Tales From Porto : Part Three – Tears

Manchester City vs. Chelsea : 29 May 2021.

It was 9.54pm. As the referee’s whistle eventually blew after seven tortuous minutes, I snapped the view that confronted me in the north terrace of the Dragao Stadium. I wanted to capture the exact moment of us becoming European Champions, just like I had done in Munich in 2012, and also when we became English Champions at Bolton in 2005 too. An image of our fans captured for eternity. The roar that accompanied this moment was surely not as fierce as the one in the Allianz Arena just over nine years ago, but the emotions were similar.

We had done it.

The photo taken, I clambered down off the seat and started to whimper, my bottom lip succumbing to the emotion of the moment, and then I could not hold it any longer. I brought my hands to my face and wept for a few fleeting seconds. My emotions genuinely surprised me. In Munich I had slumped to the floor, absolutely overcome with daft joy and relief. There were tears for sure. Hell, even in Moscow – just before John Terry’s infamous penalty – I trembled too. In Porto, the tears were real, but I soon dried my eyes.

There was a slight thought about my own particular story since 10 October 2020.

I had recovered well from a series of mild heart-attacks. I was now witnessing the second most important moment in the history of Chelsea Football Club – Munich will never be eclipsed, surely? – and it was all too bloody crazy to rationalise.

Football. Fackinell.

All through this craziness, since the semi-finals, the one thought that had been spurring me on throughout the stress and worry of reaching Porto was this :

“If the fans of Arsenal, Tottenham and West Ham – the others don’t count – were pissed-off when we won the European Cup once, imagine what they’ll be like if we win it twice.”

Mister 33% was way off the mark.

In reality it was a breeze, a sweet-scented breeze of Portuguese delight softly sweeping up over the terracotta tiled houses from the Douro River.

My fellow fans were running down towards the pitch. There was a lovely melee in the area where I had been stood for three hours. I was soon joined by Luke and – such is the immediacy of the modern life – I wanted to share my moment of joy with the world. Aroha was nearby, and I asked her to take a photograph of the two of us. I think that the photo is worth a thousand words.

I posted the picture on “Facebook” at 9.59pm. The accompanying message was this :

“We’re The Only Team In London With Two European Cups”.

I then joked with Luke that we could now look Nottingham Forest in the eye. And we could at last look down on Villa.

My immediate thought, next, was of Aroha; carrying Luke’s baby. What a story, what a moment of joy for them both, knowing that their child – due in late July – was there in Porto when our club won our second European Cup.

A brief thought of the scorer.

It was all very apt. Kai Havertz, the COVID Kid, hit hard by the virus in the autumn – so much so that his first few appearances for us promised little, if anything – would be the one whose goal had been decisive, wearing number 29 on 29 May.

Perfect.

For ten minutes, everything was pretty much a Blue Blur. I was aware that the Chelsea players had run towards the fans in the western section of the north stand, between the goal frame and the corner flag. Fans were clambering over the seats to get to the front. I was again stood on the seat in front. I could not be any nearer the pitch. A few of us tried to free the official Champions League banner from its moorings but it was fastened solid.

I didn’t even notice the Manchester City players collecting their medals.

At 10.10pm, the victors stood in a line and slowly walked towards the waiting trophy. In Munich, the presentation was up in the main stand – I prefer that – but here the final act of the 2020/21 Champions League campaign took place on the pitch. I stood with my camera poised, making sure that I had a clean and uninterrupted view.

At 10.11pm, Cesar Azpilcueta hoisted the huge trophy into the air.

Blue and white tinsel – correction, royal blue and white tinsel – streamed everywhere. Fireworks flew into the sky. White smoke, not of surrender, but of glory drifted skywards.

A perfect scene.

The City fans had virtually all left the stadium, just as I did after the final whistle in Moscow. I did not relish their trip home to Standish, Stockport, Didsbury and Harpurhey.

It was time for some music.

“One Step Beyond” was especially poignant. We all remember how City mocked us by playing this tune after a victory against us at Eastlands in around 2010.

“We Are The Champions” of course. I am afraid to admit that this was the first single that I ever bought in early 1978. I grew to absolutely detest Queen as I became older, but this song does bring back a nice childhood memory; my blue house team won the school football tournament that year and our team sung this song after the final triumphant game against the red team.

In Porto, it had a new twist.

“We are the Champions…again.”

But oh those high notes that followed. Ouch.

“Blue Tomorrow” and a memory of our victory in the 2000 FA Cup.

For twenty minutes, we watched as the Chelsea players cavorted on the other side of the pitch. We begged them to bring the trophy over to us in our corner. We watched as the players indulgently took selfies of themselves with their wives and partners. We sang “over here, over here, over here” but it was all to no fucking avail. We were ignored.

At 10.30pm, Aroha, Doreen, Luke and myself set off for home. I took one final photograph of the scene and left the stadium.

I have always loved walking out of various football stadia with a win tucked in our back pockets. An away win on foreign soil cannot be beaten. Often the local police have closed, or blocked-off, roads so that we have a free march in the middle of deserted streets. I can especially recollect a lovely walk back to the nearest subway station on a balmy night in Lisbon in 2015.

Bouncing, bubbling, striding triumphantly, the occasional chant, the occasional song, the swagger of success, locals cowering – or so we hoped – behind windows.

In Porto, as triumphant as it all was, the walk back to the coach was tough. I had made a schoolboy error of wearing a new pair of Adidas trainers for the day and although I had worn them around the house and on a few shopping trips, I had not fully worn them in. My walk – uphill, damn it – back to our waiting coach was a nightmare. My feet were on fire. I hobbled along like Dustin Hoffman in “Rain Man.”

I took my seat in the coach, turned my phone on, and answered as many messages of congratulations as I could.

There was a sweet air of contentment, and an overwhelming feeling of befuddled bemusement.

I soon shared the astounding news that we were the first – and we will forever be the only – team to double up on wins in the European Cup (2012 and 2021), the Europa League (2013 and 2019) and the now discontinued European Cup Winners’ Cup (1971 and 1998).

I spoke to a couple of supporters about my mate Jaro’s take on the game.

In the few days before the match, he was adamant we’d win.

The first time? 19/05.

The second time? 29/05.

I guess that means that we will need to wait for the Gregorian calendar to be replaced by a new version so we can win it a third time on 39/05.

People were tired. People were weary. Eventually the coach set off for the airport. At 11.45pm, I shared my last photo of the day; the blue-lit interior of our coach on its thirty-minute drive back to the airport. There was complete silence. Not a sound.

I guess we reached the airport at just after midnight. We spotted a few disconsolate City fans milling around. Thankfully, the security checks did not take long. I loaded up on those gorgeous Portuguese custard tarts – pasteis de nata – and gobbled down some Gummi Bears for a quick sugar buzz. We waited until it was our turn to board.

I bumped into Andy and Sophie again, down by Gate 18.

Andy started talking :

“Chris, there’s a bloke, tonight – right – in Madrid…”

And I stopped him in his tracks.

I corrected him.

“Andy. There’s a bloke in a flat in Levenshulme. And he’s saying…Chelsea, they always beat us in Cup Finals.”

From the Full Members Cup at Wembley in 1986 – away you go, new fans, start Googling – to the European Cup Final at Estadio do Dragao in 2021. Artistic licence allows me to forget the League Cup in 2019. Right?

We walked out to the waiting plane and it suddenly made sense. I need not have been too bothered about TUI’s colour scheme.

TUI – two-ey…if ever there was a clue that we were going to end up with our second European Cup, there it was.

The other company that covered Chelsea’s chartered flights was Jet2.

Say no more.

It was – to coin a phrase – written in the stars.

Our flight home lifted off at 2am.

I caught a little sleep, as did many. I had not eaten much the entire day, so I soon wolfed down the roast chicken dinner. The friendly air-hostess even gave me two extra puddings and that, sadly, is not a euphemism.

As I spoke to her about the day, I realised that my voice was deep and croaky. It was clear that I had been singing my heart out that evening. A silly sign that I had been immersed in the game, but it was further proof that I was now back.

We landed at Gatwick bang on 4am.

I had spent around sixteen hours in the spectacular city of Porto. Along with Athens, Stockholm, Munich, Amsterdam, Baku – and Monaco – our list of foreign fields that will be forever Chelsea continues to grow.

And get this.

Chelsea Football Club has now won more European trophies than the rest of London combined.

I was quickly through passport control, there was no baggage carousel, I caught the bus back to the car park. I made tracks at 5am. I stopped at Cobham Services on the M25 – a mere mile or so from our training centre – and demolished an espresso. A handful of Chelsea had similar ideas.

“European Champions only please.”

It was a chilled out drive home. I enjoyed a powernap for around forty minutes as I stopped at another services on the A303 at around 7am.

Not long after, I updated my “Facebook” status once more.

“Driving home, nearing Stonehenge. Absolute Radio on. “Teardrop” by Massive Attack.

Gone.

The perfect denouement to thirty hours of following Chelsea Football Club.”.

I called in to see Glenn, then Parky, then my Liverpool-supporting mate Francis. I eventually made it home at around midday.

I joked to all three of them :

“Bollocks to it, I’m only bothering with Cup Finals from now on.”

There was a brief mention of a potential Super Cup in Belfast in August. I had gambled on cheap flights from Bristol a month ago and the decision to go ahead would be with UEFA.

Season 2020/21 was the maddest ever. It was – overall – undoubtedly my least favourite season thus far. I had only seen us play twice. And yet, I had seen us in two Cup Finals. I had seen us win the biggest prize of all for the second time in our history.

But this will be the craziest part of all.

We will all assemble, God-willing, in mid-August to see our team play once again. For the vast majority of fans, people will see Thomas Tuchel in the flesh for the very first time. Normally there would be mutterings of “I hope the new coach gets off to a good start.”

And yet he has already won the bloody European Cup.

And Finally :

Two photos.

One from Porto in 2015 and a nod to the many fine folk who were sadly unable to travel to the game. This photo shows Gary, Alan, Kev and Parky alongside me on that fine bridge that dominates the central area and affords such a splendid view of the city. It has been my screensaver on my home laptop for many years.

One from my friend Donna. It’s probably one of the few photos that I have shared on here that I have not taken myself. It’s self-explanatory really. At last players and supporters as one.

Chelsea Football Club, Frank Lampard and Thomas Tuchel, its players and loyal supporters : I salute us all.

Very lastly, I have to mention that as I sat down in The Blue Room – where else? – on Monday evening to begin writing Part One, I grabbed a Depeche Mode CD and pressed play. It was one of three CDs in a set from 2004. I had no idea what track would be played first. You’ve guessed it. “Personal Jesus.”



Reach Out. Touch. Faith.

Tales From Nine Goals And Ten Penalties

Chelsea vs. Manchester City : 24 February 2019.

At the end of the first-half of this League Cup Final at Wembley, I tapped out a simple note on my ‘phone – I often record a few things for these match reports in such a fashion – which summed up my feelings at the time.

The one word that I used was “humdrum.”

This is not to say that the game was boring me rigid. Far from it. We had managed to contain the swift passing and incisive finishing which is such a trademark of this modern day Manchester City, and all of the Chelsea players were playing at a level far greater than I, and I suspect many others, had anticipated. After the awful start to the league game up in Manchester just a fortnight previous, there must have been many that would have been overjoyed at the thought of reaching the half-time mark without a goal conceded. No goals after forty-five is much better than four after twenty-five. We were level at the break and, really, there had been no shocks and scares, and no defensive lapses, no calamitous back passes, no switching off, no rash tackles, no dramas. We were in with a shout, and not a shout of anguish that was too often heard from the Chelsea ranks at The Etihad. There had been a compactness to our shape which we have not often seen this season, and although we had created little ourselves, we had limited Pep Guardiola’s team to just one lazy strike by the always dangerous Sergio Aguero. We had contained the City team, and that was fine with me.

I mention this moment, and the choice of that word, because it is exactly the same word that the respected chief football writer of “The Times” Henry Winter used at the very start of his subsequent match report.

Yet “humdrum” belies the emotion and drama that went into this game.

We had travelled up from the west of England at the break of dawn with an uneasy feeling in our stomachs. We acknowledged that the match under the arch at Wembley had the potential to illustrate the difference in the two teams; City blossoming under Guardiola’s third season at the helm, Chelsea struggling to acclimatise to Maurizio Sarri’s new regime.

The four of us – PD, Parky, PDs’s son Scott and little old me – did not dwell too much on the Final. We had other things to talk about. The upcoming trip to Kiev – only two and a half weeks to wait for that one unlike the three month wait for Budapest – dominated our thoughts. It should be a cracker. We had set off early and at just before 10am, I had parked-up in the car park beneath the Premier Inn at Putney Bridge, and then joined the others over the road at one of our favourites, “The Eight Bells.”

The first of many pre-match pints were downed. We chatted to a couple of other Chelsea fans. The day had begun well.

I was trying to fathom out if I was truly sure that we would lose against City, or was there a Munich-style win, against all odds and other clichés, lurking somewhere in the shadows? I honestly wasn’t sure.  I had told the boys in a moment of unbridled positivism that Chelsea tended not to lose finals. And I wanted to believe that on this day too. Since 1994, there had been final wins against Middlesbrough, Middlesbrough, Stuttgart, Aston Villa, Liverpool, Arsenal, Manchester United, Everton, Portsmouth, Liverpool, Bayern Munich, Benfica, Tottenham and Manchester United. There had only been losses against Manchester United, Arsenal, Tottenham, Manchester United and Arsenal.

It has been, of course, a brilliant run.

Until 1994, the previous final of any note or significance was the 1971 win over Real Madrid.

Yet in this story of Chelsea and Manchester City at Wembley, we have to mention 1986 don’t we?

Too bloody right we do.

Yes, we played City in the Community Shield in August – and humdrum was surely the key word on that day out – and we lost to them in the FA Cup semi-final of 2013, but the Full Members Cup Final almost thirty-three years ago meant so much at the time. It was the first time that I had ever seen Chelsea play at Wembley. It was the day we took fifty-thousand to the national stadium. It took place on the Sunday of the same weekend where we had played at Southampton on the Saturday. It was the day David Speedie scored a hat-trick. And it was the day we almost buggered it up, leading 5-1 with five minutes to go, only for City to score three more times. It was the day we won 5-4 at Wembley. It was as mad as a bucket of frogs.

The Full Members Cup was an odd creation, and came in the wake of the UEFA ban on English clubs after Heysel in 1985/86.

A little history. Try to keep awake.

In 1983/84 the bottom two divisions were given a competition all of their own. It was called the Associate Members Cup, and would become the Freight Rover Trophy, the Sherpa Van Trophy, the Leyland DAF Trophy, the Autoglass Trophy, the Auto Windscreen’s Shield, the LDV Vans Trophy and, when our car industry ceased to exist, it became the Johnstone’s Paints Trophy. It is now the EFL trophy.

In 1985, it was decided that the clubs in the top two divisions were to have their own cup too. Ken Bates was a leading light in its foundation. This competition only lasted until 1992 and was latterly known as the Simod Cup and the Zenith Data Systems Trophy.

In that inaugural 1985/86 season, Chelsea played against Portsmouth, West Brom, Charlton and Oxford United at games with very few spectators. I didn’t attend any. I was not alone.

But we had to go to the final, despite the rather laughable nature of the competition itself. It is worth noting that the teams that missed out on UEFA competitions after Heysel took part in their own competition, the Screensport Super Cup, with games being shown on that cable station. It lasted just one year. I remember watching an Everton vs. Tottenham game one night and counting twelve Spurs fans at Goodison. The ‘eighties were a strange time.

I was living in Stoke in 1986, and I caught a 1am train in the early hours of the Sunday morning to Euston. While we were winning at The Dell, City were embroiled in a Mancunian derby at Old Trafford. As I boarded the train, I realised that their main lads were packing the train to the rafters. There were bodies everywhere. After battling United on and off the pitch, their testosterone levels must have been sky-high. I saw one Chelsea fan getting battered so I quickly took off my badges. I remember talking to a long-haired City fan – very inebriated – but although he soon sussed I was Chelsea he left me alone for which I am eternally grateful. To be honest, I should have been punched for wearing a red jacket. I eventually caught some sleep and arrived at Euston at about 5.30am. Then a two hour wait until the tube started. God knows what I did. The Mancs must have swarmed the place. I got to Wembley as early as 10.30am, and bumped into Alan outside, who had been to Southampton the previous day.

Inside the stadium, I bumped into two lads from college in Stoke that I knew. Once on the terrace, I met another lad – Swan – from my home area. I was disappointed that City did not bring more.We had 50,000. They had 17,000. Our end was absolutely rammed, the section that I was in especially. Packed in like sardines.

A Chelsea banner said “Never Drop Nevin.”

Another said “We Are Here.”

At the start, a few Chelsea got into the City end but were escorted out. Steve Kinsey soon put City ahead, only for us to retaliate in fine fashion. Three goals from David Speedie and two from Colin Lee – in place of the injured Kerry Dixon – put us 5-1 up. My diary tells me Speedo could have scored six and Wee Pat was at his best. We applauded – in jest, no doubt – City’s second and third goals, but not their fourth. There were two goals for Mark Lillis and an inevitable Doug Rougvie own goal. And we applauded City as they did a lap of honour at the end. How quaint.

Our celebrations were ridiculous though. They hardly matched the importance of the trophy. But we loved it.

However, I couldn’t help but think “bloody hell, fifty thousand for this tin pot cup, what will it be like if we ever won anything important?”

It had been a super day out.

In 2019, our travels took us up to Fulham Broadway where we were joined by Dan and Johnny, friends of Scott, from Frome. We enjoyed a few more beers at “The Oyster Rooms” above the tube station, and we sat opposite the balcony of the Fulham Town Hall where Ossie and Co restored our pride in 1970 and 1971. I was intrigued to hear that Dan had played for my local village team, Mells and Vobster United in its final season of 2017/18, the same team that my grandfather played for in the ‘twenties, and for whom I played a few games – in the reserves – in the early ‘eighties. From there, we joined the lads at The Fountain’s Abbey on Praed Street at Paddington, although we paid scant regard to the United vs. Liverpool match that was being played out on TV. Two Californians, Andy and Brett, popped in to see us, and it was a pleasure to chat to them. By now, the time was moving on and so Parky, PD, Scott, Dan, Johnny and I hailed a cab to take us to Wembley. We arrived a few minutes late.

Shocker, eh?

The team had been announced at some stage and our reactions were muted.

No striker?

Does that mean a more cat-and-mouse approach? OK.

Arrizabalaga

Azpilicueta – Rudiger – Luiz – Emerson

Jorginho

Kante – Barkley

Willian – Hazard – Pedro

Of course we had missed all of the pre-match hoopla. High up in the East Terrace, I soon realised that I had left my glasses back in the car.

Bollocks.

I took it all in. A full house. Empty seats were few and far between. Blue skies above. We stood the entire match, as did everyone.

The first-half passed without too much of a scare. With each passing minute, our spirits were raised. Without stating the obvious, I was very impressed with N’Golo Kante, who ran and ran and ran. Limiting City to one real chance emphasised how well we had played. Our attacks were rare, but with Eden Hazard we always have a chance.

The second-half began. Ageuro scored from close in but I immediately saw the linesman’s raised flag over to the right. Phew. A David Luiz free-kick down below us after a foul on Ross Barkley – who I favoured over Mateo Kovacic – flew over the bar. But the Chelsea crowd certainly sensed that we were gaining an upper hand, and the noise boomed around Wembley. City’s legions, on the other hand, were deadly quiet, or so it seemed. Little pockets of noise in our end soon joined up and often the entire end was rocking. I felt so proud. This was what supporting a team should always be like. Maybe it was a simple realisation that, as huge underdogs going into the match, the players just needed us more. We certainly did ourselves proud. At last the sad memory of the 2008 League Cup Final was put to history when our support simply did not turn up against Tottenham. That afternoon – with us in the same end – was probably a low water mark for me in forty-five years of attending Chelsea games. We were shocking, and – it hurts me to say it – Tottenham had never been louder.

Ugh.

With just over an hour gone, Emerson fed Hazard who attacked the space down the Chelsea left. He waltzed past Vincent Kompany and pulled the ball back to Kante, whose first time shot flew over the bar. A shot from Barkley. A City free-kick but a poor effort from a subdued De Bruyne. Then Pedro chose to pass when a shot on goal would surely have been more beneficial.

Still the songs rumbled around Wembley.

“CAREFREE…”

Callum Hudson-Odoi replaced Pedro.

Ruben Loftus-Cheek replaced Barkley.

In the last kick of the ninety-minutes, a well struck effort from Willian, from a free-kick out on the left, forced Emerson to flex back and tip over. A winner then would have sent us in to bloody orbit. We had played with guts and grit, and had limited City to a ridiculously small amount of chances.

Advantage us? It felt like it.

I got my timings all wrong, and chose the wrong moment to turn my bike around, sentenced to a long spell in the gents – others had timed it all wrong too – as extra-time started without me. When I reappeared, I realised that Gonzalo Higuain had replaced Willian. The time soon passed with little incident, although our noise levels were still the better of the two sets of supporters. I only really heard City sing en masse in the period of extra-time. Flags were waved in their end. Free bar scarves, for those in our lower sections, were twirled in response. The whole team were still defending resolutely, though our attacking bursts had not continued, despite some nice twists and turns from our Callum and a few strong runs from our Ruben. There was a ridiculous scramble at the other end as the minutes ticked by. A fine full length save from Kepa kept out that man Aguero.

And then it went mad.

Kepa went down. Willy Caballero was spotted on the touchline. We put two and two together. Word among ourselves was that Caballero, a former City player, and a bit of a hero in the penalty-saving game, would come on for the injured Kepa. But, wait a minute. Kepa was having none of it. To be honest, we were one hundred and fifty yards away, and not only was I high up at Wembley, my glasses were at Putney Bridge. But we got the message alright.

Kepa 1 Sarri 0.

What a mess.

The final whistle soon blew.

To our relief, penalties were to be taken at our end.

Advantage Chelsea? We thought so.

I took a few photos more. Two photos told a story, perhaps.

City looked united. They were in a tight group, embracing each other, no doubt being given calming words from the manager.

Chelsea looked the opposite. Some were chatting, some were alone. In the photo that I took, Sarri was absent, although I did not realise it at the time.

Penalty One.

Jorginho. A repeat of his two previous penalties for us. A hop, a slow push to the ‘keeper’s left, the same as the other two. An easy save. Fuck.

Penalty Two.

Gundogan. Low and in.

Penalty Three.

Azpilicueta. An odd run up but a strong, high penalty.

Penalty Four.

Aguero. Damn, Kepa almost reached it.

Penalty Five.

Emerson. No nerves. In.

Penalty Six.

Sane. A fantastic save from Kepa.

COME ON! PD and I yelled and hugged, hugged and yelled, and yelled and hugged some more.

Penalty Seven.

Luiz. A long run up, that side foot, the base of the post.

BOLLOCKS.

Penalty Eight.

Silva. Right down the middle, right down Regent street, bollocks again.

Penalty Nine.

Hazard. An impudent chip. In.

Penalty Ten.

Sterling. On the money. In.

BOLLOCKS.

We soon left the stadium. We were all proud of the boys, and of ourselves, but it was not to be. There were some positives. We had played much better than I had expected. The manager had been pragmatic and had changed his philosophy. Jorginho had been fine, no complaints. To be honest, we had deserved to win.

One thing pleased me, and I know this is going to sound strange. I was pleased that I was hurting. After forty-five years of going to football, and almost fifty years of being a Chelsea fan – damn, am I really that old? – I was very upset and disappointed to lose what some fools might call a Mickey Mouse Trophy. I took some real solace in that.

We marched out into the night. I took umbrage at a fan who was lambasting Sarri, Jorginho and Luiz (“fuck off to Napoli”) and I stood up to him.

“Because of their penalty misses? But Luiz scored in Munich. Don’t be a twat.”

He soon disappeared.

Back to Marylebone, a cab to Fulham, some more “Peroni” at “The Goose” and the night loosened-up a little. We made plans for the next few games amid the usual gallows humour, a night out in Liverpool for the Everton game, talk of Kiev, plans for Fulham, then next door for a late night pizza and one last “Nastro Azzuro” then one last cab back to the hotel at the southern tip of Fulham. Despite the result, the day had been magnificent.

Our sequence was now in full flow.

Won, lost, won, lost, won, lost, won, lost.

We play Tottenham on Wednesday.

See you there.