Tag Archives: Diego Costa

Tales From The Unexpected

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Everton vs. Chelsea : 30 August 2014.

It had been another tiresome journey north on England’s injury-hit motorway network, scarred with multiple stretches of road works and speed restrictions. I had collected His Lordship at 10am, and we were parked up, some five hours later, in a multi-story car-park on Liverpool’s waterfront after I decided to sweep down the hill into the city centre rather than park in the usual spot near Anfield. I had decided to forego the usual Everton pre-match in The Arkles, which is very close to Liverpool’s stadium, as I didn’t fancy the oh-so familiar routine of tattered wallpaper, sticky carpets and lager in plastic glasses. I fancied something different and had decided to head back to the area around Albert Dock and the Pier Head, where I have spent occasional pre-matches on Merseyside before.

During the first segment of our drive to Liverpool, we had gabbled away with excited talk of our trip to Lisbon in around a month’s time for the Champions League game with Sporting. As soon as the group phase games were announced on Thursday, a trip to Portugal’s capital quickly grabbed my attention. Ironically, I was only in Lisbon – very briefly – back in May en route to a few days in Albufeira, but I was very happy to be returning so soon. It is a city that I was longing to be able to visit again. A previous visit in 1987 amounted to no more than three hours. In May, it was around four hours. This time, with a three day trip planned, I’d be able to truly explore the city’s charms. The added bonus would be Parky’s first Chelsea European away since the European Cup Winners’ Cup Final in Stockholm in 1998. It is long overdue.

We had listened to Manchester United’s weak 0-0 draw at Turf Moor on the journey, but as we set off on a little tour around the former dock area, the rest of the afternoon’s results were at the back of our minds. We had an hour or so to kill, and we relaxed a little. The football results would take care of themselves.

There have been many previous visits to Merseyside with Chelsea – Anfield nineteen times and Goodison thirteen times – and I spoke to Parky about how the high numbers of visits have dulled the senses a little.

I always remember coming up to Liverpool for the first time, back in 1985, and everything seemed so alien to a lad from Somerset. In a nutshell, the culture of the city was rich, even if parts of its urban fibre were poor. However, all of the particular idiosyncratic differences – the architecture, the civic buildings, the shops and industry, the character of the locals, the sense of place, the historical legacy – which made the city so unique back then seem to lessen with each returning trip.

However, as I looked back up at the twin cathedrals looking down on the dock area from a ridge of high land – the protestant red brick and the catholic concrete – I suddenly felt a twinge of adrenalin as I remembered spotting these two famous structures for the first time almost thirty years ago. Part of the joy of following my team around the UK and beyond is being able to experience different cityscapes.

Yes, dear reader, even Liverpool.

We spent an enjoyable ninety minutes in and around the Albert Dock, where a wakeboarding competition was taking place. If I had done the correct amount of preparation beforehand, perhaps I would have found time to see the Mondrian exhibit at the Tate art gallery; back in 2008, I had visited a Klimt exhibition on my way to Wigan at the same location. For a while, the storm clouds swept in and shrouded the Liver Building in a curtain of rain. Thankfully it soon passed. I stood on the lip of The Mersey, and was immediately shifted back to previous centuries when immigrants from throughout Europe bade farewell on their voyage to new lands. It is very likely that my great great grandparents departed for Philadelphia from this city in around 1850. An obscenely huge cruise ship was moored a few hundred yards to the north; its size startled me. I wonder if any of the tourists were off to the match. It was approaching four o’clock and so we wondered if we had time for a quick pint in one of the many bars which now reside in the ground floors of the former warehouse buildings.

We popped in to the Pan Am bar and hastily enjoyed a pint of lager.

Compared to being in the crowded and stuffy Arkles, this was a great pre-match.

I soon drove up into football territory. On the approach to Goodison, all of the lamp posts were adorned with blue pennants, in a style very similar to those which I often see outside baseball stadia in the US; marking their territory, as it were.

“We Are Evertonians.”

“We Go The Game.”

“It’s What We Do.”

In the end, I drove past Anfield – right past the away end, ah memories of last May, you may have had Luis Garcia in 2005, but we had Steven Gerrard in 2014 and we’ll always have that on you – and spotted a gaggle of Chelsea lads leaving The Arkles. We were parked up at 4.50pm and the news came through that Manchester City had lost 1-0 at home to Stoke City.

“Get in.”

“A good day for the city of Manchester, then Parks.”

On the walk to Goodison, along the southern edge of Stanley Park, we held our hoods over our heads as the rain fell. We spotted an Evertonian wearing an Eto’o shirt.

“Number five?”

A line of around twenty coaches were parked up, including the Kings Ferry and Ellisons ones from Chelsea.

With ten minutes to kick-off, we approached the famous old stadium – Evertonians lovingly call it “The Old Lady” while Liverpool fans have a more derisory nickname, “Woodison” – and we were soon inside. Parky was down below in the lower tier of the Bullens Road, while I was alongside Gary and Alan in the cramped seats above. It was great to be back. Goodison Park is one of my favourite away venues. I have enthused over its charms many times before. There were memories of last season, when I shook Lukaku’s hand outside the main entrance and when Eto’o made his debut for us. What an irony that both were now in Everton blue. With Torres’ ultimately failed spell as a Chelsea striker over, but with Diego Costa now at full throttle and Drogba back in the mix, it seemed that the game was all about centre forwards, irrespective of shirt number.

The “Z Cars” theme tune welcomed the teams on to the pitch. Chelsea were in a bright all yellow kit, while Everton’s decision to jettison their usual white socks in favour of black meant that the home team were unwittingly paying homage to the Chelsea kit of the inter-war years.

Blue, white, black.

Everton fans are almost defined by who they are not. Unlike at Anfield, scarves are in short supply at Goodison Park.

A quick run through of the team. I was so glad Diego Costa was fit. The midfield five was Ramires and Matic, Hazard, Willian and Fabregas. The Chelsea choir began with a predictable song aimed at Everton’s neighbours at the top of the hill.

“Steve Gerrard, Gerrard.

He slipped on his fucking arse.

He gave it to Demba Ba.

Steve Gerrard, Gerrard.”

A few Evertonians in the Park End applauded this; quite rightly.

Within a minute, Cesc Fabregas had received the ball and had spotted an incisive dart from that man Diego Costa. He steadied himself in front of Tim Howard and calmly despatched it into the net. Goodison was in a state of shock, we were in a state of ecstasy.

“OLE – OLE OLE OLE – CHELSEA – CHELSEA.”

What a start. We could hardly believe it. This was touted as a tough old game; our first real test of the nascent season. And here we were, 1-0 up after a few seconds.

“Take that Luis Saha.”

Another miracle soon followed.

Barely two minutes later, Diego Costa played the ball in from the left. Ramires spotted Ivanovic ahead of him and played a delightful ball to our beloved full-back. Everton appealed for offside, but Brana was unfazed. He slotted the ball past Howard. We all looked across to the linesman, but his flag stayed down.

Everton 0 Chelsea 2.

There was more delirium in the antiquated double-decked tiers of the Bullens Road stand.

Next, there was a contentious moment involving the hapless Howard. A ball was poked through for Eden Hazard to run on to, but the Everton ‘keeper claimed the ball at his feet. From over eighty yards away, it seemed fine, but Hazard’s immediate response was that Howard had handled outside the box. A couple of texts confirmed this.

Then, oddly, strangely, we let our grip on the game loosen. It was Everton’s turn to probe. For me, our midfield conceded far too much territory to the raiding Everton attackers. Nemanja Matic held firm, but did not get much support in return.

“We played better last year and couldn’t score. This year, two shots and two goals.”

From a corner, the ball’s arc was missed by Courtois and Lukaku crashed it against the woodwork. It was a lucky escape. Everton asked questions of our defence, but we withstood their challenges. We attacked on a few occasions, with Costa surprising me my drifting wide on the left. Then, catastrophe, with just a minute left of the first-half remaining. We again allowed Everton to build and the ball was played out to Seamus Coleman. His fine cross was met by the leaping Kevin Mirallas, and we groaned as the ball spun past Courtois into the goal.

The Evertonians roared.

Game on.

At the break, there was obvious concern that we were going to let this slip. My mate Glenn, who was celebrating his birthday, received a text from me:

“Hope that the inevitable Everton comeback won’t spoil your birthday.”

The grey skies over Goodison, brightened by the electronic glare of the floodlights tucked under the main stand roof, gave the match a special atmosphere as the second half began. It felt like November. A few half chances for Chelsea gave us cheer. There was noise in the away section. I kept looking over at the scoreboard in the far corner, and the time was appearing to slow.

“Another half hour of this; we’ll never last, Gal.”

“Next goal is crucial, Chris.”

“Trouble is, mate – we thought we’d won it after three minutes.”

I was worried that Everton, still threatening, would ruin things. The Chelsea fans around me we worried, too. Then, Eden Hazard – very quiet thus far – collected the ball in front of the Chelsea fans below me. We willed him on, and he responded by running deep into the Everton box. I saw Diego Costa running into an already crowded area and I quickly thought to myself –

“Like to see what Hazard does here. Wonder if he’ll reach Costa.”

With the blink of an eye, Hazard’s pass to Costa hit the sliding Coleman and ricocheted, miraculously, into the net, spinning off the far post.

We roared again, but deep down I knew that we had been lucky.

Amidst the triumphant celebrations, a plastic bottle was tossed into the Park End by a Chelsea supporter and our attention was centered upon the pointing, gesturing and faux outrage shown by both Everton and Chelsea fans down below us. Police were repositioned in the walkway between the sets of fans and some even stood in front of us. I don’t mind Everton fans generally, but the ones who inhabit the five-hundred or so seats of the Park Lane nearest the away paddock must be hand chosen for their relentless complaining, restlessness, irascibility and anger. I looked up to see a killer ball played through the heart of our defence and Naismith poked home with a fine finish.

3-2.

“Fackinell.”

“What happened?” asked the chap to my left.

“They scored” I replied.

“Shit defending” said another.

A huge roar from the home stands welcomed Samuel Eto’o on to the pitch. He seemed to be sporting a new, lopsided hairstyle. Maybe he was hoping we wouldn’t recognise him.

We came at them again. The ball was worked into Matic, central, but with defenders looking to throw themselves towards him. He remained calm and worked the ball on to his favoured left foot. He drilled a low shot past Howard and we regained our two-goal advantage.

4-2.

Still the goals came. A Leighton Baines free-kick found the stooping head of Eto’o – who else? – and the ball flew into the Gwladys Street goal, with Courtois unable to scramble back.

4-3.

Within a minute, we broke away and Ramires received a ball from Matic and toe-poked it past Howard from an angle.

We roared again.

5-3.

Next, we were in adoration of an amazing piece of skill from our young Belgian goalkeeper. A Mirallas shot was goal bound, but Courtois flung his hand out to push the thunderous strike onto a post.

In the away end, we were gasping, trying to make sense of all of it.

“Oh, Mourinho will hate this.”

“I’m only surprised Lukaku ain’t scored yet.”

Filipe Luis came on, replacing the overall quiet Hazard, for his Chelsea debut. Then, in the last moment of an incredible match, another substitute – the much derided Mikel – was able to break, keep his composure and nonchalantly back heel a pass in to space for Diego Costa. Our new goal scoring hero still had much to do, but pushed the ball wide, created an angle, skipped past a sad challenge from Distin and slammed it past Howard.

6-3. Bloody hell.

Diego Costa was overjoyed, and he pumped his arms before jumping in delirium towards the baying fans in the corner.

At the final whistle, there was a proper mix of emotions in the away end. As the players slowly walked towards us – all eleven of them, as it should be – the little band of brothers who I had watched the game with agreed that it had been a mixed-bag of a performance. Outrageous raids on the Everton goal, but also ragged defending.

Half-jokingly, I exclaimed “I’ve never seen us play so badly and score six.”

Smiles all around.

I had a vision of the players and management team striding triumphantly into the small, cramped away dressing room, only to find a pale Jose Mourinho, holding his arms around his waist, sat on the floor, rocking.

“Leave him be. Let him have a few moments alone, lads.”

We all remember his comments back in 2004 when he was dumbfounded by a high-scoring North London Derby, which finished 5-4 to Arsenal.

“That wasn’t a football match.”

I met up with Parky outside on the corner of a terraced street opposite the away turnstiles, just as a bevy of noisy Chelsea fans began a new chant –

“Diego Costa – He’ll Win Us The League.”

The journey home was easy in the circumstances. Driving two hundred miles after such an astonishing game of football – it was only the third time that I have witnessed nine goals in a single game – is not a chore. I eventually reached home at 12.15am, but I knew that I’d be awake for a while yet, attempting to relive and perhaps rationalise the insanity of Goodison Park 2014.

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Tales From The Chelsea Square Mile

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Chelsea vs. Leicester City : 23 August 2014.

So, the 2014-2015 home opener against Leicester City on the Saturday of the August Bank Holiday weekend. A time to meet up with a few more Chelsea mates; I bumped into quite a few among the four thousand at Burnley on Monday, but here was a chance to chat to a few more. Monday’s game showed glimpses of a fine season to come. There were plenty of plusses, no more so than from the new starters Thibaut Courtois, Cesc Fabregas and Diego Costa. Leicester City, another of the promoted teams, would be full of fight but, surely, most Chelsea supporters would be hoping for a maximum six points from our first two league matches. Let’s begin strong. Let’s try to amass as many points against the lesser teams before we lock horns against the big four, five, six or seven.

It would be time for me to continue to get my juices flowing for the season too. I have to be honest though; the final home game of last season, against Norwich City, was so lackluster, with a disappointingly subdued atmosphere too, that my memory of it left me wondering if I’d have trouble in getting “up” for the home opener of 2014-2015.

This is a familiar theme here, isn’t it?

I can only tell this Chelsea story from my perspective.

Whatever will be will be, as the song goes.

After the tiring pilgrimage to Burnley on Monday, my mate Glenn took a turn to drive for the Leicester match. It was a quick and easy drive east. We were soon parked up on Greyhound Road, just a mile or so to the north of Stamford Bridge. It is a strange fact that although I attend around twenty-five matches at The Bridge every season, my meanderings on match days do not extend far beyond a square mile of terra firma centered on the green sward of Stamford Bridge. From the North End Road heading south towards Fulham Broadway – the old Walham Green – then east along Fulham Road, past the stadium, up to Redcliffe Gardens, on to Old Brompton Road – just touching the southern boundary of Earl’s Court – and then west along Lillee Road, past the cluster of pubs around West Brompton.

This marks the territory of my usual Chelsea match day experience.

And it would be the path that I would take on this particular match day Saturday.

At 12.45pm, I was patiently waiting at the bar in The Goose, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to my left and saw Eric, with his good lady Megan. They are both from Detroit and in town for the best part of a week. Eric is a keen footballer and plays regularly. Crucially, he has been a Chelsea fan for a number of years. I first met him in New York City ahead of our game with PSG in the summer of 2012. Thankfully our extended Chelsea family was able to secure a match ticket for the game. We retired in to the beer garden which was predictably busy on this sunny lunchtime.

Our usual gaggle of Chelsea devotees stood in a small circle, sipping lagers, chatting, sharing jokes, laughing at Parky. It was a typical scene. It was just lovely to be sharing it all with Eric, who – I am sure – was looking forward to a Goose pre-match just as much as the main event at 3pm.

My good friend Andy was able to regale the two Detroit natives of his visit to the city way back in 1987. I must visit Detroit one day – home to the Motor City Blues, of which Eric is a member – as it is one of the few major North American cities, along with Montreal, Phoenix, Nashville, Memphis, St. Louis and Badgercrack, Nebraska, that I am yet to visit. Eric and Megan had been enjoying a fine time in London since their arrival on Wednesday. On their first evening, despite being undoubtedly tired with jet lag, they embarked on a bespoke tour of a half a dozen gin bars, which took them through several different parts of the capital city.

“Yeah. We have a similar scene in Somerset. Gravy bars. A bit different.”

Visits followed to Buckingham Palace, the Tower of London, Westminster Abbey and the Churchill War Rooms below Whitehall. These are just the sort of attractions that I could or maybe should be visiting on my London excursions. While Eric would be watching the boys play, Megan was off shopping.

We met up with Darren outside the CFCUK stall and the all-important ticket was handed over to Eric. He had a prime seat; second row of the Matthew Harding Upper, right behind the goal. Despite our plans to get Eric in to the stadium in good time, so he could experience a little of the pre-match atmosphere, we still found ourselves outside the MH turnstiles at 2.55pm.

“Typical Chelsea.”

Eric laughed.

I was in, alongside Alan, Glenn, Tom and Joe, with a couple of minutes to spare. Stamford Bridge, with a sky full of small bursts of white cloud and stands full of sun-kissed spectators, looked a picture. It wasn’t easy to tell where home fans met away fans in The Shed. A thin line of stewards marked the boundaries. Leicester City would be backed by a healthy three thousand. Not too many were wearing replica shirts. I remember three specific games against Leicester City at The Bridge; the Erland Johnsen game in the 1996-1997 F.A. Cup run, a last-minute blooter from Frank Leboeuf in 1997 and Steve Guppy killing our championship campaign with another last minute goal in 1999.

I had bought a match programme on the walk past the towering West Stand and the cover, design and layout is generally unchanged from previous years; well, since 2004-2005 anyway, when a new design was used. I’d suggest a new look. I’m getting bored with it. Throughout this season within the pages of the programme, there will be a retrospective on that 2004-2005 season.

Was it really ten years ago that we assembled at Stamford Bridge to see how the new manager Mourinho would begin his Chelsea career in that game versus Manchester United? How time flies when you are winning trophies. Come April, it will be a decade since Bolton. Oh my. Incidentally, during that summer of 2004, I watched my five-hundredth Chelsea game (the Gianfranco Zola testimonial versus Real Zaragoza) and it had taken me a full thirty years to reach that mark. In the following decade, ten seasons, I squeezed in a further five hundred. Realistically, I doubt if my support for Chelsea will ever again reach such heights of fanaticism; these have been my roaring forties. It’s been magnificent.

The first-half was a rather frustrating affair. Despite home advantage, the finer players, the more experienced manager, the most expensive signings, Leicester City – the new team at the top table – matched us. As the first period wore on, the exuberant Chelsea support began to quieten. And this disturbed me. I always wonder how many of the thousands at home games are first time visitors, like Eric, who have been drawn to our football and Chelsea in particular by the promise of a white hot atmosphere and associated boisterousness, only to be saddened by the quietness in the stands. It is always a concern. I’d hate every person’s first experience of a Chelsea match day to be underwhelming. I felt for Eric as the game progressed. Our play was not only slow and without focus, but Stamford Bridge was in one of its “can’t be arsed” moods.

Despite the continued probing of Cesc Fabregas, who constantly attempted to thread a variety of balls in towards our attackers, and the earnest runs of Andre Schurrle, and the physical presence of Diego Costa, it was the away team who had just as much of the ball and just as many attempts on goal. Would this be the day that would be remembered for the individual performances of the two ‘keepers Courtois and Schmeichel? A fantastic tackle by John Terry on Mahrez was almost the most memorable moment of the first thirty minutes. Diego Costa began to be rewarded for his movement with a couple of half-chances, but his efforts were thwarted.

As the half-time whistle blew, I envisaged Jose Mourinho waiting in the home dressing room with his smart phone and eleven ice bucket challenges.

Certainly there was a need for a concentrating of mind and body. Mourinho needed to inspire and cajole, or – at worst – give the team a bollocking.

At half time, John Spencer, our little Lion of Vienna, was walked around the pitch with Neil Barnett. What a night that was; when Spenno’s little legs dashed seventy yards before dispatching the ball past the Austria Memphis ‘keeper. That was almost twenty years ago. Another “oh my.” He was given a fine reception:

“One Johnny Spen-cah, there’s only one Johnny Spen-cah!”

At half-time, whispered words with my mate Rousey. One of his friends, Nick – who watched a mere ten feet away from me – had passed away a mere three weeks ago. His was a face that I recognised, though we never ever said more than a few words to each other. He will be missed by me and others.

The second-half was a different story, thankfully. There was a more vigorous approach from the off. Soon into the half, a fine effort from the previously subdued Oscar rattled the woodwork, and then the forceful Ivanovic forced a fine save from Schmeichel. Schurrle was scythed down, but referee Lee Mason didn’t see red. Our World Cup Winner then came close. Approaching the hour mark, the home support was buoyed by this greater urgency and rewarded the team with a wall of noise from the Matthew Harding. At last! I hoped that Eric’s nerves were tingling.

The Leicester ‘keeper was enjoying a fine game; his finger-tipped save from a rasping drive from Ivanovic, now very involved, was exceptional.

Then, our hearts were in our mouths, as David Nugent – who seems to have been around for ever – broke with the entire Chelsea defence caught short. Miraculously, his low shot was deflected wide by the outstretched shin of Courtois, who had quickly advanced off his line as soon as he realised the severity of the situations. His angles were perfect. As the shot flew off for a corner, we roared.

A penalty shout was waved away, and Schmeichel foiled a Fabregas effort. Our chances were piling up. Ivanovic was again involved with a bursting advance down the right. He found Diego Costa lurking centrally on the edge of the six yard box. A quick touch to bring the ball down and then a delicate prod past Schmeichel. I jumped up on to the steps to my left and roared. I don’t always do this; only for a “big” goal. Here was proof that this one was important. This was no run of the mill goal. This might just win us the points.

GET IN!

Diego Costa was two out of two and he reeled away down below me with his arms outstretched. I instinctively grabbed my camera and snapped as he was engulfed by his new, thankful, team mates. As they eventually untangled themselves, I caught his double point to the skies. I noticed Didier doing this at Burnley after his fine touch and volley. It must be the new craze. I hope we see a lot more of this.

Ramires and Willian came on for Schurrle and Oscar. What a squad we have this season. Leicester City, although clearly second best in this half, were still threatening. I told Alan that we needed a second to make it safe. With that, Eden Hazard, weaved in from the left down below me and hit a low shot towards goal. It was a move that we have witnessed on a few times before. I snapped a photo as he shot. A slight deflection sent it past the Leicester ‘keeper. Another roar. I watched as Hazard jogged over towards the Chelsea bench in that square-on style of his.

2-0. Phew.

With the game safe – I checked and Steve Guppy wasn’t playing – Jose had a little treat up his sleeve. With ten minutes to go, the crowd roared as Didier Drogba replaced Diego Costa. I’m still trying my best to rationalise the reappearance of Didier in the royal blue after two years away. I joked with Alan :

“How about next May, in Berlin, he scores another penalty and then leaves for good?”

“I’ll go with that.”

Willian, as willing as ever, tested man of the match Schmeichel one last time.

The whistle blew.

We were top.

“See you at Goodison, Al.”

Outside at the Peter Osgood statue, Eric was all abuzz. I could tell that he had experienced a magical afternoon. He wasn’t physically shaking, but he wasn’t far off it.

“Buzzin’, man.”

The night was still young and so we set off on a mini pub-crawl after picking up Dave and Jake. We called in for a drink at The Finborough Arms after a quick shower of rain and then The Pembroke, before we met up with Megan, post-shopping, for some pizza and Peronis at Salvo’s. On the adjoining table were ten Chelsea fans from Sweden. We all watched aghast as Arsenal equalised late on against Everton.

Parky, however, hit the nail on the head.

“Fcuk’em.”

There was just time for one last pub and one last pint; The Imperial, just along from West Brompton underground station, where the post-Chelsea home game ska night was coming to a close, but where a smattering of a few famous and infamous Chelsea faces would be drinking long in to the night.

“Definitely a part, now, of the Chelsea match day experience these days, Eric.”

“Fantastic.”

We said our goodbyes. It had been a fine day.

Dedicated to the memory of Sir Richard Attenborough.

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Tales From The Home Of Four European Trophies

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Chelsea vs. Atletico Madrid : 30 April 2014.

How frequently did I think about the Chelsea vs. Atletico Madrid second leg during the day at work? Maybe once every five minutes. Maybe once every three minutes. Maybe once every two minutes. Several work colleagues asked me how I was feeling about the evening’s game. To my surprise, I tended to reply that I was “quietly confident” that we would progress. This is unlike me, especially when it comes to Champions League semi-finals. I don’t think that I have ever been “quietly confident” ever before.

This would be Chelsea’s seventh Champions League semi-final in only eleven seasons.

Time for some numbers.

This would be the fourth time that the second-leg would be at home –

2004 : Monaco – drew 2-2, but lost on aggregate.

2008 : Liverpool – won 3-2, and won on aggregate.

2009 : Barcelona – drew 1-1, but lost on away goals.

In the other years, the results were –

2005 : Liverpool – drew 0-0, but went out on aggregate at Anfield.

2007 : Liverpool – won 1-0, but went out on penalties at Anfield.

2012 : Barcelona – won 1-0, and went through on aggregate at Camp Nou.

For a football club that were deprived of European football from the autumn of 1971 until the autumn of 1994, these represent an amazing treasure trove of memories and emotions.

Jesper Gronkjaer, Fernando Morientes, Luis Garcia, Eidur Gudjohnsen, Joe Cole, Jan Arne Riise, Frank Lampard, Michael Essien, Andres Iniesta, Didier Drogba, Ramires, Fernando Torres.

More heartache than joy.

In truth, the heartbreak of 2005, 2007 and 2009 are surely some of our most awful memories as Chelsea supporters. Somehow the loss in 2004 – our club’s first semi – seemed quite tame by comparison. After a tough away leg in Monaco, the return was always going to be difficult. We raced into a 2-0 lead, but then…well, you know the story.

As for 2005, 2007 and 2009; well you know those stories too.

After the sublime afterglow of Anfield, I gathered together two of the three troops who accompanied me to Liverpool on the previous Sunday. Lord Parky was collected from the pub opposite where I work in Chippenham and Dennis was collected from the town’s train station.

Let’s go.

I had watched the previous night’s semi-final between Bayern Munich and Real Madrid. Bayern’s capitulation had surprised me; despite odd successes, their recent Champions League story has predominantly featured misery and not joy.

So, Real Madrid – with our former manager Carlo Ancelotti at the helm – awaited the winner in Lisbon on Saturday 24 May. This pleased me, for numerous reasons. Should we be successful against Atletico, the stage would be set for a simply classic confrontation at Benfica’s Estadio da Luz.

Real Madrid vs. Chelsea.

White vs. Blue.

Carlo Ancelotti vs. Jose Mourinho.

1971 all over again.

I am sure I wasn’t the only Chelsea supporter to let their mind run away with the notion of this. I had gambled on us reaching the final after our win against Paris St. Germain; I had booked flights from Bristol to Lisbon. After the creditable 0-0 at the Vicente Calderon, a hotel room on The Algarve was booked, too.

Personally, there was an extra dimension to all of this.

Should we reach the 2014 Champions League Final, it would be my one thousandth Chelsea game.

In all honesty, this was all too surreal for me to comprehend at times. After the shocking defeat in Moscow, I was convinced that we would never win the European Cup. And yet, just six years later, here we were, with one trophy tucked in our back pockets and another one just 180 minutes away.

Dennis, Parky and I met up with some mates in the beer garden of The Goose. A couple of Atletico fans were inside. There was no hint of bother. Dave – the last of the Anfield Four – was in good spirits; he would be sitting next to me for the game. For once, talk was dominated by the game itself. Simon was “quietly confident” too. This was all very worrying.

News of the team broke and the big surprise was the appearance of Ashley Cole at left-back, presumably forcing Cesar into a midfield role, strikingly reminiscent of Ryan Bertrand’s role in Munich. The absence of Oscar was noted. Fernando Torres was given the start.

As Dennis remarked, it was turning into quite a week for him with visits to his two former homes.

I wanted to get inside the stadium earlier than usual, so I left at around 7pm. It was a perfect evening in London. I was in shirtsleeves and stayed the same the entire evening. At 7.15pm, I was inside. I was initially shocked to see how few fellow supporters were inside. Maybe, on this day of tube strikes, people were forced into a late arrival.

Over in the far corner, a sea of red and white striped shirts.

We waited for the kick-off.

Although the scene before me represented a familiar one; sunny skies, a boisterous away contingent, Champions League logos, familiar names on the advertisements, there seemed to be a lack of anticipation within the home ranks. For a while, all was still. Maybe it was the collective nerves among the home support which made for the quieter-than-expected ambiance.

The TV cameras picked out Diego Maradona and then Claudio Ranieri in the executive areas of the West Stand.

A card had been placed on every seat in the MHU; on it were instructions to hold these cards aloft just before the teams were due to enter the pitch. The overall effect would be of a blue-white-blue-white bar scarf. This was met with unsurprising cynicism from the chaps in the row in front, but I approved. I remember the CISA arranging for the 17,000 Chelsea fans at the 1994 F.A. Cup Final to hold 17,000 blue cards aloft as the players strode across Wembley’s finely manicured lawn, only for the TV cameras to ignore it completely. With around five minutes to go, the hideously embarrassing opera singer wheeled out by the club on European nights sang “Blue Is The Colour” and the usual blue and white scarves, derided by the Scousers at Anfield on Sunday, were waved in the West Lower and the Matthew Harding Lower.

As the teams entered the field, it was our moment. Some 3,000 blue and white cards were held aloft. From the MH balcony, four flags were unfurled.

The European Cup Winners’ Cup : 1971 and 1998.

The Super Cup 1998.

The European Cup : 2012.

The Europa Cup : 2013.

The only British club to win all four. It was a fantastic sight. I noted that, over in the East Middle, the inhabitants had been given 3,000 bar scarves.

Flags, mosaics, scarves.

I know that this kind of “forced-participation” is often frowned upon, but Stamford Bridge looked a picture.

As Dave arrived in time for the kick-off, there was a brief interchange.

Dave : “Great seats, mate.”

Chris : “This is where the magic happens.”

At 7.44pm, Stamford Bridge fell silent momentarily as two of football’s family were remembered.

Tito Villanova RIP.

Vujadin Boskov RIP.

I wasn’t happy that Chelsea were kicking “the wrong way” in the first-half. There are not many times that we attack the Matthew Harding in the first-half these days. Of course, prior to 1994 and the demise of The Shed, this was the norm.

At last, some semblance of noise boomed around the stadium as the few attacks from both sides began. Atletico brought the first heart tremor when a dangerously looping cross out on their left caused panic in our defence. It wasn’t readily apparent what had happened after Koke’s cross bounced off the bar. How could it go off for a corner? There was confusion in our defence and in my head too.

Next up, came a Chelsea chance. Ramires was fouled and we prayed for a goal from the free-kick. I caught a Willian’s effort on film, but it flew wide. Atletico were in this game and we tended to stand off as their mobile players raided. There was nervous tension on the pitch and off it. An overhead kick from David Luiz narrowly missed Courtois’ far post, bouncing safely away.

This was a tight game. Fernando Torres, prone to an indulgent dribble – maybe too eager to impress – was not ably supported by Azpilicueta, Willian and Hazard. For too long in the first half, he foraged alone. I noted a lack of intensity all round; from players and supporters alike. Was it the nerves? On several occasions when Atletico cleared, the ball boys threw balls back quickly, yet Chelsea players were often not paying attention and were unable to unsettle Atletico with a quick break. It was a metaphor for our half. We were just too lackadaisical. Jose would not approve.

The crowd tried to generate some noise.

“Champions Of Europe – We’ve Done it Before.”

With ten minutes to go before the break, a strong run from Willian into the Atletico box stirred us all. He held off two strong challenges – and did well to stay on his feet – and the ball ran free. Dave was supporting our Brazilian dynamo and he picked up the loose ball, and played it back into the path of Torres.

The former Atletico captain swept it into the goal.

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES.”

I jumped up and looked over to Nando. He held his hands up, indicating his reluctance to celebrate fully. Elsewhere, we more than made up for it.

We were on our way to Lisbon.

“GETINYOUFUCKINGBEAUTY.”

Alan : “They’ll hath to come at uth na-ohhhh.”

Chris : “Come on my little diamonth.”

Atletic seized the gauntlet and probed away. Mark Schwarzer, after his fine performance at Anfield, seemed to be coping ably.

Then, on forty-four minutes, misery.

Tiago, our former champion from 2005, swept a ball over to the far post to an unmarked attacker. The ball was knocked back…clenching of muscles…and Lopez struck home.

They had the advantage; that dreaded away goal.

It had been a first-half of few chances; six to us, five to them. At half-time, we presumed that Atletico would sit and protect their narrow advantage. They would, surely, do to us what we did to Liverpool on Sunday.

After the opening few minutes of the second period, Simeone’s game plan was evidently more adventurous. They attacked from the whistle. A Schwarzer save from Turan saved us. At the other end, we gasped in amazement as Courtois dropped to save a John Terry header. Samuel Eto’o replaced Ashley Cole, with Azpilicueta filling in at left-back. He joined up with Torres, with the midfield realigning themselves behind. Then, more calamity.

I was momentarily looking away, so missed Eto’o’s clip which resulted in the Italian referee pointing towards the spot.

Costa struck home.

Game, surely, over.

We now had to score three times to progress.

The away fans were in triumphant mood.

“Leti. Leti. Leti. Leti.”

Chelsea offered moments of hope. David Luiz, strong in tackle, but prone to awful finishing all night, struck a post. Atletico broke away down our right and Turan saw his header crash against the bar. We watched in horror as he easily followed up with a tap in from the rebound.

Stamford Bridge fell flat. It was time to reflect. At least there was no sense of horrendous injustice this time. At least there was no Iniesta-style dagger to the heart. I’d rather take a 3-1 loss than a last minute 1-1 exit. We had met our match, no excuses. Maybe the efforts of the game on Sunday had taken everything. Our one hope, Hazard, had been on the periphery all night. The game fizzled out. Mourinho made some late changes, but an unforgettable recovery was never on the cards. It had been a horrible second-half. We looked second-best. I longed for the whistle to blow.

The Atletico contingent, who had been relatively quiet until their first goal, were now rejoicing. There were songs for their former hero Fernando Torres and for their hated rival Jose Mourinho.

Some home fans had left by the time of the final whistle, but I was heartened by the many Chelsea supporters who stayed to not only thank our players for their efforts throughout the campaign but to applaud the victors.

Top marks.

Rob walked past and tapped me on the shoulder.

“Not tonight, Chris.”

“We’ve lost five out of seven semi-finals, but we’d give it all up for Munich.”

Rob agreed.

At least we have Munich. We’ll always have Munich. And Munich made defeat against Atletico Madrid on a night of harsh reality almost…ALMOST…bearable.

Outside, I waited silently with Dave for Dennis to arrive underneath the statue of Peter Osgood. I looked at his name etched in stone and I looked up at his image. It was a moment for me to give thanks to Ossie, possibly the determining factor in my decision to not only choose Chelsea in 1970 but to stick with the club ever since. After a while, a clearly saddened and emotional Dennis arrived. He was sad we had lost – of course – but was more disgusted by the “fans” around him in the West Lower who had hardly uttered words or songs of support to the team all night.

Then, Dennis spoke and his emotive words made me smile.

“I just need a few moments with The King.”

Outside on the Fulham Road there was an air of quiet reflection of the better team having won as the Chelsea faithful made their way home. Back in The Goose, Dennis – the visitor from over six thousand miles away – was philosophical and humbly grateful. He stood with a pint of lager in his hand and said –

“I’m just happy to be at this latitude and this longitude, right here, right now.”

We all knew what he meant.

As for me, there will be no grand finale in Lisbon. That landmark will have to wait.

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