Tag Archives: Paul Canoville

Tales From Chelsealand

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Chelsea vs. Hull City : 13 December 2014.

With the talk of an “invincible” league season now behind us, I was hoping for business as usual with the home game against Hull City. Thus far in the league, Chelsea had racked up seven straight wins at Stamford Bridge and, at least on paper, win number eight appeared to be within our grasp.

“Not being disrespectful to our opponents, blah, blah, blah…”

I was back in the driving seat after having Wednesday “off” after the trip to The Bridge with PD and Parky for the Sporting game. I can’t tell you how lovely it was to be simply able to fall asleep in the car after a Chelsea match for once. Sheer bliss. It was a crisp and sunny winter morning and I soon picked-up Bob Cratchit and Tiny Tim. The three ghosts of Chelsea past, present and future were on our way to Chelsealand once again.

On the way in to town, Sham 69 were the band of choice.

“Hurry up Chrissy, come on – we’re going down the pub.”

We hit The Goose at around midday. I bought a round of drinks – “Come on Scrooge, you tight git” – and we said hello to a few pals. The usual suspects were huddled together in the back bar and a few fellow drinkers were watching the game on TV. Patrick Bamford soon scored for Middlesbrough in their match against his former team – and our League Cup opponents on Tuesday – Derby County. I approved of ‘Boro’s white diagonal on their red shirt, though it is far from traditional.

There were a few moments spent talking about Munich with a couple of mates; I don’t know about anybody else, but just the mere mention of the city elicits a warm glow.

Three special guests popped in to say “hi.” Steve and Sonia, with their young daughter Yasmin, live just outside Sacramento, the state capital of California. Steve was last over for the run-in to the 2010 Double. He was a lucky man; over on work for a couple of months, his stay was extended because of the volcanic ash cloud. This would be Yasmin’s first ever game at Stamford Bridge. She was a picture of excitable giddiness. Yasmin plays football in the team which Steve coaches and is quite a rabid fan. It was fantastic to see them all again. They soon shot off though. Obviously, the lure of a hot portion of chips from a nearby café was stronger than staying in the pub to hear how Parky took on a train carriage of Southampton fans in 1971. Not to worry, I would see them all again at a few more matches over the next three weeks.

On the walk to the stadium, I noted a few changes to the shops lining the North End Road. One of the recent additions is an “Argos.” For those readers not from the UK and therefore not au fait with this particular retail establishment, “Argos” is a unique type of shop over here. There are no – or at least very few – products on show in the shops, but all of the goods are tucked away in a stock-room behind the counter. You check products for sale in a catalogue within the store and fill in a docket, which you hand to an assistant. Ten minutes later, your purchase is handed to you. It’s a rather peculiar, but typically British, and perhaps rather eccentric shop. If I am honest, I am surprised it still exists. Fancy buying products without actually seeing them?

I have reason to believe that Brendan Rodgers buys his Liverpool players from “Argos.”

I was soon inside Stamford Bridge. Hull City were well-supported with 1,400 away fans; a good showing. I soon spotted Steve, Sonia and Yasmin; they had fantastic seats in the very front row of the Shed Upper. I promised Steve that I’d take a few, admittedly long-range, photos of them during the match. It is a big regret that my parents didn’t bring along a camera for my first-ever Chelsea game way back in 1974. To be honest, this is very surprising, since we have hundreds of photographs of “my early years” to this day. In fact, in all of my first ten seasons of match-going, I have one solitary photograph – Butch Wilkins shaking hands with the Southampton captain in 1976 – and it annoys me no end. However, I have certainly made up for it since. Along with a few others – Dave, Peter, Cathy and my mate Alan – I revel in taking my camera along to each and every game I attend. Without a camera, I’d feel odd. I guess we are known as “the Chelsea photographers”. I have to chuckle when some of my photographs appear on various internet forums; it’s nice though. Who’d have thought that the grainy photo I took of The Shed in 1994 would have people reminiscing about terraces twenty years on.

“The Liquidator” played and the teams marched on.

So, the Lions versus the Tigers, a match-up which must make the fellows in the Detroit branch of the Chelsea Family feel slightly odd.

There were new faces, as expected, from Wednesday. We began brightly. After just six minutes, Mikel – doing what he does best – robbed a dithering Hull midfielder of the ball and Matic – doing what he does best – advanced a few yards and passed the ball to Oscar. Our slight but skilful Brazilian looked up and – doing what he does best – sent over an inch perfect cross into a parcel of space for Eden Hazard to attack. Eden rose unhindered and headed down and past McGregor in the Shed End goal.

My immediate thought was :

“He has headed that right towards Yasmin and her parents in the Shed Upper. How perfect.”

My second thought was :

“That wasn’t too dissimilar to the first goal that I ever saw at Stamford Bridge when a Mickey Droy cross found a leaping Ian Hutchinson, unmarked, at the North stand end, and whose header went down into the Newcastle goal past Iam Mcfaul way back in 1974.

Snap.

The only difference is that nobody was on hand to photograph my joyous reaction. In 2014, I did the honours.

Snap.

Little Yasmin’s face was a picture.

With Chelsea a goal to the good, we enjoyed a pleasing spell of football, but then lost our way a little. Hull City enjoyed a little possession, though never really troubled our defence. On the half-hour mark, the Matthew Harding Lower tried its best to get The Shed to sing. After a poor response, they turned their attention elsewhere.

“East Stand, East Stand, give us a song.”

Blimey, good luck with that, I thought.

Well, what a surprise. Several fans in the East Stand responded and within seconds the whole stadium was echoing to the sound of Lord Of The Dance.

The East Stand as cheerleaders? Another miracle at Christmas.

To be blunt, it was a disappointing half after the early goal. Not for the first time this season, Ivanovic seemed to be our most active player, forever involved on that right flank. After an initial flurry, the creative midfielders created little.

Paul Canoville was on the pitch at half-time. Was it really over 32 years ago that I saw his home debut in a 2-1 defeat to the hands of a fine Luton Town side?

The second-half began and referee Chris Foy continued to hand out seasonal cards. I didn’t really see the Willian “dive” in the first-half, but I must admit I thought that Diego Costa’s fall to the ground in the second-half was rather theatrical. Soon after, Filipe Luis stretched out a leg to claim a loose ball, and Tom Huddlestone went “over the top.” To me and PD – not best placed, obviously – the tackle looked 50/50. How wrong were we?

OK, with our visitors down to ten men, let’s go to work.

However, rather than capitalise, our play became increasingly ragged and the atmosphere turned rather nervy with every misplaced pass and back-pass to Petr Cech. We again lacked real, punishing, width.

Thankfully, salvation came on 68 minutes. Eden Hazard collected the ball and danced into the Hull defence before playing a one-two with Ivanovic (Joey Jones was never this far forward) before playing in Diego Costa with the ball of the match. Diego Costa delicately clipped the ball past McGregor and the ball trundled over the line, to be met by a triumphant roar from all four stands.

The game was safe.

Jose made three late substitutions but we failed to add to our goal tally.

It had been a tough game to watch and not particularly pleasing on the eye. However, with Manchester City winning at Leicester – for now “Frank” or “Lamps” has been replaced by the little less cosy “Lampard” – another home win was hugely valuable.

We go again at Derby and Stoke.

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Tales From The Homecoming

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Chelsea vs. Reading : 22 August 2012.

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

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

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

The Goose seemed relatively quiet.

“Two pints of Peroni” please.

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

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

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

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

Shudder.

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

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

“No pressure, then.”

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

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

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

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

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

David Wagstaffe – “Wolves.”

David Best – “Ipswich.”

Dick Krzywicki – “Huddersfield Town.”

Alan Bloor – “Stoke.”

Trevor Hockey – “Sheffield United.”

Alec Lindsay – “Liverpool.”

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

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

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

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

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

We know who we are alright.

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

“That sounded amazing on the TV.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh dear.

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

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

“Ian Harte, too” said Russ.

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

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

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

I hope that he or she likes hospital food.

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

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

Nice one, Canners.

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

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

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

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

Another change; Sturridge for Mikel.

Attack!

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

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

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

BANG BANG
BANG BANG BANG
BANG BANG BANG BANG

CHELSEA!

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

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

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

Game over.

Phew.

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

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

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

I can’t wait.

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Tales From The South Bronx

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Chelsea vs. Paris St. Germain : 22 July 2012.

It was all so different in 1989.

My first trip to North America, almost a year in duration, was in 1989. In some ways, it seems like a lifetime away. In other ways – because many of the memories still remain vibrant and strong – it seems like last week. In September 1989, my college mate Ian (with delicious irony, a Rotherham United fan…and yes, he went to our 6-0 defeat in 1981) and I touched down at JFK. Our flight had been delayed due to an almost calamitous malfunction just before take-off at Gatwick. A tyre had burst as the jumbo hurtled down the runway and had flew up into the engine causing severe damage to the engine and our hearts alike. Thankfully, there was enough room left on the runway for the pilot to slow down. Several passengers were visibly shaken, but Ian – on his first ever trip on a plane – remained remarkably calm. We were delayed for eight hours as an alternative plane was located and this resulted in us not getting to New York until around 10pm. Our plans to travel in to Manhattan by bus were jettisoned and our first real sighting of North America was through the dirty windows of a yellow New York cab as it took us on a rather circuitous route through Queens, with the glistening lights of the Manhattan skyscrapers beckoning us closer and closer to the heart of the city. Once over the Brooklyn Bridge, the slow ascent up one of the north-south avenues of Manhattan is a memory that remains strong to this day. The cab driver seemed to take a great deal of pleasure in telling us that a local had been killed just opposite our hostel near Times Square the night before. I can vividly remember trying to fall asleep on the upper bunk in a youth hostel dorm as police sirens wailed outside. My head was spinning. I was scared and exhilarated in equal measure.

Welcome to America.

I remained in North America until June 1990 and my travels took me to many states. We cycled down the east coast, from Virginia to Florida, and I particularly enjoyed the cities of New York, St. Augustine, New Orleans, San Diego, San Francisco, Seattle and Vancouver. I snorkelled off the Florida Keys, saw basketball in Denver, baseball in New York and Toronto, ice hockey in Vancouver. In many ways, it was the time of my life.

But throughout that entire ten month period, I only ever bumped into one other Chelsea fan. Before heading down to Florida for one final month, I stopped off in New York for my first ever New York Yankees baseball game. On the day after that momentous match in the South Bronx, I walked over the Brooklyn Bridge and chanced upon an ex-pat wearing a particularly hideous umbro Chelsea training shirt.

Ten months, many cities, many states, many people, but only one other Chelsea fan.

Twenty-two years later, things have changed a million fold.

In 1989, I arrived in America with Chelsea as second division champions.

In 2012, I arrived in America with Chelsea as European champions.

Let’s recap on 2011-2012. Of course, it began on an overcast summer day at a downbeat Fratton Park as the previously trophy-less season under Carlo Ancelotti was laid to rest. The very next day, I flew off to Kuala Lumpur for the first game of the Asia tour. Little did I know, but the season would prove to be the most unbelievable and tumultuous season of my life. Mid-way through it, at the nadir of Andre Villas-Boas’ reign, I had visions of our worst finish for twenty years. The team was in a desolate state of health. The spirit – at Goodison Park especially – was horrendous. Even I was at a low ebb. I began to wonder if my support would be tested during the last painful months of the campaign. That the season would finish with tears of happiness in Munich would have been seen as a simply ridiculous and unattainable vision, conjured by some foolish fantasist.

But the resurgence of Chelsea under Roberto di Matteo on the European trail was just one of a plethora of equally marvellous moments.

Back in October, the SayNoCPO campaign defeated the heavy handed desire by a patronising board of directors to loosen the CPO’s hold on Stamford Bridge. Never have I felt prouder to be a Chelsea fan as we exited that EGM, the club defeated, the fans high on euphoria.

We thumped our old enemies Tottenham 5-1 in the F.A. Cup semi-final and went on to defeat our new enemies Liverpool in the final. It was our fourth such triumph in just six seasons. The youngsters again won the F.A. Youth Cup. Arsenal went trophy less of course. Tottenham too. Manchester United – never my most liked of teams – lost the league title in the most ridiculous and heartbreaking of circumstances in the last few minutes of a long season to arch rivals Manchester City. A trophy for Liverpool unfortunately, but there was a certain element of glee in the way that they celebrated their Carling Cup victory against Cardiff City…on penalties…as if they had won the league. My local team Frome Town enjoyed a strong first season at the highest ever level in their history. A new stand had been built in time for the March 31st deadline and more than a few Chelsea friends in America had donated funds to help. Further afield, my favourite European club team Juventus had christened their first season in their new trim stadium with a championship involving not one single defeat.

With victories against Napoli, Benfica, Barcelona and Bayern, Chelsea had become European Champions for the very first time and – in doing so – had relegated Tottenham to a season in the shadows on Thursday nights.

Munich was the best weekend of my life, the best night of my life.

Yes – 2011/2012 was some season.

Our greatest ever season.

In some ways, there was certain reluctance on my part to even contemplate thinking about the next one. My focus, if anything, was for the World Club Championship, way ahead in December. And Munich was but a heartbeat away. This is a familiar comment from me, but I don’t think I was ready for 2012-2013 to start. Yet again, my main focus as I crossed the Atlantic once more was to meet up again with old friends. The football, most certainly, was of secondary importance.

I flew into Boston on the night of Saturday 14 July. For six days, I relaxed at my own pace, basing myself in the historic town of Portsmouth, New Hampshire. I drove up the Maine coast a few times and also inland to Vermont. I’ve had a pretty hectic period at work and I certainly enjoyed the tranquil change of pace.

I caught a train from Boston to Penn Station on Friday 20 July. After almost a week of – in the main – my own company, I was ready for the madness of New York. The tribes were gathering and, despite a torrential downpour on my arrival in Gotham, my fervour could not be dampened.

I was ready for all that New York City – after Stamford Bridge, maybe my third home – could throw at me.

Here are some highlights.

8pm, Friday 20 July – Legends, West 33rd. Street.

Down in the cellar of The Football Factory at Legends, a dark but atmospheric epi-centre of football fandom underneath the considerable shadow of the Empire State Building, the first troops were greeting each other with backslaps and handshakes. I spotted Paul Canoville, wearing a brightly coloured shirt and a trademark baseball cap, who I had met on a couple of occasions before. At the South Station in Boston earlier that day, I had bought a copy of the New York Post. An article had made me giggle and I knew that it would amuse Canners too. The former NBA player Dennis Rodman, while on a tour of The Philippines with an exhibition team, had met his father – the wonderfully named Philander Rodman – for the first time since he was a very young child. There was a photo of them greeting each other. Rodman Senior had been living in Manila for many a year, but I was staggered to read that he had fathered 26 children with 19 different women.

Here was a story to share with Canners, who himself had fathered a similarly large brood, with a variety of women. Canners smiled as I shared the story with him and he enjoyed hearing it, no doubt, but there was another tale, which I did not dare to mention, underneath this one.

Canners was separated from his father too, but memorably met up with his dad for the first time since his childhood on the night at Hillsborough in Sheffield when he tore Sheffield Wednesday to shreds in his greatest ever game for Chelsea. We were 3-0 down at half-time, came back to lead 4-3, only for an infamous Doug Rougvie foul to gift Wednesday a late penalty. I didn’t dare ask him if that emotional meeting had inspired him to greatness on that night in 1985. Some questions are best left unasked.

I had seen his first ever game at Stamford Bridge against Luton Town in May 1982. Thirty years ago. That game – our last game in a mediocre season at the second level – does seem like yesterday. Strange how some games drift off into oblivion, but the memory of Paul Canoville, the local boy from Hillingdon, coming off the bench to be met with a mixed reaction from The Shed is a strong one.

It was great to see him in America.

1pm, Saturday 21 July – Chelsea Piers.

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 there was no Canoville-like inspired recovery at the end. Canners, plus Frank Sinclair, were the refs and what a pleasure it was to be on the same football pitch as them both.

Upstairs in the gallery, no doubt making a few humorous comments, was Ron Harris. When I saw my very first game at Chelsea in 1974, Ron was playing. Now, 38 years later, he was watching me play.

Now that, everyone, is just beautiful.

9pm, Saturday 21 July – Legends, West 33rd. Street.

As a lot of people know, Ron Harris used to live in the town of Warminster, no more than eight miles from Frome, my home on the Somerset / Wiltshire border. It was with growing pleasure – and disbelief – that a few mates and myself got to know Ron rather well. We used to call into his bar on the way home from Stamford Bridge from 1995 to 2000 and he always made us feel very welcome. To see him in New York, thousands of miles from England, was magnificent. I couldn’t help but sidle up to him and tell him that I saw him play around fourteen times for Chelsea, but I was still waiting to see him score a goal…

He, however, had seen me score for Chelsea that very day.

Don’t worry, I got away from him before he could tackle me.

1am, Sunday 22 July – Legends, West 33rd. Street.

My mate Millsy – another season ticket holder – had flown in on work (strangely involving trips to NYC, Philly and Miami – wink) and was regaling us all with some of his rough-and-tumble tales from life on the edges of the murkier aspects of supporting Chelsea. His exploits from Rome in 2008 – when I first met him and the legendary mad Scot Davie – had us rolling in the aisles. From punching a transvestite to waking up in a warehouse after a night on the ale in a Rome night club, to staying a few days in a Spanish jail…the stories came thick and fast. I briefly mentioned that I had turned down the chance to attend a “Q&A” with Ron Gourlay at the Chelsea hotel in Manhattan as I was concerned that I might say the wrong thing. Somebody asked our little group, which included Rick “Funchficker” Finch and Boston Ben, what we would say to Ron Gourlay if we had the chance.

As one, both Millsy and Funchficker said –

“Why are you a c**t?”

1pm, Sunday 22 July – Legends, West 33rd. Street.

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, unlike in 1989, 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.

I found that quite a sobering thought.

4.45pm, Sunday 22 July – New York Subway.

I travelled up to the game at Yankee Stadium with Scott and David, plus Josh from Minnesota and Stephen from New Orleans. The idea had been to get the subway bouncing with Chelsea songs, but there were too few of us to kick start this idea. Stephen contributes to the official Chelsea website as “A Blogger From America” and I first met him in Texas in 2009. He is full of football anecdotes and very good company. We swapped humorous tales from the world of football. He spoke of a game in Romania between club sides from Romania and Bulgaria. During the pre-match kick-in, the players heard music being played. The Romanians thought that it was the Bulgarian anthem and so stopped in their tracks and stood still. The Bulgarian players saw this and presumed that the music was of the Romanian national anthem. Both sets of players were stood perfectly still.

The music was from a Coca-Cola commercial.

I had recently seen a similar video. Two teams were lining up at the start of a game, facing one way, as a national anthem was being played. A TV cameraman was jostling for position, holding a huge camera in a hoist around his waist. He lost his footing, stumbled and fell. He lay motionless for a few seconds. As the national anthem played on, a team of medics attended him and he ended up being stretchered off, the two teams trying their hardest to stifle some laughs.

5.30pm, Sunday 22 July – Stan’s Sports Bar.

My friend Roma and her two children Vanessa and Shawn were on their way to find a parking spot near the stadium and so I had told Roma to meet me in “Stan’s”. I have known Roma since that very first trip to America in 1989 and she has been ever-present at all of the Chelsea US tours since 2004. They travelled up from North Carolina on the Saturday and had stayed overnight in New Jersey. Well, knowing Roma and her infamous logistical planning, “New Jersey” could mean anywhere on the eastern seaboard of America.

Roma had briefly called in at “Legends” at about 4pm, but had simply parked her car outside Penn Station. I had told her to rush back in case it got towed. Since she left New Jersey at around 11am, I struggled to understand where she had been for five hours. However, at least she was in New York City. It was a start.

As I waited for them to arrive, I enjoyed a few beers with Josh. “Stan’s” is my bar of choice when attending games at Yankee Stadium. I first ventured inside its cramped, yet atmospheric, interior in 1993. It was then that I became friends with Lou, the owner. I had seen him featured on a sports programme from 1991 when the Yankees were at a low ebb and a TV crew entered a deserted “Stan’s” for opinions. I had recorded the programme on tape – such was my passion for baseball in those days – and I arranged to get a copy sent over for Lou. Ever since that day, I always stopped by for a few words on each visit and I often brought him Chelsea stuff as gifts; a pennant here, a t-shirt there. I forget the number of free bottles of Rolling Rock I have had on the back of this.

Lou now lives in Santa Barbara and flies over for most home stands. I last visited “Stan’s” in 2010 when I was over in the US with my mother. On that occasion, I was so annoyed that I had just missed him. On this occasion, I was so pleased to see him behind the bar and we had a chat about Chelsea playing in Yankee Stadium.

Yes, that’s right.

Chelsea at Yankee Stadium.

When I first heard about this game, I was overcome with happiness. For my favourite team to play at the home stadium of my second favourite team is – to be honest – beyond description.

My trips to the US have been truly blessed. This one would surely top the lot.

Inside “Stan’s,” it didn’t take me long to meet up with three young girls – one dressed in the blue of Cruzeiro – who had obviously done their research and had brought their own little plastic sealed bag of celery. Now, this was a photo opportunity which was too good to miss.

My goodness, it wasn’t like this when I first set foot in New York in 1989.

Chelsea fans. Girls. Celery.

Pass me the smelling salts please, nurse.

My good friends The Bobster, Lottinho, Captain Jack and Speedy arrived and joined the merry throng inside “Stan’s.”

“Where’s Roma now, Chris?”

“Bunker Hill, maybe.”

I had almost given up hope on Roma reaching “Stan’s” in time. It had reached 6.30pm and I promised myself that I wouldn’t be late for the pre-game singing and the anthem. In Baltimore in 2009, Roma arrived fashionably late for the Milan game and I missed Drogba’s goal as I waited outside for her. I had been selected as one of Chelsea’s “fan photographers” for this trip and so I was worried that I might miss some great photo opportunities. I was literally in the process of handing over the envelope with Roma’s three tickets for Lou to take care of until she arrived when Vanessa tapped me on the shoulder.

“Oh boy. Am I glad to see you?”

Finally, I could relax. We headed off into Yankee Stadium to see the European Champions.

More smelling salts please nurse.

7pm, Sunday 22 July – Yankee Stadium.

This was a game in which I needed to be in many different places at once and to be able to do many different things at once. I wanted to be able to meet friends, take photographs, sing songs, concentrate on the game, analyse the behaviour of fellow fans, kick back and relax, compare to previous visits to see the Bronx Bombers and compare to previous Chelsea games in the US.

In the end, it was one glorious blur. It was simply too surreal for me to say too much about to be honest.

However, I see these Chelsea players every ten days back home during the regular season and so it is always my main goal on these trips to look instead at the faces in the stands, the fellow Chelsea in my midst.

What were my findings?

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.

It was really fantastic to see our section fully adorned with the four official banners which Steve had arranged to bring over from Stamford Bridge (Peter Osgood, Matthew Harding, John Terry and Frank Lampard). They don’t go for banners in American sports in the same way do they?

Within the CIA ranks, where I watched the first-half, the stars were the songsters from Captain Andy’s OC branch, with Steve-O leading the singing with a perfectly pitched “Zigger Zagger.” Nearby, Ben, Shawn and Nick from the Boston branch were ably assisting the support of the team.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9j_6q…&feature=g-upl

However, as the play developed on the pitch in front of us, quite a few noticed that the singing was rather intermittent and there were pockets of Chelsea fans that were quite happy to sit and keep still and keep silent.

More than a few of us sung the sadly truthful “our support is fcuking shit” fighting song in an attempt to shame the silent ones into belated action.

On the pitch, a deflected shot gave Paris St. Germain a narrow 1-0 lead at the break.

I had told Roma to head up to my section as soon as she could, but there was no sign of her. At half-time, I wandered down to see if I could spot her. Thankfully, despite stringent ticket checks by an over-efficient Yankee steward, I managed to sneak in alongside Roma, Vanessa and Shawn who were sitting, unknowingly, very close to Ron Harris and Paul Canoville among the New York Blues. This was the first time that I had met Shawn, who has the curly locks of David Luiz and a wonderful personality. He is only five. I even caught him singing “Chelsea” a few times. That boy has a great future ahead of him.

I was now able to take photographs from a different perspective; two views for the price of one.

In truth, the game wasn’t fantastic. With our players attacking the goal in left field, underneath the 500 PSG fans, I found it even more difficult to concentrate on the game.

It was fantastic to see John Terry back on the pitch. I took several photos of him adjusting his armband after taking over from Frank. The noise which greeted him was the loudest of the night.

The stadium was nowhere near full. The new stadium holds just over 50,000 and the attendance was given as just 38,000. However, I think that this was total ticket sales. I honestly think that the actual number of attendees was only around 30,000. Compared to 71,203 in Baltimore in 2009, I’d imagine that Chelsea will be disappointed. However, the vast majority of spectators inside were favouring Chelsea. And PSG aren’t Milan.

As the second half continued, the Chelsea fans in the seats along the third-base side (the area not dedicated as being solely Chelsea), mustered a chant of their very own. It mirrored the chant – the bog standard US sports team chant – which we witnessed in Arlington in 2009.

“Let’s Go Chelsea.”

I know I grumbled about this in 2009, but I was more favourable this time around. I couldn’t fault their desire to get involved. However, I just hope that there were a few neutrals or a few new Chelsea fans who had been inspired by the singing of the massed ranks on the first base side.

Apart from the players putting on a show, it’s just as important that we, the fans, put on a show too.

To this end, mid-way through the second period, I screamed out a blood-curdling “Zigger Zagger” of my own which got everyone singing and which elicited a wide grin from Canners to my left.

A neat finish from substitute Lucas Piazon gave us a share of the spoils, for which we were so relieved.

At the end of the game, Paul Canoville kindly posed for a few photographs with Roma, Vanessa and Shawn.

It was the perfect end to an amazing few hours in the South Bronx.

Late night, Sunday 22 July – Manhattan.

Roma had to race off to collect her car and I joined up with Captain Jack, Lottinho and Speedy as we caught a slow-moving train back to Manhattan. In our carriage, we chatted to a few Chelsea fans from Toronto who were in the middle of a crazy footy and baseball road trip.

Back at Legends, I realised that my voice was fading. I devoured a few more beers as I chatted to more friends before heading off with Lottinho and Speedy for a late night snack at a classic American diner.

In the city that never sleeps, it was time to get some shut-eye.

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Tales From Midday To Midnight

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Chelsea vs. Blackburn Rovers : 24 October 2009.

I picked up Glenn in Frome at midday – the autumn colours now prevalent – and it felt pretty weird leaving so late for a Chelsea home game. The kick-off, of course, was not until 5.30pm. It reminded me of Mourinho’s last league game in charge of us…another 5.30pm start, another game against Blackburn Rovers. Was it really two years ago? How time passes. We had a right old natter on the drive up to Chelsea. I have known Glenn since 1977 – his brother Paul was in the same class as me and he had “warned” me that his younger brother was Chelsea. Our friendship blossomed in that 1983-84 season and we have been the best of mates ever since. We looked back on some of the memorable times we have had over the years in our support of the team…we’re lucky people. There was a traffic accident heading over a minor road on Salisbury Plain, so I had to divert down the A36. We also encountered some heavy traffic on the M3.

I was in contact with two Texans on the drive east…Wes from Austin, who is over here at college in London until next September, and David, from Houston, who was en route to a work assignment in Africa, but had arranged to have a stopover so he could see Chelsea. That’s what I call good planning.

I parked-up at about 2.45pm and we headed for The Goose. Wes was already there, lager in hand. The place was pretty packed and I said a few “hiyas” to some mates as I edged out to the beer garden. I expected rain, but the weather was mild…just as well. On rainy days at The Goose, with no overflow into the beer garden available, the place gets rammed solid. Glenn, Wes and myself stood in a quiet corner and had a good old yap. David was running late, but arrived at about 4pm. He joined in the chat. David’s son Adam has a notorious claim to fame amongst CIA circles…it was his piece of celery, aimed towards Landon Donovan, which caused him to be ejected at half-time at the Chicago 2006 game. David and Adam lived in London from 2000 to 2003 and got addicted by the Chelsea bug. This was to be Wes’ third game at HQ. We spoke about the time he had arranged to meet up with Cathy for a game in Manchester City in 2007, only to spend a nervous hour in an incorrect pub in Moss Side, one of the most dangerous estates in Britain. It was in City territory and Wes had great difficulty in understanding the locals’ broad Mancunian accents.

“We can laugh about it now, but at the time it was terrible” as someone once said.

Wes, Davis, Glenn and myself had a fine time, chatting about all sorts of nonsense. There were a few other clusters of mates both in and outside the boozer, but we stayed to our little group…it was perfect really. I always like to spend a bit of time with any “new fans” and chat to them about what footy means to me. In a bigger group, with conversations firing away at all angles, this can become difficult. We were also joined by Mo, who Wes remembered from various US tours. Mo put my support to shame – she hasn’t missed a Chelsea game, home or away, since the Matthew Harding game in at Bolton in October 1996. Some record. As always, it was a shame for the pre-match to end. We also agreed to meet up after the game and head off for a meal and a few drinks. This meant I wouldn’t leave London until around 9.30pm. This allowed me enough recover time to go for three pints, even though I was driving.

At just a shade before 5pm, we set off down the North End Road and dipped into The Cock. My friend Daryl was there with his son Edward, now eighteen ( and now able to buy the beers! ). They had been to Kingston University during the day to look at Ed’s degree options. In fact, talking of college, Wes is studying for a masters’ degree at the same college that Daryl frequented from 1982 to 1985. Small world. On the march to the ground, we had heard that Spurs had lost at home. Lovely stuff.

Despite the predictable line at the gate, I got to my seats with a few moments to spare.

I surveyed the scene. Yet again there were sizeable gaps in the “comps” section of The Shed Upper, right behind the goal. That never ceases to amaze me. Blackburn’s away support was predictably small. I always used to attend most Chelsea vs. Blackburn games ( and vice-versa ) with a mate from Darwen, just a stone’s throw from Ewood. However, Mark would be foregoing the delights of watching his team play, instead choosing a Morrissey gig in Swindon in the evening. I remembered back in the mid-to-late nineties, Rovers were a real thorn in our side and it took us ages to defeat them at The Bridge. Alan commented on this – apart from Arsenal, no team had taken more Premiership points off us at HQ.

I noted the newish flag heading away from me in the MHU –

“Chelsea FC – One Life – One Love – One Club – Carefree Since 1905.”

I had a quick scan through the programme and quickly noted the Tim Loveloy column. Not to be confused with my mate Lovejoy ( he of the perfectly constructed hair-style and tendency to fall asleep at games ), this Lovejoy used to host “Soccer AM” and now has a column in every home programme. He tends to love himself and I don’t class him as a particularly great Chelsea fan as I never see him at away games. However, his column was entitled “Football and fashion go hand in hand” and he went into detail about casualdom, illustrated by two photos from the ‘eighties. One line made me realise how much it all meant back in those days –

“We often sat there talking about the latest casual clothes rather than the football, like something out of the gossip pages of a girls’ magazine.”

Yep – I’ve been guilty of that. And Glenn. And Alan. And a few thousand more.

My clothes of choice for the Rovers game included a Henri Lloyd polo, Nike Cortez trainers and my new spanking CP Company jacket ( discarded, due to the mild weather. ) Oh, and a Royal British Legion poppy, pinned to my lapel for good measure. I had explained the significance of this to Wes in the boozer.

And so the game began. It was fantastic to see Little Joe back in the team and he almost headed us in front during the opening attack. The first twenty minutes was noticeable for Alan moaning about Anelka’s distribution. To be fair, it was poor. Then, a break down the left following a great Ballack pass and Anelka stroked a perfect cross into the danger area. We all thought Drogs scored, but it was an own goal.

You were saying, Al?

The first half was noticeable for pretty constant home pressure. I expected greater things from our support though, buoyed by extra pints surely…it was surprisingly quiet. Paul Robinson made a sublime save and our chances mounted up.

Paul Canoville was on the pitch with Neil at half-time. Top man. I bet he used to wear some gear back in the ‘eighties.

In that purple ( or should that be royal blue? ) period in the second-half, we scored four more goals and it was easily our best spell of the season. I was lucky enough to capture Essien’s curler and Frank’s penalty on film…plus the celebrations. I also snapped Ballack’s delivery which led to Drogba’s header. During this period of euphoria, The Shed did their biggest Bouncy yet…soon followed by the MHL. It didn’t take them too long to realise that one part of the ground was not so forthcoming.

“West Stand – Give Us A Bounce – West Stand West Stand, Give Us A Bounce.”

A few West Stand Lower fans even joined in. Incredible. Actually, there was a moment early in the game, when a few souls in the West Upper began a song. This hardly ever happens.

Alan and myself were enjoying the goals, enjoying the laughter. We had already gone through our usual repertoire of gags ( too personal and, of course, too corny to repeat here ) and I commented that we really needed a variation to our standard –

“Come On My Little Diamonds.”

Alan came up with “Come On My Little Diamond Formation.” I’m not sure if I laughed or groaned.

By the way, the highhlight of the whole game ( if not the season! ) was Joe’s sublime “reverse” cross, with the right foot coming from behind his standing foot. How we have missed his genius and his ability to Take The Mick!

Glenn, David, Wes and myself met up outside “The Butcher’s Hook” ( rhyming slang for “look” in case anyone is wondering ) and we set off in the crisp autumn air. We marched past a few T-shirt sellers and a couple of pubs and soon found our way up to Salvo’s for Peronis and pizza. The Inter vs. Catania game was on the box and Mourinho’s brooding presence glowered over us. Yet more chat about various football topics ( The 39th. Game, AFC Wimbledon, Rangers at Liverpool vs. Chelsea in 1985, the 2010 World Cup, Mourinho…) and the inevitable toast to “Friendship And Football.”

It had been a perfect day. We left London at 9.45pm and headed home. However, I heard worrying news from three different friends who were at the Morrissey gig in Swindon. Had it not been for the 5.30pm start, I too would have see Mozzer collapse after a rousing “This Charming Man.” Well, if my mate Mark was not miserable after his team had lost 5-0, heaven knows he certainly was now.

I dropped Glenn off at his house bang on midnight.

“Top of the league mate.”

“Happy days.”

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