Tales From A Date With Thiago Silva

Posted on July 20, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Fluminense : 8 July 2025.

In the report for the match in Philadelphia against Tunis, I penned this closing segment :

“I did say – tongue in cheek – to a few mates “see you at the final.”

Should we beat Benfica, we would return to Philadelphia on Independence Day, and should we win that, who knows.

This rocky road to a possible denouement in New Jersey might well run and run and run.”

First there was the crazy “weather-delayed” marathon match in Charlotte, North Carolina against Benfica. Winning 1-0 until late on, with a goal from Reece James mid-way through the second half, the game was then delayed for two hours due to the threat of lightning with just a few minutes of normal time remaining. I fell asleep and set the alarm for the re-start but watched in horror as Angel Di Maria equalised. I then dropped off again, but was awake to see goals from Christopher Nkunku, Pedro Neto and Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall secure an eventual 4-1 win. The match finished at around 6am on the Saturday morning in the UK.

Next up was a match in the quarter final with a game back in Philadelphia against Palmeiras.

I had been away from work for a fortnight. In that spell, I had watched the game against LAFC from Atlanta on TV in a bar in Manhattan, the two games live in Philadelphia, and now the game in Charlotte on TV at home.

However, before our next match in the US on the Friday, something equally important was happening in my hometown of Frome in Somerset.

And it’s quite a story.

This story, this sub-plot, began on Saturday 2 October 2021 when the usual suspects gathered in our usual hostelry, “The Eight Bells” in Fulham for a home game against Southampton.

“We were joined by friends from near – Ray, Watford – and far – Courtney, Chicago. I first bumped into Ray, who was meeting a former work colleague, at the Rapid friendly in Vienna in 2016. I had never met Courtney before, but he had been reading this blog, the fool, for a while and fancied meeting up for a chinwag. It was good to see them both.”

Bizarrely, the next time that I met Courtney, was exactly two years later, on Monday 2 October, for the away game at Fulham. We gathered together, obviously, in the same pub and it was great to see him once more.

We kept in contact at various times over that season.

Last summer, Courtney contacted me about attending a Frome Town match during an extended visit to see Chelsea play at Anfield on Sunday 20 October. He had obviously noted my support for my local non-league team within this blog and on “Facebook” and fancied seeing what the noise was all about.

As I detailed in the Liverpool match report, Courtney arrived at Manchester airport on the Saturday morning, ahead of Frome Town’s home match with Poole Town, and then drove straight down to deepest Somerset.

“With five minutes of the game played, I looked over and saw Courtney arrive in the ground. I waved him over to where we were stood in a little group at the “Clubhouse End” and it was a relief to see him. Courtney had made good time and was now able to relax a little and take in his first ever non-league match.”

Ironically, the Frome Town chairman had asked, that very week, about extra support for the club, which had been struggling for some time. Over the next few weeks, Courtney spent many hours talking to the Frome Town board.

To cut a very long story short, Courtney became vice-chairman of Frome Town Football Club in December. I next met him when we enjoyed a Sunday lunch in a local village pub and then drove up to the Brentford home game on Sunday 15 December, ending up yet again at “The Eight Bells.”

I last saw Courtney at a Bath City Somerset Cup away game during the following week.

Throughout the first six months of 2025, there have been strong and determined discussions concerning the future of Frome Town Football Club with Courtney at the fore. On Thursday 5 June, at the Town Hall, I attended an extraordinary meeting of the Frome Town Council, who had saved the club a few years earlier through a very generous taking over of all debts, to discuss the release of the land that Frome Town have called their home since 1904. At this stage, all directors and supporters were totally behind Courtney taking over the club.

Unfortunately, the vote did not go Courtney’s way that evening, and we were all crestfallen. There was immediate doom and gloom. A few supporters met outside the steps to the Town Hall after the meeting, and I have rarely been so sad. I feared that Courtney would walk away, and our chance lost. However, the council offered a lifeline, and the chance of another offer, but with greater emphasis on the community aspect of the club, and its buildings and its land.

A second meeting was to be held on the evening of Wednesday 2 July, just two days before Chelsea’s game with Palmeiras in Philadelphia.

I was unable to obtain a ticket to attend but watched the “live feed” of the meeting in “The Vine Tree” pub just two hundred yards from Badgers Hill, the ground at the centre of all the attention.

On a hugely memorable evening, the Frome Town Council, God bless them, approved the sale of the ground to Courtney, now the chairman, and I have rarely been happier. The group of around twenty supporters were joined my more, and several directors, and the management team joined us too.

We were euphoric.

Of course, I had to take a photograph.

It’s what I do, right?

As the voting took place, and with the mood becoming increasingly positive at every decision, I had looked over at the pavement on the other side of the road. During the first few weeks of season 1970/71, I would have walked along that very pavement with my mother, hand in hand I suspect, as a five-year-old boy, on my way to my first-ever Frome Town game, and my first ever football game.

My memory was of just my mother and I attending that game, and of a heavy Frome Town loss.

However, by a bizarre twist of fate, I had bumped into my oldest friend Andy, who used to live opposite me in the five-hundred-year-old street in the same village where I type these words now. I see him very rarely around town but bumped into him on the Sunday before the first meeting back in June.

“I reckon I went with you to your first-ever football game, Chris.”

This caught me on the hop. I knew he couldn’t have been referring to a Chelsea game, so we spoke about Frome Town.

In the summer of 1970, my parents and I stayed in a caravan for a week at West Bay in Dorset. In the next caravan, we met a couple from near Bath, and the husband was to play for Frome Town in the new season. His name was Mike Brimble, and he invited me to his first game at Badgers Hill.

Andy reminded me that and his family were holidaying at Bowleaze Cove, not so far from West Bay, at the same time, and we apparently visited them, though this is long forgotten by me. Amazingly, fifty-five years later, Andy was able to remember that a Frome footballer had invited us to a game, thus backing up his claim that he was with me on that day in 1970.

I think we were both amazed at our memories.

I was amazed that Andy remembered the footballer.

Andy was amazed that I remembered his name.

Fantastic.

With the incredible news about Frome Town buzzing in my head – I think it was utterly comparable to the CPO refusal to accept Roman’s “buy-out” bid in 2011 – all my focus was now on Chelsea and the game with Palmeiras on the evening of Friday 4 July.

I was so pleased that my friends Jaro, and his son, and Joe, and his daughter, were able to go back to Philadelphia, but even more elated that Roma and a family group from Tennessee were heading there too.

It was not lost on me that an English team were playing in Philadelphia on 4 July.

Meanwhile, I was doing some logistical planning of my own, and – should Chelsea be victorious against the team from Sao Paolo – I had squared it with my boss to head back to the US for the semi-final on the following Tuesday and, here’s hoping, the final on the following Sunday.

This was never really in the plan of course. Prior to the start of this tournament, I don’t honestly think that many Chelsea supporters would have given us much hope of getting further than the last eight.

But here we were.

The Friday night arrived, and I got some much-needed sleep before the 2am kick-off.

Sod’s law, the DAZN feed broke up, so I missed Cole Palmer’s opening goal. Alas, I saw Estevao Willian’s amazing equaliser and I wondered how the game, and the night, would finish.

As I tried to stay awake, my eyes heavy, it dawned on me that I loved the way that our boys were playing. We were showing great maturity for such a young team and squad. I began to entertain slight thoughts of winning it all.

Just imagine that.

Sssshhh.

During the last part of the match, I set up my laptop to see if the flights that I had earmarked were still available. My attention was momentarily on that, and I just missed the exact moment when the winning goal ricocheted in off a defender from a Malo Gusto cross. For such a moment, my reaction was surprisingly subdued. But it meant that I now had to leap into action.

I refreshed the flight options.

Within minutes of the final whistle in Philadelphia, I was booked on an ITA Airways flight to JFK via Rome on Monday 7 July. I was out via London City, back via London Gatwick.

For a few moments, my head was boiling over with crazy excitement.

Originally, I had never really planned to return to the US. But three factors came together. Firstly, my friend Dom had offered me the use of his apartment in Manhattan for the week. Secondly, I had just received an unexpected bonus at work. Thirdly, I was owed some holiday from the previous year that I needed to use by the end of July.

I messaged Dom, and we had a fruitful back-and-forth.

I fell asleep, somehow, with dreams of heading back across the Atlantic.

That I celebrated my sixtieth birthday on the Sunday seems as irrelevant now as it did then.

It had been, dear reader, an incredible three days.

Wednesday evening: a stressful day that led to an amazing decision enabling a fantastic future for Frome Town.

Friday night : Chelsea reached the semi-finals of the FIFA Club World Cup and – smelling salts please, nurse – a date with Fluminense, and Thiago Silva, who had defeated Al Hilal 2-1 in their game on the Friday.

On the Sunday, my birthday was very subdued. I wrote up the Tunis match report and planned what I needed to take to New York. I just about had time to squeeze in a lunch at a nearby village pub, the same one that I had taken Courtney in December.

After a relatively small amount of sleep on the Sunday night, I woke at 1am in the small hours of Monday 7 July. This was going to be a ridiculously long day of travel, but this is something that I live for; you might have noticed.

I quickly packed my small “carry-on” bag (to keep costs to a minimum) and I set off at just after 2.15am. As I drove up the A303, I turned on “Radio 2” for some company. The first full song was “Breakfast In America” by Supertramp, how very apt.

I reached my mate Ian’s house at Stanwell, near Heathrow, at 4.15am, and caught a pre-booked Uber to take me to London City Airport at 4.30am, unfortunately the only – expensive – way that I could get to the airport on time. This was a first visit for me and the driver dropped me off outside the super small departure lounge at 6am. There was immediate concern about my ESTA not registering but that was soon sorted. The 8.30am flight to Rome Fiumcino left a little late, maybe at around 9am.

In the back of my mind, there was the niggling doubt that should we lose to Fluminense the following afternoon, in addition to the sadness, there would also be the completion of an annoying circle.

On 4 July 2024, my first game of this ridiculous season featured Fluminense in Rio de Janeiro. Should we lose against them at the MetLife Stadium in New Jersey, my last game of the season would feature them too.

And – maybe just as bad – I would be stuck on ninety-nine live games this season.

Considering these worries, it’s surprising that I managed any sleep on the flight to Fiumcino.

There was to be a three-hour wait at the airport, and this gave me more than enough time to relax, buy a couple of cheap Benetton T-shirts (the spirit of 1984/85 lives on…) and grab a snack and a drink. Unfortunately, we missed our allotted slot and were delayed by almost two hours. We eventually took off at just before 5pm local time.

Thankfully I had a window seat and managed four hours of sleep during the eight-hour flight.

My thoughts returned to Rio last summer. I remembered how amazed I felt as I visited the original Fluminense stadium at Laranjeiras on the very first day.

“I stayed around ninety minutes, fittingly enough, and I enjoyed every second. The terraces are still intact, and the main stand is a lovely structure. I was able to fully immerse myself in my visions of what it must have been like to see a game here. And especially a game that took place on Sunday 30 June 1929, exactly ninety-five years ago to the day.

All those years ago, Chelsea played a Rio de Janeiro XI at Estadio Laranjeiras. The game ended 1-1. Included in the Chelsea team were stalwarts such as Sam Millington, George Smith, Sid Bishop, Jack Townrow and Tommy Law.

I clambered up into the main stand and took photos of the beautiful stadium. It reminded me a little of the fabled Stadio Filadelfia in Turin. I loved the floodlight pylons in the shape of Christ the Redeemer, and I loved the tiled viewing platform, no doubt where the VIPs of the day would watch in luxurious chairs.

Down at pitch side, I spoke to one of the ground staff – a Flamengo fan, boo! – and when I told him about only arriving in Rio that day, and the Chelsea game in 1929, he walked me onto the pitch. There was a frisson of excitement as he told me to look over the goalmouth to my right, to the west. He pointed out the huge statue of Christ the Redeemer atop the Corcovado Mountain. It would be the first time that I had seen the famous statue on the trip.

My heart exploded.

This was a genuine and real “Welcome to Rio” moment.

At this stage, I had not realised that I was visiting Laranjeiras on the exact anniversary of the game in 1929. If I had been told this at that exact moment of time, I surely would have feinted.”

I was over in Rio for nine days, and to my sadness a Fluminense home game had been bumped because of the floods that had hit Brazil earlier that summer. However, typical Brazil, on the third day of my visit I found out that a Fluminense vs. Internacional game had been squeezed in on the Thursday. I was ecstatic. Alas, Thiago Silva was not going to be playing, but at least I would see his team, and my favourite Brazilian team.

“I took an Uber and was dropped off to the north-west of the stadium and I walked into the crazy hubbub of a Brazilian match day.

Street vendors, sizzling steaks, hot dogs on skewers, beer, soft drinks, water, flags, colours, supporters. Replica shirts of every design possible. The Flu fans are based at the southern end and Maracana’s only street side bar is just outside. I bought a Heineken from a street vendor who originally wanted to charge me 50 reais, but I paid 20; just over £3.

My seat was along the side, opposite the tunnel, and I entered the stadium. I chanced a burger and fries in the airy concourse.

Then, I was in.

Maracana opened up before me. Those who know me know my love for stadia, and here was one of the very best.

Growing up in the ‘seventies, the beasts of world football were Wembley, Hampden and Maracana. For me to be able to finally step inside the Maracana Stadium filled me with great joy. Back in the days when it held 150,000 or more – the record is a bone-chilling 199,854, the 1950 World Cup, Brazil vs. Uruguay, Brazil still weeps – its vastness seemed incomprehensible. When it was revamped and modernised with seats for the 2014 World Cup, the two tiers became one and its visual appeal seemed to diminish. Simply, it didn’t look so huge. Prior to my visit this year, I hoped that its vastness – it is still the same structure after all – would still wow me.

It did.

I had a nice seat, not far from the half-way line. Alas, not only was Thiago Silva not playing, neither was Marcelo, the former Real Madrid left-back; a shame.

Fluminense’s opponents were Internacional from Porto Alegre.

It was an 8pm kick-off.

The home team, despite winning the Copa Libertadores against Boca Juniors in 2023, had suffered a terrible start to the season. After thirteen games, Flu were stranded at the bottom of the national league, while the hated Flamengo were top. The stands slowly filled, but only to a gate of 40,000. Maracana now holds 73,139. The northern end was completely empty apart from around 2,500 away fans in a single section. The game ended 1-1 with the visitors scoring via Igor Gomes on forty minutes but the home team equalising with a brilliant long-range effort from Palo Henrique Ganso four minutes into first-half stoppage time. In truth, it wasn’t a great game. The away team dominated the early spells and Fluminense looked a poor team. Their supporters seemed a tortured lot. There were more shrieks of anguish than yelps of joy.”

And yes, I found it so odd that we were up against both of Rio’s major teams in this World Cup competition. I could never have envisaged this while I was in Rio last summer.

The ITA Airways plane landed at a wet JFK at 7.30pm, only half-an-hour late, and I loved it that we arrived via the same Terminal 1 that I had used on my very first visit to the US way back in September 1989. The border control was brisk and easy, and I was soon on the AirTrain and then the Long Island Rail Road once again into Penn Station. It was only just over three weeks ago that Glenn and I were on the very same train.

I quickly caught the subway, then walked a few blocks north and west. I found myself knocking on Dom’s apartment door at around 9.30pm.

It was just over twenty-four hours door to door.

Phew.

There was a lovely warm welcome from Dom and it was a joy to see him once again. After a couple of slices of New York pizza, I slid off to bed a very happy man.

I woke surprisingly early on the Tuesday, the day of the game.

To say I was happy would be a huge understatement.

Here I was, back in Manhattan, staying at a great friend’s apartment for a week, with an appointment with Thiago Silva and Fluminense later that afternoon. Please believe me when I say that I have rarely felt so contented in my entire life.

My smile was wide as I trotted out of Dom’s apartment block at 8.45am. My plan was to head over to Hoboken, on the waterfront of New Jersey, to meet up with a few Chelsea supporters from the UK and the US at 11am at “Mulligan’s“ bar before taking a cab to the stadium. I had time on my side, so I decided to walk through Hell’s Kitchen to Penn Station and take the PATH train to Hoboken just south of Macy’s. First up was a magnificent breakfast at “Berlina Café”

“Take a jumbo cross the water.

Like to see America.”

On my little walk through Manhattan, I spotted around fifty Fluminense supporters, but not one single Chelsea fan. I was wearing my Thiago Silva shirt and wished a few of the Brazilians good luck. I quickly popped in to see landlord Jack at “The Football Factory” on West 33 Street, and saw my first Chelsea fan there, Bharat from Philly. There were a few Fluminense fans in the bar, and they told me that Chelsea now had a great Brazilian. I immediately presumed that they were referring to Estevao Willian, soon to arrive from Palmeiras, but they were referring to Joao Pedro. Unbeknown to me, he began his professional career with Fluminense.

I caught the 1030 train to Hoboken and it took me under the Hudson River. I was in the hometown of Frank Sinatra within twenty minutes.

The morning sun was beating down as I made the short ten-minute walk to the pub, which is run by Paul, who I first met in Baku way back in 2019. My friend Jesus, who I first chatted to on the much-loved Chelsea in America bulletin board for a while before meeting him for the first time at Goodison Park on the last day of 2010/11, was there with his wife Nohelia.

Cathy was there too, and I reminded her that the first time that I ever spoke to her was after she did a rasping rendition of “Zigger Zagger” at “Nevada Smiths” in Manhattan in 2005. This was on the Saturday night before Chelsea played Milan at the old Giants Stadium on the Sunday. Giants Stadium was right next to the current locale of the MetLife Stadium.

A few familiar faces appeared at “Mulligans” including my great friend Bill, originally from Belfast, but now in Toronto. Bizarrely, Emily – the US woman who showed up at a few Chelsea games a few years back and created a bit of a social media stir – was perched at one end of the bar.

Out of the blue, I received a call from my dentist.

“Sorry, I forgot to cancel. I am currently in New Jersey.”

“So, I don’t suppose that you will be making your hygienist appointment either.”

Fackinell.

The pints of Peroni were going down well.

We spoke a little about tickets. I had a brain freeze back in the UK when I attempted to buy – cheaper – tickets via the FIFA App and couldn’t navigate myself around it for love nor money. I panicked a little and ended up paying $141 for my ticket via Ticketmaster.

I would later find out that tickets were going for much less.

Sigh.

The team news came through.

Sanchez

Gusto – Chalobah – Adarabioyo – Cucurella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Nkunku – Palmer – Pedro Neto

Joao Pedro

A full debut for our new striker from Brighton.

“No pressure, mate.”

Tosin replaced the suspended Levi Colwill.

Folks left for the game. Nohelia, Jesus, Bill and I were – worryingly – the last to leave the bar at around 1.30pm. We headed off to the stadium, which geographically is in East Rutherford, although the area is often called The Meadowlands after the adjacent racetrack. Our Uber got caught in a little traffic, but we were eventually dropped off to the northeast of the stadium. With kick-off approaching, I became increasingly agitated as I circumnavigated virtually three-quarters of the stadium. We were in the southern end, but our entrance seemed to be on the west side.

It’s not a particularly appealing structure from the outside; lots of grey horizontal strips cover the outside of the stadium, all rather bland, nothing unique. Right next to the stadium, which hosts both the NFC Giants and AFC Jets, is the even more horrible “American Dream” Mall, a huge concrete monstrosity with no architectural merit whatsoever.

Eventually I made it in, via a security check, and a ticket check. At least the lines moved relatively fast, but the sections were not particularly well signposted.

I heard the hyperbolic nonsense from pitch side.

At three o’clock, the game kicked off just as I walked past a large TV screen, so I took a photo of that moment.

I was getting really annoyed now; annoyed at my inability to reach section 223, but also at the ridiculous lines of spectators missing the action by queuing up for food and drink.

“Can you fuckers not go forty-five minutes without food?”

At 3.06pm, I reached section 223, mid-level, and I heaved a massive sigh of relief.

I was in. I could relax. Maybe.

Fluminense in their beautiful stripes, with crisp white shorts and socks.

Chelsea again in the white shirts, but with muted green shorts and socks this time.

The two kits almost complimented each other, though this was my third game in the US and I was yet to see us play in blue.

There were a few Chelsea fans around me. I spotted a few supporters from the UK in the section to my left. Three lads with Cruzeiro shirts were in front of me, supporting Chelsea, and we shared a few laughs as the game got going.

The stadium looked reasonably full. The lower tier opposite me was rammed full of Flu supporters.

I always remember that their president was so enamoured with the way that Chelsea behaved during the Thiago Silva transfer that he was reported to say that Chelsea was now his favourite English team and that he hoped one day Chelsea could visit Rio to play Fluminense at the Maracana.

“Will New Jersey do, mate?”

In the first ten minutes, it was all Chelsea, and it looked very promising.

The first chance that I witnessed was a shot from Enzo that was blocked after a cross from Malo Gusto.

We were on the front foot, here, and Fluminense were penned in. There was energy throughout the team.

On eighteen minutes, Pedro Neto was set up to race away after a delicate touch by Joao Pedro. His cross into the box was thumped out by Thiago Silva but the ball was played straight towards Joao Pedro. Just outside the box, at an angle, he set himself and crashed a laser into the top right-hand corner of the goal. Their ‘keeper Fabio had no chance.

What a screamer.

And how we screamed.

GET IN!

What joy in the southern end of the MetLife Stadium.

Blur on the PA.

“Woo hoo!”

I thought back to those Fluminense fans in “Legends” earlier in the morning and their comments about Joao Pedro.

Their thoughts were far different to my dear mate Mac, the Brighton fan.

“Good luck with the sulky twat.”

We continued the good work. On twenty minutes, Pedro Neto was again involved and his cross was headed towards goal by Malo Gusto but Fabio did well to parry.

On twenty-five minutes, in virtually the Brazilians’ first attack of note, German Cano was released and struck the ball past Robert Sanchez. Thankfully, Marc Cucurella – ever dependable – was able to scramble back and touch the ball away.

I did my best to generate some noise in Section 223.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA! CAM ON CHOWLSEA! CAM ON CHOWLSEA! CAM ON CHOWLSEA!”

But I sang alone.

I was standing, as were many, but maybe the heat was taking its toll. Our end was pretty quiet, and the Fluminense fans were much quieter than the Flamengo and Tunis contingents in Phillly.

Then, a moment of worry. From a free kick from their left, the ball was swept in and the referee pointed to the spot, the ball having hit Trevoh Chalobah’s arm.

“Oh…shite.”

Thankfully, VAR intervened, no penalty.

Phew.

On forty-four minutes, a good chance for Christopher Nkunku, but he chose to take a touch rather than hit the ball first time. There was much frustration in the ranks. One of the Cruzeiro lads yelped “primera!” and I understood exactly.

Then, three minutes later, a header dropped just wide.

At the break, all was well. We were halfway to paradise.

I met up with a few English lads in the concourse during the break and decided to leave Section 223 and join them in Section 224A.

I sat alongside Leigh and Ben, and in front of Scott, Paul, Martin and Spencer.

In this half, the Chelsea team attacked the Chelsea end. We began again and it was still the same controlled and purposeful performance. Moises Caicedo fired over the crossbar, and then Cucurella was just wide with another effort.

On fifty-four minutes, Robert Sanchez got down well to save from Everaldo, a substitute.

Soon after, with much more space to exploit, Chelsea broke. Cole Palmer won the ball, and then Enzo pushed the ball out to Joao Pedro on the left. I sensed the opportunity might be a good one so brought my camera into action. We watched as our new striker advanced unhindered, brought the ball inside and, as I snapped, smashed the ball in off the crossbar.

Ecstasy in New Jersey.

There were quick celebratory photos of the little contingent of fans close by.

The worry reduced but although we were 2-0 up, we still needed to stay focussed. In fact, it was Chelsea who carved open more chances. The often-derided Nkunku shot on goal, but his effort was deflected wide.

On the hour, Nicolas Jackson replaced Joao Pedro.

Next, Nkunku was able to get a shot on goal, way down below us, and it looked destined to go in but who else but Thiago Silva recovered to smack it clear.

Twenty minutes remained.

Malo Gusto took aim from distance and his effort curled high and ever-so-slightly wide of the target.

We were well on top here, and I could not believe how easy this was.

I whispered to Leigh :

“We are seeing this team grow right in front of our very eyes.”

On sixty-eight minutes, Noni Madueke replaced Pedro Neto and Reece James replaced Malo Gusto.

Ben went off to get some water; we were all gasping.

Marc Cucurella sent over a lovely cross, right across the six-yard box, but it was just slightly high for all four of the Chelsea players, all lined up, that had ventured forward.

The gate was given as 70,556; happy with that.

On seventy-nine minutes, Jackson robbed the ball from a loitering defender and set off. His low angled shot just clipped the near post, but Palmer was fuming that he was not played in at the far post. Soon after, Jackso forced Fabio into another save.

Two very late substitutions.

Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Nkunku.

Andrey Santos for Enzo.

There was almost ten minutes of injury time signalled by the referee, but apart from an over-ambitious bicycle kick from Everaldo, the game was up.

The Great Unpredictables were in the World Cup Final.

From my point of view, the gamble had paid off.

As “Blue Is The Colour” and “Blue Day” sounded out through the stadium, and as the Fluminense players drifted over to thank their fans, there was great joy in our little knot of supporters in Section 224A.

After a few minutes of quiet contemplation, I moved down to the front row and tried to spot anyone that I knew in the lower deck. I saw Alex of the New York Blues, and shouted down to him, and he signalled to meet me outside.

I was exhausted and began my slow descent of the exit ramps. I waited for a few minutes outside but soon realised that meeting up with Alex would be difficult. I slowly walked out into the area outside the stadium. After three or four minutes, I looked to my left, and there was Alex, walking at the same slow pace as me.

What a small world. Alex is a good mate and let me stay in his Brooklyn apartment for the Chelsea vs. Manchester City game at Yankee Stadium in 2013.

As we walked over to the New York Blues tailgate in Lot D, I turned around and spotted some other fans. I recognised one of them from that very game.

I yelled out.

“I remember you. You were stood behind me at Yankee Stadium and we had a go at each other!”

He remembered me, and we both smiled and then hugged. Rich had been berating the fact that he had paid good money to see Chelsea play but the team was full of youth players. I turned around and said something to the effect of “that doesn’t matter, support the team” and he remained silent, but he bashfully now agreed that I was right.

What a funny, crazy, small world.

I enjoyed a few celebratory beers with the New York Blues, and then eventually sloped back with Alex by train to Secaucus Junction and from there to Penn Station. The two of us stopped by at Moynihan Train Hall for more beers – Guinness for me for a change – and we were joined by Dom and his mate Terence and Alon too.

This was just a perfect end to a magnificent day.

We said our goodbyes, but I dropped into “Jack Demsey’s” for a couple more drinks before getting a cab home at 1.30am.

It had been another long day, but one of the greats.

And yes, my gamble had paid off.

I would be returning to East Rutherford, to The Meadowlands, to MetLife on Sunday.

BADGERS HILL, FROME.

LARANJEIRAS, RIO DE JANEIRO.

MARACANA, RIO DE JANEIRO.

METLIFE STADIUM, NEW JERSEY.

Tales From South Philly

Posted on July 6, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. ES Tunis : 24 June 2025.

Philadelphia has been good to me.

Way back in 1989, though, on my first visit, it struggled to find its way inside my heart. On that first-ever escapade around North America, I dropped in to the city in the November and spent the day walking its streets with my college mate Ian. We had arrived on a very early train from New York, and I remember a small breakfast in a diner in the city centre. We marched off to visit Independence Hall in the Centre City, and it was important to see such a defining location in the nation’s history.

However, I struggle to understand why I never made a big point of staying a few days in the city, since I was well aware of the story of my shipwrecked relatives and then their subsequent stay in Philadelphia in the mid-nineteenth century. I think that I realised that their story would forever float around in family folklore with no real chance of further investigation.

Of course, I was twenty-four in 1989, and undoubtedly more interested in the “now” than the “then.”

After Independence Hall, we were then a little stuck for ideas. Ian came up with a master plan of visiting “The Mummer’s Museum” – my “Let’s Go USA” book has a lot to answer for – and so we trotted a mile to the south to visit this odd salute to the history of this very particular Philadelphian street parade, complete with fanciful costumes and associated camp finery,

For an hour, we traipsed around, the museum’s only visitors, and the poor museum guide must have been saddened by our continual sniggers.

I still rib Ian about this to this day.

Since then, I have ramped up the visits.

In 1993, while in New York for Yankee baseball, I took a train down to the city to watch the Phillies who were on their way to that year’s World Series. They easily defeated Florida Marins and their aged knuckleballer Charlie Hough 7-1 at The Vet. It was at this game that I first fell in love with their mascot the Philly Phanatic. That night, I returned to New York at 2.30am, another typically late night in pursuit of sporting adventures.

In 2008, while in New York for my last-ever visits to old Yankee Stadium, I spent a day in Philly with a couple of friends; Stacey, from 1989 – and Chris who I met at the Chelsea game in DC in 2005. My first-ever cheesesteak was followed by a first visit to the Phillies’ new stadium, the neat Citizens Bank Park. I was happy that the home team defeated Boston Red Sox 8-2.

In 2010, the year that marked my mother’s eightieth birthday, the two of us stayed a week in Philadelphia since my mother had always spoken about wanting to visit it. In fact, my parents had planned to visit the city in 1991, but their trip around North America was curtailed as my dear mother had developed shingles.

That week was one of the very greatest holidays of my life. We watched Philly baseball – a 2-6 loss versus Milwaukee, alas – then drove to see Stacey and her husband Bill that evening, drove over to witness the Amish region near Lancaster, drove to Manhattan and visited the sites including a baseball game at Yankee Stadium – sadly, a loss to Baltimore – and visited the beach town of Cape May in New Jersey. On the last day, we then drove to see Gettysburg Battlefield Site, and that was one of my most memorable ever days in the USA.

One moment will always stay with me though. On the first evening in Philadelphia, we took a walk into the old historic area and saw Elspeth’s Alley before deciding to have some food at an old-style diner at the intersection of Market Street and 2^nd Street, “The Continental”. As we sat there, I realised that it was very likely that our blood relatives had walked down Market Street, or even along 2^nd Street where we were sat at a pavement table, and I had shivers. It was one of those moments when the past and the present met and possibly waved at each other.

I explained this to my mother, who was suffering with dementia, and it saddened me to realise that her sweet smile illustrated that she didn’t fully understand the real significance of my words.

Two years later, in 2012, thousands of Chelsea supporters descended on Philly for the MLS All-Star game in nearby Chester. A group of us booked a suite at a complex on Benjamin Franklyn Parkway – a prime site – and we had a real blast. There was another Philly game, a dramatic come-from-behind 7-6 win against Milwaukee, more cheesesteaks, a walking tour with Steve the host, a visit to the Rocky Steps for us to parade the Chelsea banners, a lucky moment for us to meet a few of the players outside their hotel, and many beers and many laughs.

It is telling that in the report of that game – “Tales From An American Away Day” – within the 3,943 words, only these detail the actual game.

“Out on the pitch, I will admit to being thrilled to see David Beckham play one last time, way out on the right in a rather withdrawn position. I have a lovely shot of him joking with John Terry.

The MLS team went a goal up through a Wondolowski effort from close in, only for John Terry to rise high and head home from a corner.

A nice tap in from Frank Lampard gave us a 2-1 lead, but – much to our annoyance and disbelief – the MLS team not only equalised through Pontius but scored the winner in the “nth” minute of extra time with a ridiculous looped shot from Eddie Johnson which ricocheted off David Luiz’ leg and into an empty goal with Ross Turnbull beaten.”

However, the game against the MLS All-Stars in Chester, Pennsylvania will be remembered by those Chelsea fans present not for the performance of the players, nor the result, but for the constant singing, chanting and commotion created by the 1,200 fans present.

We stood the entire game and we sung the entire game.

Friends still tell me that, support-wise, Philly 2012 was the best stop in all of the US pre-season tours. I cannot argue.

Back to 2025, and on my sixth visit to the city, we were licking our wounds after the 1-3 loss against Flamengo on the Friday.

On the Saturday, Glenn and I chilled out during the day, and our little town house would be the perfect antidote to the heatwave that would soon engulf the city. In the evening, we strolled around the centre of the city, and I aimed for the intersection of Market and 2^nd. Unfortunately, my worst fears were confirmed; “The Continental” was now closed. However, we settled for some burgers on Market Street just a few yards away, again sitting outside at a pavement table. We then walked over to a bar on 2^nd Street but I made a point of standing near where I had enjoyed that meal with my mother in 2010 at “The Continental” and tried to envisage that sweet smile.

On the Sunday, there was a hop-on-hop-off-keep-out-of-the-rain bus tour to a couple of locations with our friends Alex and Rob from London, and some food at “Tir Na Nog”. I am lucky in that I had seen most of Philly’s attractions on previous visits, while Glenn was quite happy to go with the flow. In the evening, Steve and his eldest daughter Lynda treated us to a lovely meal in the Fairmount district. Later, we met up with Alex and Rob for drinks at a rooftop bar atop The Cambria Hotel.

On the Monday, Glenn and I met Alex and Rob at a coffee shop right next to where we ate our meal the previous evening before visiting the Eastern State Penitentiary, which many friends had visited in 2012, and which was entirely fascinating. The jail is atop the highest land in the city, at Fairmount, and it did not take me long to envisage my great great grandparents Benjamin and Barbara White looking up at the imposing stone building during their five-year stay. It would be wonderful, one day, to carry out a deep investigation into their story. I was just pleased that there was no mention of Benjamin White in any of the histories contained within those thick walls.

Glenn and I stopped off for more burgers on famous Passyunk Avenue in South Philly, and as we walked back to our rental house, I think we both realised what a perfect locale it was. The rows and rows of town houses – we would call them “terraced houses”, Steve called them “row houses” – were neat and charming, and it felt like paradise to walk into 2025 Pierce Street, a haven of cool tranquillity.

South Philly, equidistant between the Centre City and the three sporting stadia, was a perfect locale for us, a sanctuary against the heat, but full of character too.

It is a standing joke that each time Chelsea score a dramatic goal, Steve texts me “Pandemonium in South Philly.”

And here we were.

That evening we again assembled at “Tir Na Nog” and it was low key, with only a few from the UK present. I dashed off to try to get a photo of the sunset at “The Sky High” bar atop the Four Seasons Hotel. While I was waiting in the foyer, I spotted some Chelsea players walk through, and I trotted over to shake hands with Liam Delap.

“Welcome to the club.”

There were handshakes with Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall and Levi Colwill too. This was just coincidence. I did not know that Chelsea were staying at this hotel. By this stage, the concierge was nervously pacing around and politely asked me to not approach the players. So, I secretly gave the thumbs up to Tyrique George who looked surprised that I had recognised him. Behdad Eghbali was a few feet away from me at one stage, but ignored my greeting, surprise surprise.

Later, we moved over to “McGillans”, a fantastic bar, and met up with my mate Steve from Belfast and his friend Jason.

Game day against Tunis on Tuesday started with a good old-fashioned American breakfast at a good old-fashioned American diner to the south of the city, and the whole experience was top class. It was just what we needed ahead of the big day and the big game.

By mid-morning, it was already heating up. With this in mind, we retired to the digs to chill out, knowing we had a taxing evening ahead, and then departure on the Wednesday.

At 5pm, we walked into “Tir Na Nog” and, looking back, it was nowhere near as busy as the pre-match in 2012. We met all the usual faces from England, some of whom had been doing some extensive travelling since Friday, but it was great to see some new faces too, especially Pete and his son Calvin from Seattle and David from South London.

I handed out a few signed Ron Harris photos, but it was deeply disappointing to realise he is not so famous in the US.

I approached five Americans.

“Right, spot quiz here. There might be a prize involved. Which player has played more games for Chelsea than any other?”

America was 0 for 5.

Phackinell.

My friend Roma from Tennessee – a friend for almost thirty-six years – had decided, last minute, to drive up with her grandson Keegan and her son Shawn’s girlfriend Nevaeh, and it was amazing to see her again. I last saw Roma in 2016 when she had visited England in 2016 with Shawn and her daughter Vanessa for a Chelsea game.

Time was moving on, and although the drinks were going down well, we needed to move down to the stadium.

I left the bar with Glenn, Pete and Calvin, and met up with David on the subway.

The kick-off for this game was 9pm, but it was still hot as we paced over to the stadium. Unlike on Friday, there was no queue, and we were soon inside. I was desperate for some food so stopped for another cheesesteak. This turned out to be very fortuitous since in the slight delay, we managed to spot Frank and his daughter who had popped into “The Eight Bells” a few months ago with the hope of seeing me and my mates who Frank reads about in these match reports. It was fantastic to see him once more.

We made our way up the ramps to our section in the mezzanine. We had bumped into many Tunis fans throughout our stay in the US, both in Manhattan and in Philadelphia, and we knew that they would outnumber us. It was a disappointment that such a small number of US-based fans had been lured in to this competition, but I almost understand the reluctance; the money-grab, the extra games.

“We all follow the Chelsea, over land and sea…”

Maybe not.

And yet, the Wrexham games lured many in…

I don’t get it.

There was time for photos with friends from back home, plus stragglers not previously seen. If anything, the lower tier below us was more heavily populated than on Friday, which surprised me. It was not even half-full, though.

Oh well.

Alex and Rob were sat close by.

“Tunis look like Partick Thistle.”

Kick-off approached.

Our team?

Jorgensen

Acheampong – Adarabioyo – Badiashile – Gusto

Lavia – Fernandez

Dewsbury-Hall – Nkunku – Madueke

Delap

We needed just a draw, one solitary point, in order to advance to the last sixteen, and there was, therefore, not the heightened sense of worry or concern in our area. The usual lads and lasses from back home were in our section, with only a few from the US.

It was odd that the prices had tumbled over recent days. Us fools had paid top whack, keen as mustard, back at the start of the year, but were now annoyed that prices had fallen.

Chelsea were playing in all white again and attacked the Tunis fans in the northern end of the stadium, who were amassed behind a “Curva Sud” banner. I hoped this discombobulated the team and their fans alike.

With Flip Jorgensen playing in all orange and Tunis in yellow and black shirts, I had to wonder what the late Brian Moore would have made of this colour clash.

“And on the subject of kits, here is a letter from Mr. David Spraggs of 13 Acacia Drive, Merton, who questions why the referee did not ask the Chelsea keeper to change his shirt so that it did not clash with the Tunis shirts. A great point, there.”

The game began. It was still as hot as hell.

Unlike on Friday, when Flamengo often had controlled spells of the ball, we dominated possession in the first half.

A header from Benoit Badiashile from a corner went close, and a shot from Liam Delap from distance forced the Tunis ‘keeper Ben Said to parry. Tunis rarely threatened, and only on the break. Chances continued to mount up and I wondered if we would ever break through.

I liked Malo Gusto in this half, running and probing well.

Enzo went close with a free-kick, and further chances fell to Dewsbury-Hall, Acheampong and Delap.

Throughout, the Tunis fans were singing, massed tightly together. Down below us, I could not hear a whisper.

Chester 2012 was a long way in the past…

I am not sure how many of our fans had disappeared into the concourse for a beverage as the first half drew to its conclusion, but I suspect that it was more than a few. In the third minute of injury time, Josh was fouled just outside the area, and I steadied my camera. I snapped as the cultured boot of Enzo clipped the ball into the danger zone. A leap from Tosin and the header lopped in at the far post, Ben Said stranded.

Snap. And snap again.

GET IN YOU BEAUTY.

Two minutes later, Enzo found Delap with a precise pass and our new striker moved the ball well and calmly slotted in past the hapless Tunis ‘keeper.

We were 2-0 up, and surely safe.

At half-time, there was a light show, the stadia turned various colours, and I didn’t really understand it. I must be getting old.

Correction : I am old.

The second half began, and relaxing in the comfort of a two-goal cushion, a few old songs were aired.

“If I had the wings of a sparrow, if I had the arse of crow, I’d fly over Tottenham tomorrow, and shit on those bastards below, below.”

I turned to Rob.

“You have to say, is the arse of a crow particularly big? Surely there are birds with bigger arses? What do you think?”

Rob replied.

“I think it’s bigger than a sparrow’s and that’s all that matters.”

We continued to dominate, and Enzo went close. He was having a fine, influential game and was pairing well with the more aggressive Dewsbury-Hall.

I wondered what Roma was making of all of this; her little group were down below us and not far from Steve who had visited us in the pub but had then shot off to collect his wife Terry and daughter Lynda.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA, CAM ON CHOWLSEA, CAM ON CHOWLSEA, CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

Madueke set up Nkunku but wide.

I heard a horrible “Let’s Go Chelsea, Let’s Go” chant down below us.

On fifty-nine minutes, a double swap.

Dario Essugo for Lavia.

Marc Guiu for Delap.

Next up, a Madueke effort but wide. The chances were piling up. The Tunis fans were quieter but still singing, a very impressive show.

On sixty-seven minutes, more changes.

Andrey Santos for Enzo.

Tyrique George for Madueke.

The song that haunted me in Wroclaw began again.

“Tyrique George – aha.

Running down the wing – aha.

Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

We are going to Wroclaw.

Tyrique George – aha.

Running down the wing – aha.

Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

We are going to Wroclaw.

Tyrique George – aha.

Running down the wing – aha.

Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

We are going to Wroclaw.

Tyrique George – aha.

Running down the wing – aha.

Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

We are going to Wroclaw.”

To be fair, it is quite hypnotic.

There was no real reduction in the heat, and I was not surprised that the game slowed. It became something of a training game.

Late on, a shot from Santos appeared to strike a defender’s arm. Nkunku placed the ball on the spot, and we all positioned our cameras as he waited to take the penalty kick. Then, a VAR review, and a ridiculously long wait. It took forever. In the end, no penalty, cameras not needed.

On eighty-three minutes, Mamadou Sarr replaced the impressive Gusto and made his debut.

A late chance for Guiu, but his shot did not trouble the ‘keeper, then a chance for George was saved.

In a game of injury-time goals, and in the ninety-seventh minute of the match, Tyrique George was given the ball by Madueke, and from a distance drove the ball towards goal. To our utter amazement, the hapless ‘keeper fumbled, and the ball ended up nestling in the goal.

Chelsea 3 Tunis 0.

Job done.

The gate was given as 32,967 and it was much more than we had expected prior to the match. We were expecting it to be around 20,000.

Glenn and I walked down the ramps, happier than on Friday, and met up with Steve and his family. Steve had a very important presentation at work early on Wednesday morning, so I was pleased, but very surprised, to hear that he was coming back to a very crowded “McGillan’s” for a couple of pints with us.

This was a great end to the evening, a fantastic – er, phantastic – time in an atmospheric and noisy bar. There was a lovely mix of both Chelsea and Tunis fans, and bemused natives, and we took it in turns to sing.

“Come along and sing this song, we’re the boys in blue from division two, but we won’t be there too long.”

Stephen and Jason from Belfast, Andy from Nuneaton, David from London, Nina from New Jersey, Frank and his daughter.

“Thanks for the drinks, Frank.”

“My pleasure. You know what, reading your blog, I somehow feel closer to you and PD and Parky than any of my other friends.”

My bottom lip was going…

What a night.

We stumbled out of there at 2am, happy beyond words.

Chelsea had made it into the last sixteen and whereas some of the expats would be travelling down to Charlotte to see us play Benfica, Glenn and I were now heading home.

However, I did say – tongue in cheek – to a few mates “see you at the final.”

Should we beat Benfica, we would return to Philadelphia on Independence Day, and should we win that, who knows.

This rocky road to a possible denouement in New Jersey might well run and run and run.

CHELSEA vs. ESPERANCE SPORTIVE DE TUNIS

POSTCARDS FROM PHILADELPHIA

MEMORIES OF PHILADELPHIA 2012

ON THE CORNER OF MARKET STREET AND 2ND STREET IN 2010 AND 2025

GOODBYE

Tales From North And South America

Posted on June 29, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Flamengo : 20 June 2025.

The 2024/25 football season began for me on Saturday 29 June when I flew out to Rio de Janeiro and saw three matches in that incredible city. The second game took place on the evening of my 59^th birthday on Saturday 6 July with an entertaining and noisy game between Flamengo and Cuiba at the Maracana Stadium. Almost twelve months later, my second-from-last game of this season would also feature Flamengo, but this time I would be crossing the Atlantic Ocean to see them play Chelsea in Philadelphia.

This is damned close to “completing the circle” and it’s good enough for me.

I am used to trips across the Atlantic. In September 1989 I visited North America for the very first time. I travelled over to New York with my college mate Ian and embarked on a ten-month odyssey of North America, which famously included a nine-hundred-mile cycle ride down the East Coast. Since then, my love for Chelsea Football Club and of travel, and of baseball and of Americana, kept calling me back.

But then, for some time, my love for the US waned. My last pre-season trip with Chelsea was in 2016 – Ann Arbor and Minneapolis – and I was not tempted by recent ones, especially when the club decided to play a bit-part role in the reality TV show that is Wrexham Football Club, not once but twice.

Modern football, eh?

We became World Club Champions against Palmeiras in 2022 – in lieu of 2021 – but then Gianni Infantino and the money-makers at FIFA decided to expand this competition to include a massive thirty-two teams and to stage a new version of the FIFA Club World Cup in the US.

And lo, I was conflicted.

Was I in favour of this competition?

Honestly, no.

More games, more expense, a new competition, FIFA personified.

Would I go? I was not sure.

But my mind went to work on this. If I was to go, it would be my twentieth trip to the US, and a perfect way to celebrate my 60^th birthday a few weeks after. The 2024/25 season would be a long and demanding season for me, for various reasons, but I knew for some time that it would almost certainly end with a trip to the United States for the latest incarnation of the Intercontinental Cup.

Soon into the planning stages, my old Chelsea mate Glenn showed an interest in going too, and it would be a lovely addition to the pre-season games we saw in Beijing in 2017 and then Perth in 2018.

The fixtures were announced with one game in Atlanta and two in Philadelphia. This pleased me no end. I didn’t fancy Atlanta as I had visited it a few times before, including two Atlanta Braves games in 1996 and 2002, but also en route to visit my friend Roma and her family in the Great Smoky Mountains a few times.

Two games in Philly would be more than perfect. I have a huge personal attachment to this city. My great great grandparents lived in Philadelphia in the mid-nineteenth century for five years before returning to Somerset, and I visited the city in 2010 with my eighty-year-old mother, who often said that she wanted to see where her relatives had resided all those years ago. At the time of our visit in 2010, we only knew a few facts about our relatives; that they had been shipwrecked on the voyage to Philadelphia in Newfoundland and that they returned to England not too long after.

To see my team play in a city where my family had lived in the 1850s pleased me no end.

I made the decision to add New York to our trip, since I figured that it would be a mortal sin for Glenn not to see one of the greatest cities in the world with me.

Flights were booked. Match tickets were purchased. The accommodation took a while to sort out. But we were on our way.

Phackinell.

New York.

After months of preparation and anticipation, I picked up Glenn at his house in Harris ( ! ) Close in Frome at 4am on Saturday 14 July. Glenn’s only other trip to the US was to Florida in 1992. He went with a mate of ours, Chippy, who was the Liverpool fan from Frome that I saw in the Annie Road seats on my first visit to Anfield in 1985, but I digress!

He was excited, I was excited, ah the joy of foreign travel.

At 6.30am, I was parked up at my mate Ian’s house in Stanwell, so close to Heathrow T5. Ironically, prior to my trip to Rio a year earlier, I had booked a “JustPark” spot in Stanwell, and then walked to a bus stop to take me to T5 and the bus stop was just fifty yards from his house.

The 1230 flight to JFK departed a few minutes late, but the pilot knew of a short cut, and we landed in Queens ahead of schedule.

A little light rain welcomed us to New York, but our trip into the city could not have been easier or cheaper.

AirTrain to Jamaica, Long Island Rail Road to Penn Station.

$8.

Cheap as French fries.

Now then, dear reader, let’s delve back into Chelsea’s history.

In June 2001, I visited New York to see the New York Yankees play five games of baseball, but to also meet up with my friend Roma from North Carolina. I had an unforgettable week. On the last day together, we found ourselves in the main forecourt of Penn Station, which is a deeply unlovable subterranean hellhole right below Madison Square Garden. On that morning, I ’phoned Glenn who had been calling in to check on my dear mother while I was away. And it was during that ‘phone-call that Glenn told me that we had signed Frank Lampard and Emanuel Petit. So, a little bit of my Chelsea history took place right in the middle of Manhattan.

And here we were, walking past that very spot.

There should be a royal blue plaque to commemorate this moment on a wall nearby.

Up at street level, I took a photo of Glenn with a misty Empire State Building in the background, and my heart was buzzing and bouncing. An hour later, we had located our apartment on East 14^th Street, near Union Square, and were making our way to my favourite bar in Manhattan, “McSorley’s”, and our walk took us past the hotel on St. Mark’s Place where Roma and I had stayed in 2001.

At “McSorley’s” the New York Fairytale began in earnest.

Here are some highlights…

McSorley’s.

This was my fourth visit. In 1997, Ian – my college mate who was with me in 1989 – returned to New York with me to watch the first-ever “Subway Series” between the Yankees and the Mets, and we visited this grand old pub for the first-time with our friend Stacey, who we met in Florida nearing the end of our cycle ride in 1989. In 2001, I visited it with Roma on our first night together. In 2015, I met up with my friend Steve from Philly prior to a Mets game. Steve’s grandparents were married in the Ukranian church opposite. Steve loves it that the bar is officially on Shevchenko Place.

With Glenn, we stayed around an hour and a half and drank their light and dark beers – the only choices – which are always served in two half-pints. The place was heaving, full of happy tourists. We were given free crackers, cheese and onion, and some lads from Portland bought us two rounds of our beers. It was a perfect start to our trip.

Jack Demsey’s.

Unbeknown to Glenn, I had contacted some great friends in New York to stage a little “surprise party” for him underneath the Empire State Building in a fantastic bar, “Jack Demsey’s”, on West 33^rd Street. The “meet” was at 6pm, and by 7pm around a dozen friends had accumulated together, and a fantastic night followed. The bar was full of Palmeiras fans, and there were a few Fluminense fans floating about too. The usual watering hole for the New York Blues – “Legends” – had been block-booked by Fluminense for five whole days. Both teams from Brazil were playing two games in New Jersey. Every time that we saw a Fluminense fan, we sang “Thiago Silva.” The volume of Brazilian fans in the city shocked me but I loved the buzz of seeing so many fans enjoying life.

Later, my friend Dom took us to a rooftop bar right underneath the Empire State Building and another one too, and we caught a late cab home. It had been one of the greatest nights.

Ten Miles.

On the Sunday, we slept on, but by around midday we were up. The misty and cool weather was perfect for a walk through the streets of Lower Manhattan, and it was a pleasure to be able to see Glenn’s reaction to a new city. Many people who read my rambling prose have commented how they often feel like they are living vicariously through my experiences, and it was now rewarding to see Glenn’s reactions to places that were more familiar to me, but unfamiliar to him. I had mentioned to him on the flight that I was relishing this. It was as if I was seeing New York for the very first time all over again, but through his eyes.

We craved a meal at a typical diner – booths, stools at the counter, eggs over easy, free coffee refills, rude waitresses, you know the type – but our neighbourhood was sadly lacking in these. We eventually found an Italian restaurant for a filling sandwich and then an Argentinian café, complete with Diego Maradona references, for a coffee.

Our walk took us through Little Italy, the outskirts of Chinatown, close to the Brooklyn Bridge and South Street Seaport, all the way down to Wall Street, then Battery Park and views of the Statue of Liberty. From there, we delved into “Century 21” for a little shopping, then walked north up Broadway and eventually back to our digs. In total, we walked ten miles, and the last two were as painful as hell. But it had been a magnificent first full day, and a little like the ground travelled on my first full day with Ian back in 1989.

Old Friends.

On the Monday, my friend Stacey – from 1989 and 1997, but also from visits in other years including with my mother to her house in New Jersey in 2010 – came into the city and met us for breakfast on Third Avenue. Glenn departed to take in a ferry trip to Liberty and Ellis Islands. Stacey and I did our own tour but were dismayed when we found out that the International Centre of Photography was closed until 19 June. We are both keen photographers. Instead, I suggested that we visited the Lower East Side Tenement Museum. It was fascinating. We learned of a beer parlour that was run by a German family, and then a trader who was Jewish, and it really enabled me to go back in time, to let my mind wander. I studied the migration of Europeans into North America while at college and it is a fascination of mine, enhanced through my own family’s experience in Philadelphia.

We met up with Glenn at “Jack Demsey’s” at 2.30pm to enable us to watch a far from emphatic Chelsea victory over LAFC from Atlanta. The stadium in Atlanta looked so empty and the bar in Manhattan was empty too. It dismayed me that of the dozen or so Chelsea fans at “Jack Demsey’s” many were looking at their ‘phones, eating and chatting while the game took place. The game on the TV seemed an inconvenience.

My love affair with the US began to wane once again.

I remembered an odd football-related tale from 1990. On our return to England in that year, Stacey visited Ian in London but also came down to see me in Somerset. Later they stayed with some friends in Bristol, who happened to live near Eastville, the former home of Bristol Rovers. Glenn and I had seen Chelsea lose 0-3 to Rovers at Eastville in 1980, but I had remembered that Stacey went to see some greyhound racing at Eastville on her visit in 1990.

That all three of us had visited Eastville made me chuckle.

During the game, my friend Keith popped in to see us, and on walking north after the game we witnessed an event in Times Square celebrating the premier of the “F1” movie. Glenn even spotted the Frome driver, and former World Champion from 2010, Jensen Button.

High.

On Tuesday morning, we walked a large section of The Highline, and I was reminded of my walk there in 2015. I love it. It also took me back to my first week in Manhattan in 1989 when Ian and I stayed in a very cramped hostel on West 20th Street, right under the walkway which in those days was just an abandoned train line. Since 2015, the flora and fauna has established itself and parts are in complete shade from the trees.

Again, we spotted Brazilian fans, but hardly any European fans. Not surprisingly, the South Americans were taking this tournament very seriously. Out of nowhere, I commented that as most football supporters who go to games put club over country, I wondered if in one hundred years’ time, the dominant World Cup competition would be this club version rather than the established one for countries.

Would USA 2025 be as significant as Uruguay 1930?

Something to contemplate perhaps.

Meet Me At Stan’s.

Later that day, after a walk up Fifth Avenue, we took the 4 Line to Yankee Stadium, and met up with my friends Mike and Steve, both Chelsea fans, both Yankee fans, Mike from New Jersey, Steve from Philadelphia. We met at “Stan’s Sports Bar” on River Avenue, right opposite the site of the old Yankee Stadium, home of Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Yogi Berra, Mickey Mantle, Phil Rizzuto and Reggie Jackson, and a place that I visited twenty-three times from 1990 to 2008. It is where Ray Wilkins made his debut during the US Bicentennial Tournament in 1976.

I was in my element, talking to the lads, reminiscing, supping “Rolling Rock”, looking forward to the baseball, but also thinking back to 1993 when my friends Paul and Nicky from Frome met me here before a game against Detroit. And to 1997 when Ian and I drank amidst shouts of “Let’s Go Yankees” and “Let’s Go Mets” in the first official series between the two teams, giving a real football-feel to the night. And to 2010 when my mother and I had a drink in “Stan’s” before a game against Baltimore. And to 2012 and 2013 when Chelsea played two games at either end of the season at the new Yankee Stadium, acting as bookends to my personal season, and “Stan’s” was the pre-match bar once again.

Game 1 : 22 July 2012 – Chelsea 2 Paris St, Germain 2

Game 57 : 25 May 2013 – Chelsea 3 Manchester City 5

I last saw Mike at the City game, and I last saw Steve at that Mets game in 2015.

I worked out that this was my thirty-third visit to “Stan’s” and this made me smile. I have known Lou, the owner, since 1993 and I also got to know the chap who runs it too. It was a joy to see Mike again. The first two beers had been on him.

Yankee Stadium.

So, here I was. I was back at Yankee Stadium again, and it felt like I had never been away. My last visit was in late July 2015 for an easy win against Baltimore Orioles. Right after that game, I drove from the multi-story car park that used to abut the old stadium, to Charlotte in North Carolina, via an overnight stop in West Virginia, for a game against PSG.

As I have said in these reports before, I much preferred the old stadium; it was cramped, atmospheric, grubby, but reeked of atmosphere and history. I loved the way that the upper decks towered over the infield and resembled jaws waiting to clamp shut. I loved it there. The new place just seems like a shopping mall. Most of my fellow Yankee friends feel the same. A little portion of my waning interest in baseball since around 2010 has undoubtedly been the fact that old Yankee Stadium is no longer there. A lesson for everyone, I think.

Build it and they will come?

Maybe not.

For this game, we had super seats in row one of the upper tier above home plate and Glenn, bless him, had gifted my seat as an early birthday present. Unfortunately it was a dire game of baseball, quite possibly the worst I have ever seen. The visiting Angels got ahead early and eventually won 4-0. But I loved it, and I loved the tales that Mike and Steve shared. Mike used to work for the Yankees as an intern in 2001 and 2002.

It was my thirty-first Yankee home game; twenty-three in the old Yankee Stadium, eight in the new stadium and my record stands at 20-11.

More importantly, Glenn absolutely loved it. And he is now a Yankee fan.

Dodge In Brooklyn.

On the Wednesday, our last full day in New York, the sun came out and we enjoyed another full day out walking and sightseeing. We took a cab to “DUMBO” ; Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass. I guess “DUMB” would have been just, er, dumb.

What a great setting. With the East River laid out before us, and the skyscrapers of the financial district to our left and the midtown skyscrapers to our right, I was lost in a world of my own, with a George Gershwin song only a few heartbeats away. Even here we were surrounded by Palmeiras fans. We walked back into Manhattan, over the gorgeous Brooklyn Bridge, and I can honestly say that in the hour or so that we were in Brooklyn and on the bridge we saw around five hundred Palmeiras fans. Like in Abu Dhabi, they were everywhere.

In 1989 and 1990, Chelsea fans were nowhere to be seen. As we descended towards the City Hall, we passed the spot in May 1990 where I met the only Chelsea fan that I had seen in the ten months of me being in North America. This fact still staggers me. He was an ex-pat who was wearing a Chelsea training top. I shared this story with Glenn. As I told the tale, I could hardly believe what I was saying.

One Chelsea fan in almost ten months.

There should be a royal blue plaque to commemorate this too.

One Vanderbilt.

We took a subway up to the gorgeous interior of Grand Central – what a space – and while Glenn chilled out, I ascended one of the newer skyscrapers in midtown, right opposite Grand Central and the famous Met Life building. A work colleague had recently visited it and recommended it to me. I loved it. It’s roughly the same height as the Empire State Building and towers over the nearby Chrysler Building. There are three observation decks, and each one is magnificent.

The lowest one is full of mirrors which make reality a difficult concept but enhance the feeling of space and light. The middle one contains a room of constantly moving ballons, facing north and the pencil thin new builds overlooking Centeal Park, and this just made me laugh and smile. The highest one is outside, just you and Manhattan.

“Good luck, enjoy the view, don’t fall off.”

The Last Night.

My friend Dom invited us up to his apartment on West 52nd Street for some last night beers and this was a lovely and relaxing evening. We met up at around 7pm and watched as the sun set over Hoboken and The Pallisades in New Jersey, and then night fell with the skyscrapers of Manhattan a fantastic backdrop. I last saw Dom in Wroclaw. We spoke about Manhattan, Chelsea fans in the US, work, mutual friends, and it was a perfect time.

From here, we visited another rooftop bar, this time overlooking Times Square. We chatted to some ES Tunis fans, and we told them that we had seen quite a few of their supporters, too, in Manhattan, in their red and yellow stripes. We spoke about numbers of fans, and I was asked how many Chelsea fans were coming from the UK. I stalled, gulped, and embarrassingly said “about one hundred.”

Suddenly, we didn’t feel like a very big club at all.

Rio de Janeiro.

Ahead of our road trip from Manhattan to Philadelphia, here is a small recap of the only other time that I have seen Flamengo play.

“I again took a cab to the Maracana and was deposited in the same spot as on Thursday for the Fluminense vs, Internacional match, but immediately the mood seemed different. More noise. More supporters. More banners. It seemed that Flamengo really were the city’s team. I felt a little conflicted.

Flu over Fla for me, though.

I had paid a little more for my ticket – £40 – but was rewarded with a sensational view high on the main stand side. I took a lift to the top level and the vast bowl of the Maracana took my breath away. I bought myself a beer – alcohol is allowed in the stands in Brazil – and raised a toast to myself.

“Happy birthday young’un.”

I really loved this game. It was a lot more competitive, and the noise was more constant, and quite breath-taking. Cuiba, from the city of the same name, only had a few hundred fans for this match and I didn’t even try to hear them. Surprisingly, Cuiba scored early on when Derek Lacerda waltzed through and struck a shot into the massive Maracana goals. For aficionados of goals, goal frames, stanchions and goalposts, these are beauties.

“Deep sag.”

It was a decent game. My view of it made it. Maracana, dear reader, is vast.

At half-time, I trotted out to the balcony that overlooked the city. I took a photo of a section of the Maracana roof support, pocked and cracked through time, and contrasted it with the lights shining on a nearby hill. Rio is surrounded by huge rising pillars of black rock. And here I was inside the city’s mammoth concrete cathedral.

The second half began, and the intensity rose and fell. All eyes were on David Luiz. It was so good to see him play again. I last saw him play for Chelsea at the away friendly against St. Patrick’s Athletic in Dublin in 2019. The Fla – or ‘Mengo, take your pick – support never waned and were rewarded when Pedro tucked in an Ayrton cross on the hour. One through-ball from David Luiz will stay in my mind for a while. He was arguably their best player. It ended 1-1. The gate was 54,000. I was expecting more. Flamengo’s support is so huge that I was soon to liken them to Liverpool’s and Manchester United’s support in the UK combined

But there was one more thrill to come.

Whenever I saw photos of Maracana as a child and in later years, I was always mesmerized by its exit ramps, and I tried to imagine how many millions of cariocas – Rio’s inhabitants – had descended those slopes over the years. After the game, I walked them too.

The whole night had been a wonderful birthday present to me.”

Philadelphia.

And here we were, not too long before my 60^th birthday, on a Flixbus from just outside Madison Square Garden to the heart of the City of Brotherly Love, or perhaps – when I visited it with my dear Mum in 2010 – The City of Motherly Love.

I love the American road, and I had driven back from The Bronx in 2010 with my mother on this exact same route that Glenn and I were now taking. In fact, it almost mirrored the bus trip that a few of us took in 2012 after the game at Yankee Stadium against PSG, travelling down to Philly for the MLS All-Star Game in nearby Chester.

That was no ordinary journey, though.

On that memorable trip, my good friend Rick – a history buff – did some research into my relatives’ history and found out the details of their crossing of the Atlantic. The City of Philadelphia steam ship left Liverpool but was ship-wrecked off the coast of Newfoundland at Cape Race on 7 September 1854. Additionally, it was its maiden voyage, a fact that nobody knew until then. Rick found my great great grandfather’s brother listed on a passenger list, and that was good enough for me. The shipwreck was part of our family’s aural history, though the exact facts were never known.

I loved the fact that I was exposed to the intimate detail of that journey, previously only faintly written and quietly whispered in family folklore, for the very first time as I was travelling to Philadelphia over one hundred and fifty years after the crossing.

Like Benjamin and Barbara White in 1854, we were nearing Philadelphia.

We had earlier passed the town of Newark and we spotted the Red Bull stadium – I had sadly watched a Chelsea loss there in 2015 – but then pushed on past the airport, over the Delaware River and headed on into the city. We were deposited in the wonderfully named area called Northern Liberties.

It was superb to be back.

We soon arrived by Uber at our rented house in South Philly, about a mile or so from Steve’s house, at about 3pm. That evening, there was a planned meet at the “Tir Na Nog” bar in the city centre. We knew that we were in for a heavy evening with the game less than twenty-four hours away, so we chilled out for a while. Our house was magnificent, a clean and cosy, yet spacious, terraced house, just perfect.

It’s number on Pierce Street?

2025.

It seemed very appropriate.

We took an Uber to “Tir Na Nog” and we arrived bang on 7pm.

Have I ever mentioned that I work in logistics?

Phackinell.

The hours we spent in “Tir Na Nog” were super. Friends from both the UK and the US mingled and laughed and joked. I met a few Facebook acquaintances for the very first time and it was a blast.

I’d like to thank everyone who bought me a drink, or seven.

Steve from South Philly rolled in. It was here that I first met his wife Teri and their daughters Linda, Elizabeth and Cassidy in 2012. Cassidy, now fourteen, would be with Steve for the Flamengo game. All three daughters love football, and Chelsea of course.

Back in 2012, I remember that I yelled out a full “Zigger Zagger” and scared the girls to death.

No such foolish behaviour this time.

Johnny Dozen was sat, unmoved, in a corner spot the whole evening. It was as if the whole bar was built around him. He is a good mate, and after we closed out the bar at around midnight, we sloped off to “Con Murphy’s” just around the corner.

Here, we go back to 2012, the day before the game in Chester, when I visited “Con Murphy’s” with some other mates.

We were relaxing outside on the pavement, having a bite to eat, supping some ales, when a taxicab pulled up outside the bar. A chap exited the cab with a couple of friends, and I immediately remembered him from a post-baseball game pint the previous night. I had remarked that he was a doppelganger for Carlo Ancelotti. On this occasion, we couldn’t let the moment pass.

As he approached the bar, I started chanting

“Carlo! Carlo! Carlo!”

This elicited further song from The Bobster, Lottinho, Speedy, Jeremy “Army Of One” Willard from Kansas, plus Shawn and Nick from the Boston Blues –

“Carlo, Carlo, Carlo.
King Carlo Has Won The Double.
And The Shit From The Lane.
Have Won Fuck All Again.
King Carlo Has Won The Double.

2, 3, 4

Carlo, Carlo, Carlo.
King Carlo Has Won The Double.
And The Shit From The Lane.
Have Won Fuck All Again.
King Carlo Has Won The Double.

2, 3, 4

Carlo, Carlo, Carlo.
King Carlo Has Won The Double.
And The Shit From The Lane.
Have Won Fuck All Again.
King Carlo Has Won The Double.”

We were roaring with laughter and “Carlo” approached us with an increasingly bemused look on his face. I explained to him about his uncanny resemblance to Carlo and guess what? He was a Scouser. To be fair to him, he took it all in great spirits and even posed for photographs with us. He said he had been mistaken for Jay Leno the previous night.

As one, all of our left eyebrows arched in disbelief.

The look on the faces of the other customers at the tables was priceless.

I felt like saying – “yeah, we serenade random strangers like him all the time back in England.”

Back to 2025, and the little gang of friends that had continued drinking – Johnny Twelve, Hersham Bob, his mate Paul, Glenn, Matt and his wife Rachel – shrunk to just Johnny Twelve and little old me. We chatted to Nicole, who ran “Tir Na Nog”, and it seemed that Chelsea Football Club had not exactly held out the arm of friendship to the Chelsea signature pub in Philadelphia. No contact, no promotions, no merchandise, no nothing.

A shame.

At gone 2am, I took an Uber back to 2025. I was starving so the driver opened his boot and gave me a huge pack of zingy “Cheetos” that I devoured on the way home. There was a further stop at a convenience store for more snacks.

I made it home, but I would soon be up in the morning for the game against Flamengo.

The match against the Brazilian giants was to kick-off at 2pm, which meant that we didn’t really have too long for pre-match drinks. We had planned a little splinter group meet-up at “Oscar’s Tavern”, a cracking little dive bar. Glenn and I were starving so wolfed down a breakfast that did not touch the sides. There were a few drinks with great friends Bob, Alex and Rob from England, Dom from NYC, Alex and his girlfriend from Brooklyn, Kathyryn and Tim from DC, Josh from Minnesota, Johnny Dozen from Long Beach, Jaro and his son Alex from Virginia, his neighbour Joe and his son Luke, and Steve from his house just two miles to the south.

We caught a subway down to the stadium, the sun beating down as we exited, and headed for a quick drink at a huge and impersonal “super bar” that sits close to both the Phillies’ baseball stadium and the Eagles’ NFL stadium. The Flyers’ NHL and the 76ers’ NBA shared stadium is close-by too.

There has always been sport stadia in this part of the city, and it once housed the long-gone JFK Stadium where the US section of “Live-Aid” took place forty years ago.

I wasn’t sure of the numbers involved but as expected, Flamengo fans outnumbered us. It was lovely, though, to spot familiar faces from home and the US as we drifted in and among the crowd.

Time was moving on and there were lines at both the North and West gates. Flamengo fans were everywhere. We joined the line at the West gate. QR codes had appeared on our mobile phones earlier and I was just glad that mine hadn’t disappeared into cyberspace somewhere.

Glenn and I made our way up the various ramps to reach the M11 section, which was a middle-tier just above the large TV screen at the southern end of the stadium. As soon as we reached our row, we saw Andy from Nuneaton, a friend of thirty years.

There was all sorts of hoopla and nonsense happening on the pitch and on the PA as the kick-off approached.

The northern end was full of Flamengo red, but with odd pockets of blue at the edges. The rest of the stadium was dominated by the colour red. Down below us, the Chelsea lower tier was only a third full. The stadium capacity is 68,000 and it looked around two-thirds full.

My initial thoughts about this tournament were ringing true; too many games, tickets too expensive, we are reaching saturation point but FIFA wants more, more, more.

I had mentioned to others that my ideal format for this would have been sixteen teams, four groups of four, the winners to the semi-finals, then the final. Five games maximum.

Is the US getting tired of European teams? I remember a great game in 2009 in Baltimore between Chelsea and Milan, both teams stacked with talent, as many Chelsea as Milan fans in the crowd and a gate of 71,203. And that was a friendly.

Yet this game in Philly was no friendly, it was an official FIFA game, only Chelsea’s second-ever non-friendly match in North America, yet the Chelsea section was a third full. It seemed that, as I knew, many of our US fans had said “no thanks” to this one.

The teams were announced.

Us?

Sanchez

Gusto – Chalobah – Colwill – Cucurella

James – Caicedo

Palmer – Enzo – Neto

Delap

Or something like that. It would take me a good few minutes to notice that Cole Palmer was on the pitch, and even longer to work out his position and role.

Flamengo, now managed by one-season wonder Felipe Luis, were now without David Luiz but boasted the arrival of Jorginho, who – from one hundred yards away – resembled Phil Cool.

I think the heat was getting to me.

Our section seemed to be where most of the UK fans had decided to buy tickets, which were at the cheaper of the two price ranges, and this did not surprise me. We love a bargain in the UK. As is the case, not many of us were wearing Chelsea gear, old habits die hard. I added a muted pink Paul Smith to the array of designer schmutter on display.

On the pitch, we were in the mid-‘seventies inspired semolina white with thin central feint red and green stripes.

The game began, and we played towards the Flamengo fans to the north.

The Brazilians attacked us early, with two shots that did not trouble Robert Sanchez, whose presence between the uprights troubled us.

On five minutes, a great through-ball from Enzo Fernandez gave Liam Delap the chance to run freely at the goal, memories of him at Portman Road in December, and his strong shot tested Agustin Rossi in the Flamengo goal. I think everyone in the stadium and beyond was thrilled by that one play and we hoped for more.

It was an eagerly contested match and on thirteen minutes, after a Flamengo free-kick was cleared, Pedro Neto put pressure on a Flamengo defender. The ball cannoned between the two players, and the ball spun forward, and so did Neto. We watched from afar as he raced away. Sadly, I didn’t have my SLR with me due to restrictions on what I could bring into the stadium, and my pub camera was not called upon to record his fine finish past Rossi.

I didn’t care.

We were 1-0 up.

GET IN YOU FUCKER.

Pandemonium in South Philadelphia.

I snapped the boys celebrating, and that was enough for me.

I whispered to Glenn :

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

Flamengo were fluid with the ball and ran at us from all angles, but we generally kept our shape, though it did seem that the heat was hurting us. Flamengo, used to the sultry heat of Rio, were not so deterred.

A long shot from Malo Gusto that did not trouble Rossi was a very rare chance for us.

Palmer was ridiculously quiet and hardly involved.

On thirty-two minutes, there was a hydration break, sponsored by a drinks company, and you just now there will be VAR breaks with sponsors very soon. The pitch was being hydrated too, with the sprinklers on.

With half-time approaching, the typically aggressive Marc Cucurella gave away a free-kick out on the Flamengo left. A deep cross was met by Gerson and his side-footed cross-come-shot bounced high, but Levi Colwill was on the line to head away.

We breathed a hot and sweaty sigh of relief.

Our attacks had petered out by the time the first half ended but Flamengo had stayed strong.

At half-time, Glenn trotted off to get some water for us both and that cost him $15. At least they came in decent aluminium logo’d cups. Elsewhere, a lad had bought three gin and tonics and a Diet Coke and it cost him $89.

There were no changes at half-time, but shadows gave way to sun in section M11, and I was glad to be wearing my Frome Town cap.

In the second-half, Steve and his daughter Cassidy came into our section to watch the game alongside us.

Soon into the second period, with most of the play now happening up the other end of the pitch, we had a major escape, a proper “get out of jail” incident. There was a terrible mix-up between James and Chalobah, which allowed Gerson to settle and steer a shot towards the goal. Thankfully, James had managed to back-peddle and block, but we watched with our hearts in our mouths as the onrushing Gonzalo Plata appeared, ghost-like, at the far post. Incredibly, his touch took the ball wide of the post and the angle must have defeated him.

We had a rare chance when a long Sanchez punt forced Leo Pereira, pressured by Delap, to knock past the post, his ‘keeper fully committed.

On the hour, a brisk succession of passes allowed a chance for Plata but his shot was well tipped over by Sanchez. It was a fine save.

Sadly, two minutes later the game changed. Cucurella gave up space as he was faced with marking two players, and a deep cross from our left was headed back towards goal by Plata. The loose ball – shades of the earlier chance – was tucked home by Bruno Henrique.

My heart sank.

Glenn : “It was coming, wannit?”

Their players all rushed over to the north-west corner, but that area was no Sleepy Hollow. The Flamengo fans were boiling over.

I was reminded of a “Mengo” chant that I had heard continually at the Maracana last summer and now it haunted me.

Enzo Maresca made some changes.

Romeo Lavia for Enzo.

Nicolas Jackson for Delap.

In the next attack, Flamengo won a corner on their right. Another deep cross caused panic, and it was again knocked back into the same area of space by the far post. This time Danilo turned it in.

Once 1-0 up, now 2-1 down, this hurt again.

The Flamengo players raced away to the same corner, again their keeper Rossi, all in yellow, raced up field with arms outstretched and it made me squirm.

It got worse, fucking worse. I didn’t see the incident, but Jackson went in “studs up” and was shown an immediate red.

Twat.

A header – over – from Enzo was a rare chance for us to level the game.

In a forlorn attempt to stem the flow, Maresca changed things again.

Noni Madueke for Enzo.

Marc Guiu for Palmer.

The supporters in M11 were disgruntled and upset, and it got even worse.

On eight-three minutes, Flamengo burst through into our box and after a rather fortuitous bobble from a shot, Wallace Yan steadied himself and slotted the ball in, again from the same part of the box.

Again, Rossi ran forward, arms raised, and I felt ill.

The game petered out and that was that.

The gate was given as 54,019 and I struggled to believe that only 14,000 seats were empty.

More like 40,000 at most.

We slowly walked back to the subway stop and all of us reckoned that it seemed a much longer walk than before.

“Probably because we lost.”

It was only 4.30pm or so, and so we met up another exquisite dive bar (“Bring your snorkel, Glenn”) called “Bob’s & Barbara’s” which soon got us smiling again. A few beers there did the trick, and it was great to meet up and chat with my old friend Mike and his son Matthew from New York, and another Matthew from South Carolina, who is a massive fan of international football, unlike me, and was soon off to his 69^th US game in Kansas, or somewhere.

“Just make sure they change ends at half-time in that one, mate.”

We spent a good amount of time there and could have stayed longer, but Steve walked Glenn and yours truly over to South Street where we devoured our first cheesesteak of the trip at “Jim’s” where we had visited in 2012.

“Steak, onions, Whiz.”

It was phantastic.

Our first match in Philly was done and dusted, but we now had to get something from Tuesday’s late game against Esperance of Tunis to ensure our safe passage into the last sixteen of this cup.

And that, my friends, is another story.

NEW YORK 2025

RIO DE JANEIRO 2024

PHILADELPHIA 2025 : A NIGHT WITH FRIENDS

PHILADELPHIA 2025 : CHELSEA VS. FLAMENGO

Tales From Two Away Games

Posted on December 9, 2024 by Chris Axon

Tottenham Hotspur vs. Chelsea : 8 December 2024.

The game at a wet and windy Southampton behind us, we were now ready to think about the next hurdle during this mammoth month of nine matches in December.

Tottenham Hotspur vs. Chelsea.

It makes the pulses quicken, doesn’t it?

On the Saturday, I was busy, as busy as hell. My trip to Kazakhstan was coming up on Monday morning and I needed to make sure I had planned everything to be as near perfection as I possibly could. I also needed to write the blog from the Southampton game. With these two events to occupy my mind, there never was going to be a Frome Town game to attend on the first day of the weekend. My local team were set to travel down to Dorset and play Poole Town. As luck would have it, Storm Darragh was likely to wreak havoc, and the game was quickly called off during the first few hours of Saturday morning.

I was just about to launch into the Southampton match report when it was announced at around 10.30am that our three matches in the new FIFA World Club Cup – against Flamengo, Esperance and Leon, as drawn at around 7pm on Thursday – would take place in Atlanta and Philadelphia.

As if I needed something else to occupy my mind on this busiest of weekends.

But occupy my mind it did. Briefly, the plan will be to avoid the game against Leon in Atlanta, but to fly into New York and revisit that city before heading down to Philly for the other two games. The plan is for Glenn from Frome to ride alongside me. We quickly discussed a few notions and ideas, and I messaged a few close friends in the US. I also spoke to my good friend Steve who resides in South Philly, less than two miles from where we will be playing in June at the 67,000 capacity Lincoln Financial Field. To say he was ecstatic would be halfway there. I could sense his exhilaration on the ‘phone. He was truly thrilled.

Philly is a great venue for me. I visited it first in autumn 1989, then again for a baseball game in 1993, and another in 2008, then with my mother in 2010, and then again with Chelsea for the 2012 All-Star Game in nearby Chester, with baseball games on both of those visits too. It is the city where my great great grandparents lived in around 1860. I like it a lot. For once I have to commend FIFA in planning two games in one city, with the third game at least in the same time zone.

But that is next summer. There will be plenty of time to work on a plan for that in due course.

All of this talk of exotic away games…

There was a time when a normal Common or Garden, run of the mill, bread and butter (OK, FFS – everyone gets it!) away game used to excite me like nothing else.

The Tottenham away game would be my five-hundred and thirteenth away game. Forty years ago to the exact day – Saturday 8 December 1984 – my tenth ever away game was at Hillsborough against Sheffield Wednesday.

Let’s go back in time.

My first five away games had been in Bristol, four at Rovers and one at City. Then there were two within a month in March 1984 at Newcastle United and Cardiff City. Then a friendly at Bristol City, then the massive opener at Arsenal. While living in Stoke-on-Trent, I missed a lot of away games due to bad luck – being in the wrong place at the wrong time – and was forced to wait a few months for my next one, a lovely away day at our big 1983/84 rivals to the north of Sheffield’s city centre.

I remember a fair few things about that day, but I can consult my 1984 diary too.

I was up early at 7.30am, which was a good effort since there had been a boozy birthday party at our local in Stoke on the Friday night, which typically involved a fight with a local – a Stokie – who came unstuck with one or two of my mates. I woke with a slight hangover. I caught the train at 8.39am and changed trains at Derby. My flat mate Bryan travelled with me to Sheffield as he was off to a party that night in the city. We arrived at 10.15am. I clutched a map as I walked north – where I got the map from I have no idea – and it took me an hour to get to Hillsborough. Penistone Road seemed to go on forever. I was ridiculously early, but I enjoyed seeing such a huge stadium for the first time. I loved seeing the huge Kop and the iconic cantilever stand up close. I walked around it. I took it all in. A hideous steak and kidney pie was purchased.

I bought a seat ticket for £4.50 for the upper tier of the away end, a real treat. I waited for others to arrive. The few Chelsea fans present at such an early time were kept in a secure enclosure behind gates. A few mates arrived. Dave from St. Albans. Then Alan from Bromley and Paul from Brighton. They let us in at 1.30pm. A meat and potato pie next. The view in the seats was excellent. I spotted Mark from Sudbury. Then Sharon and Paula, the programme girls. My guess was around 6,000 Chelsea. The first-half was poor but got better in the second-half. Paul Canoville was always a threat. On eighty minutes, Pat Nevin reached the goal-line and clipped a cross over for Gordon Davies to head home from close range. The celebrations were amazing. Pure ecstasy. Then “that bastard” Imre Varadi headed home, and our hearts sank. Our first away win of the season was tantalisingly close, but despite a few late chances, it ended level. The gate was 29, 373. Sitting nearby was an infamous skinhead, Lester, who claimed that Hicky had been arrested on the way up.

A convoy of fifteen double-decker buses took us back to Sheffield’s Midland station, arriving at 5.30pm. We learned we had drawn Wigan in the FA Cup. Bizarrely, I bumped into Bryan at the station, waiting for a friend to arrive for the party. I caught the 6.21pm to Derby, where there was a load of United fans on the way back from their defeat at Forest. I returned to Stoke at 8.14pm. Out for a pint at the college disco, I saw a Wednesday fan who I had met the night before and we exchanged peasantries. Then back to my digs, my head no doubt full of Chelsea songs from the six-thousand army in Sheffield who had been the stars of the show yet again.

These were the best times of my life; the seasons from 1983/84 through to around 1988/89.

I miss the feelings of youthful camaraderie, rebellious noise, ridiculous characters, silly moments, cutting terrace humour, and also the magnificent adventures as we experienced new away grounds and new cities as our travels spread around the country.

In contrast to those “rights of passage” seasons, the trip to Tottenham on Sunday 8 December 2024 would be my twenty-sixth Tottenham away game although three of those were at Wembley.

My “rights of passage” days have long since gone – sad, isn’t it? – but this fixture stirs the emotions like no other.

The plans for this game changed due to my travel out to Kazakhstan on the Monday. I had decided to stay up in London after the game, which meant that PD and Parky had to make their own arrangements.

When I woke on Sunday morning, PD and Parky were already en route to London. They would stay in London too, near the Eight Bells in Fulham, and then drive home on Monday.

I left for London at 11.15am, and hoped to get to Barons Court, my basecamp for games against Arsenal, West Ham and Tottenham, by 2pm. It was a painful drive up; wet, windy, lots of traffic. It meant that I didn’t reach Barons Court until 2.30pm. From there, a quick coffee to give me some energy, and then the District Line to Monument, a walk to Bank, the Central Line to Liverpool Street. It had only taken me thirty minutes to get across town. I caught the 3.30pm train to White Hart Lane – I had a warm jacket on, it was boiling in the train, and I was stood next to three Tottenham fans who used the word “bruv” every three seconds.

I had a couple of spares to hand over to a work colleague’s daughter and her boyfriend, and it transpired that they were on the very same train. The timings all worked out. I soon met up with them outside the away end and I was inside at 4.20pm.

As I walked in, through the little alleyway, I smirked at the usual pre-match Tottenham rhetoric booming out all around me. To hear it, one would be tempted to think that they are a club at Real Madrid levels of achievement.

They aren’t.

I was down in the bottom corner, row 2, right by the corner flag with Gary and John. It seemed we were below the level of the pitch; it must have been the camber.

As kick-off approached, the lights dimmed.

“Oh God, here we go.”

No Southampton laser beams, but thousands of home fans turned their phone torches on and the huge bowl looked like another Barry Manilow gig.

The mosaics in the towering South Stand spelled out “Audere Est Facere” which means “We’re Pretty Shite” in Latin.

The team?

Sanchez

Caicedo – Badiashile – Colwill – Cucarella

Lavia – Enzo

Neto – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

Or something like that. Being so low down it was difficult to tell if there were some subtle tweaks to our usual set up.

As at Southampton, Chelsea were in all blue. Tottenham were modelling shirts with an Arsenal-style affectation involving navy sleeves.

There was a lively start. We seemed OK.

However, on just five minutes, Marc Cucarella slipped and allowed Brennan Johnson, whoever he is, to race on in front of our disbelieving eyes. He was able to strike a firm cross into our box that former Chelsea youngster Dominic Solanke finished off with a sliding strike, the ball flying high into the goal past Robert Sanchez.

Fackinell.

Tottenham 1 Chelsea 0.

Their support boomed, and Solanke ran towards us before aiming an imaginary bow in our general direction; another prick who is off our Christmas Card list.

We still had most of the ball but found it difficult to watch as on twelve minutes, Cucarella again slipped, right in front of us this time. This allowed a move to quickly develop. The ball was played into Dejan Kulusevski, who was allowed too much space. His – almost scuffed – shot crept in at the near post.

Tottenham 2 Chelsea 0.

[inside my head : God, is this payback for the 6-1 in 1997? I hate this lot more than anyone else. Please God no cricket scores. Not here. Not against them.]

Well, thankfully, we didn’t crumble, we kept playing.

The next goal would be crucial, and we just had to score it. With the home team playing a high line, we kept pushing the ball into spaces out wide.

I saw Jadon Sancho advance on eighteen minutes, and I yelled out “don’t be afraid to shoot!”

Thankfully, he must have heard me because he ran on, then inside, and drilled a magical daisy-cutter into the goal, just inside the far post. I was right in line with his shot. I took great enjoyment with that one. Huge celebrations in our end. We were back in it, and well done us.

Tottenham 1 Chelsea 2.

This was a good game, keenly contested, and I was absolutely involved.

A half-chance for a relatively quiet Cole Palmer but wasted.

We were all yelling obscenities into the dark North London night when, on thirty-four minutes, Sanchez kicked a clearance right at a Tottenham player, and then did something very similar a few minutes later.

I kept saying to John “we need to keep turning the screw here”. No escape, no let-up, no mercy, get into them Chels.

More half-chances for us in front of that ridiculously high and imposing South Stand.

Strangely, though, both sets of fans were relatively quiet. It surprised me that not one Chelsea supporter chose to sing about “winning 6-1 at The Lane.”

A Tottenham corner, against the run of play, and a header tickled the top of Sanchez’ bar causing the tightly stretched net to ripple.

Then, Nicolas Jackson – a threat in theory – had two great chances but was thwarted by some desperate defending.

At half-time, I would say that the mood in the Chelsea section was positive, even buoyant. I spotted PD behind me and he came down to join the three of us for the second period. At the break, Malo Gusto replaced the seemingly injured Romeo Lavia, who was injured in the closing minutes of the first half.

In the opening flurry of activity in the second period, Sancho was involved on our left and perhaps should have pulled the trigger a little more often. Pedro Neto came to life too. We began the second forty-five in great form, in great spirits, tons of energy.

A shot from the mightily impressive Enzo Fernandez, a shot from Gusto too.

We were all over Tottenham.

The volume increased.

On the hour, that man Sancho released Moises Caicedo and, as he burst into the box, he was clipped by Yves Bissouma,

The much-derided Anthony Taylor quickly pointed to the spot.

Yes!

I moved to the front of the gangway and prepared to capture the strike from Cole Palmer. I waited.

The shot.

The net rippled.

Tottenham 2 Chelsea 2.

Scenes!

I prepared to set my little camera to record the scorer’s run towards us, but – standing right at the front – I was swamped by on-rushing supporters as it seemed the entire section wanted to get as close to Cole Palmer as possible.

It was mayhem.

I took my baseball cap off so that I didn’t lose it, I took my glasses off and gripped them tightly, I held on to my camera for grim life. I was getting pushed right up against the wall.

Fackinell.

At the end of it, I just laughed.

“I think I have just been sexually violated.”

Everyone was delirious with our equaliser.

Magnificent stuff.

We were absolutely the better team now, and the away fans knew it.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

I said to Paul “I’ll take a 2-2 but I want to win it.”

On seventy-three minutes, the bloke behind me pleaded for Neto to push forward and provide an overlap for Palmer, who was shielding the ball only a few yards away. Palmer didn’t need any assistance. He twisted and turned, caressing the ball beautifully as he danced between a few Tottenham defenders. His shot was blocked, and it bobbled out to Enzo who lashed the ball in.

Tottenham 2 Chelsea 3.

Oh my God.

The place erupted again.

I raced down the front, hoping to get some photos but got crushed again.

I was in pain this time, but I was just giggling away like a fool. The photos that I took of the celebrations are too blurred to even contemplate sharing.

I returned to my seat, and I gave John a good old-fashioned stare. At 2-2, I had said that I hoped for us to be able to sing the classic “Tottenham Hotspur – It’s Happened Again” and now we could sing it with, er, gusto.

It was a beautiful moment.

“Tottenham get battered, everywhere they go.”

Christopher Nkunku replaced Jackson.

On eighty-four minutes, Palmer was shielding the ball away from Pape Sarr – “he’s not a footballer, he’s just a random selection of letters” – and I could hardly believe the idiocy that resulted in Palmer being chopped down.

Was I going down to the front of the stand to take a photo of Palmer’s second penalty?

No, not a chance. I waited in my normal seat.

We waited. And waited.

He ran, I snapped.

A Panenka.

I just burst out laughing.

Tottenham 2 Chelsea 4.

The home areas were now thinning out although you would not know since – a cunning ploy this – all of the seats at the Tottenham stadium are very dark grey.

It’s as if they knew.

Some late substitutions and Joao Felx, Renato Veiga and Noni Madueke replaced Palmer, Cucarella and Neto.

There was a later consolation from Son Heung-Min, but that was it.

There was no “bastard Imre Varadi” waiting in the shadows in this game.

We had done them again.

Bloody fantastic.

“Nine goals in two away games in five days, not bad at all.”

Those Tottenham away games?

My record is now :

Played : 26

Won : 11

Drew : 7

Lost : 8

We can, I think, start to call it “Three Point Lane” once again.

I made my way out and chatted to Mick for a few minutes. We both agreed how everything has come together over the last few weeks. Enzo Maresca has got inside their heads and has given them belief.

“Football is all between the ears anyway, right?”

God, we are only a few points behind Liverpool.

Our sudden rise has, I can safely say, surprised every one of us.

I dipped in for some food on the High Road, then caught the 7.45pm train back to Liverpool Street.

Schadenfreude as I sat among them for half-an-hour?

Oh yes.

I returned to my car at Barons Court at around 9pm.

And here I am, sat in a hotel at Heathrow, ahead of a flight – from Stansted, don’t ask – at 12.50pm tomorrow that will take me to Istanbul, and from there to Almaty in Kazakhstan for the game against Astana on Thursday.

Onwards, and eastwards.

I might see some of you there.

Tales From The Homecoming

Posted on July 28, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Reading : 22 August 2012.

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

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

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

The Goose seemed relatively quiet.

“Two pints of Peroni” please.

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

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

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

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

Shudder.

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

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

“No pressure, then.”

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

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

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

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

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

David Wagstaffe – “Wolves.”

David Best – “Ipswich.”

Dick Krzywicki – “Huddersfield Town.”

Alan Bloor – “Stoke.”

Trevor Hockey – “Sheffield United.”

Alec Lindsay – “Liverpool.”

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

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

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

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

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

We know who we are alright.

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

“That sounded amazing on the TV.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh dear.

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

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

“Ian Harte, too” said Russ.

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

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

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

I hope that he or she likes hospital food.

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

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

Nice one, Canners.

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

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

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

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

Another change; Sturridge for Mikel.

Attack!

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

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

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

BANG BANG
BANG BANG BANG
BANG BANG BANG BANG

CHELSEA!

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

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

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

Game over.

Phew.

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

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

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

I can’t wait.

Tales From An American Away Day

Posted on July 28, 2013 by Chris Axon

MLS All-Stars vs. Chelsea : 25 July 2012.

It was game day in Philadelphia.

The Chelsea faithful had traveled down by buses, trains and automobiles from New York and were awaiting the third game of the US 2012 Tour. After the rather average performance by the team against Paris St. Germain, we were all hoping for a better showing against the MLS team in the All-Star game in nearby Chester, a small town to the south, which plays host to the Philadelphia Union team. All of us were adamant that the patchy support at Yankee Stadium would be trumped by some loud and loyal singing from the cramped corner segment of PPL Park, too. In this scenario, less would definitely be more. There would be more passionate fans in a tighter area. It just had to be a winner. It was a theme that resounded throughout meetings with fellow fans in Philly.

However, NYC was still on my mind; my troubled mind. Personally, I was still trying to get to grips with what I had witnessed in NYC. I had seen Chelsea play in Yankee Stadium and yet I was somewhat unsure of the whole experience. To be truthful – and I always knew this – I was still missing old Yankee Stadium. Sure, the record books will show that Chelsea played at the shining new edifice in the South Bronx, but deep down I was struggling to rationalise the reasons why I felt it was so odd to be a spectator in the new place.

I guess the facts speak for themselves. Between May 1990 and June 2008, I had seen 23 Yankee games in old Yankee stadium. Those memories will never be erased. The Mattingly home run in my first-ever game, a couple of magnificent wins against Boston, the first ever Yankees vs. Mets series in 1997, a David Cone master class, a Jorge Posada grand slam…Paul O’Neil, Wade Boggs, Bernie Williams, Tino Martinez…Derek Jeter…Mariano Rivera.

I am so grateful that I chose the Yankees as my team because I truly felt at home in the tight passageways beneath the towering upper deck of that historic ballpark on River Avenue. The place will always be with me. I guess it was typical New York; grimy, claustrophic, rowdy, monumental.

The new stadium just doesn’t thrill me in the same way.

So, there was all that floating around inside my addled head. For a day or so, I was also rueing the fact that I never really had the chance to say a proper farewell to Roma, Vanessa and Shawn. The plan was for them to meet us down at Legends after the game, but they got caught behind some horrendous traffic and so decided to head up to Roma’s brother’s house in Massachusetts instead as time was moving on. There would be no hugs for them all. It left me a little sad.

However, after the adrenalin-filled action of NYC, Philadelphia was proving to be much more relaxing. The four of us were certainly enjoying our fantastic apartment right on Benjamin Franklin Parkway. From our balcony, we could see the Rocky Steps to our left and the City Hall to our right. The apartment was so big that we had to text each other to communicate. The bedroom had a different zip code to the kitchen. The rooftop pool was a fantastic extra. Philadelphia was superb.

This was my fifth visit to the City of Brotherly Love and I joked that it was “typical Chelsea” that I keep getting pulled back to the same cities in the US as the team does during European competitions; how many times have we visited Porto, Valencia, Rome and Marseille?

Although I would class NYC as my favourite US city, Philly is rapidly becoming a bit of an obsession. I mentioned to a few Chelsea fans that my great great grandparents lived in the city in the middle of the nineteenth century – after getting shipwrecked off the coast of Newfoundland – before returning back to England. My great grandmother was born in England, but at least one of her siblings was born in America. My personal knowledge of this slice of my past is rather sketchy, but my mother always wanted to visit Philadelphia on the back of this story. So, in 2010, my mother and I spent a very memorable week in the city. It is a week I will never forget. On several occasions, I trembled when I realised that Benjamin and Barbara White may have walked the same steps in the 1850’s.

In 2012, Philly was treating me well.

On the Monday, Captain Jack had taken a half-day off work to show a few of us around his adopted city; it was a marvellous walk through a few blocks of the historic centre, ending up with a cheese steak at the legendary “Jim’s” on South Street. This was followed by an equally wonderful visit to see the Phillies defeat Milwaukee 7-6. The others were feeling tired and headed home when the home team were 6-3 down, but I stayed the course and was rewarded with four runs in the bottom of the ninth. This was my fourth Philly game in the city and although the Yanks are my team, I did let my mind wander a little and wonder if I should really have chosen the red of Philly over the navy of the Bronx in lieu of my own personal history.

Nah, what am I thinking?

Everyone knows that Randolph Axon once lived in a little tenement off Grand Concourse in the Bronx in the first few years of the last century.

“I hadda come back to England see. Da police were on my tail and I hadda run.”

Good old uncle Randolph.

On the Tuesday – a really lazy day – we were lucky enough to meet some of the players as they boarded the coach for a practice session outside the Ritz-Carlton Hotel, overlooking the City Hall.

We were memorably tipped-off about the players’ hotel on the Monday when we were returning to our hotel. A cab slowed down and none other than Andy Wray shouted over to us. His first words were not about Chelsea, though. Typical Andy; he pointed to a nearby restaurant and shouted –

“That place does great food.”

Welcome to Philly!

Our good fortune in meeting the players reminded me so much of my time in Chicago in 2006. I still rate this as my favourite CFC trip to the US, despite our 1-0 defeat and despite it being the only game of the trip. It was, quite simply, a perfect few days in the Windy City. On the very first night, myself, Roma – plus her daughters Vanessa and Jenny – and my mate Chris met virtually all the Chelsea players outside the team hotel, no more than 300 yards from our hotel just off Magnificent Mile.

On this trip, however, I became more integrated with the fans from America. During my two previous trips – 2004 in Pittsburgh, in 2005 in DC and NYC – we mainly kept to ourselves.

In 2006, though, the floodgates opened and I was lucky enough to meet many US-based fans. Since then, my Chelsea life has taken a wonderful – unplanned – route all of its own.

I’m just so grateful.

After spending a few hours in “Tir Na Nog” on the Tuesday evening – nice and easy, meeting a few new Chelsea fans – we retired to the pub which was part of the same building as our apartment. We were relaxing outside on the pavement, having a bite to eat, supping some ales, when a taxi cab pulled up outside the bar. A chap exited the cab with a couple of friends and I immediately remembered him from a post-baseball game pint the previous night. I had remarked that he was a doppelganger for Carlo Ancelotti. On this occasion, we couldn’t let the moment pass.

As he approached the bar, I started chanting

“Carlo! Carlo! Carlo!”

This elicited further song from The Bobster, Lottinho, Speedy, Jeremy “Army Of One” Willard from Kansas, plus Shawn and Nick from the Boston Blues –

“Carlo, Carlo, Carlo.
King Carlo Has Won The Double.
And The 5hit From The Lane.
Have Won Fcuk All Again.
King Carlo Has Won The Double.

2, 3, 4

Carlo, Carlo, Carlo.
King Carlo Has Won The Double.
And The 5hit From The Lane.
Have Won Fcuk All Again.
King Carlo Has Won The Double.

2, 3, 4

Carlo, Carlo, Carlo.
King Carlo Has Won The Double.
And The 5hit From The Lane.
Have Won Fcuk All Again.
King Carlo Has Won The Double.”

We were roaring with laughter and “Carlo” approached us with an increasingly bemused look on his face. I explained to him about his uncanny resemblance to Carlo and guess what? He was a Scouser.

To be fair to him, he took it all in great spirits and even posed for photographs with us. He said he had been mistaken for Jay Leno the previous night.

As one, all of our left eyebrows arched in disbelief.

By the way, the look on the faces of the other customers at the tables was priceless.

I felt like saying – “yeah, we serenade random strangers all the time back in England.”

We were still laughing about this incident when we arose from our slumber on the Wednesday. We had no real plans for the day, but I soon received a text from Steve Mantle about walking over to the Rocky Steps with the four official Chelsea banners in order for photographs to be taken.

Now, that sounded like a magnificent idea.

Despite the sun bearing down on us, we assembled at Tir Na Nog and set off.

I had previously run up the steps at the Philadelphia Museum of Art in 2008 – it is surely the most important thing that anyone must do in Philadelphia – and so I knew what to expect. The steps were perfect for a photograph. I stood at the base and conducted the proceedings. We elicited the assistance of a few willing tourists and I shouted instructions from below.

With everyone in place, I snapped away like a fool, knowing full well that Chelsea would be using some of the photographs in an upcoming magazine or programme. We created a bit of a scene to be honest and I guess it is the nearest I’ll ever get to being part of a flash mob.

We engaged in conversations with a few fellow fans and met a young lad wearing a Frank Lampard shirt who would be taking part in the on-game ceremonies later that day at the game.

In truth, the twenty minutes we spent under the baking sun at the Rocky Steps were one of the highlights of the whole trip.

And, no – I didn’t run to the top of the flights of steps and yell

“Yo Adrian Mutu.”

I changed into my 1989 Chelsea shirt and met up with the Chelsea faithful in Tir Na Nog at just after 5pm. Amongst the mass of blue, I was very pleased to be able to meet Captain Jack’s family; his wife Teri and their three lovely daughters called in to say “hi” and I was able to start the slow but thorough dialogue with Teri which will eventually lead to Captain Jack being allowed across the ocean to see Chelsea play at The Bridge.

In fact, there is a humorous sub story here. Teri once lived in South Kensington for a short amount of time – way back when Chelsea were mere mortals – and has actually stepped foot inside Stamford Bridge.

Come on Teri – let Steve at least even the score.

I then did a very silly thing.

I did a “Zigger Zagger” and scared the three girls to death.

I had a very quick word with Frank Sinclair and I thanked him for his kind comments about my performance on the five-a-side pitch in New York. He seemed to be enjoying himself on the tour. I can pay him no bigger a compliment than this; when we used to call in on Ron Harris in the ‘nineties, Frank was always a player who Ron rated. Frank was maybe not the most skilful, but a player who always tried his hardest. A player of guts and determination.

Good one, Frank.

As I wandered around the pub, bumping into a few old friends – and a few new ones – I noticed some Chelsea fans not joining in with the songs. I secretly tut-tutted to myself and hoped for solidarity later on that evening. It would be no time for shyness or indifference.

At 6pm, we were told to board the fleet of four yellow school buses which had assembled in the little side street outside the pub.

Another surreal experience, another typically American moment, another memory for me to take away with me.

Yellow school buses.

How quintessentially American. How hugely untypically Chelsea.

School buses.

The sight of us piling into the yellow vehicles still brings a smile to my face.

We were allowed to drink beer on the 45 minute journey to PPL Park. As the four buses roared along I-95, and then got caught in commuter traffic, and then raced each other, with fans gesticulating wildly at each other, with the skyscrapers of downtown Philadelphia in the background, it was a wonderful moment.

Why can’t all Chelsea away games be like this, full of excited fans, smiling faces, with none of the surliness shown by sections of our usual support?

The beer was going down well and the songs were roaring. We had two Seattle Sounders fans on our bus and they led the way; others followed. Speedy was in good form and I followed with a few old favourites. There is nothing like a beer to keep your throat well-oiled. I chatted to a few new faces and thoroughly enjoyed myself.

In fact, I didn’t really want the journey to end.

We were eventually dropped off way past the stadium. Beth was far from pleased and I could understand her displeasure. Out in the bright evening sun, I soon chanced upon a few familiar faces that were having a little all-American tailgate. Beers were handed out and we even had a little kick-about. Tim from Philly, Mike from New York, Matthew from New York wearing a vintage NASL Memphis Rogues T-shirt.

At the baseball game on the Monday, I had chosen to wear a Philadelphia Fury shirt in honour of the great Peter Osgood who played for them during the summer of 1978.

The time was moving on. Away in the distance, the stadium looked a picture. Beyond, the Commodore Barry Bridge – again, so typically American – was proving to be just as magnificent.

By this time, my head was buzzing, but I knew I had to get inside the stadium in order to get a share of some the pre-match atmosphere. I was also concerned about getting a fair share of photographs.

I began the long walk to PPL Park, with the sun just starting to set to the west. By now, I had lost contact with everyone and was – ahem – walking alone. At the pub, I had met a Chelsea fan who was wearing a bona fide shirt from 1991 – Commodore – and I met another one just outside the stadium.

I had a little banter with a few Union fans; friendly, in the main.

I did wonder, though, why so many fans were wearing scarves.

In July.

It seems that the US “soccer” fan base has clearly decided that a scarf is the de facto mark of football subculture, whereas – in reality – very few regulars wear scarves at Chelsea.

Discuss.

I bumped into Kev outside. Kev sits no more than eight seats away from me at Chelsea and we have been keeping each other updated with stories and rumours of this 2012 tour for what seems like an eternity.

Now, we were both there in the flesh.

Brilliant.

I was amongst friends in the Chelsea section at PPL Park. We were positioned at the top of the terrace. A few yards to my right were Funchficker and Mrs. Funchficker, Lottinho, The Bobster, Captain Jack and Speedy. Alongside me was Rey, from Los Angeles, and I was so pleased to see him again. Behind – a real surprise – was Mike Dutter and I haven’t seen him for ages. Phil was there with the Iowa Blues. Beyond – the OC Hoolifans, Mike Price at only his second ever Chelsea game, the Boston Boys…everyone together, everyone well-oiled and up for it. In front, Mark Coden – like me, an ever present on all of these recent Chelsea tours to the US.

The game against the MLS All-Stars would be my eleventh such game.

I had taken several photographs of the bridge on my approach to the 19,000 capacity stadium but was rather annoyed that its iconic steelwork was out of sight, just beyond the stand to my left. I had admired the way that the roof of this stand seemed to extend out to the bridge.

Above, the sky was slowly turning a deep blue. The moon was strikingly clear above the stand to my right.

The Chelsea fans around me were standing.

And we were clearly in good voice.

The stage was set.

The spectators were urged to take part in a two-part “stunt” but I had neither the time nor the energy for it. I believe the words “Chelsea” were visible on cards held aloft by the fans in the stand to my right, but the moment was lost to be honest.

Secondly, the colours of the American flag were visible.

The entrance of the teams.

Fireworks.

My head was still buzzing and I still needed to concentrate on getting some photographs.

Click, click,click.

The game against the MLS All-Stars in Chester, Pennsylvania will be remembered by those Chelsea fans present not for the performance of the players, nor the result, but for the constant singing, chanting and commotion created by the 1,200 fans present.

We stood the entire game and we sung the entire game.

Steve-O set the tone early on with a trademark “Zigger Zagger” and the chanting continued throughout the match. This was just what we had hoped; that the closeness of everyone would produce a subsection of PPL Park akin to an away terrace at Blackburn, Everton, West Ham or Tottenham.

I noted one chant which was new to me –

“You Play Soccer. We Play Football.”

I liked that. A little jab at the MLS hierarchy. Keep ‘em on their toes.

All the Chelsea classics were aired; too numerous to mention. I’m sure everyone has their own particular favourites.

Over to you.

Halfway through the first-half, I absolutely loved the roll-call which was started by the usual suspects to my right.

For Mary-Anne and Paul –

“Tennessee, Tennessee, Tennessee.”

For the Funchfickers –

“Ohio, Ohio, Ohio.”

For Lottinho, Dennis and Detroit Bob –

“Michigan, Michigan, Michigan.”

And for little old me –

“Somerset, Somerset, Somerset.”

Lottinho then pointed at Dennis –

“Puerto Rico.”

Out on the pitch, I will admit to being thrilled to see David Beckham play one last time, way out on the right in a rather withdrawn position. I have a lovely shot of him joking with John Terry.

The MLS team went a goal up through a Wondolowski effort from close in, only for John Terry to rise high and head home from a corner.

At the break, I rushed down to buy a beer, a hot dog and a match programme. The beer did its job because soon into the second half, I let rip with another “Zigger Zagger.” I was elated to hear the thunderous response to each guttural yelp. However, I knew I was reaching the end of my capabilities when I reached the closing moments.

“Ziiiiiiiiiger” (Oh God – I have to do a big ending here.)

“OI.”

“Zaaaaaaaaager” (Oh God – I’m barely going to be able to make this.)

“OI”

(Here we fcuking go – in for a penny, in for a pound.”

“ZIGGER ZAGGER, ZIGGER ZAGGER” (…only just!)

“OI OI OI.”

We were not deflated, though. We kept singing till the end.

It was a proud night in Pennsylvania.

If the long walk back to the bus wasn’t tiresome enough, we were then kept waiting for all buses to depart. Canners was on my bus back and I leaned towards him and said –

“Fcuking hell Paul. I saw your Stamford Bridge debut thirty years ago and now, here we are, on a school bus in Philadelphia.”

From the sublime to the ridiculous.

It was a quiet bus ride back to Philly.

Throughout the evening, Roma’s daughter Vanessa had texted me a few times to see what time we would be getting back into town. It seemed that they were halting their long drive back to North Carolina especially to call in to see me in Philadelphia. I gave them instructions of how to reach Tir Na Nog, but I wasn’t sure if they could delay their drive home for long.

I quickly darted back to the apartment to drop off a few things and made my way to the pub.

I was in mid-text to Vanessa when I looked up to see the three of them walking towards me.

Ah, that cheered me up no end.

With typical disregard for authority, Vanessa had simply parked her car right on Benjamin Franklin Parkway, right underneath a sign which plainly said “no parking.”

Now that, my friends, is Proper Chelsea.

They, of course, were horrified to hear that Chelsea had lost.

“Yep, we always lose to the MLS All-Stars. I don’t think we’d better play them again.”

We returned to Tir Na Nog and met up with the usual suspects once more. The mood among my Chelsea mates was defiant. We all agreed that the singing and the atmosphere amongst the “away” fans had been magnificent. I was certainly full of praise, if not full of voice.

I was croaking again.

The time was moving one. It was past 1am. I knew that the night wouldn’t last forever. With real sadness, I said my goodbyes to Roma, Vanessa and Shawn. This was the first time that I had met Shawn and I wanted to have a little moment with him. I crouched down and babbled out something like –

“Shawn – it has been so good to see you. It was great to see you in New York. And it has been even better to see you tonight. You’re a lucky boy. You have a great mother and a great sister. And you’ve seen Chelsea play! Now, until I see you again, I want you to know that we all love you.”

To which he smiled and said –

“I just farted.”

My words had obviously impressed him.

I waved them off as Vanessa drove away into the night.

Back in the apartment, Lottinho, Speedy and I spent a few philosophical moments as we looked out into the city from our balcony. It had been a simply superb time and we had enjoyed ourselves immensely in Philadelphia.

Until we do it again.

“Phriendship And Phootball.”

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

Tag Archives: Philadelphia

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Tales From Two Away Games

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Tales From An American Away Day