Tales From 24 Photographs From The Round Of 32

Posted on July 31, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Sparta Prague : 21 February 2013.

On the evening of Thursday 21st. February, I took 58 photographs at the Chelsea vs. Sparta Prague game. I uploaded 24 of these to my latest Chelsea album on Facebook. They say that a picture is worth a thousand words. Here are a few words about these photographs.

Photograph 1 : 8.01pm.

A close-up shot of the Europa League banner. This had been placed on the Stamford Bridge pitch in front of the West Stand, awaiting the arrival of the two teams. The Europa League represents a new competition for Chelsea Football Club although we took part in its predecessor, the UEFA Cup, in 2000-2001, 2001-2002 and 2002-2003. In the pub beforehand, my mate Daryl commented that he was tempted to miss the night’s game, but he has attended every single one of Chelsea’s European home games since our return in 1994, so felt compelled to buy a ticket. I’ve missed a few; the last one was, ironically, against Sparta Prague in November 2004, when I was tied down at work. I think I’ve missed five home games over the years; Vaalerenga, Hapoel Tel Aviv, MSK Zilina, Helsingborgs, Sparta Prague.

Photograph 2 : 8.03pm.

The two teams standing in a line. A TV cameraman is taking those up-close-and-personal shots of the players. Chelsea in their kit, Sparta wearing tracksuit tops. It was great to see John Terry back in the line-up.

Photograph 3 : 8.03pm.

A photograph of the yellow and burgundy Europa League flag. While the unfamiliar Europa League anthem was played, the flag was being fluttered in the centre-circle by a dozen UEFA clad helpers. With a new colour scheme – no more Chelsea blue and white on European midweek games for now – and with unfamiliar advertising hoardings around the circumference – Hankook, HTC – the night seemed strange from the off-set, like a game being played in a parallel universe. During the anthem, the away section lit up with a hundred or so mobile phone lights – like Napoli last season – and I noticed a few Sparta fans in other parts of the stadium too.

Photograph 4 : 8.04pm.

Another shot of the two teams, the Europa League banner in view. Although the first game at the Letna Stadium was poor, Sparta didn’t offer too much of a threat to Chelsea. I expected a comfortable passage to the next round – the awkwardly titled “Round of Sixteen” – and I had even gambled on flights to Amsterdam, expecting both Chelsea and Ajax to progress.

Photograph 5 : 8.04pm.

A close-up photograph of the Sparta Prague players shaking hands with the Chelsea team. I wondered what the Sparta “game-plan” would be. Contain or attack? Stick or twist?

Photograph 6 : 8.05pm.

A close-up shot of the away fans. In the pub before the game, there were around ten Czech fans, quietly chatting and drinking around a table. A couple were wearing Torino-esque pomegranate coloured Sparta scarves, but their match-day attire was understated and normal. There was even a couple of classically “high-cheek boned” Czech girls in the group. I approved.

Photograph 7 : 8.05pm.

Another close-up of the Czech fans. As soon as I had walked into the stadium, I noticed an orange glow emanating from the away corner. This surprised me since I knew that the Sparta kit colours were – like Roma – burgundy, white, black. After zooming in on the away section, the reason for the orange glow was apparent. Virtually every single one of the three thousand Sparta fans was wearing blue, yellow and red woollen hats. I had never seen this at a game before. Top marks to them. The Sparta crest is blue, yellow and red. Overall, the away end looked orange. What with the Europa League banners in the stadium too, this was turning out to be quite a new visual experience.

Photograph 8 : 8.05pm.

A photograph of the upper tier of the away section. More ski-hats, more colour. Of the three-hundred fans in the photo, there is only one without the hat. Typically, a few “half-and-half” scarves but, as this was a game between teams from two different leagues I saw no problem with that. It was a bitterly cold night in SW6 and everyone was wrapped up in warm jackets. A few wre wearing their Sparta shirts over their outer jackets; maybe their mothers weren’t around this morning to dress them properly. There was an absence of shiny puffer jackets, much beloved by the Italians. Maybe they haven’t reached Prague yet.

Photograph 9 : 8.15pm.

A shot of eight Chelsea pensioners, resplendent in their rich scarlet overcoats sitting at the rear of the East Middle. In front, there was an array of unoccupied seats. I had noted during the day that the Chelsea website had declared the match “sold-out.” This both pleased me and surprised me; the last thing that I wanted was the football world poking fun at Chelsea’s possibly spoiled fan base turning their collective nose up at the Europa League. However, although the rest of The Bridge was full, this corporate area – of some 2,000 seats – was predominantly unoccupied. The question to ask here is; did the corporates decide that this game was not worthy of their presence or did Chelsea get their pricing structure wrong?

Photograph 10 : 8.32pm.

A photograph just before the point of contact of Juan Mata’s boot as he aims a free-kick goal wards goal. The Sparta wall is just about to leap. By this stage in the game, despite a promising start with Torres squandering two good chances, Sparta had gone ahead via a quick free-kick and a goal from Lafata.

Photograph 11 : 8.34pm.

A photograph of the action inside the Chelsea penalty area from a Sparta corner. The ball is just about to be headed clear by Gary Cahill. Despite Chelsea dominating possession during the first-half, Sparta were clearly not just sitting back. The tie was now level and a Sparta away goal would put them at a huge advantage.

Photograph 12 : 8.44pm.

The Prague ‘keeper Vaclik, who had a poor first game, is photographed catching the ball from a Juan Mata corner. Just before the break, Fernando Torres headed over. It clearly was not going to be his night.

Photograph 13 : 9.19pm.

A photograph of the photographers. Dressed in Sparta burgundy, they are poised with their long lenses to capture that elusive Chelsea equaliser at the north end of the stadium. The second-half had begun with Oscar, now showing what a well-rounded and accomplished midfielder looks like – strong in the tackle, good balance, tremendous close skill, great vision – dancing through the Sparta defence with a tremendous run. His ball found Ramires whose shot on goal was deflected onto a post. A lovely turn from Torres was not matched by the finish. He found himself one on one with the ‘keeper but his attempted flick over – with all of ready to celebrate – was amazingly swatted away by Vaclik.

Photograph 14 : 9.21pm.

Push and shove inside the Sparta penalty area. Juan Mata’s cross is out of shot, but players of both teams are moving in every direction possible to elude each other. John Terry is seen pulling a sleeve. One defender is facing away from the ball, creating a block for Mikel. I really wonder why the much-lampooned goal-line officials bother showing up; when have they ever spotted any of these illegal activities during a match? As the second-half developed, the Chelsea fans – already out-shouted by the away fans – began getting more abusive. On the hour, there was a loud shout of “Jose Mourinho” from the Matthew Harding Lower.

Photopraph 15 : 9.23pm.

The ball is headed away by a Prague defender, with Ryan Bertrand challenging. I commented to Alan that Ryan needed a good game; if I’m honest he hasn’t developed particularly well since his surprising involvement in the game in Munich. Ah, Munich. Just the word sends me dizzy.

Photograph 16 : 9.35pm.

John Terry in attack, heading back across goal from another Mata corner. By now, we had wasted many free-kicks in and around the box and Sparta had threatened on a few forays up field. Benitez replaced Oscar – our best player in my book – with Eden Hazard. The dice were being thrown.

Photograph 17 : 9.35pm.

A photo of the Prague fans in the Shed Lower raising their scarves above their head. With their constant chants of “Sparta! Sparta! Sparta!” sounding similar to “Barca! Barca! Barca!” and their yellow and red of Catalonia plus the burgundy and blue of Barcelona, I wondered if there might be an Iniesta-like strike to send us packing. An away goal now and it would be Czech, mate.

Photograph 18 : 9.35pm.

Eden Hazard, in extreme close-up, down below me, shaping to zip a free-kick goal wards. Our domination continued but Torres’ poor night was summed up when a Ramires effort hit him in the chest.

Photograph 19 : 9.50pm.

Juan Mata caught taking yet another free-kick. One after another they came. The frustration rose with every missed opportunity. Ramires wide. A Hazard free-kick was parried by Vaclik. Ramires kicked and missed.

Photograph 20 : 9.53pm.

Bodies in the box. Victor Moses is photographed attempting to latch onto a loose ball. The Prague defenders heads clear. By this stage, we had heard that Ajax was losing 1-0. My flight to Amsterdam was looking in jeopardy. A Gary Cahill block stopped a crucial Sparta goal.

Photograph 21 : 9.55pm.

The captain John Terry is photographed booting the ball goal wards. He had already come close with an impudent flick from close in. At the other end, a Sparta Prague break had caused me to look away – I hardly ever do that – but an effort from Kadlec was zipped wide. That chance really should have sealed the tie. Apilicueta shot high from an angle. Penalties were looming large.

Photograph 22 : 9.58pm.

Eden Hazard is engulfed by ecstatic Chelsea players down below me. In extra-time, the substitute had cut inside a defender, using that lovely low centre of gravity body swerve and worked the ball onto his left foot. A thunderbolt flew past the redoubtable Vaclik and, although I at first thought that Hazard’s thunderstrike had rippled the side-netting, the roar from the Stamford Bridge crowd told me otherwise. I continued snapping the players’ celebrations below.

Photograph 23 : 9.58pm.

A close-up of Torres, Ramires, Mikel, Moses, Hazard and Bertrand. Beside me Alan was shouting for joy – and relief. Phew. It was virtually the last kick of the game. We were through. Phew again.

Photgrapho 24 : 10.01pm.

A photograph of the Sparta Prague team, lined-up, arms around each other, basking in the warm applause of the colourful three-thousand away fans. Soon after, the entire away end was bouncing in joyous abandon. This had clearly been an enjoyable night for them in London. Their players’ performance had been very brave; they almost pulled off the unexpected. The Sparta supporters’ performance was even better. I take my hat off to them.

The 24 Photographs –

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Tales From The Badlands

Posted on July 29, 2013 by Chris Axon

West Bromwich Albion vs. Chelsea : 17 November 2012.

I left work on Friday, thrilled by the prospect of five straight days of holiday and, within that time frame, there would be two Chelsea games which I would attend.

First up was an away trip up the M5 to West Bromwich Albion’s neat Hawthorns stadium, a mere 111 miles away.

I didn’t have to be up there early. This was another solo-trip – no Parky – and I wasn’t in any particular mood to do much before the game. This would be a simple “in and out “affair. In truth, the drive up through a busy Bristol and up onto the motorway, then through the overcast countryside of Gloucestershire and Worcestershire, was rather dull. I listened to “Fighting Talk” on Five Live and then caught the opening section of that station’s football coverage. The drive took me two and a half hours, similar in length to a home game, and I was parked up at the Park Inn at 1.40pm. There was a long line at the bar and, to be honest, I had a headache and didn’t fancy a beer. A quick hello to a couple of acquaintances in the bar and I soon decided to head off to the stadium. The North London derby was on a TV screen, but I gave it scant regard.

There was a time, before the M5 motorway ploughed right through the heart of the Black Country, when The Hawthorns probably felt like a natural extension of the historic town centre of West Bromwich. Now, the six-lane motorway dissects the two locales. The town centre is a mile to the west of junction 1 of the M5. The ground is isolated, cut off and disowned by the town centre, a few hundred yards to the east, surrounded by industrial units, a bakery, a McDonalds and a single housing estate.

And yet, I’ve always liked trips to this stadium, set on a slight incline, with its angled floodlights being easily visible from the motorway as it bends and curves its way north. I suspect that this could be, in part, due to our fine record at this stadium. A fine record, that is, until last season when a lamentable performance spelled the end of Andre Villas-Boas’ short, and eventually unloved, term in charge of our team. This would be my eighth journey to The Hawthorns; the first six of these resulted in straight Chelsea wins. The seventh, was that 1-0 loss in March.

I took the usual mix of photographs outside the stadium, which is clad in dull grey and navy steel, yet maintains a clean and trim feel. I was last in the area on my drive to Villa Park for the Community Shield in August, when our young team was still finding its footing. I took a few photographs of those angled floodlight pylons. There were times in the distant past when my sorties around the highways and byways – OK, the roads and railways – of this land were immortalised by shouts of “there’s Huddersfield’s ground” or “there’s Cardiff’s.” This was code for the fact that the floodlight pylons, rather than the stadia themselves, could be spotted, from maybe several miles away. It was somehow reassuring to know that they were still there; totems, if you like, for the stadium, for the club, for the respective communities which those clubs represented. These days, the lighting at stadia is more likely to be tucked under the roof of stands. The visual impact of those high and towering spider-webbed structures is, therefore, sadly missing from our urban landscape. It was always an anomaly of Stamford Bridge that, until 1994, we had three floodlight pylons, remnants from the days when the vast bowl was served by six pylons. In 1972, the three on the east side were taken down, leaving just the three on the west side. Spotting them from way out on an approach into London always got the pulses racing.

A few girls were handing out fliers for a Status Quo album or gig. Talk about taking a step back in time. Bad music in the badlands of the Black Country.

I also took a few photographs of the Jeff Astle gates, which are typically understated. Astle was a much-loved striker from the late ‘sixties and early ‘seventies, who sadly passed away in 2002. He was probably the Albion’s most famous son and appeared in Sir Alf’s 1970 World Cup squad. I met up with Alan and Gary, who were on the lookout for match badges. We walked down to the away entrance, where we chatted to the four Bristolians who frequent The Goose and all stadia east, west, north and south. Tim, one of the four, attended a Stiff Little Fingers concert with me in Bath on Monday. I had bumped into him at the same concert a year ago and, typically, I bumped into another Chelsea acquaintance – we recognised each other from The Goose – again this past Monday. Chelsea world gets smaller every year.

Talk was of the team. It was certainly a surprising eleven; no doubt the upcoming game in Turin on Tuesday forced Di Matteo’s hand.

Inside the stadium, we had great seats; in the first row above the walkway. Just before the teams entered the pitch, the resident DJ played the magnificent “Love Will Tear Us Apart” by Joy Division and then followed it up with sings by Oasis and The Killers. I certainly enjoyed hearing those three classic songs. Well done to the DJ. It sure beat Status Quo.

The music changed to the classical sounds of “Carmina Burana” as the teams walked onto the pitch.

Stirring stuff.

“I need some Old Spice aftershave” I said to Gary.

We began well, controlling possession, and a fine move down the left resulted in a Ryan Bertrand effort from inside the box being hacked off the line. However, our early smiles were turned to despair when West Brom worked the ball wide and the resulting cross was headed home by Shane Long, with the floundering David Luiz absent. Maybe Luiz was still finding a place to park his car at the Park Inn, maybe he was outside the stadium buying some pork scratchings, or maybe he was in a line at the nearby McDonalds. Joking apart, it was shocking defending.

The locals celebrated by singing about one of their local rivals.

“Shit on the Villa, Shit on the Villa tonight.”

Victor Moses seemed to be involved on the left, more so than Sturridge on the right. A shot from Moses and another from Mikel hardly troubled Myhill in the home goal, though. Over on the touchline stood the former team mates, Roberto Di Matteo and Steve Clarke.

Wembley 1997 and all that.

We still dominated possession but rarely threatened. Studge worked himself into the game, firing at the ‘keeper, but Torres was woefully absent from any worthwhile activity. At times it was as if we were playing without a centre-forward, perhaps like the famous Hungarian formation from the ‘fifties. Fernando Torres, however, is no Ferenc Puskas. A quick break involving that man Shane Long almost put us 2-0 down.

Thankfully, we eventually broke through the well-marshalled ranks of striped defenders. An Azpilicueta cross deep into the West Brom six yard box was met by a rising Eden Hazard. I wasn’t sure how the ball managed to cross the line, but the net rippled and the Chelsea fans at last roared. To be honest, the away support had been pretty quiet until that point, with the noisy neighbours to our left providing more noise and variety. For some reason there was a heavy police presence in our end, with all of them looking our way. Maybe they had never seen Champions of Europe before.

…”Champions of Europe – we know what we are.”

I captured the celebrations of the Chelsea players away in the distance, but was then reprimanded by a weasel of a steward who warned me that further use of my camera would result in it being confiscated. The home fans then responded to our eventual noise.

“We know what we are.
We know what we are.
Pride of the Midlands.
We know what we are.”

As the sun cast long shadows on the spectators in the far stand, the Chelsea fans replied with an old chant from the late ‘seventies; quite rare these days.

“Attack! Attack! Attack, attack, attack!”

There were mumbles and grumbles at half-time. The only players performing well, in my mind, were Mikel and Azpilicueta, though Moses and Bertrand were adequate. As the second-half began, the air grew colder. We again began well, with a strong run down the right flank, but Sturridge turned to shoot only at Myhill. It was to be the first of many misses during the second half from our frustrating number 23. Just as we appeared to be improving – “this is much better, Gal” – our error-prone defending let us down once again. Long was not charged down by Luiz and his quick cross was turned in by Odemwingie, with Bertrand unable to get close. The home fans roared again.

“Baggies, Baggies, Boing, Boing – Baggies, Baggies, Boing, Boing.”

The Lord’s Prayer – Psalm 23 – then had an airing and The Hawthorns was rocking.

The songs continued. Chelsea were silent.

“We’re Albion till we die. We’re Albion till we die. We’re blue and white, the Wolves are shite, we’re Albion till we die.”

On the hour, time for action. Oscar for Romeu. Mata for Torres.

Soon after, two delightful balls from Juan Mata were lofted into the path of Sturridge, now playing centrally, but there was just too much “on” them. In truth, Studge did well to even reach the first with a header. However, despite the promising play from Mata, Studge’s two “misses” drew howls of derision.

The Chelsea fans, at last, decided to get behind the team. In response, the home fans countered and for a few minutes the atmosphere was electric, just like a game from the days of yore. The chances still came for Daniel Sturridge. Mata played the ball through, and Sturridge only had the goalkeeper to beat, but the ball was on his “wrong” side. His right-footed shot was tame and was easily blocked by Myhill, who was now turning in quite a performance in the Albion goal.

The best chance of the game again fell to Strurridge four minutes from time. Oscar, who had been playing in quite a withdrawn role, played the ball in but Sturridge screwed the ball wide. The Chelsea supporters had already decided that “enough was enough” and began to drift away. Two late corners, however, stopped the flow and the walkway in front of us became congested. Out came my camera to capture the last pieces of action. A short corner was played in by Mata and I snapped. The ball flew across the box and the sight of the yellow shirt of Petr Cech, flying through the air, at the far post caused a moment of supreme surprise and great expectation. I had not seen our ‘keeper arrive. It would have been some goal.

His outstretched leg did not connect with the ball. The referee blew for time. The glum faces of the Chelsea followers filed away into the night and the home spectators celebrated with a wild roar. I patted Al on the back – “see you in Turin” – and soon departed. As I turned one final corner, I glanced back at the spectators in the main stand –

“Baggies, Baggies, Boing, Boing – Baggies, Baggies, Boing, Boing.”
“Baggies, Baggies, Boing, Boing – Baggies, Baggies, Boing, Boing.”
“Baggies, Baggies, Boing, Boing – Baggies, Baggies, Boing, Boing.”

Fair play to them, the baggy buggers, let them enjoy the night.

Outside in the cold West Midlands night, the crescent of a waxing moon welcomed me as I hurriedly walked past the red brick of an old factory to my left. The Chelsea supporters around me were in a foul mood. Of course, I was far from happy either. I made my way past the onrushing home fans, battling the crowds, well aware that my solemn face did not match that of the locals. They were buzzing, to be fair. Steve Clarke has fashioned a hard-working team at West Brom. I wasn’t really sure if he would “cut it” as a stand-alone manager, but the dour Scot from Saltcoats has done a grand job. What of us? There were some below-average performances for sure. No need to mention names. Everyone knows who. However, I was later to learn that we had won twelve corners to West Brom’s zero. It certainly felt like we were always in with a chance of scoring. I think that a draw would have been a fair result.

Alas, not.

I got caught in some bad traffic as I tried to leave the area but, after ages, I found my way back onto the southbound M5. I just couldn’t be bothered with the radio. The United game would be referenced every five minutes and I couldn’t stomach that. Instead, Massive Attack accompanied me on the lonely trip home. I was typically melancholic as I drove on; dismayed by the result, but also with the standard of support from the away fans. At times, it was woeful. We were quiet at Swansea too.

Must do better.

As I reached home, I flicked on my laptop and could hardly believe the news that Norwich City had defeated Manchester United at Carrow Road. What a shocker. I suspect that the United legions were all over the internet moaning about their manager, the under-performing players, the formation, the whole nine yards. They have already lost three out of their twelve games so far this season.

Fergie out.

Tales From Roger’s Big Night Out

Posted on July 29, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester United : 31 October 2012.

Chelsea vs. Manchester United.

Seconds out, round two.

The substantial debris from the game on Sunday was still falling all around us as I anticipated the Capital One game at HQ. After the ridiculously high-scoring Reading vs. Arsenal game on Tuesday plus Chelsea and United’s predilection for attacking football, I was expecting another entertaining contest. As the afternoon progressed, I spoke about the game at work and I remember mentioning to a colleague “it won’t be 0-0.”

After having driven to all but a couple of the Chelsea games over the past two seasons, salvation was at hand. My mate Roger had volunteered to collect me from work and take on the burden of rush-hour traffic and the battle against inclement weather conditions. We left Chippenham at 4pm and, unfortunately, it wasn’t too long into the drive that the rain arrived. As Roger drove east, we spent most of the trip to London reminiscing on past Chelsea memories.

I used to work with Roger at a factory in Trowbridge from 1996 to 1998, but after he moved away to Devon a few years ago, I lost contact with him. I was elated to bump into him outside The Pelican pub at Chelsea before the game with Tottenham two years ago. We couldn’t remember if we had ever travelled up to a game together. I don’t think we had. I know that Roger joined a few friends and I on a stadium tour of Stamford Bridge in the summer of 1997. We laughed at the memory of him stealing a scrubbing brush from the home changing room. He still claims to this day that it belonged to Dennis Wise. He might even have it framed.

By a strange quirk of fate, our first two Chelsea games took place within three weeks of each other in the early spring of 1974. Roger told me how he managed to cajole his school teacher, Mrs. Fry – a keen Chelsea fan – to take him and his school friend to Stamford Bridge for their first game. On February 22 1974, young Roger – aged eleven – watched from the seats in the architectural oddity that was the North Stand as Chelsea and Queens Park Rangers drew 3-3. I made my home debut against Newcastle United in mid-March. Between the dates of the two games, Peter Osgood left Chelsea for Southampton. It is a major sadness that I never saw my childhood hero play for us.

Roger mentioned a few matches from that era. One game in which our paths collided was the March 1975 game against Derby County. We lost 2-1 to the eventual League Champions on that rainy day, but the memory which stayed strong in Roger’s mind was the presence of the Marching Mizzou band of the University of Missouri who entertained the crowd before the game. I vividly remember their bright yellow uniforms. They memorably sat in the otherwise unused (and quite possibly unsafe) seats in the upper tier of the ramshackle North Stand and I can well remember them bursting into life, unannounced, on several occasions during the game. In the Sunday Express paper the next day, I recollect the Derby manager Dave Mackay moaning about the sudden eruptions of sound which emanated from the stands during the game.

I reminded him of his Chelsea lottery win during the dark days of the 1982-1983 season. He had told me about this while we were working together. He told me how Chris Hutchings presented him with his prize before one game and how the photograph of this was featured in a later home programme. I remember delving through my programme collection and bringing it in to show him. At the time, Roger used to sell around three hundred lottery tickets on Hounslow High Street during the week before every home game. On one particular day, his brother helped himself to a ticket from the large pile in Roger’s living room. Roger asked him to pay the 25p for it, but his brother declined. Roger was livid. The ticket was rubbed away to reveal the prize of another “free” ticket. Roger swore at his brother and said –

“Well, you’re not having another. I’m having it.”

With that, Roger picked the next ticket in the pile. He rubbed it to reveal, to his immense satisfaction, a prize of £1,000, which was a huge sum thirty years ago. Imagine the look on his brother’s face. He even got an extra 10% as he was the lottery seller.

“Happy days, Mush.”

The traffic slowed around Maidenhead and my hopes for a couple of pints in the boozer before the game were diminishing quickly. The rain worsened too.

“Not so happy days, Dodger.”

We spoke about a few of the characters that we used to work with in Trowbridge, but the talk soon returned to Chelsea. Roger was clearly relishing the game against United. I’ve often thought how key defeats against Manchester United have, in a way, acted as spurs for later triumphs.

Think back to 1994. A truly demoralising 4-0 loss to United in our first F.A. Cup Final in twenty-three years left us shell-shocked and tearful. Yet, just three seasons later, the memory of two Eric Cantona penalties amid the rain of Wembley were forgotten as we finally got our hands on some silverware, beating Middlesbrough 2-0 in the same competition.

Think back to 1999. We only lost three games during the 1998-1999 league campaign, yet finished in third place behind the eventual champions Manchester United. After that, I was convinced that we would never win the league in my lifetime. We had reached our level. Just three defeats, yet no title. Just three years later, in 2005, we lost just one game all season long and became league champions for the first time in fifty years.

Think back to 2008. We had to endure the misery of Moscow with an excruciatingly painful defeat by Manchester United in the Champions League Final. Our greatest ever team, perhaps just past its prime, would surely never reach the final again. We lost out on the ultimate prize in European football by the width of a post and the splash of a puddle. Four years later in Munich, our beloved club won the Champions League for the first time ever.

In each of these triumphs, the joy of victory was made substantially sweeter due to the memory of those anguished defeats by Manchester United a few years previously. Additionally, with each trophy successfully attained, the next trophy was to be more prestigious. The F.A. Cup lead to the League and then to the European Cup. It seems, now, with the perspective of time, that we were following a natural order of progression. And it certainly seems that it was ordained in the stars that we would encounter pain and defeat in our quest for glory. With hindsight, that beautiful gift, I am fine with this. Everyone knows that the best things in life are worth the wait.

West London seemed especially dark and gloomy as Roger drove around the Hammersmith roundabout before heading down the Fulham Palace Road. We parked up on Bramber Road at 6.45pm. It had been a long journey in, but it had been excellent catching up with Roger. Inside The Goose, the team news had just been announced. I was very happy to hear that Robbie had chosen a strong team. I couldn’t stomach losing twice in four days to The Pride of Asia.

We had twenty minutes to drink-up in the boozer. There was just time for one pint again. A quick chat with a few mates. Rush, rush, rush.

“Let’s make a move, Rog.”

“No worries, Mush.”

There was light drizzle outside the West Stand turnstiles. The line at the Matthew Harding turnstiles meant that I missed the kick-off for the first time this season, if only by a minute.

Chelsea vs. Manchester United.

Seconds out, round two.

Ding ding.

As always, one of my first tasks of the game was a quick scan at the size and nature of the away support. The United masses took up 6,000 seats in both tiers of The Shed, though every single one was standing. No surprises there. The entire Matthew Harding Lower were standing too. There were around fifteen flags draped over the Shed balcony. One especially caught my attention.

“Clattenburg. Referee. Leader. Legend.”

Despite my Chelsea allegiance, that brought a wry chuckle.

There was an ironic flag, in Dundee United tangerine and black, honouring a much-maligned purchase that Alex Ferguson made from that club in around 1988.

“Ralph Milne Ultras.”

For a short period of time, a group of fans hoisted this one –

“Chelsea F.C. – Making a stand against racism since Sunday.”

Ouch.

There were a smattering of flags with musical references too, including one which honoured the drug of choice of the Mancunian ravers in the days of house music in the late ‘eighties and early ‘nineties.

“MD MDA MDMA OK.”

Football and music are so often entwined. At Chelsea, we have our own “London Calling” and “One Step Beyond” flags, of course, honouring the Chelsea-supporting lead singers of The Clash and Madness.

Roger was to my left, Alan and Tom to my right. We wondered what events might unravel this time. None of us could have predicted what ensued on the night of Halloween, Wednesday 31st. October 2012. It was one for the ages. If Sunday’s game “had it all”, then this one had the same, though strangely, in the circumstances, no sendings-off.

A timeline of events tells the story.

6 – Daniel Sturridge, at last the lone striker, was played in with only Lindegaard to beat, but experienced a Torresesque slip in front of goal. It was also in front of the baying United fans, who had already mocked him with taunts of being a City reject.

The away fans began the game where they left off on Sunday; a wall of noise. The Chelsea fans rose to the challenge, though, and songs were exchanged with gusto. Not surprisingly, one issue was soon the subject –

“Where’s your racist at the back?”

“Where’s your racist referee?”

I didn’t bother joining in.

22 – I was busy checking my camera and so missed the error by Oriel Romeu, put under too much pressure by a silly Petr Cech pass, which resulted in Ryan Giggs picking up the loose ball and adroitly steering the ball into the goal. Cech seemed crestfallen and the Mancs roared.

Here we go again. If anything, it was against the run of play. Victor Moses was the star of our first-half, running the channels, strong on the ball, full of endeavour. Top marks to him.

31 – That man Moses attacked the United full-back Buttner and a foul resulted in a Chelsea penalty. David Luiz, one of the Munich Five, calmly slotted the ball low past the ‘keeper.

Game on.

43 – A typical David Luiz dribble out of defence, involving one touch too many resulted in him losing the ball. The United players pounced and eventually played in Chicarito, who again scored at the north end. No taunting celebrations this time. A pink flare was lit by the United fans. The Chelsea stewards seemed to take forever to extinguish it. The United fans were baying again. One ran onto the pitch, his arms flailing like a maniac.

There’s a five year ban straight away.

“We’re Man United. We do what we want.”

Run on the pitch you mean? Idiots.

It was a desperate way to end the half.

We had played reasonably well during the first period, but it was galling to be losing to errors of our own making. Lucas Piazon was struggling to get in the game, but elsewhere we were fine. However, Di Matteo replaced the under-scrutiny Mikel with Ramires at the break.

49 – A quick Juan Mata corner caught everyone unawares, but the unmarked Sturridge attempted an outrageous flick inside the six yard box where an old-fashioned header would have brought greater rewards. There were howls of disapproval from the Matthew Harding. Studge clearly has issues in selecting the correct option at times. He is so frustrating.

52 – A Juan Mata corner was met powerfully by the head of Gary Cahill. The ball crossed the line before a United defender had the chance to hook it away. The Bridge was roaring once more.

59 – A great United move found Nani who clipped the ball past Cech. The goal was against run of play and left us trailing 3-2 once more. Eden Hazard replaced the quiet Piazon.

65 – After a short corner, Hazard picked out Victor Moses, but he headed over.

68 – A Juan Mata cross, deep to the far post, found an unmarked and onrushing Azpilicueta, but his header infuriatingly flew over. Roger moaned “what do they teach you? Head it down!” Oscar replaced Romeu. The three maestros were back together again.

72 – Oscar played the ball to Mata and his shot struck the hand of Keane. The ball had travelled a good five yards and the defender surely could have moved his arm away. The referee waved play on. Shades of Barca in 2009? You bet. We howled with derision and I turned the air blew.

75 – Victor Moses shot straight at the United goalie. Things were getting very frustrating indeed. Our efforts could not be doubted, though.

I commented to Tom that “no matter who wins, we’ve played really well in this game.”

83 – Daniel Sturridge shot was saved. The groans continued.

85 – An Oscar shot from distance was parried, unconvincingly, by Lindegaard.

The Manchester United contingent were now sensing victory and another 3-2 triumph.

“Can we play you every week?” they taunted.

Oh, how I wanted to ram that down their throats.

87 – I turned to Alan and Tom and reluctantly admitted “we won’t win this, lads.”

Three minutes of extra time were signalled. The game played on. The minutes passed.

93 – I saw the referee twice put the whistle to his mouth. On the second occasion, Alan and Tom were leaving their seats.

“See you Saturday, pal.”

To be honest, I thought the referee had whistled.

“Oh, he’s not blown.”

The ball was worked inside the box and it found Ramires on the edge. A push in the back and the referee, bless him, pointed straight at the spot. I turned around and screamed, clenching my fists tightly. Who should be staring straight at me but 75 year old Tom, screaming away, looking me right in the eyes, with a face that Edvard Munch would have been proud to paint.

Euphoria.

The game was surely no more than five seconds away from its completion. The fans who had been leaving suddenly sat on any available seat. This time it was Eden Hazard who decided to take a shot from the penalty spot.

We waited.

YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES!!!

Oh my. What a game. The place was rocking. I turned to Tom and said “that was more than three minutes.”

Tom, the quiet pensioner, smiled at me and, quite out of nature, barked back –

“I don’t give a fcuk!”

I had to laugh.

The period of extra-time began.

“No early night tonight, Dodge.”

“No, Mush.”

3 – For the second time, Sturridge shot from a ridiculously acute angle. If that lad was half as good as he thought he was, we’d be in business.

7 – I was lamenting Eden Hazard’s poorly directed long ball and looked away, only for the roars of the crowd to tell me that Studge had pounced on a loose ball. We stood as one as he calmly rounded the ‘keeper in front of the away fans and slotted the ball in. The ball rolled in and Stamford Bridge exploded.

For Sturridge, the “City reject”, this must have been oh-so sweet,

10 – Luiz and Nani were booked after an ugly altercation down below me. We responded with the funniest song of the night.

“You’re just a shit Michael Jackson.”

12 – Gary Cahill headed a whisker wide of the unguarded far post. The United fans were now quiet, their banners limp.

14 – A foul on Sturridge by the last man just outside the box had us all howling again. Why not a red? From the free-kick, David Luiz rattled the bar and United’s spirits.

What a game. Breathless stuff. The three substitutes had given new life, extra spirit, to the team. Oscar was simply exceptional.

Tom said “I have to keep lookin’ up to the scoreboard to remind me of the score.” It was the same for me during that equally crazy 4-4 with Liverpool in 2009.

19 – Daniel Sturridge twice shot over from similar angles within a minute.

21 – Studge played in the continually excellent Moses, but his effort was saved when it looked easier to score.

26 – The ball broke to Eden Hazard breaking clear. We all rose as one as he advanced. I raised my camera to capture his dribble deep into the United half. He stopped and spun, then dinked the ball into the path of Ramires. He drew the ‘keeper, then waltzed past him before angling a shot low into the goal.

FIVE-THREE.

Rather belatedly, Alan grabbed me and said –

“They’ll have to come at us now.”

Laughing, I replied “COME ON MY LITTLE DIAMONDS!”

30 – At the other end, Azpilicueta pushed into a United player and Ryan Giggs, the aging talisman, stroked the ball in from the penalty.

5-4. Bloody hell.

31 – Hazard raced away and almost made it 6-3, but he shot wide. The look on Roger the Dodger’s face was a picture.

Before the match, during the long drive to London, Roger asked me to name my favourite ever game. An easy answer would be those three games from 1997, 2005 and 2012, but he really meant “the most entertaining game.” I cited the 4-2 game with Barcelona in 2005, whereas Roger went with a 4-3 win over Tottenham in 1994. As we left the stadium, I asked him if this game might even topple that one.

The two sets of supporters mixed on Fulham Road, but there was a heavy police presence. The Chelsea fans were exultant. We were buzzing. As Roger and I walked away from the ground, we could hardly contain ourselves. It had been a fantastic night of football. The last three Chelsea vs. United games at Stamford Bridge, all in 2012, had produced no fewer than twenty goals.

My mate Glenn, watching in a pub full of United diehards back home in Frome, soon texted the news of the quarter finals.

“Leeds away.”

I quickly decided that this would be one game too far for me. I just don’t have enough spare holiday left. No big deal. Elland Road on a cold winter Wednesday is not going to be one of the most welcoming places in the world.

Roger had to endure even worse weather on the drive back to Chippenham. I felt for him. Our spirits were up though. No bother. He dropped me off at work at 12.30am and I was home at 1am. He had to drive back to Paignton in Devon and it would be a further two hours before he would reach home.

Tales From A New Dawn

Posted on July 28, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Newcastle United : 25 August 2012.

My very first Chelsea game was over thirty-eight years ago. The opponents on that life-changing afternoon were Newcastle United. Since then, our paths have crossed with alarming regularity, including some very memorable battles in the old second division. Our third Premiership game of the new 2012-2013 season would be my 31st Chelsea vs. Newcastle United match at Stamford Bridge. I have only seen Liverpool on more occasions at HQ. In those thirty previous games, our record was excellent; just four defeats. Our 2-0 loss to the Geordies in early May was our first league loss to them at home since a 3-1 defeat in November 1986.

There was a sense of revenge in the air. That game will be remembered, of course, for those two wondrous Cisse strikes. Strangely enough, while I was over in New York recently, I got chatting to a Newcastle United fan at the New York Yankees game on my last night. She had been at the game in May, one of the 1,500 away fans who had been rewarded for their support by a rare away win at Chelsea. I told her that there aren’t many times that I want to check out an opponents’ goal as soon as I reach home, but that was one occasion. We haven’t seen a goal like Cisse’s second strike at The Bridge for quite a while. Its trajectory seemed to defy all laws of physics. It was a cracking strike.

After our maximum six points being garnered from our two league matches, and our play improving over the past three games against City, Wigan and Reading I was truly relishing this one. Newcastle United would be a stern test. It had the makings of a classic. And this brought me a great deal of joy; I love the fact that teams outside of the big four or five have their moments. How boring it would be if our only tests each year were the same opponents.

With the evening kick-off, there was no need to leave until lunchtime. Out shopping in Frome in the morning, I bumped into Dave and Karen, fellow Chelsea fans and season ticket holders for around six or seven years. Regretfully, Dave informed me that they didn’t renew for 2012-2013. A few years ago, there used to be six season ticket holders travelling up from Dodge each game; Dave, Karen, Frank, PD, Glenn and myself. Only the latter two remain.

I collected Young Jake from outside Trowbridge train station at 1pm and Old Parky from his house soon after. There was a look of joyful glee on Jill’s face when I collected Parky; she often calls me her respite carer.

“Don’t worry, Jill, I’ll take care of the old bugger today. Send the cheque to my office.”

We chatted away as I headed east. Parky was fortified by a four pint pack of Foster lager. I made use of the new “Starbucks” drive-in at Membury Services near Swindon; another American innovation that has found its way over the Atlantic. The weather was bizarre; fine one minute, rain showers the next. We must have had twenty individual rain showers on the drive in.

As I drove past Slough to the north and Windsor to the south, it was obvious that London was in the middle of a pretty intense rainstorm. The sky was wild and wonderful. A great towering cumulonimbus cloud dominated the vista in the centre, but huge billowing white and grey clouds were everywhere I could look. We spotted occasional lightning forks. It was like a gatefold album cover from some hideous prog rock group in the ‘seventies. I almost expected to see dragons, serpents or bare-breasted Nordic goddesses.

Calm down Parky.

But then it got serious. The rain became heavier. We got drenched as we had a quick pit stop at Heston. The last twenty miles into town were painful. The rain came down in a never-ending deluge and the traffic slowed. The spray made visibility difficult. We drove past Brentford’s Griffin Park and saw that the floodlights were already on, even though it was only 3.15pm. Heading around Hammersmith, the rain bounced back up off the road and we saw great puddles of surface water.

“Honestly can’t see the game taking place, Parks…all this rain, bloody hell.”

The streets and pavements were virtually deserted. The sky was a brooding, dark shade of grey. It felt like a mid-winter evening, not a summer afternoon. The lightning strikes grew more frequent. There were even thunderclaps.

At least there were no text messages to say that the game had been postponed. We spoke about the last time that a match was called-off on the day of the game at Chelsea; we have been lucky, it was as long ago as 1998. Jake needed to meet Mick down at the Copthorne Hotel and so I decided to drive down to Stamford Bridge as the poor tyke would get soaked if he was to walk from The Goose. I turned left at the bottom of the North End Road and onto the Fulham Road. Where was everybody? Again, the streets were deserted.

It was, without doubt, a very eerie sensation. As I headed past the Hammersmith & Fulham town hall, the rain continued to fall. There was an apocalyptic air to what was before me; these familiar streets, usually so full of brightly coloured pedestrians and football supporters, were virtually devoid of people, save for a few poor souls sheltering under shop fronts and secluded nooks and crannies.

Dark skies, incessant rain, the wind howling and solemn streets devoid of life.

Like a terrible vision from the future.

Is this what Fulham Broadway will be like when Tottenham next win the league?

We dropped Young Jake outside the main entrance -“go, go, go!” – and I then drove around the block, past The Black Bull, The Finborough and up to the Brompton Road. Then, miraculously, the rain eased. By the time I drove past West Brompton tube, the newly-arrived passengers were briskly walking towards the gaggle of pubs as if the thunderstorm had not happened.

I then saw a sight which saddened me and stirred me in equal measure. Chelsea fan Kyle Broadbent tragically passed away during the week. He was just 26. Although I did not know Kyle, the eulogies being posted on Facebook during the week were enough for me to know that he had touched so many lives and was loved by many people in the Chelsea fraternity. Draped over the metal railings of the “Prince of Wales” pub, I spotted a damp, limp flag which simply stated –

“Kyle Broadbent 1986-2012.”

Several of his friends had walked that morning in his honour from Euston Station, some three miles away, to Chelsea. It seems that Kyle often went on wild and wondrous walks at various Chelsea games; it was his thing.

Oh boy. What to say?

Rest in peace, Kyle.

Miraculously, the rain stopped just as I parked up on Bramber Road. A few minutes later, Parky and I were with the usual suspects in The Goose. Another pint of Peroni. I’ll get a new nickname at this rate; “One Pint Axon.” I guess it’s better than “Half Pint Axon.”

The scores were being monitored on the TV screen. The place was packed. A little group of around ten away fans were spotted a few yards away. No malice, times have moved on. However, I don’t think Chelsea have any real problems with Newcastle. Everton fans are sometimes spotted in the pub. West Brom, Blackburn too; no big deal. None of our main rivals would take these same liberties, though.

It simply wouldn’t be allowed to happen.

For once, The Goose was rocking with loud and boisterous singing, no doubt inspired by the presence of the away fans. We all joined in. We couldn’t let the Geordies win that battle. With our trip to Monaco for the UEFA Super Cup coming up, Andy and I spoke about our memorable coach trip to the 1998 game in Monaco when we beat Real Madrid 1-0.

The coach broke down on three separate occasions on that trip; it was, however, a great excursion which was full of many great memories. A few lads from Burnham-on-Sea in my county of Somerset were on the coach and soon got stuck into many flagons of “Rich’s” cider. One of the lads, attending his very first football game, unfortunately bore a striking resemblance to the notorious killer Fred West and his experience on the night of the game proved to be the funniest moment of the whole trip.

Fred West – I can’t remember his name – was out on the Nice seafront in the small hours after the match had long finished, chatting with a few ladies of the night. After things got a little boisterous, one of the street-walkers approached Fred and, to his absolute horror, pulled her skirt down to reveal that “she” was in fact a “he.”

With that, Fred started to recoil in horror, only for the same individual to pull out a shotgun, which was fired into the air.

The image of a startled Fred West sprinting back to the hotel had his friends roaring with laughter. I bumped into one of Fred’s mates at the Reise game at Anfield in 2009; Fred hasn’t been to a football game since.

Ed bought Parky a double Jack Daniels and Coke. I wondered if he should have bought me a shovel, to allow me to scoop Parky out of my car when I would eventually drop him off later that night.

We left the pub just as the Tottenham let in a late – a very late – equaliser.

Happy days.

At “the stall” I had a quick chat with a few acquaintances. Mark W had lost a lot of the new edition of “CFCUK” during the deluge’ leaving Dave to try to hawk a few dry copies of the August edition. Cliff A gave me a flier about a “test the water” meeting to look at setting up a Chelsea Supporters’ Trust. The meeting is scheduled to take place after the Stoke game; watch this space. I accompanied Steve M on the walk to the ground; we spoke about the great time we had in the States.

Despite the torrential downpour which had hit south-west London, the pitch looked stunning. There was no surface water at all. Well done the ground staff. Neil Barnett introduced the new signings Victor Moses and Cesar Azpilicueta before the game. There were team changes from Wednesday; the big surprise was Raul Meireles partnering Mikel at the base of our newly-evolving midfield.

The game was indeed a cracker.

Despite the concerns over the summer about the new players taking a while to settle, we produced a very mature performance, with all players interacting well, against one of the fancied teams of the division.

The Bridge was soon rocking to the newest song of the moment. Out on the pitch, our play flowed in a way that was missing for vast tracts of last season. We simply purred. We began the livelier, with a few chances being carved out, with only sporadic Newcastle retaliation. In the 22nd minute, Fernando Torres spun into space and prodded the ball past a Newcastle defender. An outstretched leg, a fall, a penalty.

Three games, three penalties.

With Lamps side-lined, we pondered the options. Mata has missed a few penalties of late and so it was no surprise when Eden Hazard stood up.

A short run, a confident finish.

1-0 to the European Champions.

Alan and I had our “YHTCAUN – COMLD” exchange in a Geordie accent and, indeed, spoke in Geordie accents for the vast majority of the game.

The 1,500 away fans in the corner were clearly not impressed with the volume of our support and hit us, predictably, with the boring “Your Support Is F***ing S***.”

We yawned.

Fernando Torres, clearly now enjoying his permanent role at the front of our team, touched the ball past Coloccini and fell. Much to our horror, not only was a free-kick not awarded, but the Spaniard was booked.

Revenge came soon after. Although Alan was full of moans about Phil Dowd’s decision to allow five minutes of extra time at the end of the half, we were smiling in the 50th minute. A quite delightful move, which resulted in a Hazard back-heel into the path of an on-rushing Torres, ended with a delicate flick from the outside of Torres’ right boot. The ball simply flew into the net and The Bridge erupted.

Two goals in two games; Fernando Torres, you know what you are.

We all agreed how well we had played amidst our half-time chat. Out on the pitch, Neil Barnett was with former striker Joe Allon – famous for his jump over the Shed End advertising hoardings during a 2-2 draw with Wimbledon in 1991…but not much else.

Newcastle came at us in the first part of the second period. Our flow had been interrupted by the half-time break and the visitors’ new found thrust. But, in all honesty, we were hardly troubled the entire game. Ryan Bertrand hardly put a foot wrong. Both Mikel and Meireles covered a lot of ground and were the unsung heroes.

Three moments to cherish from the second period.

As the heavens opened again, a delightful back heel from Eden Hazard which almost reached Torres. I think we can expect similar moments of inspiration from our new Belgian as the season progresses. I noted that he has a very low centre of gravity – always an advantage for a dribbler – and, once he sets off on a forward run, he almost hugs the turf.

Fernando Torres was a man reborn and often ran at the Newcastle defence. His close control is one of his brightest assets. When he was on the edge of the Newcastle box, he fooled everyone by crossing the ball with his right foot from behind his standing left foot. Lovely stuff.

Eden Hazard, now full of running, teased Coloccini down below me and left him for dead over ten scintillating yards. His change of pace was amazing.

Newcastle had two or three goal scoring chances at the Shed End. We were slightly edgy, knowing that a goal from the visitors would bring them right back into it.

We held on. It had been a lovely game, which augers so well for the rest of the season.

With no trip to Monaco for me next weekend, I now have to wait three whole weeks for my next game; a feisty trip to our neighbours at Loftus Road. Who knows, by the time we reconvene there, we might still be top.

Tales From The Homecoming

Posted on July 28, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Reading : 22 August 2012.

I had obviously been relishing the first home game of the current campaign. I had gone six games without a match at Stamford Bridge – Munich, New York, Philadelphia, Brighton, Villa Park and Wigan – and it certainly felt like I had been absent from my second home for too long. However, at around 3.30pm, I was sat at my desk at work and I was full of yawns. I was evidently tired and I was concerned about the next few hours. Time was of the essence and, although I honestly felt like having a twenty minute power nap, I knew I had to move. I quickly fuelled up and picked up Lord Parky from The Pheasant at 4pm. I was on my way once more. The large tin of Red Bull that I guzzled set me up for the familiar drive east and there were no more yawns during the rest of the night.

Parky has been confined to barracks over the summer; he doesn’t often get out of the house these days due to his lack of mobility and so he was supremely excited to be “up and at’em” once again.

Another Chippenham to Chelsea pilgrimage. I didn’t spare the horses and was we parked up on Chesson Road at 6.15pm.

The Goose seemed relatively quiet.

“Two pints of Peroni” please.

I had explained to Parky on the drive to Chelsealand that I had sampled – probably – around fifteen different ales and lagers on my trip to America, but the two bottles of Peroni that I quaffed on Bleecker Street in Greenwich Village in New York towards the end of my holiday were by far the best.

Out in the beer garden, the familiar faces were congregated in the far corner. Talk of Munich was surprisingly scant. My friend Russ, originally from Frome and now residing in Reading, arrived and we exchanged stories of Portsmouth, NH. Like me, Russ and his wife Bethan had enjoyed staying in that excellent town in New England. Actually, Russ had been visiting the town when we beat the English Portsmouth at Wembley in 2010. I mentioned to him that Oxford United had their pre-season training camp in the town this summer. It’s not only the big guns who appreciate the training facilities that the US has to offer these days. I wonder when Frome Town will be doing the same; a week or two in Dodge City maybe?

Rob from Melksham came over to join us. Parky has known Rob for ages. Thankfully, Rob managed to get a ticket for the Champions League Final in May, but only through sad circumstances. One of his friends, from South Wales, had to go to his mother-in-law’s funeral on the same day. There must be hundreds of similarly odd stories regarding Chelsea fans’ presence in Munich. Surely someone, somewhere is going to round them all up and publish them?

We briefly spoke about potential opponents in the Champions League group stage and Celtic was mentioned a few times.

Shudder.

I left Parky to finish off his second pint and walked down to The Bridge with Russ. I noted that a couple of pubs were temporarily closed, presumably awaiting refurbishment. The West Stand is now adorned with massive banners from our twin triumphs last May. I can only approve. The blue banners have certainly brightened up the approach to StamfordBridge. Good work, Chelsea.

There was the predictable wait to gain access at the turnstiles but, with typical great planning, I was in my seat with two minutes to spare. I don’t often arrive late. I had picked up a match programme and, typically, Fernando Torres was featured on the cover.

“No pressure, then.”

A quick look around. Three thousand Reading fans in the far corner. The “Born Is The King” banner was draped by itself at The Shed, with all other official banners at the Matthew Harding. There were a few hundred empty seats around the stadium at the kick-off, but these virtually all filled up by 8pm. Familiar faces nearby; so lovely to see Tom (c. 75) and Joe (c. 85) in good spirits.

The teams soon appeared and Alan advised me that Ramires was effectively in for Ryan Bertrand, although on the opposite wing. For the majority of the 41,000, this would be the first sighting of Eden Hazard.

The 2012-2013 home campaign began. I admitted to Russ that – apart from Pogrebynak, the lad who played for Fulham last season – I was unable to name many more Reading players. How different to days gone by, when football was my only concern. Way back in the early ‘seventies, around the 1972-1973 season, it would be my job to walk down to the village post office every Saturday to collect a loaf of bread and a few other items of groceries if required. My mother would allow me a few pence to buy bubble gum cards of the First Division footballers of the time. It would be my first activity of each weekend; down the shop, then morning TV including “The Partridge Family” and “Sesame Street”, then dinner at my grandparents and “Football Focus” with Sam Leach, then a walk up to the recreation ground to watch the village team play. They were, although I was never aware of it at the time, the most – ahem – carefree days of my life.

I often asked my father to sit down and “test me” on the names of the players in my collection of cards.

Although I probably had around 200 cards in total, I certainly remember my father being flabbergasted on a number of occasions when I was able to name the clubs of every single player in my collection.

David Wagstaffe – “Wolves.”

David Best – “Ipswich.”

Dick Krzywicki – “Huddersfield Town.”

Alan Bloor – “Stoke.”

Trevor Hockey – “Sheffield United.”

Alec Lindsay – “Liverpool.”

These days, the Reading team could play host to Gordon Ramsay, Bill Gates and Claudia Schiffer and I’d be none the wiser.

I couldn’t help but notice that although I like the new home kit, the colour seems to be a little on the dull side – a muted blue, if you will. Admittedly, it isn’t as off-colour as the hated light blue of the 1997-1999 shirt, but it certainly seems to be lighter and “greyer” than the royal blue of old. Think back to the ”bang on” colour of the 2003-2005 home shirt. It’s quite different.

I think Chelsea should keep with the same shade of blue. Identify its pantone reference and stick with it.

Well, what a crazy game. On a night when we only needed to draw 0-0 to finish the night on top of the pile, we were treated (if that is the correct word) to a feast of goals.

As often is the case, both the team and the crowds began well. In the first few minutes, Stamford Bridge was rocking with our new song of the moment.

We know who we are alright.

The volume of this song elicited a text from Jamie in NYC –

“That sounded amazing on the TV.”

A shot from new boy Hazard whizzed wide after just a few minutes. Then we were treated to a nice one-touch move which ended with Ramires taking aim and shooting from inside the box when Fernando Torres was clearly in acres of space on the penalty spot. I shared his frustration. All eyes were on Torres again when he neatly dribbled inside the box himself, beautifully nut-megged a defender, but found his shot blocked.

“Hope it won’t be one of those nights.”

On 16 minutes, the events at Wigan were repeated. Hazard cut inside, only for Gunter to chop at his legs and halt his progress.

Frank Lampard struck the penalty home and the crowd celebrated. Alan and I had a little chat about Frank’s penalties. They are usually either straight and high into the net, or low to the goal keeper’s right. We were frankly amazed that such a low percentage of his penalties are saved. Surely the opposing ‘keepers are aware of his tendency to hit in the same areas. For a right-footed player, the general view is that the best place to aim a penalty is to the keeper’s left, so that the natural arc of the in swinging ball will stay beyond the goalie’s dive.

We concluded that the power of Frank’s strikes is the reason for his high success rate.

The sky above was full of pink-tinted clouds. The stadium was a picture.

However, the post-Munich glow was soon ended when Reading scored a superb goal. A McCleary cross from the right was whipped in and a fantastic leap and glancing header from Pogrebynak gave Cech no chance. There was even a ripple of polite applause from the Chelsea supporters around me. For what is worth, I clapped once, just to show solidarity.

Oh dear.

Soon after, Reading went ahead. A low free-kick was taken by Guthrie and it simply bounced off Cech’s body into the goal. We were speechless. Of all of Petr’s mistakes, this was probably the most embarrassing.

I remarked that it was bad enough losing, but we were losing to a team that looked like Leeds United, playing in their all yellow away kit.

“Ian Harte, too” said Russ.

Oh yes; Ian Harte. The former Leeds full-back. There’s two players I recognise.

At the other end, Mata sent over a great free-kick which John Terry headed over and into the quiet Shed Upper. Soon after, a Reading free-kick evaded everyone, dropping tantalisingly into the box but thankfully past the far post. A Hazard cross was headed wide by Torres right on the stroke of half-time.

There was one solitary person booing the team off at the interval.

I hope that he or she likes hospital food.

At the break, I quickly flicked through the programme. Not many photos from the US Tour, apart from one of four of the players running up the Rocky Steps in Philadelphia. Oh, and one of the three Iowa Blues (Sam, Chris and Phil) in Chester. There was a nice feature on Paul Canoville and it was Canners himself who did the lap of honour with Neil Barnett at the break. He played for both teams, so received a lovely reception from both sets of fans.

He also said a few words about being treated very well by the US fans on the recent tour when Neil gave him the microphone.

Nice one, Canners.

In the match programme, Graeme Le Saux has taken over the “back page” slot from Johnny Vaughan – and Tim Lovejoy before him. I chatted to Rousey at the break. He, of course, was in Munich. We both agreed that had we won the Champions league in 2000 or 2004 – at our first and second attempts – the feeling would not have been the same. It was our infamous failures of previous campaigns which made Munich so brilliantly intense and wonderful. I will never tire of talking about that perfect night in Germany.

It seemed to be all Chelsea in the second-half. However, only an Ivanovic blast from an angle really threatened the visitor’s goal. We kept probing away against an organised Reading team. The support was hardly roaring, though. How I wish we could get more involved at every match, not just on high days and holidays.

Ramires was replaced by Oscar and the Bridge faithful warmly applauded his home debut.

A Mata shot was blocked. A delightful ball from Oscar was threaded to Torres, but the shot was blocked.

Another change; Sturridge for Mikel.

Attack!

Soon after, the ball broke to Gary Cahill who took his chance and thundered the ball home from almost thirty yards out. It was some strike and how we loved it.

Gary Cahill’s biggest fan in Michigan loved that I am sure.

Big John seized the moment and stood up from his seat in the front row, leaned forward and walloped the balcony in front.

BANG BANG
BANG BANG BANG
BANG BANG BANG BANG

CHELSEA!

The crowd were back in it now. A shot from Sturridge drew moans when Torres was free – he needs to win back the crowd it seems – and then two floating efforts from Mata went wide too. Thankfully the all-important goal came when Ashley Cole clipped the ball towards Torres, who slammed the ball in. I was too busy with my camera, but the consensus was that Nando was offside. He didn’t mind; his smiles said it all.

I’ve still seen all of his goals in the flesh. Long may it continue.

The craziness of the game was personified in its closing moments. Reading had a free-kick on 93 minutes, which was deflected just past Cech’s post. Their ‘keeper came up for the resulting corner, but the ball was cleared. Hazard – yes him, he was having a fine home debut – ran with the ball out of the defence, with the Reading ‘keeper scrambling back, and passed to Ivanovic to slam home.

Game over.

Phew.

On the drive home, we reviewed the game. I commented how similar Eden Hazard’s movement is to Joe Cole in his prime. We were treated to another “spin on a sixpence” during the game and I love the way that he collects the ball with the sole intention of running at players and taking people on. There were a few moans aimed at Mikel and I will admit he had a mixed game. However, this young man – still only 25 – is a victim of circumstances beyond his control. It wasn’t his fault that he was vaunted as a wunderkind at seventeen, nor took over from Claude Makelele in the holding midfielder role. I rate him. He was excellent in Munich. Let’s show our support for the boy.

With Oscar, Mata and Hazard on the pitch, we can but dream about all of the goal scoring chances that this holy trinity of talented midfielders will hopefully create for our number nine.

We were handed a nice selection of opening games for this campaign. There is a very good chance that we might well get maximum points from our first five league games, but I am not taking the next one lightly. Newcastle United were full value for the three points that they took from us last season at HQ. I do not take them lightly at all. It should be a cracking match on Saturday.

I can’t wait.

Tales From The Underdogs

Posted on July 28, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester City : 12 August 2012.

The weather on the oh-so familiar drive up the M5 to Birmingham was horrendous. The near constant rain was painful enough, but the inclement driving conditions resulted in the traffic slowing right down to the speed of a Florent Malouda dribble. As a result of the delays, our pre-game plans of popping into the Crown and Cushion for a couple of pints of Red Stripe were knocked into touch.

I didn’t park up until 12.50pm.

It didn’t seem that long ago that Parky and I had last visited this particular part of Birmingham; the 4-2 win against Aston Villa seemed like yesterday. Ah, a lovely Torres goal too, I seem to remember.

We were parked to the north of Villa Park; the end allocated to the City fans. I expected the area to be inundated with them. To be honest, it was surprisingly quiet. There was a mixture of Chelsea and City fans milling around in the warm drizzle. It soon became apparent that many fans had expected warmer weather. Many were wearing shorts with trainers and plimsolls, with no rain jackets for cover.

It appeared to me that the drizzly conditions had travelled south with the thousands of Mancunians.

It was typical Manchester weather.

As we approached the stadium, we spotted a gaggle of familiar faces sheltering under the slight overhang of the Doug Ellis Stand. It was good to see them all once again. The others were off to sit in the two-tiered Holte End (the home end at the stadium), while I was by myself in the upper tier of the Doug Ellis. Just as I was finding my bearings, none other than Lovejoy walked past. I hadn’t seen him for almost two years. I was wondering if I’d see him at football ever again.

My seat was in the second row from the rear of the upper deck, down at the south end, behind the goal line. It soon became apparent that the 42,000 capacity was not going to be tested on this particular match day. I spotted large gaps in both tiers of the Holte End. Chelsea had been entitled to over 13,000 tickets for this game, but it was clear that we were a few thousand short of that figure. As kick-off approached, there were just as many gaps in the City sections. City had fans on three sides; the main west stand, the north stand and about a quarter of the Doug Ellis.

It was easy for me to think back to the one game that this scenario reminded me of; our 1996 F.A. Cup semi-final against the other Manchester team, in the days when Gullit and Hughes played for us and Cantona and Beckham played for them. I used to love attending F.A. Cup semi-finals en masse at these neutral venues. I loved the idea of 20,000 Chelsea fans taking over large swathes of other clubs’ stadia. And it preserved the thrill of Wembley for the Cup Final itself. How I wish the F.A. would revert to this, but I know it will never happen again.

Chelsea had both tiers of the Holte End for that game and, as luck would have it, our seats were in the very first row of the upper tier. I immediately seized this opportunity and decided to make a banner to hang over the balcony wall.

Over a week, I painstakingly made my “Ruud Boys” banner, featuring the smiling face of our dreadlocked hero who had so thrilled us in his first season.

The Chelsea fans were out in force on that Sunday in the spring of 1996. Our end was festooned with banners, streamers and balloons as the teams entered the pitch. I always remember that the United sections filled up really slowly and I am pretty sure that there were empty seats throughout the game. Just before the break, that man Gullit leapt at a cross and headed us into a lead.

Oh, how we celebrated that one.

Sadly, two defensive errors – and some unfortunate injuries to key players – allowed United to recover and win 2-1. Wembley would have to wait for one more season.

However, the story continues.

The sight of the Chelsea fans packing out the Holte End in a riot of colour must have been spectacular. There are many photographs of us from that day. One in particular was used in two publications.

One photographer down at pitch level took a photo of my Ruud Boys flag and it was used by “Action Images” to illustrate a piece on Chelsea’s influx of foreign players in a copy of “Total Football” later during that year.

It gets better.

The former Wimbledon striker Dean Holdsworth once had an affair with glamour model Lindsey Dawn MacKenzie. At a game at Selhurst Park in the 1996-1997 season, the Chelsea fans were full of rude comments about this romantic liaison. In the “Daily Sport” newspaper – that beacon of journalistic integrity – the following day, there was a photo of Lindsey Dawn MacKenzie (baring all) with a headline to the effect of “How dare Chelsea fans be rude to both Dean and me.”

The editor chose to illustrate her tirade at the Chelsea fans with a picture of some Chelsea fans, set just behind a large photograph of Lindsey Dawn and her quite substantial charms.

The photo that the editor chose was from the Villa Park semi-final. It was the photo of my Ruud Boys flag. Or rather, a close-up photo of Glenn and me (looking, strangely, straight at the camera).

Imagine the scene.

Glenn was sitting with his workmates during a tea break when one of them opened up the middle pages of his “Daily Sport” to exclaim –

“Hey, Glenn – there’s a picture of you and Chris Axon next to Lindsey Dawn MacKenzie here!”

The Chelsea and Manchester City teams entered the arena from that quirky tunnel towards the corner of the main stand. I guess this was a conscious decision by the Villa club, who were lambasted for replacing the much loved Trinity Road stand with a brutal structure, to maintain certain elements of the old stand. The curved panelling of the original Leitch balcony has been replicated, too.

Chelsea were in the royal blue of old, while City wore a new away kit of Torino pomegranate. The guests of honour were the former city winger Mike Summerbee and none other than our very own Ron Harris. I saw Ron sharing a joke with several of the Chelsea players as he was introduced to them.

The game began and it was clear that di Matteo was staying with his tried and tested 4-2-3-1, with Mikel and Lamps in the withdrawn roles, and Ramires out right, Hazard out left, Mata in the middle. With our influx of new players, I wondered if the manager was wondering about testing the old conundrum of whether teams should be system based or player based.

Should the formation dictate which players to use or should the players force the formation? One suspects that the answer, like a lot of things in life, is a muddy compromise.

The rain had ceased and Manchester City created a flurry of early chances. Petr Cech was in the thick of it and was soon covering himself in glory as he repelled several City efforts. With time, though, we began to make inroads as the game progressed. Eden Hazard took a few nice touches, but then drew instant laughter from the City hordes when he cut inside but tripped over his feet as he attempted a back-heel to Ashley Cole. I’m sure we’ve all done that in our time on the football pitch; I know I have.

I must admit, I didn’t know too much about Eden Hazard before we became linked with him. My knowledge of his attributes is due to a typical search on YouTube; I was mightily impressed. I just hoped that there wasn’t another selection of Eden Hazard clips on YouTube involving him falling over himself, clipping balls Gronkjaer-esque into row Z of the stands at Lille, losing possession after one touch, missing clear chances and setting up opponents’ goals with lazy back-passes.

Two chances in quick succession raised our hopes; a flowing move involving Mata and Ramires allowed Fat Frank to shoot straight at the City ‘keeper and then Hazard cut inside before shooting low.

It then occurred to me – in a lovely moment of self-awareness – that after three games of varying involvement, I was now right back in to the football. After the surreal experience in New York, the boozy song-fest of Chester and the docile frustration of Brighton, I was now kicking every ball, making every tackle, shouting words of encouragement and getting more and more involved with every passing minute.

This turned out to be the most important moment of the entire afternoon for me.

There may come a time when I suddenly lose this passion for Chelsea, but I knew at around 2pm at Villa Park that it wouldn’t be this season; European Champions or not, there are still games to attend, games to win and songs to be sung.

“Come On You Blue Boys.”

With the first half coming to a close, we were rewarded for our slight improvement in play with a goal against the general run of play. What a lovely finish from Fernando Torres, who deftly flicked the ball over the ‘keeper from Ramires’ through ball. I celebrated wildly – yes, I was back – and still managed to capture several shots of El Nino reeling away towards the Chelsea fans in the upper deck of the Doug Ellis. Another goal for him at Villa Park. I maintained my proud record of seeing every Fernando Torres goal in the flesh, from Stamford Bridge to Old Trafford to Camp Nou to Villa Park.

I hope that continues.

I spotted Mick and Della a few yards away from me and I walked over to say “hi” just as the Ivanovic tackle happened. My first reaction was that it was a tough decision; replays on the TV in the bar area at half-time suggested that Kevin Friend got it right. Down to ten men, I doubted that we would be able to hold off a physically tough City side. Up front, Tevez and Aguero looked the business.

I had more words with Mick and Della at the break; they had thoroughly enjoyed their time with Ron Harris in New York and it was great to see them once again.

At the start of the second half, Mancunian drizzle and then Mancunian goals. A couple of lax defensive clearances allowed the ball to fall to Kolo Toure. He smashed it goal wards and I was right behind the path of the ball. I said “goal” as soon as it left his foot.

The City fans, who had swelled their numbers considerably during the first-half, now roared. Their version of “Hey Jude” was deafening to be fair. I wondered if there had been traffic problems for the City fans on their trek south down the M6 from Ancoats, Hyde, Droylesden and Longsight.

A sweet strike from Tevez and a flick from Nasri got them singing again. This now looked like “damage limitation” for us. I wanted Friend to blow up straight away. As Daniel Sturridge warmed up, he took tons of abuse from the City fans in the main stand.

“One greedy bastard, there’s only one greedy bastard.”

That’s ironic, eh? Half of City’s team are only there for the sheikh’s millions.

Oh well. It is what it is.

It was sad to hear the Chelsea support so quiet. Even when we were 1-0 up, the noise was no more than a murmur.

Must do better.

I thought back to the game at Yankee Stadium. The only three English shirts I saw at the stadium which were not Chelsea belonged to two Manchester City supporters and one Manchester United fan. I was expecting more to be honest. I was certainly expecting shirts to be worn by a few Liverpool, Spurs and Arsenal fans in a sad attempt to wind us up. There is nothing sadder than that, in my opinion. However, the sight of the two City shirts certainly made me double-take; outside of Manchester, sightings are rare. In NYC, I decided to take the “good cop, bad cop” approach.

To City Fan #1 – “You’re at the wrong game mate”

This resulted in the City fan puffing his chest out and giving me a look of aggression.

To City Fan #2 – “Congratulations on the title…at least you’re not a red.”

This resulted in the City fan looking confused and befuddled at my – honest – compliments.

Late on, a Daniel Sturridge shot was only parried by Pantilimon and the other substitute Ryan Bertrand pounced. We roared again. Could we rise up from the dead and snatch a draw? Despite a late charge, including big Pete coming up for a corner, it was not to be.

In truth, City could have scored again at the death but Sergio Aguero screwed the ball wide in front of a virtual open goal. With us a man down throughout the second-half, a 3-2 loss was no big deal. Outside, Parky was sage like and philosophical, sharing the opinion that there were several plus points to take from the game.

With a lot of the City fans still inside, our escape route north and then west to the M6 was clear of traffic and, aided by some classics from the Stranglers, we made good time on the drive south.

Throughout the game, I had soon realised that City were the new target for all clubs in the division this season. They are a formidable team – solid in the right areas, with many attacking options. I also realised that it certainly felt “right” for Chelsea – or at least “my” Chelsea – to be classed as the underdogs once more. I’d guess we are third favourites for the league, behind the two Manchester clubs, but I can deal with that. After all, I dealt with it – and the club certainly dealt with it – against Barca and Bayern.

It’s no big deal. I quite like it. After all, a goal scored by the underdogs is celebrated five times as loudly as a goal by the favourites.

I won’t deny that there are the inevitable concerns about our team at this very moment in time. But let’s give everyone time to adapt to each other, to let the newcomers settle, to give the manager his six months to sort out his formation and his methodology. With the possible triumvirate of Hazard / Mata / Oscar feeding Fernando Torres, we could be in for quite a ride.

The league season is almost upon us.

Wigan awaits.

I’m ready.

Let’s go.

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

Tag Archives: Eden Hazard

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