Chelsea vs. ES Tunis : 24 June 2025.
Philadelphia has been good to me.
Way back in 1989, though, on my first visit, it struggled to find its way inside my heart. On that first-ever escapade around North America, I dropped in to the city in the November and spent the day walking its streets with my college mate Ian. We had arrived on a very early train from New York, and I remember a small breakfast in a diner in the city centre. We marched off to visit Independence Hall in the Centre City, and it was important to see such a defining location in the nation’s history.
However, I struggle to understand why I never made a big point of staying a few days in the city, since I was well aware of the story of my shipwrecked relatives and then their subsequent stay in Philadelphia in the mid-nineteenth century. I think that I realised that their story would forever float around in family folklore with no real chance of further investigation.
Of course, I was twenty-four in 1989, and undoubtedly more interested in the “now” than the “then.”
After Independence Hall, we were then a little stuck for ideas. Ian came up with a master plan of visiting “The Mummer’s Museum” – my “Let’s Go USA” book has a lot to answer for – and so we trotted a mile to the south to visit this odd salute to the history of this very particular Philadelphian street parade, complete with fanciful costumes and associated camp finery,
For an hour, we traipsed around, the museum’s only visitors, and the poor museum guide must have been saddened by our continual sniggers.
I still rib Ian about this to this day.
Since then, I have ramped up the visits.
In 1993, while in New York for Yankee baseball, I took a train down to the city to watch the Phillies who were on their way to that year’s World Series. They easily defeated Florida Marins and their aged knuckleballer Charlie Hough 7-1 at The Vet. It was at this game that I first fell in love with their mascot the Philly Phanatic. That night, I returned to New York at 2.30am, another typically late night in pursuit of sporting adventures.
In 2008, while in New York for my last-ever visits to old Yankee Stadium, I spent a day in Philly with a couple of friends; Stacey, from 1989 – and Chris who I met at the Chelsea game in DC in 2005. My first-ever cheesesteak was followed by a first visit to the Phillies’ new stadium, the neat Citizens Bank Park. I was happy that the home team defeated Boston Red Sox 8-2.
In 2010, the year that marked my mother’s eightieth birthday, the two of us stayed a week in Philadelphia since my mother had always spoken about wanting to visit it. In fact, my parents had planned to visit the city in 1991, but their trip around North America was curtailed as my dear mother had developed shingles.
That week was one of the very greatest holidays of my life. We watched Philly baseball – a 2-6 loss versus Milwaukee, alas – then drove to see Stacey and her husband Bill that evening, drove over to witness the Amish region near Lancaster, drove to Manhattan and visited the sites including a baseball game at Yankee Stadium – sadly, a loss to Baltimore – and visited the beach town of Cape May in New Jersey. On the last day, we then drove to see Gettysburg Battlefield Site, and that was one of my most memorable ever days in the USA.
One moment will always stay with me though. On the first evening in Philadelphia, we took a walk into the old historic area and saw Elspeth’s Alley before deciding to have some food at an old-style diner at the intersection of Market Street and 2nd Street, “The Continental”. As we sat there, I realised that it was very likely that our blood relatives had walked down Market Street, or even along 2nd Street where we were sat at a pavement table, and I had shivers. It was one of those moments when the past and the present met and possibly waved at each other.
I explained this to my mother, who was suffering with dementia, and it saddened me to realise that her sweet smile illustrated that she didn’t fully understand the real significance of my words.
Two years later, in 2012, thousands of Chelsea supporters descended on Philly for the MLS All-Star game in nearby Chester. A group of us booked a suite at a complex on Benjamin Franklyn Parkway – a prime site – and we had a real blast. There was another Philly game, a dramatic come-from-behind 7-6 win against Milwaukee, more cheesesteaks, a walking tour with Steve the host, a visit to the Rocky Steps for us to parade the Chelsea banners, a lucky moment for us to meet a few of the players outside their hotel, and many beers and many laughs.
It is telling that in the report of that game – “Tales From An American Away Day” – within the 3,943 words, only these detail the actual game.
“Out on the pitch, I will admit to being thrilled to see David Beckham play one last time, way out on the right in a rather withdrawn position. I have a lovely shot of him joking with John Terry.
The MLS team went a goal up through a Wondolowski effort from close in, only for John Terry to rise high and head home from a corner.
A nice tap in from Frank Lampard gave us a 2-1 lead, but – much to our annoyance and disbelief – the MLS team not only equalised through Pontius but scored the winner in the “nth” minute of extra time with a ridiculous looped shot from Eddie Johnson which ricocheted off David Luiz’ leg and into an empty goal with Ross Turnbull beaten.”
However, the game against the MLS All-Stars in Chester, Pennsylvania will be remembered by those Chelsea fans present not for the performance of the players, nor the result, but for the constant singing, chanting and commotion created by the 1,200 fans present.
We stood the entire game and we sung the entire game.
Friends still tell me that, support-wise, Philly 2012 was the best stop in all of the US pre-season tours. I cannot argue.
Back to 2025, and on my sixth visit to the city, we were licking our wounds after the 1-3 loss against Flamengo on the Friday.
On the Saturday, Glenn and I chilled out during the day, and our little town house would be the perfect antidote to the heatwave that would soon engulf the city. In the evening, we strolled around the centre of the city, and I aimed for the intersection of Market and 2nd. Unfortunately, my worst fears were confirmed; “The Continental” was now closed. However, we settled for some burgers on Market Street just a few yards away, again sitting outside at a pavement table. We then walked over to a bar on 2nd Street but I made a point of standing near where I had enjoyed that meal with my mother in 2010 at “The Continental” and tried to envisage that sweet smile.
On the Sunday, there was a hop-on-hop-off-keep-out-of-the-rain bus tour to a couple of locations with our friends Alex and Rob from London, and some food at “Tir Na Nog”. I am lucky in that I had seen most of Philly’s attractions on previous visits, while Glenn was quite happy to go with the flow. In the evening, Steve and his eldest daughter Lynda treated us to a lovely meal in the Fairmount district. Later, we met up with Alex and Rob for drinks at a rooftop bar atop The Cambria Hotel.
On the Monday, Glenn and I met Alex and Rob at a coffee shop right next to where we ate our meal the previous evening before visiting the Eastern State Penitentiary, which many friends had visited in 2012, and which was entirely fascinating. The jail is atop the highest land in the city, at Fairmount, and it did not take me long to envisage my great great grandparents Benjamin and Barbara White looking up at the imposing stone building during their five-year stay. It would be wonderful, one day, to carry out a deep investigation into their story. I was just pleased that there was no mention of Benjamin White in any of the histories contained within those thick walls.
Glenn and I stopped off for more burgers on famous Passyunk Avenue in South Philly, and as we walked back to our rental house, I think we both realised what a perfect locale it was. The rows and rows of town houses – we would call them “terraced houses”, Steve called them “row houses” – were neat and charming, and it felt like paradise to walk into 2025 Pierce Street, a haven of cool tranquillity.
South Philly, equidistant between the Centre City and the three sporting stadia, was a perfect locale for us, a sanctuary against the heat, but full of character too.
It is a standing joke that each time Chelsea score a dramatic goal, Steve texts me “Pandemonium in South Philly.”
And here we were.
That evening we again assembled at “Tir Na Nog” and it was low key, with only a few from the UK present. I dashed off to try to get a photo of the sunset at “The Sky High” bar atop the Four Seasons Hotel. While I was waiting in the foyer, I spotted some Chelsea players walk through, and I trotted over to shake hands with Liam Delap.
“Welcome to the club.”
There were handshakes with Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall and Levi Colwill too. This was just coincidence. I did not know that Chelsea were staying at this hotel. By this stage, the concierge was nervously pacing around and politely asked me to not approach the players. So, I secretly gave the thumbs up to Tyrique George who looked surprised that I had recognised him. Behdad Eghbali was a few feet away from me at one stage, but ignored my greeting, surprise surprise.
Later, we moved over to “McGillans”, a fantastic bar, and met up with my mate Steve from Belfast and his friend Jason.
Game day against Tunis on Tuesday started with a good old-fashioned American breakfast at a good old-fashioned American diner to the south of the city, and the whole experience was top class. It was just what we needed ahead of the big day and the big game.
By mid-morning, it was already heating up. With this in mind, we retired to the digs to chill out, knowing we had a taxing evening ahead, and then departure on the Wednesday.
At 5pm, we walked into “Tir Na Nog” and, looking back, it was nowhere near as busy as the pre-match in 2012. We met all the usual faces from England, some of whom had been doing some extensive travelling since Friday, but it was great to see some new faces too, especially Pete and his son Calvin from Seattle and David from South London.
I handed out a few signed Ron Harris photos, but it was deeply disappointing to realise he is not so famous in the US.
I approached five Americans.
“Right, spot quiz here. There might be a prize involved. Which player has played more games for Chelsea than any other?”
America was 0 for 5.
Phackinell.
My friend Roma from Tennessee – a friend for almost thirty-six years – had decided, last minute, to drive up with her grandson Keegan and her son Shawn’s girlfriend Nevaeh, and it was amazing to see her again. I last saw Roma in 2016 when she had visited England in 2016 with Shawn and her daughter Vanessa for a Chelsea game.
Time was moving on, and although the drinks were going down well, we needed to move down to the stadium.
I left the bar with Glenn, Pete and Calvin, and met up with David on the subway.
The kick-off for this game was 9pm, but it was still hot as we paced over to the stadium. Unlike on Friday, there was no queue, and we were soon inside. I was desperate for some food so stopped for another cheesesteak. This turned out to be very fortuitous since in the slight delay, we managed to spot Frank and his daughter who had popped into “The Eight Bells” a few months ago with the hope of seeing me and my mates who Frank reads about in these match reports. It was fantastic to see him once more.
We made our way up the ramps to our section in the mezzanine. We had bumped into many Tunis fans throughout our stay in the US, both in Manhattan and in Philadelphia, and we knew that they would outnumber us. It was a disappointment that such a small number of US-based fans had been lured in to this competition, but I almost understand the reluctance; the money-grab, the extra games.
“We all follow the Chelsea, over land and sea…”
Maybe not.
And yet, the Wrexham games lured many in…
I don’t get it.
There was time for photos with friends from back home, plus stragglers not previously seen. If anything, the lower tier below us was more heavily populated than on Friday, which surprised me. It was not even half-full, though.
Oh well.
Alex and Rob were sat close by.
“Tunis look like Partick Thistle.”
Kick-off approached.
Our team?
Jorgensen
Acheampong – Adarabioyo – Badiashile – Gusto
Lavia – Fernandez
Dewsbury-Hall – Nkunku – Madueke
Delap
We needed just a draw, one solitary point, in order to advance to the last sixteen, and there was, therefore, not the heightened sense of worry or concern in our area. The usual lads and lasses from back home were in our section, with only a few from the US.
It was odd that the prices had tumbled over recent days. Us fools had paid top whack, keen as mustard, back at the start of the year, but were now annoyed that prices had fallen.
Chelsea were playing in all white again and attacked the Tunis fans in the northern end of the stadium, who were amassed behind a “Curva Sud” banner. I hoped this discombobulated the team and their fans alike.
With Flip Jorgensen playing in all orange and Tunis in yellow and black shirts, I had to wonder what the late Brian Moore would have made of this colour clash.
“And on the subject of kits, here is a letter from Mr. David Spraggs of 13 Acacia Drive, Merton, who questions why the referee did not ask the Chelsea keeper to change his shirt so that it did not clash with the Tunis shirts. A great point, there.”
The game began. It was still as hot as hell.
Unlike on Friday, when Flamengo often had controlled spells of the ball, we dominated possession in the first half.
A header from Benoit Badiashile from a corner went close, and a shot from Liam Delap from distance forced the Tunis ‘keeper Ben Said to parry. Tunis rarely threatened, and only on the break. Chances continued to mount up and I wondered if we would ever break through.
I liked Malo Gusto in this half, running and probing well.
Enzo went close with a free-kick, and further chances fell to Dewsbury-Hall, Acheampong and Delap.
Throughout, the Tunis fans were singing, massed tightly together. Down below us, I could not hear a whisper.
Chester 2012 was a long way in the past…
I am not sure how many of our fans had disappeared into the concourse for a beverage as the first half drew to its conclusion, but I suspect that it was more than a few. In the third minute of injury time, Josh was fouled just outside the area, and I steadied my camera. I snapped as the cultured boot of Enzo clipped the ball into the danger zone. A leap from Tosin and the header lopped in at the far post, Ben Said stranded.
Snap. And snap again.
GET IN YOU BEAUTY.
Two minutes later, Enzo found Delap with a precise pass and our new striker moved the ball well and calmly slotted in past the hapless Tunis ‘keeper.
We were 2-0 up, and surely safe.
At half-time, there was a light show, the stadia turned various colours, and I didn’t really understand it. I must be getting old.
Correction : I am old.
The second half began, and relaxing in the comfort of a two-goal cushion, a few old songs were aired.
“If I had the wings of a sparrow, if I had the arse of crow, I’d fly over Tottenham tomorrow, and shit on those bastards below, below.”
I turned to Rob.
“You have to say, is the arse of a crow particularly big? Surely there are birds with bigger arses? What do you think?”
Rob replied.
“I think it’s bigger than a sparrow’s and that’s all that matters.”
We continued to dominate, and Enzo went close. He was having a fine, influential game and was pairing well with the more aggressive Dewsbury-Hall.
I wondered what Roma was making of all of this; her little group were down below us and not far from Steve who had visited us in the pub but had then shot off to collect his wife Terry and daughter Lynda.
“CAM ON CHOWLSEA, CAM ON CHOWLSEA, CAM ON CHOWLSEA, CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”
Madueke set up Nkunku but wide.
I heard a horrible “Let’s Go Chelsea, Let’s Go” chant down below us.
On fifty-nine minutes, a double swap.
Dario Essugo for Lavia.
Marc Guiu for Delap.
Next up, a Madueke effort but wide. The chances were piling up. The Tunis fans were quieter but still singing, a very impressive show.
On sixty-seven minutes, more changes.
Andrey Santos for Enzo.
Tyrique George for Madueke.
The song that haunted me in Wroclaw began again.
“Tyrique George – aha.
Running down the wing – aha.
Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.
We are going to Wroclaw.
Tyrique George – aha.
Running down the wing – aha.
Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.
We are going to Wroclaw.
Tyrique George – aha.
Running down the wing – aha.
Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.
We are going to Wroclaw.
Tyrique George – aha.
Running down the wing – aha.
Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.
We are going to Wroclaw.”
To be fair, it is quite hypnotic.
There was no real reduction in the heat, and I was not surprised that the game slowed. It became something of a training game.
Late on, a shot from Santos appeared to strike a defender’s arm. Nkunku placed the ball on the spot, and we all positioned our cameras as he waited to take the penalty kick. Then, a VAR review, and a ridiculously long wait. It took forever. In the end, no penalty, cameras not needed.
On eighty-three minutes, Mamadou Sarr replaced the impressive Gusto and made his debut.
A late chance for Guiu, but his shot did not trouble the ‘keeper, then a chance for George was saved.
In a game of injury-time goals, and in the ninety-seventh minute of the match, Tyrique George was given the ball by Madueke, and from a distance drove the ball towards goal. To our utter amazement, the hapless ‘keeper fumbled, and the ball ended up nestling in the goal.
Chelsea 3 Tunis 0.
Job done.
The gate was given as 32,967 and it was much more than we had expected prior to the match. We were expecting it to be around 20,000.
Glenn and I walked down the ramps, happier than on Friday, and met up with Steve and his family. Steve had a very important presentation at work early on Wednesday morning, so I was pleased, but very surprised, to hear that he was coming back to a very crowded “McGillan’s” for a couple of pints with us.
This was a great end to the evening, a fantastic – er, phantastic – time in an atmospheric and noisy bar. There was a lovely mix of both Chelsea and Tunis fans, and bemused natives, and we took it in turns to sing.
“Come along and sing this song, we’re the boys in blue from division two, but we won’t be there too long.”
Stephen and Jason from Belfast, Andy from Nuneaton, David from London, Nina from New Jersey, Frank and his daughter.
“Thanks for the drinks, Frank.”
“My pleasure. You know what, reading your blog, I somehow feel closer to you and PD and Parky than any of my other friends.”
My bottom lip was going…
What a night.
We stumbled out of there at 2am, happy beyond words.
Chelsea had made it into the last sixteen and whereas some of the expats would be travelling down to Charlotte to see us play Benfica, Glenn and I were now heading home.
However, I did say – tongue in cheek – to a few mates “see you at the final.”
Should we beat Benfica, we would return to Philadelphia on Independence Day, and should we win that, who knows.
This rocky road to a possible denouement in New Jersey might well run and run and run.
CHELSEA vs. ESPERANCE SPORTIVE DE TUNIS
POSTCARDS FROM PHILADELPHIA
MEMORIES OF PHILADELPHIA 2012
ON THE CORNER OF MARKET STREET AND 2ND STREET IN 2010 AND 2025
GOODBYE
CHELSEA/esque 