Chelsea vs. Paris St. Germain : 13 July 2025.

With the semi-final against Fluminense won, and with surprising ease, the third day of my eight days in Manhattan began with a lovely positive feel. I woke in Dom’s flat at around 9am, suitably rested after the football-related wanderings of the previous day, and for a while I just chilled out.

However, there was no rest for the wicked. This day was all about securing my ticket for the final on the Sunday. Tickets were to go on sale at 10am local time on the FIFA CWC App. Unlike the previous game, I was thankfully able to navigate this correctly.  To cut a long story short, the $195 tickets in the upper deck, what the Americans call “nose bleeds”, soon went, leaving me to buy up one of the remaining tickets in the lower deck for a mighty $358.

Of course, this was much more than I wanted to pay, but I needed to guarantee a ticket for the final. After all the tickets disappeared on the FIFA App, more than a few US-based friends had missed out and I felt terrible for them. Their route to tickets would be via the secondary market, namely “Ticketmaster”, but there were many who were hoping that FIFA, in their desire to fill the stadium, would again offer free tickets to US-based supporters clubs as they had done for the semi-final.

After chatting to many friends about the ticket scenario, I eventually set foot outside at midday. It was another hot day in Manhattan. I devoured some pancakes at the “Carnegie Diner.”

“Take a jumbo across the water.

Like to see America.”

I chatted with a mother and daughter from Philadelphia who were all dolled-up and about to see a show. They were sat at the counter alongside me, and I entertained them for a few minutes with my tales of football fandom. I had to stifle a groan or two when they asked me, full of glee, about Wrexham.

Americans and football. It’s still a conundrum to me.

I then set off on a leisurely excursion down to the tip of Manhattan and took the – free – ferry to Staten Island. While I enjoyed the journey and the fantastic views of the harbour, I was aware that the second semi-final was taking place at The Meadowlands no more than ten miles away.

Who did I want to be victors?

Here was a dilemma, but not much of one. From a football perspective, it would undoubtedly be better for Chelsea for Real Madrid to win. I think that everyone involved with football would have agreed that PSG, the newly crowned European Champions, could claim the title of the greatest current club side in world football. Therefore, if we fancied our chances of winning this whole tournament, a game against Real Madrid would be preferred.

But with Real Madrid’s massive fan base – a former line manager from Latvia was a supporter, go figure – there is no doubt that this would induce a price hike on “Ticketmaster” and FIFA would have no problems in shifting all possible spares via their App. In a nutshell, Madrid reaching the final would mean less tickets becoming available for the Chelsea supporters.

So, my mind was easily made up. I wanted PSG to win so that more of my friends, mainly in the USA, could get tickets for the final.

It was simple as that.

On that ferry trip across the harbour, I soon heard how PSG had obliterated Real Madrid, scoring three goals in the first twenty-six minutes, and had eventually won 4-0.

So, the final on Sunday 13 July would be Chelsea vs. Paris St. Germain. This would be a very tough game, a very tough game indeed. Honestly, I was worried, as worried as hell. Secretly, I was just hoping that we would not get embarrassed. I hated the thought of a 0-3, a 0-4 or worse. PSG were an established team, while we were still growing.

Later that afternoon, I overcame some personal anxieties and visited the area that is now called “Ground Zero”; the memorial that now marks the footprints of where the twin towers of the World Trade Centre once stood prior to the terrorist attack on 11 September 2001. I had walked around the bases of these two skyscrapers in the June of that year and had witnessed the events unfold as I was at home on the afternoon of the attack. In the intervening years, I had avoided re-visiting the area as it was all too difficult for me. However, while returning to Manhattan the previous evening with Alex, he had told me that he had lost no fewer than twelve friends on that day. That fact alone stirred me to visit. I did not regret it.

That evening, I rested in the apartment. I needed it. A lot had happened over the previous five days.

I decided to try not to think too much about the final on the Sunday. After all, in addition to following the team, I was of course on holiday. I owed it to myself to try to relax a little, to put negative thoughts about the final to one side, and to enjoy myself in – probably – my favourite city of them all.

From the Thursday to the Saturday, life was great.

I was in no rush to get up too early on Thursday. For starters, I had no real plan of what I might do with myself. This was now my nineteenth visit to the city in the past thirty-six years and there wasn’t too much left that I wanted, or needed, to see.

There had been historical landmarks, cathedrals from the inside and out, breathtaking ferry trips, towering skyscrapers, famous department stores, shopping sprees, walking tours, bridges, verdant parks, visits to Madison Square garden and five individual baseball stadia – and the site of one former ball park, Ebbets Field in Brooklyn – beaches, art galleries, museums, sports bars, dive bars, restaurants and diners. That I have been able to spend so many days in New York with many top friends, plus even one day in 2010 with my mother, makes all these memories all the more sweeter.

So, what was left?

Thankfully, I soon came up with a plan. Not far from where I was staying in Hell’s Kitchen was the Museum of Modern Art on 53 Street. I had only visited “MOMA” once before, and that was during the first few days of my very first trip to New York, and the US, in September 1989. I was long overdue a return visit.

I was out at 11am. It had rained overnight, and everything was a little cooler. I dropped in for another breakfast, this time at the “Roxy Diner” and at last found a decent coffee.

“Take a jumbo across the water.

Like to see America.”

I reached MOMA at just after midday and stayed for three hours. At times it was almost too overwhelming. I loved so many of the pieces on display, but especially some work by Gustav Klimt, Edward Hopper, Vincent van Gogh, Claude Monet and Andy Warhol. The place was busy, almost too busy, and I needed time to myself on a few occasions.

I remembered that during that first visit in 1989, my college mate Ian and I were rather perplexed by the number of visitors who – rather crassly in our eyes – took great happiness in being photographed in front of their favourite paintings.

I also remember myself taking a photo of just one painting, Marilyn Monroe by Andy Warhol. I tried my best to locate it in 2025, and had almost given up, but eventually spotted it.

With an ironic nod back to 1989, I recorded a video of myself in front of this iconic painting and sent it to Ian via Messenger. He then quickly sent a video back to me of him in his kitchen in Fareham with a painting over his shoulder.

This was great. It felt like Ian was with me at MOMA after all these years. With that, I exited out through the museum shop just as “Blue Monday” by New Order was being played.

Perfect.

Back at the apartment, there was some Chelsea stuff to sort out. We had heard that Claude Makelele was to make an appearance at “Legends”, the large bar on 33 Street that hosts the New York Blues, on Saturday evening. It was ticket only so I spent a few moments sorting out that, more Apps, more QR codes, oh boy.

I passed this news on to a few Chelsea supporters who were making their way over to New York for the weekend. I looked forward to seeing more familiar faces from England in the city.

That evening, I fancied a very chilled and relaxing pub crawl around Manhattan. I was out early at 4pm and started off at “McSorley’s”, seven blocks from where Glenn and I had stayed on East 14 Street in June, and just one block where my friend Roma and I had stayed in 2001. It was great to be back; I made it my fifth-ever visit.

Next up was a visit to the Chelsea Hotel. I had twice stayed in the Chelsea district, in 1989 and in 2015 but this would be the first time inside. Of course, those of us of a certain vintage remember the infamous nature of this hotel in 1978 and 1979; Nancy Spungen, Sid Vicious, what a mess. It’s a cracking hotel, though, and I loved spending the best part of an hour at the bar, but I made sure that the small bottles of Kirsch lager, at $14 a pop, took ages to drink. I wanted to savour every drop.

Just along from there, on the same street, was a very funky place called the Trailer Park Lounge, and I popped in for a drink. This had the feel of a southern dive bar, maybe jettisoned from Florida or somewhere, and was a nice distraction.

Next, “Grey Bar”, a reasonable bar, but nothing special. Here I chatted to the barman, a Yankee fan, while messaging many folk about tickets for the game on Sunday. It seemed that Chelsea would not let me completely relax.

Lastly, I dropped into “Legends”, underneath the towering Empire State Building. Here I chatted at the bar to a guy from New York, Jeff, who was an Arsenal supporter, and whose main claim to fame was that he was, rather fortuitously, at the last-ever game at Highbury in 2006. My friends Leigh and Ben, from England, called in for the last few beers. We could hardly believe it when Jeff said he wanted us to win on Sunday.

“Mate, there’s no Arsenal fan back home that wants us to win the final.”

“I know, but I’m an American.”

Yes, it was still a conundrum alright.

I had enjoyed this relaxing amble around Manhattan, with two bars in Chelsea, but as far as pub crawls go, this was all very sedate. I was back inside the apartment at midnight.

Friday was to be busier. I was up early and was soon on my way to meet my friend Stacey at the “Tick Tock Diner” outside the Port Authority Bus Terminal. I have to say that of all of Manhattan’s fine sights, there is no nothing worse than seeing the arse end of the Port Authority as you approach it on foot from the west.

No surprises, I devoured a mighty fine breakfast at this lovely diner which I last visited with Stacey, to my reckoning, almost thirty years ago.

“Take a jumbo across the water.

Like to see America.”

The agenda for this morning’s activities was set as soon as my return visit to New York took shape. Back in June, we wanted to drop in to the International Centre of Photography, but it was closed until 19 June. We took a subway and then spent an enjoyable ninety minutes inside its interior. It was, amazingly, very quiet. At times it felt like we were the only visitors. We are both keen photographers and so this was just right. The main exhibit was by Edward Burtynsky, who takes magnificent photographs of the many various landscapes that he visits. I loved the scale and the clarity, and the composition of many of his photos.

Sadly, and much to my annoyance, the FIFA World Club Cup kept getting in my way. It seemed that, without warning, FIFA had removed tickets in the top tier from friends’ Apps, and in doing so had caused widespread panic. My ticket, in the lower level, remained. While at the photography museum, I had to spend many a moment messaging various friends.

Meanwhile, I heard on the grapevine that either FIFA or Chelsea – or both – had been contacting US Supporters Groups to offer free – yes, free – tickets to the game on Sunday.

On the one hand, I was happy for those that had not yet been able to secure tickets.

On the other hand, I was fuming that I had forked out $358 for mine.

So, in a nutshell, it appeared that in a move to make the lower tier as full as possible, FIFA were moving people down from the top tier – but without telling them first – and were offering up free tickets too.

Fackinell.

I had arranged to meet another old friend Lynda near Ground Zero, so said my “goodbyes” to Stacey. I hadn’t seen Stacey for almost ten years and had then saw her twice in three weeks.

I first met Lynda in 2010 when she came over to Stamford Bridge for a game and we have stayed friends ever since. When Chelsea played New York Red Bulls in 2015 I stayed one night with Stacey and her husband Bill in Flemington, New Jersey and then spent two nights with Lynda and her partner Tee in River Edge, New Jersey.

The night before the game in Newark in 2015, there had been another get-together at “Legends”.

It was Tuesday afternoon – around 5pm – and we sped over the George Washington Bridge into Manhattan. Our excitement was palpable; we would soon be meeting up with many friends in a bar under the shadow of the Empire State Building, but there was an added – and wondrous – twist. Not only would former players Bobby Tambling, Mario Melchiot and Paul Canoville be making an appearance, but arrangements had been made – hush hush and all that – for Frank Lampard to make an appearance too.

What excitement.

My friend Roma, with her friend Peggy, from Tennessee arrived at about 6.30pm. Roma is a familiar figure in these Tales and has been a fantastic friend over the past twenty-six years. Roma has attended games at every one of Chelsea’s previous eight US tours (she is “one up” on me, since I missed the 2013 tour), and was doing all three of this summer’s games. However, when I calmly informed her that her hero Frank Lampard would be in the bar later in the evening, her reaction was lovely. To say she was excited would be an understatement. She almost began crying with joy. Bless her.

What a lovely time we all had. In addition to being able to reconnect with many good Chelsea friends, including the usual suspects from the UK, we were treated to an hour or so of valuable insights into the four guest’s views on various subjects. Munich often dominated the questions. Frank was very gracious and answered each question carefully and with wit and sincerity. I loved the way that he listened attentively to the other players. Near the start, the New York crowd began singing :

“We want our Frankie back, we want our Frankie back.”

Frank smiled and responded :

“I’ll be back.”

Lynda and I chatted at a restaurant next to the Hudson River for an hour or so, and it was lovely to see her again. Lynda was a keen footballer when she was younger, and I was reminded of the time when Chelsea and PSG first met in New York.

No, dear reader, it wasn’t the game on 22 July 2012 at Yankee Stadium.

Oh no.

The day before, on the Saturday, the various supporters’ groups within the US had arranged a six-a-side tournament involving supporters from across the US, but there was also, as a finale, a game between the supporters of Chelsea and Paris St. Germain.

It was one of my greatest honours to be named as the captain of the Chelsea team that day, and I include some words and pictures.

As the fans’ tournament, involving four teams of Chelsea fans from throughout the US, was coming to an end, I was as nervous as I have been for years. I had been chosen to captain the Chelsea team to play in the Friendship Cup game against Paris St. Germain.

When I had heard this news a few weeks back, I was very humbled, certainly very proud, but the over-riding feeling was of fear. I hadn’t played for two months, and I was genuinely concerned that I may pull a muscle, or jar my once troublesome right knee, or give away a penalty, or run out of gas after five minutes or just look out of my depth. This is typical of my times in various school football teams over thirty years ago when I would tend to be shackled by fear and a lack of confidence in my ability on the pitch.

Once the game began, my fears subsided, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself. We lead 3-1 at the break but soon allowed PSG to scramble some goals. At 4-4, I managed to squeeze in a goal and my heart exploded. Could we hang on? In the end, PSG went 8-6 up and my disappointment was real.

Lynda played in the Chelsea team, along with my long-time friends Steph,Pablo and Mike, too. The game was refereed by Paul Canoville and Frank Sinclair. Watching upstairs in the gallery was Ron Harris. I couldn’t help but sidle up to him after and tell him, with a twinkle in my eye, that I saw him play around fourteen times for Chelsea, but I was still waiting to see him score a goal. And yet he had seen me score for Chelsea after just twenty minutes.

Lynda, and Tee, and their two children Tori and Kai, had attended the Fluminense game on the Tuesday, but were off on a family trip to the coast at the weekend. We said our “goodbyes” and hoped to see each other in London again soon.

This was a busy day, and I caught the subway from one end of Manhattan to the other, and beyond. I was off to see the New York Yankees play the Chicago Cubs in an inter-league game in the South Bronx. Dom’s mate Terence had bought some tickets for this game and, luckily, had a spare. We were to meet, as always, at “Stan’s.”

I arrived at 4.30pm, perfect. I had arranged to meet up with Scott, Paul and Gerry and they were stood drinking at one end of the bar. The three of them had been based in Philly for the entire tournament apart from the last day or two. They were with a chap, Martin, who I had only seen for the first time on Tuesday afternoon at the Fluminense game. This surprised me since he lives in Sherborne in Dorset, just twenty-five miles away.

It was lovely to see some Chelsea faces in “Stan’s”, following on from my visit with Glenn, Steve and Mike in June.

“A “Rolling Rock” please, mate.”

Dom, Terence and three other lads arrived, and we had a grand time. Scott and Gerry became fans of baseball around ten years ago while seeing Chelsea in the US, and Scott is a Cubs fan. This was his first visit to Yankee Stadium. “Stan’s” sits right opposite where the original Yankee Stadium stood – the first version from 1923 to 1973, the second from 1976 to 2008 – and of course I regaled them with the fact that Ray Wilkins made his England debut “across the road” in 1976.

I got talking to Martin about baseball and Chelsea in equal measure. He has visited tons of baseball stadia over the past fifteen years or so. I mentioned how my love of the game has sadly diminished since around 2008.

I mentioned that the game against PSG on Sunday would be one hundredth live game of the current season, and I trotted out the numbers.

“54 Chelsea games, 42 Frome Town games, 3 games in Rio de Janeiro and 1 game at Lewes when we played Brighton in the FA Cup.”

Martin smiled and replied, “I went to that game, too.”

Fackinell.

Seeing a few Chelsea supporters in “Stan’s” took me back to that PSG game in 2012. I had stayed in Portsmouth, New Hampshire for a week, then came down to New York for the game at Yankee Stadium, meeting up with tons of good friends in the bars of Manhattan and then the stadium.

First up, “Legends.”

Despite the game against PSG not starting until 7pm, I had arrived at Legends bang on midday and awaited the arrival of friends. I soon bumped into Tom, a fellow Chelsea home-and-away season ticket holder, who was revelling in his first ever visit to the US. His comment to me struck a chord.

“This is the most surreal experience I’ve had, Chris. This pub is full of Chelsea, but I don’t know anyone.”

Of course, to Tom, this was akin to supporting Chelsea in a parallel universe. I think he was amazed at the fanaticism from these people who he didn’t personally know. For Tom, it must have been unnerving. This scenario is so different to our experiences in the UK and Europe where the close-knit nature of the Chelsea travelling support has produced hundreds of friendships. In Wigan, in Wolverhampton, in Milan, in Munich, there are faces that are known. On this afternoon in the heart of Manhattan, fans kept entering the pub, with nobody leaving. I wondered if it would collapse with the volume of people in both bars. Thanks to my previous travels to the US with Chelsea, wherever I looked, I managed to spot a few familiar faces. I was sat at the bar, chatting with Scott from DC, his brother David from Athens, Phil from Iowa, Mark from England, Andy from California, Stephen from New Orleans. The blue of Chelsea was everywhere. Down below in the basement, a gaggle of around twenty-five PSG fans were singing, but their chants were being drowned by the boisterous chants of the Chelsea fans.

It dawned on me that the Chelsea fans that I would be encountering were not just English ex-pats or not just Americans of English extraction, but Americans with ancestors from every part of the world. Just the previous week in Portsmouth NH, I had met a young lad who had seen me wearing a pair of Chelsea shorts and had declared himself a massive Chelsea fan. His birthplace? Turkey. I asked him if he was a fan of Galatasaray, of Besiktas or of Fenerbahce, but he said that Chelsea was his team. This frankly amazed me. It confirmed that Chelsea has truly gone global.

The simple truth in 2012 is that people like Tom and me, plus the loyal 5,000 who make up our core support at home and away games in the UK and Europe are in the massive minority amongst our support base. For our millions of fans worldwide, the typical scenario is just what Tom had witnessed at first hand in NYC; a pub in a foreign land, bristling with new Chelsea fans, fanatical for success.

From “Legends” in 2012 to “Stan’s” in 2025…

We left “Stan’s” and moved further north along River Avenue and into “The Dugout” bar. Time was moving on and I seemed to be the only one who was keeping an eye on the clock. First-pitch was at 7.05pm, and with a logistical precision that I would be proud, despite missing the “Star Spangled Banner”, Dom and Terence finally sorted out their QR codes and ushered us in. We arrived in our seats in the front row of the top deck just before the final out of the bottom of the first inning.

That will do for me.

I even saw the end of the famous “roll-call” from the fanatics in the Bleachers, an echo of The Shed back in the ‘seventies.

Our seats, six of us in a row, were magnificent and only around fifteen yards from where we were sat against the Angels in June.

It was lovely to be back again.

At the PSG game in 2012, we were in the lower tier.

“The hardcore of the Chelsea support – maybe 2,000 in total – were spread out along the first base side, like different battalions of confederate soldiers at Pickett’s Charge in Gettysburg, ready to storm the Yankee lines.

Down in the corner, behind home plate, were the massed ranks of Captain Mike and his neat ranks of soldiers from New York. Next in line were the battalion from Philadelphia and the small yet organised crew from Ohio. Next in line were the wild and rowdy foot soldiers of Captain Beth and the infamously named CIA company. On the far-right flank stood the massed ranks of the Connecticut Blues who were mustered under the command of Captain Steve.”

In that game, Paris St. Germain went ahead in the first but Lucas Piazon – remember him, he only appeared on foreign tours – equalised in the second half.

So, the two games in Manhattan and the Bronx in 2012 had not given us a win.

Chelsea 6 Paris St. Germain 8.

Chelsea 1 Paris. St. Germain 1.

I wondered how the third game across the river on Sunday would end up.

The baseball game played out before me, and it was a fine night to be a Yankee fan. Cody Bellinger hit three home runs as the home team walloped the Cubs 11-0. It was my sixtieth major league baseball game, my 41^st Yankee game, my 32^nd Yankee home game and my biggest Yankee victory.

Two-thirds of the way into the game, we walked down to the centre-field Bleachers, the very first-time that I had watched a game from the Bleachers in either Yankee Stadium.

After, we decamped to “The Dugout” and then “Stan’s” before heading back to Manhattan.

It had been a fine night in the South Bronx.

On the Saturday, after the beers of the Friday night, I succumbed to another lie-in. I met up with Dom and Terence at the nearby “Jasper’s” on 9^th Avenue just as the women’s final at Wimbledon, being shown on the TV, was nearing completion. There was a bar snack and I then caught a cab to the Guggenheim Museum. Although the temperature outside wasn’t too oppressive I just couldn’t face the walk up through Central Park. This was my second ever visit to this museum, and I loved it. It’s a remarkable building, and there was the usual array of fine paintings inside.

In the evening, we reconvened at “Legends” once more, and – as to be expected – the place was packed, although surprisingly maybe not to 2012 levels. I think there are quantifiable reasons for this. The 2012 summer tour was announced in good time and gave many supporters the chance to plan and attend, unlike the knock-out format of this competition. Also, I still sensed an innate reluctance to support this “money grab” of an extra FIFA tournament from many Chelsea supporters in the US.

And I can understand that.

But here we were, in Manhattan on a Sunday night and it felt like a gathering of the clans. Outside I chatted to Lorraine and Colin from Toronto and Pete from St. Petersburg In Florida. Ex-footballer Troy Deeney was flitting about in his role for “Talk Sport” and inside I spotted a few from the UK that had just arrived including Big John, who sits in front of me in The Sleepy Hollow, and Kev from the “South Gloucestershire Lot”.

There was an insipid Q&A with Claude Makelele, but it annoyed me that there were so many people chatting that I found it difficult to hear what the great man was saying.

It was quieter when Frank held court in 2015.

After fifteen minutes of excruciatingly banal questions, I decided to go downstairs to the “Football Factory” for some respite and some beers. Here, I spent a fantastic time talking with Alex, who has so many funny stories up his considerably long sleeves, but there was also great fun seeing folk that I had not seen for ages. Most importantly of all, it seemed that everyone who needed tickets for the final, had them. Fantastic.

It’s funny, my modus operandi for the Saturday night was “don’t have too many beers, don’t want a hangover on Sunday.”

Well, I failed.

Many beers were sunk at “Legends” and I even had to time to slope off to “O’Donohue’s” near Times Square where I met up with a gaggle of lads from the UK who had arrived to join some chaps who had been out in the US for a while.

I met up with Neil, newly arrived via Rome, with Big Rich, plus Tommo, Tombsy and a few more.

At 2am, I made it home.

Sunday arrived, and I was only nursing the very slightest of hangovers. By the time I had left the apartment at 9.45am, it had disappeared. I took the subway down to meet up with Kathryn and Tim from DC, near “Macy’s” to catch the PATH train to Hoboken at 10.30am. Outside Penn Station, at the exact spot where Glenn and I had posed for photos in the drizzle in June on our first few minutes in Manhattan, I took a photo of Cole Palmer on an electronic billboard with the Empire State Building in the background.

What an image.

It wasn’t like this in 1989 when I only met one other Chelsea fan in almost ten months in North America.

I could hardly believe it all.

The plan was to get over to “Mulligan’s” again for a brief pre-match gargle and then heading out to the parking lots that surround MetLife to meet up with the New York Blues for a tailgate.

Delays with the trains meant that we only arrived at “Mulligan’s” at around 11.30am. But the usual crowd were inside again, and it was excellent to bump into Kristen and Andrew from Columbus, Ohio, and Adam from Texas, but also Ian, Kevin – who sits a few feet away from me in “The Sleepy” – and Becky, who had experienced a nightmare trip out via Istanbul.

Dom and Terence were with Alon at the bar, everyone together. With a couple of “Peronis” inside me, I was buoyed, and a bit more confident about the game. I was able to relax when the QR code for the game suddenly appeared on the FIFA App.

We needed to get moving, so Kathryn ordered a large uber to take Kristen, Andrew, Tim, herself and myself over to the stadium. As we tried to enter a main road, a police car blocked our entrance, and we waited for ages as the traffic on the main road cleared and a cavalcade of cars drove ahead of a coach carrying the Paris St. Germain team. I cannot confirm nor deny if there were any requisite hand signals aimed towards the passengers in the coach.

We were dropped off near Parking Lot D at around 1pm; just right. I spent just over an hour here, drinking with some friends from all over the north-east of the US. It was a pleasure to see Sid and Danny from Connecticut, Tim from Philly and Steve from Staten Island especially. The weather was hot, but the beers were cold. It was a perfect mix. There wasn’t much talk about the game. Deep down, I was still concerned about us getting hammered. The New York Blues had provided a great array of beers and food. I gulped down a hot dog; just enough to stave off hunger pains, my only food so far during the day.

The younger element was getting involved with some singing, but I left them to it. My days as a willing cheerleader on these occasions are in the past now.

With about three-quarters of an hour to go before the 3pm kick-off, I made my way towards the stadium. We heard the buzz of three helicopters circling overhead, and with news that the President of the United States was to attend the game, many match-goers looked towards the heavens. I cannot confirm nor deny if there were any requisite hand signals aimed towards the passengers of the helicopters.

I was making good time, and I knew exactly where to aim for; the Chelsea end was now at the northern end of the stadium, opposite from Tuesday.

The security check and the QR scan was easy. I was in.

I spotted my mate Callum with a few of his mates from London, and I took a photo of them with their St. George’s flag. They had come over for the final, though Callum was at the two Philly games too.

Time was moving on, but I wasn’t rushed. This was just right. I got to my seat location at around 2.40pm. I was in a great location, around half-way back in the lower tier, just to the right of the goal frames. There were clouds overhead, and it didn’t feel too uncomfortable.

Then, what a small world…I suddenly realised that Rich, the guy that I had lambasted at the Manchester City game at Yankee Stadium in 2013, was stood right in front of me. I tapped him on the shoulder, and we virtually collapsed with laughter. I was in front of him in 2013, he was now in front of me in 2025.

Fackinell.

Pretty soon, the pre-match kicked in. First up, a set of musicians – dressed in the gold and black of the tournament – and mainly drummers as far as I could tell, and yellow plumes of smoke. Were they a college marching band? I immediately entertained memories of the “Marching Mizou”, from the University of Missouri, who were also dressed in gold and black, at Stamford Bridge against Derby County in 1975.

Next, a singer appeared out of nowhere, gold lamé suit, silver hair.

I turned to the two local lads to my right.

“Who’s that prick?”

“Robbie Williams.”

“Bloody hell, I was right.”

I had fleeting images of seeing him at Stamford Bridge in 1995, and his album cover that featured the Matthew Harding Stand that came out a few years after.

The boy from Burslem belted out a song that I had not heard before.

“Aim high, fly by, destiny’s in front of you.
It’s a beautiful game and the dream is coming true.”

One of the lads to my right, both dressed in Chelsea paraphernalia, asked me for my prediction, and I had to be honest. I looked him in the eye and said “we’ll lose 0-2.”

This obviously took him back, and I said what I needed to say. We chatted a little about his Chelsea story and he said that the memorable 3-2 at Goodison in 2006, all three goals being belters, was a key moment in him becoming Chelsea.

By now, my senses were being pummelled visually and audibly. Not only was the sky full of plumes of smoke, but the PA guy was booming out over the speakers. This idiot wasn’t just talking loudly either; he was shouting, and the PA was turned up to eleven.

“Let’s see who are the loudest fans!!!”

I turned to the bloke to the right.

“None of us are as loud as you, you prick.”

It was all too much. The noise was deafening.

Next up, the American national anthem was played out and there were immediate boos. The natives squinted over to the left to see if they could see the president.

Awesome.

With all this hullabaloo, it was somewhat difficult to come to terms with what I was part of here. I looked around and it seemed that the stadium was virtually sold out. There was a knot of PSG fans grouped together in the lower tier opposite, though it was later pointed out to me by Callum that their ultras had been forced to evacuate their prime seats behind the goal by some law enforcement agents.

Things were happening so quickly now. The players walked on to the pitch, and were introduced one-by-one, how crap.

Our team surely picked itself.

Sanchez

Gusto – Colwill – Chalobah – Cucurella

James – Caicedo

Pedro Neto – Enzo – Palmer

Joao Pedro

At last, Chelsea in blue, the first time for me in this competition. The Paris kit, all white, included an image of the Eiffel Tower.

I turned around and spotted Karen and Feisal, whose wedding I photographed back in 2021, just a few yards away. They looked confident. I wasn’t so sure.

Next, Michael Buffer and his ridiculous “Let’s Get Ready To Rumble” bollocks. He had appeared at Stamford Bridge a few years back, and I was impressed then as I was now.

Next, a countdown to the kick-off.

I snapped as Enzo played the ball back to a teammate and the FIFA Club World Cup Final 2025 began.

It was surreal, it was mad, it was preposterous. Thirty-two teams had entered this inaugural expanded competition, and I bet hardly any Chelsea supporters expected us to get to the final. Yet here we bloody were.

And you know what, we began incredibly well. We seemed to be first to the loose ball, fitter and faster than the lauded opposition, and soon started to construct fine moves that stretched PSG in all areas of the pitch.

After five minutes, it was virtually all us, and I was so happy. Moises Caicedo took my eye at first, robbing players of the ball, and moving it on intelligently. But very soon it was obvious that Cole Palmer, being afforded more space than usual, was “on it” and the Chelsea supporters all around me sensed this.

After just seven minutes, a lovely passage of play featuring a few players moving the ball down our left resulted in Joao Pedro setting up Palmer right on the penalty box line. His shot was clean, curving slightly, and only just missed the left-hand post. Many thought it was in.

“A sighter” I chirped.

The guy to my right was still asking if I thought it would be a 0-2 defeat, and I smiled.

With Pedro Neto running back to provide valuable cover for Marc Cucurella, with Enzo Fernandez probing away with neat passes, and with Caicedo taking on the role of enforcer with aplomb, we were on top.

But PSG threatened on a couple of occasions. There was a great block from Cucurella, and a great save from Sanchez.

After a quarter of an hour, I leaned forward and spoke to Rich.

“Great game of football.”

On twenty-two minutes, a sublime kick out from Sanchez was aimed at Malo Gusto. The tracking defender Nuno Mendes was confused by the proximity of Gusto and took his eyes off the flight of the ball. With a degree of luck, the ball bounced on his head but released the raiding Gusto. He travelled into the box and set himself to shoot by coming inside. The shot was blocked, but Gusto received it back and calmly played it into the vacant Palmer. He seemed to immediately relax, and stroked the ball in, past the dive of Gianluigi Donnarumma.

The Chelsea section went wild.

There were bodies being pushed all around me and I lost myself.

I screamed.

I shouted.

I yelled.

“FUCKING GET IN YOU BASTARD.”

Bloody hell mother, we were 1-0 up.

Fackinell.

Rich’s face was a picture.

It seemed that I was indeed right about Palmer’s “sighter” a quarter of an hour earlier.

It was all Chelsea now, and PSG looked tired. Was our extra day of rest really that important?

During a break in play, I popped over to say hello to a gaggle of lads from England to my right. None of us could believe what we were witnessing.

We continued to impress. Many attacks came down the right, with Gusto in fine form. On the half-hour mark, a long pass out of defence from Levi Colwill – how unlike us, maybe Enzo Maresca has been reading my notes – released Palmer. He took the ball under his control with ease and advanced, sliding in from an inside-right channel, across the box, using the dummy run from Joao Pedro as a distraction, sending two defenders the wrong way, moving into a central position, then there was one extra touch. At that exact moment, I just knew that this extra touch had bamboozled Donnarumma’s timings. I just knew that he would score. From virtually the same place as eight minutes earlier, he rolled the ball in.

YES.

We were two up.

This time there were double fist pumps – downwards – from me as I stood bewildered amongst the exultant throng, very much aware that others were losing it.

This was mad.

The rest of that first-half was a blur. Chelsea were bossing it, and the world was a beautiful place. There were honest shouts of “Come On Chelsea” permeating throughout our section and I even forgave the locals for yelling that loathsome “Let’s Go Chelsea, Let’s Go” nonsense.

Additionally, I realised that I now loved the way that the word “wanker” has permeated into US football culture.

We weren’t finished yet.

On forty-three minutes, we watched as a pass out of defence from Trevoh Chalobah found Palmer, ten yards inside his own half but ridiculously unmarked. I brought my camera up and watched him advance. Just outside the box, he split the space between two ball-watching defenders and passed to Joao Pedro who had made the finest of runs behind. As our new forward clipped the ball over the Paris ‘keeper, I snapped. I saw the ball clear Donnarumma and caress the netting.

Good God.

I simply stood still, silent, my arms outstretched, pointing heavenly, like some sort of homage to Cristo Redentor.

We were three-up.

I had this thought. Didn’t everyone?

“They can’t catch us now.”

At half-time, I contacted my mate Jaro who was watching with his whole family a few sections along. He came over to see me and we could hardly talk to each other.

This was unbelievable.

Up above us, on a stage so ridiculously high, a few acts sang, and the half-time show was rounded off by Coldplay.

“Cause you’re a sky, cause you’re a sky full of stars.”

I was more pleased to see Jaro than I was Chris Martin.

But with the sky above the MetLife, now clear of clouds, filled with fireworks and smoke, this only exaggerated the sense of incredulity in my eyes, and I am sure others too.

That first-half, let’s not kid ourselves here, was up there with the very best I have ever seen us play. It had everything.

Strength, togetherness, cohesion, guile, pace, speed.

I am shuddering now just at the memory of that moment.

I always talk about the first half when we beat Everton 5-0 in 2016 as being sensational, but Everton are no PSG. I remember the first-half against Barcelona in 2000. I remember other games, too many, perhaps, to list.

But at the MetLife on Sunday 13 July 2025, was that first-half the best?

I think it has to be.

The break lasted forever or seemed to. I think someone timed it as twenty-five minutes. That’s not football. It’s wrong for players to be kept waiting. Muscles tighten. Injuries are more likely. Stop that shite, FIFA.

But what a twenty-five minutes, though. If only all half-time breaks could be as joyful.

And I was convinced there would be no Chelsea Piers 2012-style second-half recovery from this PSG team either.

Not surprisingly, PSG started on the front foot in the initial moments of the second half. On fifty-one minutes, they worked the ball through, and a low cross was poked goalwards by Ousmane Dembele, but Sanchez reacted magnificently well to push the ball around his far post.

“Strong wrists there, Rich.”

Sanchez saved again, and although PSG enjoyed more of the ball, we were able to keep calm and limit them to few chances.

Off the pitch, I liked the noise that we were making in the stands. PSG, by contrast, over the course of the whole game, had made least noise compared to Flamengo, Tunis and Fluminense.

On sixty-one minutes, Andrey Santos replaced a tiring Enzo.

On sixty-eight minutes, Liam Delap replaced Joao Pedro.

Very soon after coming on, Delap was set free by Santos and advanced forcefully. At one stage he seemed to be running right at me. He did everything right, moving his defenders, and unleashed a cracking shot that really deserved a goal, only for Donnarumma to pull off a fine save to his left. The same player then cut in from wide but was unable to finish.

On seventy-eight minutes, two more changes.

Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for James.

Christopher Nkunku for Pedro Neto.

I didn’t see the incident on eighty-three minutes, but Cucurella hit the deck, clutching his head. VAR was called in to action and Joao Neves had pulled Cucurella’s curly locks.

A red card was issued.

In the closing moments, we all loved Cole Palmer taking the piss in the corner away to our left in front of the Chelsea support. If Palmer was – quite rightly – the man of the match, we all soon agreed that Robert Sanchez, enjoying the game of his life, was next best.

As the clock ticked down, we all relaxed a little and began celebrating.

The gate was announced as 81,118.

And that, dear reader, was just about it.

At the final whistle, a shout of relief.

Then, with the players in blue running towards us and celebrating, “Blue Is The Colour” rang out and I almost lost it. My bottom lip was going at one stage.

“Pull yourself together, Chris, mate.”

I recorded this moment on my phone and have shared it here.

“Cus Chelsea, Chelsea is our name.”

I am not a fan of the ubiquitous use of “Freed From Desire” at virtually all football stadia these days and I am glad we no longer play it at Chelsea at the conclusion of our games but I did love the way that the players, Enzo especially, were cavorting at the end while the supporters were singing along to it.

“Na-na-na-na-na-na-na, na-na-na, na-na”

Fackinell.

On a very surreal day, things became odder still. As we all know, the President of the United States took a greater role in the presentation of medals and the trophy than anyone could have expected.

I’ll leave it there.

I loved the way that Reece James was able to lift the golden trophy to the heavens a second time, and not long after my bottom lip started behaving even more embarrassingly.

But these were joyous times.

I kept thinking to myself.

“32 teams.”

“32 teams and we fucking won it.”

And I thought back to my comment to Glenn in Philadelphia when Pedro Neto put us 1-0 up against Flamengo :

“Back in England, there are fans of other teams saying ‘fucking hell, Chelsea are going to win this too’…”

When I left the stadium, a good hour after the end of the game, I was alone, and very tired, and very dazed. I honestly could not believe what I had just witnessed. Originally, I had this notion of getting back to Hoboken and taking an evening ferry across the Hudson, with the setting sun reflecting off the skyscrapers of Manhattan. It would be a fitting climax to my one hundred games season; the World Cup metaphorically placed in my back pocket.

But I was so tired and just wanted to rest. My feet were on fire, after standing for hours. I made my way towards the lines for trains and coaches to take us free of charge back to Secaucus Junction.

In the line, I saw a very familiar face. Allie is from Reading, and I see him everywhere with Chelsea. He had the intention of attending some group phase games but decided against it. Imagine my joy when we clocked each other.

“Can’t miss a final, Chris.”

We stopped for the inevitable photo.

I took the bus to Secaucus, and I was just happy to sit for twenty minutes and take the weight off my feet.

I took the train back to Penn Station, and I snapped a photo of the Chelsea players celebrating the win on the same billboard that had depicted Cole Palmer in the morning. Now, Reece James’ celebratory roar beamed out beneath the New York skyline.

Those photos provide nice bookends to the day.

I ended up having some food, all alone, near Penn Station, and I just wanted to get back to the apartment. I was so tired that I didn’t even think to call in at “Legends” to see if anyone was around. I had heard that the Empire State Building was to be illuminated in blue in honour of Chelsea Football Club, 2025 World Champions, but this magical moment was to take place from 10pm until 11pm.

And I took a cab home at 9.15pm.

Although I was truly knackered, it saddens me that I just couldn’t hang on for one final hour and one final photograph.

Seeing the Empire State Building illuminated in Chelsea blue would have been a magical moment and a killer photograph, the perfect ending to a monumental season.

Sigh.

However, should we qualify for the next World Cup in 2029, which is expected to take place in Rio de Janeiro – where my longest ever season began last July – I wonder if Christ the Redeemer will be illuminated in royal blue after the final.

Because we never win these trophies just once, do we?

THE 2025 FIFA CLUB WORLD CUP FINAL

BLUE IS THE COLOUR

POSTCARDS FROM NEW YORK CITY

CHELSEA PIERS 2012

YANKEE STADIUM 2012