAM ON CHOWLSEA, CAM ON CHOWLSEA, CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”
Madueke set up Nkunku but wide.
I heard a horrible “Let’s Go Chelsea, Let’s Go” chant down below us.
On fifty-nine minutes, a double swap.
Dario Essugo for Lavia.
Marc Guiu for Delap.
Next up, a Madueke effort but wide. The chances were piling up. The Tunis fans were quieter but still singing, a very impressive show.
On sixty-seven minutes, more changes.
Andrey Santos for Enzo.
Tyrique George for Madueke.
The song that haunted me in Wroclaw began again.
“Tyrique George – aha.
Running down the wing – aha.
Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.
We are going to Wroclaw.
Tyrique George – aha.
Running down the wing – aha.
Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.
We are going to Wroclaw.
Tyrique George – aha.
Running down the wing – aha.
Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.
We are going to Wroclaw.
Tyrique George – aha.
Running down the wing – aha.
Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.
We are going to Wroclaw.”
To be fair, it is quite hypnotic.
There was no real reduction in the heat, and I was not surprised that the game slowed. It became something of a training game.
Late on, a shot from Santos appeared to strike a defender’s arm. Nkunku placed the ball on the spot, and we all positioned our cameras as he waited to take the penalty kick. Then, a VAR review, and a ridiculously long wait. It took forever. In the end, no penalty, cameras not needed.
On eighty-three minutes, Mamadou Sarr replaced the impressive Gusto and made his debut.
A late chance for Guiu, but his shot did not trouble the ‘keeper, then a chance for George was saved.
In a game of injury-time goals, and in the ninety-seventh minute of the match, Tyrique George was given the ball by Madueke, and from a distance drove the ball towards goal. To our utter amazement, the hapless ‘keeper fumbled, and the ball ended up nestling in the goal.
Chelsea 3 Tunis 0.
Job done.
The gate was given as 32,967 and it was much more than we had expected prior to the match. We were expecting it to be around 20,000.
Glenn and I walked down the ramps, happier than on Friday, and met up with Steve and his family. Steve had a very important presentation at work early on Wednesday morning, so I was pleased, but very surprised, to hear that he was coming back to a very crowded “McGillan’s” for a couple of pints with us.
This was a great end to the evening, a fantastic – er, phantastic – time in an atmospheric and noisy bar. There was a lovely mix of both Chelsea and Tunis fans, and bemused natives, and we took it in turns to sing.
“Come along and sing this song, we’re the boys in blue from division two, but we won’t be there too long.”
Stephen and Jason from Belfast, Andy from Nuneaton, David from London, Nina from New Jersey, Frank and his daughter.
“Thanks for the drinks, Frank.”
“My pleasure. You know what, reading your blog, I somehow feel closer to you and PD and Parky than any of my other friends.”
My bottom lip was going…
What a night.
We stumbled out of there at 2am, happy beyond words.
Chelsea had made it into the last sixteen and whereas some of the expats would be travelling down to Charlotte to see us play Benfica, Glenn and I were now heading home.
However, I did say – tongue in cheek – to a few mates “see you at the final.”
Should we beat Benfica, we would return to Philadelphia on Independence Day, and should we win that, who knows.
This rocky road to a possible denouement in New Jersey might well run and run and run.
CHELSEA vs. ESPERANCE SPORTIVE DE TUNIS
POSTCARDS FROM PHILADELPHIA
MEMORIES OF PHILADELPHIA 2012
ON THE CORNER OF MARKET STREET AND 2ND STREET IN 2010 AND 2025
We were amid a solid run of games in London. Our local derby at Craven Cottage against Fulham was our seventh league game of nine consecutive matches in the capital. So, there was something very familiar as I collected PD, Glenn and Parky early on the morning of Easter Sunday.
The mood in the car, however, was not particularly positive. I certainly thought that we would lose against our quiet neighbours. We have struggled of late, and Fulham would be no pushovers.
My Easter weekend had started poorly. On Good Friday, I watched as Frome Town played Dorchester Town, and the Dorset promotion-challengers had brought around three-hundred supporters to boost the crowd to a fine 708 at Badgers Hill. This was a fine pulsating football match, and it went 0-1 (a penalty), 1-1 (Albie Hopkins), 1-2 (a penalty) and 2-2 (Sam Teale) until former Portsmouth, Ipswich Town and Bournemouth striker Brett Pitman pounced in the eighty- ninth minute. At 2-2, our safety was still possible, but at 2-3 we feared the worst. When I snapped the second equaliser, close-in, we had all hoped that our complete comeback was on, and a remarkable survival mission was back on track.
Sadly, the following day, the results went against us and Frome Town were relegated to the Southern League South.
It was expected, but still painful.
However, one moment stuck with me as I slowly wandered back to my car after the match on Friday. Around two hundred of the away supporters had been massed in the small covered seated stand at the eastern end of the ground and so when Pitman slotted home that last minute winner, their support roared and made one incredible racket. It brought it home to me how passionate the supporters at Step 3 can be. It was, admittedly, a horrible moment but also a life-affirming moment too.
On the Monday, I dropped the lads off close to the Eight Bells and drove off to park up. Walking to the pub took ten minutes from my spot on Ringmer Avenue, I took a photo of the neat and well-maintained town houses of Fulham and posted the view onto Facebook with the title :
“Fulham. This hotbed of football.”
This was a sideswipe at Fulham, that most benign of clubs, but also a tongue-in-cheek comment about us too, since we are also based in Fulham, and are seen by outsiders as being soft Southerners with no edge, no passion and no gravitas.
Chelsea Football Club, though undoubtedly a global phenomenon now, are centered on the twin boroughs of Hammersmith and Fulham, but also Kensington and Chelsea.
It’s perhaps odd for outsiders – of the club, of London, of the United Kingdom – when they realise that our club is in Fulham. I suppose we take it for granted. I differentiate it all out of necessity.
I go to Chelsea, but I drink around Fulham.
Most of the drinking spots at Chelsea are in Fulham.
We very rarely drink in Chelsea.
We sometimes drink in Hammersmith.
We very rarely drink in Kensington.
We alight at Fulham Broadway tube station.
Stamford Bridge is in Fulham.
Chelsea are policed by Fulham Police.
“You’re going home in a Fulham ambulance.”
Chelsea is a Fulham club.
To add to this state of confusion, “The Eight Bells” is deep in Fulham but is never a Fulham pub. When Chelsea plays at home, it is steadfastly a home pub, when Fulham plays at home it is an away pub.
On the last few yards of my walk to this cozy pub, the bells of All Saints Fulham could be heard, an unlikely backdrop to a few hours of drinking and banter, laughter and smiles.
Unlike at Chelsea home matches, most of the chairs were stacked away to provide more standing room for punters, since Chelsea would undoubtedly flood the three away pubs in this area close to Putney Bridge tube station.
The pre-game was excellent. The four of us were joined by two long-standing US friends, Johnny Dozen and Cesar from California, and I also met up with Joe, from Virginia, for the first time. Joe lives right next door to my big friend Jaro, and he loves the intimate atmosphere of our home pub which he had visited once before. To complete a quintet of US supporters, Frank from Philadelphia was in attendance with his daughter, a follower of this blog, and a chap that I think I conversed with before on one social media platform or another.
This was nice.
My two friends Rob and, er, Rob, were in attendance too, and so there will be eight of us meeting up in the US again in two months: Joe, Frank and his daughter, Johnny Dozen, Rob, Rob, Glenn and I.
From Phulham to Philly.
Phackinell.
While others were quaffing copious amounts of ales and lagers, I was knocking back God-knows how many pints of “Diet Coke”.
At just after 1pm, we set off for the short walk over to Fulham Palace and Bishops Park and onwards towards Craven Cottage. However, firstly I commandeered the troops for a nice photo outside the boozer.
We split up a little outside the away turnstiles and I enjoyed a few moments to myself.
Along with the closeness of the main stand on Goodison Road, this is probably my favourite piece of terra firma on our away trips.
The ornate, red-bricked façade of the main stand, the Johnny Haynes statue, the black and white paintwork depicting “Fulham Football Club” on the cottage which dates from 1780, the neat, terraced houses leading away from the stadium, the quintessential Englishness of it all.
It was all very Fulhamish.
DJ was spotted hawking “CFCUK” on Stevenage Road.
“Only a pound.”
There was wisteria on the walls of an immaculate house on the corner of Finlay Street. I took a photo of this against a backdrop of the Johnny Haynes Stand and the cottage.
I mentally dubbed Fulham “Wisteria FC.”
And wondered if we should be called “Hysteria FC.”
There always seems to be panic and drama and commotion and noise at our club. In contrast, Fulham just keep floating on.
Smuggling my SLR into Craven Cottage is my easiest away challenge, and this was no exception. On this occasion, I took my place with my Sleepy Hollow companion Clive while Glenn watched alongside Alan and Gary. We worked out that this was my first trip to Craven Cottage with Glenn since a trip in November 2004 when we thrashed the home team 4-1.
Where does the time go, eh?
I looked around. At last, the Riverside Stand is complete, bringing the total capacity up to around 28,000. It’s a decent looking stand, though I miss the view of the river. Fulham must be the only stadium where one of the stands, The Riverside, has a better logo than the club itself. After Legia’s over-simplistic “L”, I was reminded of the awful “FFC” of Fulham.
I had spoken to many before this game and virtually everyone expected a poor performance from us, and many expected a loss. I reminded a few mates of the infamous walk that Rafa Benitez was forced to do at the Brentford away game in 2013, loudly berated by our fans on four separate occasions, when the dugouts were on the opposite side of the pitch much like at Craven Cottage. I wondered, should we lose, if a toxic atmosphere would again engulf the away end and Enzo Maresca would be haunted forever by Craven Cottage.
The kick-off at 2pm came close. The teams appeared from the corner, and there were the usual flames in front of the Riverside Stand. I yawned a hundred yawns. I saw that the home fans to my left were already flapping their carboard “noise-makers” in the air.
Modern football eh?
The teams lined up.
Fulham in white / black / white.
Chelsea in blue / blue / blue.
Us?
Sanchez
James – Chalobah – Colwill – Cucurella
Caicedo – Enzo
Madueke – Palmer – Neto
Jackson
Chelsea attacked us in the Putney End and this isn’t usually the case in the first-half. It’s a bit of a misnomer this, since Putney is on the other side of the Thames. I am not sure why “the Fulham End” couldn’t suffice.
In the first ten minutes of the game, our end was full of noise, and I strained to make out the words of a new song.
Eventually, I worked it out.
“Tyrique George – aha.
“Running down the wing – aha.
“Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.
“We’re all going to Wroclaw.”
Tune : “Voulez-Vous” by Abba.
Early on, there was a hearty “One Man Went To Mow” that got everyone involved, a battle song from the early to mid-‘eighties that always seemed better when we all used to sit until ten, but I guess things evolve and change.
Ah, the mid-eighties. Here we go.
Exactly forty years ago to this very day, Chelsea were playing at another away venue, but this time in the West Midlands and not West London. On Saturday 20 April, Chelsea visited The Hawthorns and beat West Bromwich Albion 1-0 with a goal from Kerry Dixon in front of just 11,196. I didn’t go to this one, but I remember Glenn went with Swan. It was another win in our recent resurgence.
In deepest Fulham, up the other end – the Hammersmith End – Fulham had a goal from Ryan Sessegnon quickly chalked off for offside.
There’s no doubt that we enjoyed most of the ball in this first quarter of the match, but good heavens it was tough to watch. Again, we found it hard to get behind the home defence. Nicolas Jackson reached the six-yard box and stumbled at a ball that was an easy grab for Bernd Leno. Crosses missed intended targets. Cole Palmer’s shot was saved. A Reece James free kick caused no problems.
In the stands, much to my annoyance, past heroes were serenaded, when the players currently on the pitch should have been prioritised.
“It’s Salomon!”
On twenty minutes, Reece James was put under pressure by two Fulham players and I immediately sensed danger. Sessegnon passed to Alex Iwobi. As he set the ball up for a shot, I spoke.
“Here we go, goal.”
And I watched the ball find the far corner.
Sometimes that sixth sense unerringly works, and it often works when other teams score. It must be a Chelsea thing. Fackinell.
The home fans made a bit of noise but nothing special. However, after their last-minute win at Stamford Bridge on Boxing Day, they were now chasing their first-ever league double over us.
Encouraged by their goal, Fulham came more into the game, but Robert Sanchez was not threatened too severely.
Our play was marked by the usual slow and ponderous style of the second part of this season. Tensions rose in the away end. I didn’t see much to be happy about. Palmer looked a little lost. Not as lost as James, however, who once appeared to be positioned in left midfield. On the half-hour mark, I was screaming my displeasure at Levi Colwill who took a stupid swipe at a Fulham player from behind on the half-way line and received a booking.
“Stupidity!”
We hardly created any chances in that tepid and turgid first half. It brings me no pleasure to report that the word “turgid” is being used increasingly by Chelsea supporters this season.
Yes, Maresca was given a rough reception as he strode quickly over the pitch on the way back to the away dressing room in the corner. I was surprised that it was not more venomous.
On this first-half showing, I rated no players more than a 5/10. Reece was, quite literally, all over the place. I commented that it was, unfortunately, playing out just like I had glumly expected.
Clive and I stood, shell-shocked by it all, and we acknowledged the Fulham DJ cheeringly playing a song by Ian Dury.
“Summer, Buddy Holly, the working folly.
Good golly, Miss Molly and boats.
Hammersmith Palais, the Bolshoi Ballet.
Jump back in the alley and nanny goats.
Eighteen-wheeler Scammels, Domenica camels.
All other mammals, plus equal votes.
Seeing Piccadilly, Fanny Smith and Willie.
Being rather silly and porridge oats.”
Oh boy.
“Reasons to be cheerful?”
I should have got back in to bed.
At half-time, Maresca made two changes.
Malo Gusto for James.
Jadon Sancho for Madueke.
As we attacked the Hammersmith End, the Hammersmith Palais, the Hammersmith Odeon and the Hammersmith flyover, our play improved slightly. However, I soon commented to Scott that “our players look as bored as we do.”
There was a shot from Palmer straight at Leno.
In front of us, a rare Fulham attack but Gusto did ever so well to stretch out and block a shot on goal. Gusto has suffered this season, and I wonder where on earth his form from the last campaign has gone. On his day, he is a cracking player.
Neto, getting more involved on the right, saw his shot stopped by Leno, who was becoming the busier ‘keeper by far.
As the second half continued, a wide variety of songs rang out from the Putney End. Initially, the “Frankie Lampard scored two hundred” annoyed me as it was a typical example of a song being sung at the wrong time. I always say this is fine when we are winning easily and we can relax and serenade older players, but not when we are losing and playing poorly. It just seems odd to me.
Songs involving Dennis Wise, John Terry, Willian and, inevitably, Salomon Kalou were aired too.
After a while, I became less irritated and just appreciated the effort that the Chelsea fans were putting in to supporting the club, if not the current team.
The past has been bottled and labelled with love, but let’s support the players on the pitch.
Our chances increased. A shot from Sancho, a save from Leno after a Cucurella shot, plus another shot from Palmer that missed the target.
On seventy-eight minutes, Tyrique George replaced the disappointing Jackson.
His song was aired again.
“Tyrique George – aha.
“Running down the wing – aha.
“Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.
“We’re all going to Wroclaw.”
Five minutes later, we worked the ball in from the right and it reached George just outside the box. His shot was hugely instinctive, and we watched, disbelieving, as the ball was swept into the left-hand corner. It was such a sweet finish.
Strangely, I hardly celebrated, as my first reaction was “about bloody time” but immediately after I lifted my camera and tried to snap the young scorer’s celebrations. The one photo I took was blurred, and is not worth sharing, but I soon realised that Tyrique’s celebrations matched mine.
There weren’t any.
He was just keen to get back to his own half and get going in search of the winner.
What a fantastic attitude.
All around me, arms were being pumped into the air and the Putney End was bouncing.
“Tyrique George – aha.
“Running down the wing – aha.
“Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.
“We’re all going to Wroclaw.”
Neto, really involved now, forced another save from Leno.
Six minutes of extra time were signalled, and it seemed to be all Chelsea, in all blue, now. Gusto, a great addition in the second half, seemed to pull up with a hamstring problem on the far side and was replaced by Tosin, who was booed by his former fans.
In the third minute of injury time, a fantastic flowing move with quick passing worked the ball down our right flank.
Enzo to Caicedo to Enzo to Palmer to Enzo.
A square pass to Neto, free inside the box. He touched the ball and used its spin to set himself up. He turned on a sixpence and slashed the ball goalwards – just as I snapped – and the venom and velocity were just too much for Leno to cope with.
The net rippled.
The Chelsea end erupted again.
I punched the air.
I remember thinking “I LOVE THIS FUCKING CLUB” and then pushed my camera in between some bodies to capture the scorer’s wide smile as he ran back towards us in the Putney End.
What a terrible game, but what a magnificent final fifteen minutes.
One song dominated now.
“ONE TEAM IN FULHAM.”
Over the Easter weekend, there had been two very late goals. At Frome Town on Good Friday, it had gone against me. At Fulham on Easter Day, it had gone in my favour.
I wonder what the ecstatic mass of Chelsea supporters celebrating wildly as the Neto shot hit the back of the net looked like to the Fulham support in the Hammersmith End.
At the final whistle, there was an old school vibe to the Putney End as the team acknowledged our support, and – of course – the focus was on Tyrique, who looked so very happy.
Bless him. This was his moment, and I simply cannot begin to imagine what was going through his mind as he stood, at times a little bashful, in front of us all.
“Tyrique George – aha.
“Running down the wing – aha.
“Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.
“We’re all going to Wroclaw.”
Lastly, my final photo of Frome Town this season. Chasing an equaliser, I captured this glancing header from the Town captain Sam Teale that bounced into the goal against Dorchester Town on Good Friday. Alas, it wasn’t enough to save us. I hope that Chelsea fans from all parts of the football world have enjoyed my tales of Frome’s first season back at it’s highest ever level as much as I have writing them. In a way, the sense of adventure has mirrored my recollections of Chelsea in 1984/85, when we again found ourselves back in the top division after, like Frome, a five year break.
I love the fact that Frome’s support continues to grow around the world.
That bloody concourse. That bloody away end. That bloody announcer. Those bloody anthems. That bloody song. Those bloody scarves. That bloody clock.
A day out on Merseyside, a day out in Liverpool, a day out at Anfield.
And a few other things to talk about too. But let’s do this chronologically; an all-encompassing review of six football matches played over the past forty years.
Are you sitting comfortably?
Good.
First of all, let’s go back to 1984.
The next match featured in my review of the 1984/85 season was the notorious second leg of our Milk Cup tie against Millwall. This took place on the evening of Tuesday 9 October 1984. With me being a student in Stoke-on-Trent, this was always going to be a non-starter. I was nineteen, and yet to see an evening game in London, and I was never going to start with a trip to The Den. Eight years before, I could vividly remember watching the highlights on ITV of the away game at Millwall in the first few weeks of the 1976/77 season. Not only did we lose 0-3, but there was plenty of crowd trouble to boot, pardon the pun. In fact, in the following forty-eight years, many who went to this game have described it as the most horrific experience of their football lives. The mention by a couple of friends of “meat cleavers” should illustrate what Chelsea were up against on that sunny afternoon in “Deep South” all those years ago.
Millwall away? No thanks.
On this particular evening in 1984, I worked away on an essay, disappeared down to the local for a pint and then returned back to the flat to hear that we had drawn 1-1 at The Den. Kerry Dixon scored for us. The gate was just 11,157 and I suspect that 99% of them were blokes and a sizeable percentage were nutters. There has always been talk of this being the most formidable Chelsea “firm” to ever attend an away game and who am I to doubt it. Radio 2 reported no trouble inside the ground but that Robert Isaac, a Chelsea youth player who was on my radar, had been stabbed outside by some Millwall loons. This deeply saddened me.
The story was that he and some friends were confronted by some Millwall lads and were asked to name Millwall’s reserve ‘keeper. None of them could oblige, and Robert was slashed with a knife across his back. He was rushed to hospital and fifty-five stitches were applied. Over the past fifteen years, Robert and I have bumped into each other on a number of occasions and he joined us for a pub-crawl before the 2018 FA Cup Final. He always says that his thick leather jacket saved his life that night. He would go on to play thirteen times for our first team, then a few more for Brighton.
Next up, was a far-less terrifying home game against Watford on Saturday 13 October. I travelled down from Stoke by train and watched from The Benches with my new gang of match-day companions from London and the South-East, all of whom I still keep in contact with. Before the match, none other than Boy George appeared on the pitch and took loads of homophobic abuse from the home crowd. The back-story was that a video was being shot that day for the Culture Club single “The Medal Song” but I have no recollection of this. Maybe I disappeared off to the gents while this took place at half-time. In the video, the band member Mikey Craig – in full Chelsea kit – scores a goal at The Shed End.
We went 1-0 up via the dependable boot of Kerry Dixon, but Watford came back well to lead 3-1 with goals from Richard Jobson, Kenny Jackett and John Barnes, who had a blinder. There was a late consolation goal from the dependable head of Kerry Dixon. The gate of 25,340 contained a miserly four-hundred away fans.
On the following Saturday – 20 March 1984 – Chelsea travelled down to The Dell in Southampton and lost 1-0 to a Steve Moran goal in front of 20,212. Over this weekend, I was back in Frome but did not travel down to the game. Out in town that evening, my diary informs me that I bumped into Glenn who travelled down to Southampton but didn’t get in. I suspect the game was all-ticket, and I had never planned on going. After all, it would have been rude to come back home for the weekend, my family keen to hear of my first month at college, but then to bugger off to Southampton all day on the Saturday. I also bumped into PD during the evening, who also travelled to Southampton, and got in. He said that the away end was packed and that we ought to have won. He told me that there was no trouble inside The Dell, but he was knocked out after the game.
Let’s fast forward to 2024. However, before we meet up with PD again, forty years to the exact day since I bumped into him in “The Wheatsheaf” in Frome, I need to talk about two games involving our home town’s football club.
On the Tuesday, I drove up to the river city of Gloucester to watch Frome Town play a league game at Gloucester City. I travelled alone, but met up with some Frome friends at the game, and also Chelsea mates Andrew and Martin who live locally and follow their home city’s team in the same way that I follow Frome. Alas, on a wet night, Frome succumbed to a goal in each half to lose 2-0 in front of a gate of 601. We remained mired in a relegation place, but there have been some signs of late of a little resurgence.
As the week developed, thoughts turned to the first game in a mammoth weekend of football. My friend Josh, from Minneapolis, was over for the game at Anfield on the Sunday but was coming down by train from London to see Frome Town play Poole Town on the Saturday. He travelled down last December for a Frome game and vowed to return. He is, in fact, one of a little army of Chelsea mates in the US who follow Frome – hello JR, hello Steve, hello Jaro, hello Rick, hello the other Josh, hello John, hello Phil, hello Bobster – and there has been one recent addition.
I have met Courtney, from Chicago, at “The Eight Bells” for two Chelsea games over the past three years, and on the Wednesday evening he confirmed that he would be attending the Frome Town vs. Poole Town and Liverpool vs. Chelsea double-header too.
However, compared to Josh, his travel plans were far more stressful. He was flying over from Chicago, and was due to arrive in Frankfurt early on Saturday morning. He was then booked on a flight to Manchester, but hoped to swap to a London flight, and then drive down to Frome for the game. If not, he would be forced to land at Manchester at around 10am and then drive to Frome.
I woke on Saturday and soon texted both Americans. Josh was fine, and would arrive at Westbury just before midday, when I would pick him up. Courtney, however, unable to change his onward travel from Frankfurt, had arrived at Manchester at 10.15am.
I gulped.
“Poor bugger.”
With a section of the M4 being shut, I warned him that he would be diverted over The Cotswolds to reach Frome. I contacted a Frome director to reserve him a place in the club car park. It would be touch-and-go for him to make the kick-off. I was able to reserve him a car park place because…roll on drums…Courtney had splendidly sponsored the Frome match. Courtney, Josh and I were going to be wined and dined at the club at half-time, along with my two former school mates, the class of 1978 to 1983, Steve and Francis.
I picked up Josh at Westbury and gave him a little tour of my local village and my local town, including a pint at “The Three Swans” in Frome’s historic town centre. Meanwhile, Courtney was making good time and his ETA was to be around three o’clock. We then met up with Francis, and his mate Tom, at “The Vine Tree” for another quick drink before arriving at the ground a few minutes before kick-off.
It was a stunning day; warm temperatures, blue skies, and what looked like a decent crowd of over 500.
With five minutes of the game played, I looked over and saw Courtney arrive in the ground. I waved him over to where we were stood in a little group at the “Clubhouse End” and it was a relief to see him. Courtney had made really good time, and was now able to relax a little and take in his first ever non-league match.
The game was a very good one. Alas, the visitors went ahead in the tenth minute when our ‘keeper Kyle Phillips spilled a cross and there was an easy tap-in. However, just before half-time, Matt Wood – whose home kit Josh sponsors – slotted home from just outside the six-yard box from a George Rigg corner.
It was a case of all smiles at half-time as we got stuck into our jacket potatoes and chilli – thanks Louise!
With thoughts of our travel to Merseyside, I asked the two Americans a football teaser.
Q : which current league ground – the top four divisions – is closest to the River Mersey?
The answer follows later.
In the second-half, we decamped to our favourite spot in The Cow Shed, but a weak goal from the visitors gave them a perhaps undeserved 2-1 lead. We kept going, however, and were rewarded with a fantastic equaliser on the ninetieth minute when that man Matt Wood bravely headed in.
Pandemonium in the South Stand!
As match sponsors, we had the vote for Man Of The Match, but it was easy; Josh’s boy Matt Wood.
However, football can be a bastard.
In extra-time, a virtual copy of ‘keeper Kyle Phillips’ spill for the first goal resulted in a third, and winning, goal for the visitors.
This felt like a kick had been administered to the collective solar plexus.
Fackinell.
After the game, we were able to relax a little in the club house and I introduced the lads from the US to our board of directors. It had been a cracking afternoon and it was lovely for a couple of players, and the manager Danny Greaves, to meet Josh and Courtney. Courtney had been pleasantly surprised by the size of the stadium and the quality of the facilities, and he went off to buy a blue and white away shirt from the club shop. At 6pm, with a five hour drive up to his hotel in Liverpool ahead of him, Courtney said his goodbyes.
“See you tomorrow, mate.”
Honestly, it had been a lovely time, one for the ages.
But Sunday was another day, and it soon followed.
I was up at 6am, bright and breezy, and I soon spotted a text from Courtney. He had eventually arrived in Liverpool at 11.20pm after a couple of stops en route. I collected PD from his house and Josh from his hotel at 7am, and I collected Parky in his village at 7.30am.
After following our exploits via this blog since its inception in 2008, Josh has always wanted to join us in The Chuckle Bus for an away game, and here he was, sat next to Parky in the rear seats as I headed due north.
A week or so ago I decided that I would probably call this match report “Tales From The Football Road” because my journey would encompass a section of the M6, which is as near to a genuine and bona fide “football road”, for me anyway, in the UK. We would join the M6 in Birmingham, just as Walsall’s Bescot Stadium appears to the east, and it is the road that I use to take me to Chelsea away games against Everton, Liverpool, Manchester City and Manchester United, but also, historically, against teams such as Blackburn Rovers, Bolton Wanderers, Blackpool, Burnley, Wigan Athletic and Preston North End.
I am yet, however, to visit Edgeley Park, the historic home of Stockport County – where Chelsea played our first-ever league game in 1905 – and which is the closest league ground to the River Mersey.
The M6 took on a special importance on this weekend. It was the road that Courtney had taken on Saturday from the airport just south of Manchester to get down to Frome, and the road that he took back to his hotel in Liverpool.
The Football Road.
It certainly was.
As I headed past Bath, I was on the exact same route that Courtney had taken around fourteen hours earlier.
I tried my best to keep Josh entertained.
“You know Peter Gabriel’s song ‘Solsbury Hill’ mate?”
“Yep.”
I gestured outside.
“Well, this is it.”
We headed straight over the M4, into Gloucestershire, through some delightful Cotswold scenery. Thankfully the early rain eventually subsided. At Frocester Hill, the Severn Vale appeared down below. It was a breath-taking sight. Parky spoke about the Severn Bore and watching those that surf it, while I spoke about the river’s tidal range being the second highest in the world, but we then realised that we were becoming Severn bores.
We soon stopped at Strensham Services on the M5 for a McDonalds breakfast at about 8.45am. I then ate up the remainder of the M5, but alas the floodlights of The Hawthorns were hidden by dense fog as the M5 ended and the M6 began.
“2017 and all that.”
As I passed Stoke, I was reminded of 1984 and I told PD that forty years ago to the very day we had chatted in one of Frome’s pubs about that game in Southampton. I asked of his recollections of that game.
He had indeed been knocked out after the game, but by a policeman on horseback. There was no real trouble, but after the match, the local Hampshire constabulary had caused a panic among the crowd leaving The Dell, and PD ended up on the pavement. Our mate Andy spotted him and helped him recover. Later that week, the CID interviewed PD at his house in Frome after many complaints by the public about the behaviour of the local police that day. These were the days when football fans, in general, were viewed as low-life scum by many in the police force and it was considered fair game for them to whack football fans. I remember being thrown against a metal fence at St. James’ Park by a Geordie copper after celebrating a little too enthusiastically after a Chelsea goal earlier in 1984.
I refuelled at Knutsford, then drove over the familiar Thelwall Viaduct. As we drove high above the River Mersey and the Manchester Ship Canal, there was some local history for Josh. I explained how the Manchester cotton mill owners reacted to the higher rates being asked by Liverpool dock owners by forcing the construction of their own waterway, with docks at Salford, and how this heightened that particular inter-city rivalry.
Oh God, I was becoming the Mersey bore, now.
I drove onto the oh-so familiar M62 into Liverpool.
I was parked up, as I was on our last visit to Anfield, in a car park just off Dale Street just before midday, and just in time for the pubs to open. It had taken me exactly five hours to get from my house to the car park on Vernon Street. Above, blue skies and glorious sun. We had enjoyed fantastic pub crawls around Dale Street on PD’s birthday in January 2017 and January 2024, and we were back for more.
“Ye Hole In Ye Wall”.
This is rumoured to be Liverpool’s oldest pub, built in 1726. I treated myself to the first of two lagers for a change and it wasn’t long to wait for Courtney to arrive. I must admit, he looked rather tired, but he soon livened up.
“The Vernon Arms”.
Our third visit, the famous sloping floor, a chat with some local Liverpool fans at the next table, no animosity, all gentle banter. Josh recounted the story of the two of us having a drink in a bar opposite Yankee Stadium in 2012 for the PSG friendly, and meeting three young women who had brought little plastic bags of trimmed celery with them, having heard about it being a Chelsea “thing” yet completely unaware of “that” song and its full content.
“The Rose & Crown”.
A first visit, a little more chat with some Liverpool supporters, and we saw a late Kilmarnock goal defeat Rangers on the TV.
We needed to get ourselves parked-up, so I headed up to Goodison Park, via a slow drive-past Everton’s new stadium at Bramley Moore Dock. We could only really see the shiny roof as there was a high wall blocking our view. I have been tracking its progress since I called by before our first away game in 2022/23. There are several old warehouses close by that we earmarked to be used for hotels in the near future. The stadium should revitalise that stretch of the river.
The Mersey played a little part in my family history.
I had spoken to Josh and Courtney about how my great great grandparents had left Somerset for a new life in Philadelphia in 1854. They boarded the maiden voyage of the SS City of Philadelphia from Liverpool, but it was ship-wrecked off the coast of Newfoundland at Cape Race on 7 September, though – unlike the Titanic – no lives were lost. The Whites were to live around five years in Philadelphia before returning home.
Maybe next season, should Everton stay up, I will gaze out at the River Mersey from near the away end of the new stadium and think wistfully back to 1854.
“The Abbey”.
We visited this pub in the August of 2021 before a creditable 1-1 at Anfield, and I joined the lads in the cramped bar. Again, PD and Parky were talking to some locals. There was a quick chat with Tommie from Portmadoc about Rio de Janeiro, and then Josh and I met up with Courtney at the Dixie Dean statue at about 3.15pm.
We did a quick circuit of the old lady. This was their first-ever trip to Merseyside, and with this being Goodison’s last-ever season, it was only right that we circumnavigated the old place. I rattled off what seemed like a hundred different Goodison stories all at once and it is no surprise. I simply adore the place. You may have noticed.
Time was moving on and we needed to get our three arses up the hill of Stanley Park to Anfield. The wind was blowing now, but thankfully there was no rain.
Tommie’s brother, a staunch Evertonian, calls Anfield “Castle Greyskull” and as we approached it I could see his point.
Anfield used to be very similar to Goodison, nestled in among tight streets on all four sides. Now, because it has been able to expand, all of those adjacent houses have gone, and it sits atop the hill like a gloomy grey aircraft hangar, its two new and huge stands looming over everything. Goodison seems quaint and charismatic in comparison.
As we made our way towards the stadium, we could hear the music booming out from what I presumed was Anfield’s “fan zone”, which thankfully we have been spared at Chelsea.
“Stevie Heighway on the wing…”
Those bloody anthems.
Outside the away end, I passed over spares to Deano and I was inside at around 4.10pm. Despite the massive increase to the bulk of this newly-improved stand – the old “Annie Road” as the scallies called it – the concourse tucked behind the away end is still the same size, still cramped.
I took my place alongside John, Gary and Alan. A few familiar faces nearby, but lots of new faces too. The sun was high above The Kop and I wanted it to soon drop below the huge main stand. That bloody flag with the six European Cups made its way down the Centenary Stand, or whatever it is called these days. To my right, the humungous main stand, not one seat empty.
Fackinell.
“The Fields Of Anfield Road” again.
The entrance of the teams.
Scarves held aloft.
“You’ll Never Walk Alone.”
Those bloody scarves.
A barrage of “Chelsea Chelsea Chelsea Chelsea” but this was lost against the pumped tannoyed muzak of an Anfield game day, Gerry Marsden and all.
A minute of applause in memory of Peter Cormack, a player from my youth, a decent player.
Right, the team.
A big shock that Reece James was starting and Malo Gusto was shunted over to the left to keep an eye on Mo Salah, who now looked nothing like Mo Salah. Romeo Lavia in with Moises Caicedo, a strong midfield duo, er pivot. Pivot, right? That’s what all the nerds call it, right?
Sanchez
Gusto – Colwill – Tosin – James
Lavia – Caicedo
Madueke – Palmer – Sancho
Jackson
Going into the game, I was confident, but was not that confident to think of a win. A draw would make me a happy man.
Being back in that bloody away end took me back to January when we were shellacked 4-1, and if Darwin Nunez hadn’t hit the woodwork on multiple occasions it would have been much worse.
It seemed odd not to see Jurgen Klopp stood in front of the Liverpool bench.
The game began and to my pleasant surprise we seemed to have most of the ball. But the home support, above us especially, were warbling out their old favourite :
“Fuck off Chelsea FC. You ain’t got no history.”
I chuckled to myself about their use of a double-negative.
Very early on, Liverpool broke and Tosin tangled with Diogo Jota just inside our half. The referee brandished a yellow, and I was so thankful that there was a Chelsea defender, Levi Colwill, alongside the play, thus nullifying the threat of a straight red.
On eighteen minutes, Cody Gakpo was given the ball on a plate after a typical bit of madness from Robert Sanchez but his snapshot was hit right back into the arms of our worrying ‘keeper.
After a quarter of the match, it wasn’t much of a game, but we were still dominating most of the ball. Jadon Sancho on the left was often in space but did not use the ball wisely. Noni Madueke was more direct on the right. Cole Palmer was a peripheral figure. I liked the pairing of Caicedo and Lavia from the off, strong and resourceful.
It seemed like both teams were sounding each other out.
Salah went down in the box, but no penalty. Phew.
It was lovely to see Reece James patrolling the right-hand side of our defence and he slotted in well, showing some sublime early touches.
On twenty-nine minutes, Salah broke in from the right. I yelled at our defender to keep him outside. He came inside and shot. The ball hit Colwill but fell at the feet of Curtis Jones and Colwill made an attempt to nick the ball.
Penalty.
“Bollocks.”
Salah swept it in from the spot.
Liverpool 1 Chelsea 0.
“Li-verpool. Li-verpool.”
“Li-verpool. Li-verpool.”
Two minutes later, more menace from Salah as he crossed and Gakpo arrived late at the far post to prod home. Thankfully, Salah was adjudged to have crept offside. Phew.
The ball was pushed through by Caicedo to Jackson who wasted no time before smashing it high against the angle of near post and bar.
It was our first real attempt.
A couple of half-chances at either end.
At least we weren’t being over-run and over-powered like last season. This seemed like a slightly reticent Liverpool team.
In the closing moments of the first-half, as Sanchez rushed out to block from Jones, we were utterly amazed to see a penalty awarded, along with a yellow for our ‘keeper.
“That was just a normal block tackle, surely?”
VAR was called in.
No penalty. No yellow.
Very late on, Madueke broke down the right, Palmer withdrew to give himself some space and Madueke angled the ball to him. Was this the moment? Well, it was a moment but not the moment. Palmer’s shot glided just over the bar.
“Bollocks.”
The droll low burr of the Anfield announcer George Sephton, a presence at their games since 1971, introduced a younger and more excitable colleague to talk through a junior penalty-kick competition at The Kop at half-time. Sephton’s voice certainly evokes some memories. David James then saved a twice-taken penalty kick from a young Liverpool fan. The crowd booed. The announcer was in shock.
“Well, I don’t know what to say. You’ve just ruined that lad’s day.”
At the break, Pedro Neto came on for Sancho. My goodness, we certainly have options out wide. Soon into the second-half, just three minutes in, Caicedo picked out the run of Jackson and played a perfect ball through. Jackson advanced and calmly slotted past Kelleher. The away end erupted, but our joy was soon quelled by an offside flag. We waited for a VAR decision and, thankfully, it went our way. Jackson had stalled his run just right.
Goal.
Liverpool 1 Chelsea 1.
With that, Jackson led a charge from the half-way line down to the Annie Road and the players celebrated wildly, while I hoped for a couple of decent shots with my pub camera.
Sadly, just three minutes later, a cross from Salah on the Liverpool right, caught the entire Chelsea defence out. The ball was swept right into a wide corridor of uncertainty, and the impressive Curtis Jones was able to take a touch and then prod the ball past Sanchez. I looked at the linesman in the far right corner but there was no flag.
“Bollocks.”
Liverpool 2 Chelsea 1.
On fifty-two minutes, three changes.
Renato Veiga for James.
Enzo Fernandez for Lavia.
Benoit Badiashile for Tosin.
“Were they preparing those subs before the goal, John?”
“Think so, mate.”
I was surprised to see Lavia being replaced. He had played well. Perhaps this was a precautionary measure.
There was a very loud “allez allez”.
It’s odd that we hear “YNWA” before games at Anfield, but never during the actual games themselves these days. When did that stop?
We had more of the possession as Liverpool seemed happy to soak it all up, but there were only quarter-chances from a Madueke shot from an angle and a Palmer free-kick.
I sensed that the home support was worried though; they seemed quiet and nervous.
The away support got behind the boys with our loudest chant of the game thus far, a fine rendition of “Amazing Grace – the Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea” version.
I remember surging and strong runs through the middle from Caicedo, plus energy and directness from Neto on our left. Palmer was, alas, a passenger for much of the second-half. Neto’s effort trundled wide of a post.
On seventy-six minutes, Christopher Nkunku replaced Madueke, and Neto swapped wings. His play deteriorated on the right.
Palmer lobbed a free-kick into the Liverpool six-yard box but Veiga headed over from a good position.
We still kept going. I could not fault our application, even if the attack lacked real bite.
“Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea.”
My attention was drawn to the twin clocks that sit above the corner flags at The Kop.
Those bloody clocks.
I seem to spend inordinate amounts of time gazing up at those simple blocks of electric lights and I have done for years.
The extra-time ticked down, the time ticked away.
Nkunku almost touched the ball home, from a Neto cross, just a few yards to our left.
At the other end, Diaz picked up the ball and advanced.
“Don’t let him dance into the box.”
Thankfully his shot tantalisingly flew high and wide.
In the last second of the game, a shot from Malo Gusto was blocked and the referee blew.
Fackinell.
This had been my twenty-eighth visit to Anfield, and my record is relegation-form.
Won : 5
Drew : 8
Lost : 15
For : 28
Against : 45
I caught site of Courtney as we gathered together in the concourse. I am sure his weekend had felt just like a dream. He was to make his own way to Crewe and then catch a train down to London where he was working on the Monday and Tuesday.
I wished him a safe journey and thanked him for Saturday.
I didn’t envy his travel. Mind you, I didn’t envy mine. I still had around two-hundred miles to drive on this Sunday evening.
I stopped a couple of times to refuel – me, not the car – and I dropped off the lads before getting in at 12.30am. I was, of course, repeating Courtney’s breakneck mission on Saturday morning.
This football road.
Unfortunately, our football weekend had resulted in two defeats, but it had been a cracker.
There was international football ahead for Josh, and others in the coming week, with a trip to Athens for our game at Panathinaikos on Thursday.
I had an international game lined up too.
Merthyr Town vs. Frome Town next Saturday, ahead of Chelsea vs. Newcastle United next Sunday.
Chelsea vs. Brighton And Hove Albion : 28 September 2024.
A three o’clock kick-off on a Saturday. It just seems right, doesn’t it?
This just seemed like a normal “back to life, back to reality” game of football. By 7.30am, I had picked up Paul and Parky and we were on our way up to London. Games against Brighton of late have been interesting affairs what with the number of players and personnel that have switched from one club to the other in recent seasons. This would be a tight game, not an easy one to predict, but the actual football was not dominating my mind as I drove East. On this day, there would be meet ups with two people from Nashville in Tennessee and two and a half people from the Czech Republic, and I was looking forward to that as much as the match that would follow.
This was a busy spell for us at Stamford Bridge; four home games in thirteen days, almost a thousand miles of driving for me, some early starts, some late finishes.
First, though, a trip back in time as I continue my retrospective of the events from the 1984/85 season. On Wednesday 26 September, I was newly-arrived in the city of Stoke-on-Trent, and was finding my feet at North Staffs Poly. On that particular day, there was administration stuff to be done, but I also showed up for trials for the college football team. I hadn’t played football of any type for a couple of years – I remember playing for the Lower Sixth at Frome College, but not the Upper Sixth, did 1982/83 totally drain my love of football? – and I remember being over-awed by the numbers that had shown up for the practice. From memory, I played OK, but soon decided that it would be a miracle to break into any of the teams, so I decided there and then to forget it. I was only nineteen, but hanging up my boots meant that I could concentrate on the love of my life, Chelsea Football Club.
That evening, way down in London, Chelsea played Millwall in the first leg of an early round of the League Cup. We won 3-1, with Kerry Dixon getting a brace and the former Chelsea defender Micky Nutton putting into his own net. The gate was only 19,912 but it wasn’t a bad figure for the time. I have no doubt that just as many would have been scared off with the threat of trouble as would have been enticed to the game for trouble. This match did not have the notoriety of the return leg. In fact, I am not sure if any off-the-pitch stuff took place at all on this night in deepest SW6.
I was parked up in deepest SW6 forty years later at around 10am. On the way to meet the lads, there was a points failure further south, so I had to walk the last mile from Parsons Green. At around 10.30am I walked into “The River Café” for the first time this season. A gaggle of Chelsea lads that I know were sat at one table. Behind, in the corner, was my Albion friend Mac, who partly resides in the Czech Republic and partly in Brighton. I first met Mac in a sports bar in Manhattan in 2013 and we have become good friends over the years. I loved hearing about Mac’s travels last season with Brighton in Europe, the club’s first-ever European campaign. I must admit that they had superb cities to visit; Marseille, Amsterdam, Athens in the group phase – two wins and a draw – and then Rome. You never forget your first time; in 1994/95, I had Jablonec via Prague, Vienna and Zaragoza. I devoured a Full English, and we then flitted around the corner to meet up with PD, Parky, Salisbury Steve, and my friends David and Nate from Nashville in “The Eight Bells.”
I have met David before but this was the first time that I would see his son Nate. This was Nate’s second visit to Stamford Bridge; the first time coincided with Rafa Benitez’ first game in charge against Manchester City in 2012. Nate has suffered with a brain tumour for many years and the 2012 visit was arranged by the “Make A Wish Foundation” and he met Roman Abramovich and a few first-team players. There have been worrying relapses over the years, and so it was a real pleasure to finally meet him in person, and to welcome him to the pub. I remember seeing a video message that Levi Colwill sent Nate during the summer. The power of football to bring happiness should not be overlooked.
Our mate Dave – we would sit next to each other on The Benches as 1984/85 developed – showed up for a pint and a chat, and then Mac’s mate Barry arrived too. Barry had recently seen Billy Gilmour’s Napoli debut away to Cagliari. Mac told the lovely story about how he appeared as an extra, playing a footballer, in the 2001 film “Mean Machine” starring ex-Chelsea player Vinnie Jones. Both Brighton fans were a little unsure how their team would fare at Stamford Bridge. I think we all expected a tight one.
David and Nate got the call from someone at Chelsea to make their way to Stamford Bridge and I believe they were to meet the players as they arrived. I wished them well, and they bounced out with smiles on their faces.
Soon to arrive were brother and sister George and Anetta from Zlin in the Czech Republic. I first met George in Vienna for the Rapid friendly in 2016 and we have bumped into each other a few times over the years, the last time in Salzburg two years ago. Anetta is studying law at university in Bratislava, and this was her first visit to the UK, to England, to London, to a game at Chelsea.
We checked the team as it was announced at around 1.45pm.
Sanchez
Gusto – Fofana – Colwill – Cucarella
Caicedo – Enzo
Madueke – Palmer – Sancho
Jackson
Delayed by an extra round of drinks and crowds on a packed tube, I sadly arrived a minute or so after the game began.
Chelsea in blue, Albion in a rather nice “old school” all-yellow.
I quickly took off two layers of jackets. The weather was magnificent.
I sat alongside Clive and we found ourselves catching-up as the first few minutes of play took place down below us. All of a sudden, a turn of pace from Kaoru Mitoma caused concern. After a poor touch by Moises Caicedo put Levi Colwill under pressure to hack the ball away, the ball ballooned up into the air, and Robert Sanchez raced enthusiastically out to try to punch the ball away. However, a strong leap by Georginio Rutter ensured that it was his touch that counted. The ball was headed towards goal and in.
Marc Cucarella and the scorer lay prone in the box, and I suppose we hoped forlornly for a free-kick against our defender, but there was nothing. Only seven minutes had passed.
Chelsea 0 Brighton 1.
There was a song emanating out from the three-thousand away fans that sounded an awful lot like “There’s only one Morgan Stanley” but I think the heat had got to me. I know football is all about finance these days, but surely the away fans weren’t singing the praises of investment bankers.
There was a fine cross from Noni Madueke just after the Brighton goal but nobody was on hand to tuck the ball in. Then another run and cross from Jadon Sancho, on his home debut, that was easily gathered by the Brighton ‘keeper Bart Verbruggen. At the other end, a cross from Danny Welbeck was deflected at goal and Sanchez did well to save.
When Colwill went for a header, I had a Thiago Silva flashback. I mentioned his number 6 shirt to Clive, and Clive said that he had experienced a Thiago Silva flashback too. The sun really was getting to us.
On twenty minutes, a fine flowing move; Colwill to Enzo to Cole Palmer. He dragged the ball ahead of himself and advanced. He was one on one with the ‘keeper. He shot low, we were already up to celebrate, but the ball agonisingly hit the base of the right-hand post. Just after, Palmer tucked the ball in past Verbruggen but the flag was raised for an off-side – and although it looked offside, we celebrated that one too.
Drat.
Thankfully, on twenty-one minutes, Adam Webster lost possession and the ball was played unselfishly across the box by Nicolas Jackson to Palmer. The finish was perfect, with Palmer hardly moving a muscle to stroke the ball home in a way that Jimmy Greaves would have admired.
Now I celebrated.
Get in.
Chelsea 1 Brighton 1.
“Palmer again, ole, ole.”
Next, we plundered Brighton’s ridiculously high defensive line as the ball was pushed through by Enzo to Jackson to Madueke. He advanced and squared to Sancho, who finished with aplomb. Alas, a raised flag and VAR was called into action. We presumed Sancho, but it was Madueke who was offside by the smallest margin on the half-way line.
This was manic stuff.
And yet the noise around Stamford Bridge wasn’t boiling over.
On twenty-eight minutes, Palmer sent a high bomb over to Sancho, who drifted in from the left after a neat pass from Enzo and was bundled over in the box. It looked a clear penalty from one hundred yards away, cough, cough.
Cole Palmer, cool-hand Luke, the ball was knocked home.
Chelsea 2 Brighton 1.
Our noses were in front.
“Palmer again, ole, ole.”
Mac and Barry were watching from the front row of the away seats in The Shed and I un-knowingly caught their faces on film as the scorer wheeled away.
In the very next move, another high line was breached as Madueke raced away. He was clipped by Pervis Estupinan and a free-kick was rewarded, some thirty yards out.
We waited. Palmer placed the ball on the turf. I pulled my camera up, and waited some more. Palmer advanced and swung his boot at the ball. I followed the trajectory of the curve. It looked perfect. It was perfect.
Chelsea 3 Brighton 1.
“Palmer again, ole, ole.”
Usually in these circumstances I pump the air with my fist as a bare minimum, and occasionally jump up onto the plinth to my left, shouting wildly. This time I stayed completely still and completely silent. I was in awe. It was, undoubtedly, one of the finest free-kick strikes that I had ever seen live. The rest of Stamford Bridge celebrated wildly. I just smiled, blissful, contented. I had witnessed greatness.
Thankfully for Mac and Barry, Palmer chose to celebrate in Parkyville.
“You’re not singing anymore” bellowed the home support.
At the other end, Jack Hinshelwood went close.
On thirty-four minutes, while I was vigorously tapping some “in game” notes onto my ‘phone, I looked up to see Sanchez play a suicidal pass out to Caicedo, and Carlos Baleba intercepted and struck.
Chelsea 3 Brighton 2.
Bizarrely, the away fans sang “you’re not singing anymore”, even though they were losing. Oh well, it made a change from investment banks.
This was frantic and manic.
Although a different type of game completely, the first-half reminded me a little of the Everton game under Conte in the autumn of 2016, one of the greatest first-halves of all time.
There were chances for both teams. Sanchez saved well from Baleba, another high bomb from Palmer – intuitive, natural – set up Madueke who raced through but hit the side netting.
All of a sudden, the hype about this team seemed centered on fact and not fantasy. Maybe this would be the game that I would fall in love properly with Chelsea again after a few years of worry and concern as the club seemed to drift inexplicably away from me.
Clive and I spoke about Palmer being a real throwback, a ‘seventies maverick, in the guise of Stan Bowles, Alan Hudson, Tony Currie, Rodney Marsh. The lad is so loose-limbed, so relaxed, on a different planet, a different pitch, a different level, a different time-zone. Just as we were talking about a couple of other ‘seventies players, Verbruggen copied Sanchez and loosely played a ball out of defence. Enzo capitalised, pushed the ball to Sancho, who rolled in Palmer. As easy as you like, with virtually no back-lift, the ball was dispatched into the net ‘twixt post and ‘keeper.
Chelsea 4 Brighton 2.
“Palmer again, ole, ole.”
Late on in a ridiculously entertaining half, Sanchez got down well to save from Welbeck.
PD : “It could end up 6-6.”
At half-time, there was a ludicrous feeling of “I don’t believe it” in the seats around me. Admit it, we all wanted a few more goals, right?
The second-half continued with a similar theme. Palmer played a ball in to Jackson who shot at Verbruggen from an angle. Then, another crazy first-time bomb, so high, from Palmer was played perfectly into the path of Jackson, who brought the ball down faultlessly. He rounded Verbruggen but his shot on goal was too central and Adam Webster cleared off the line.
A volley from Palmer flew over.
Palmer set up Madueke, but his low cross was cleared.
More goalkeeping hari-kari, another Verbruggen faux-pas, and the ball fell for Palmer. He settled himself, I prepared to celebrate once again, but the shot rolled past the far post.
What?
Palmer set up Jackson once again – a slide-rule pass into acres of space – but a last minute challenge by Lewis Dunk robbed the striker of a shot on goal.
A headed goal by Cucarella – who had displayed no end of resolute defending all game – was ruled offside.
A substitution.
Pedro Neto for Madueke.
Neto found himself in acres of space in the right and set up Jackson, who again failed.
More substitutions.
Renato Veiga for Cucarella.
Mykhailo Mudryk for Sancho.
Christopher Nkunku for Jackson.
Sadly, the game declined in quality as it continued. However, Brighton never really threatened too much in the second-half but some of our defensive decisions were poor, and there was this lingering doubt about us conceding a third.
At the final whistle, relief, but lots of joy too.
Anetta had loved her first game alongside George, watching in the Matthew Harding Lower. And we were to learn that Nate met up with Levi Colwill at the end of the game, and the defender presented him with his match-worn shirt.
As we drove home, the bright sun ahead, we were very content with the team’s progress. Sadly, Arsenal had dug out a late win, and Liverpool had triumphed too, but Manchester City dropped points.
Whisper it, but we are in the mix.
Next up, KAA Gent at home on Thursday.
See you there.
Chelsea and Brighton & Hove Albion.
Chelsea vs. Brighton & Hove Albion.
RIP Lee Marskell
Dedicated to the memory of Lee, who lost his brave fight on the day of this game. Back in the days of the Chelsea In America bulletin board in around 2006 to 2008, when I first penned ad hoc match reports as VINCI PER NOI, there were a few other English supporters who shared opinions too. Mark Coden, Jon Doyle – “Jon In Slough”- and “mad lee” always brought vivid tales to the party.
I last saw Lee at Tottenham last November. We stood together as our beloved team won 4-1. It is a memory I will always treasure.
