Walt Sampson RIP | CHELSEA/esque

Chelsea vs. Sheffield United : 16 December 2023.

I was in early again, at around 2.30pm, and I soon found myself talking to Oxford Frank. I was finding it hard to find much enthusiasm for the game against Sheffield United in light of the recent two matches, and defeats, against Manchester United and Everton. Frank was in the same frame of mind too. As many have said, this doesn’t seem like our Chelsea at the moment, nor has it for a while. Our players, our myriad of players, are struggling to find any noticeable improvement in their play and many fans bemoan how distant we feel from these same players. They are meant to be our heroes, but I wouldn’t really want to go out for a drink with many of the current squad, with one or two possible exceptions. Never has the “us and them” relationship felt so strained.

I joked with Frank that I wished that I could, in fact, be teleported at 2.45pm away from my sacred second home at Stamford Bridge – and after enjoying a lovely pre-match in deepest Fulham – to attend the visit of league leaders Wimborne Town to Frome Town back in Somerset. Then, back to SW6 to catch up with my mates to drive them home again.

And it had been a very fine pre-match. I was at Stamford Bridge early. The theme of my early morning photographs from a grey London was of the stalls selling scarves, colours and memorabilia along the Fulham Road. These add a little vibrancy to the game-day vibe, though are goods that none of my pals bother with, the odd fanzine an exception. There were chats with Steve, Kim, Cliff and Marco as I loitered for a while. Nobody was particularly looking forward to the game against lowly Sheffield United per se, but it didn’t stop us smiling and digging some laughs from our current position.

I spent a couple of hours or so in the pub. What a raucous little place it turned into. The boozer was packed. Most were locals, or at least the usual match-day crew, and all of us found some degree of gallows humour amidst our plight. The Normandy Division – Ollie, Julien and Jerome – were over and we thoroughly enjoyed their company.

Amidst the laughter, I looked at Ollie and gestured to the few packed tables near us.

“Ici, c’est Chelsea, mon ami.”

He understood.

“C’est vrai.”

Not the players, us…

Mates not millionaires.

I had not met Jerome before, but he was welcomed. We are doing our bit for “entente cordiale” and it is a pleasure. We agreed, however, on one thing.

“Fuck PSG.”

What a horrible club.

Inside Stamford Bridge, the away fans seem subdued. There were hardly any flags. I think that they already know their fate this season. This would be only the fifth time that I would have seen the Blades at Stamford Bridge. The most infamous, for them, was the 3-2 win for us in May 1993 that condemned them to relegation. I detailed that one four years ago so there is no need going over old ground again. The last visit was a 2-2 draw in early 2019/20. Chris Wilder was back in charge again, given another stab at a very tough task.

Surely we would beat Sheffield United?

PD was adamant that if we were to lose – a nadir that nobody needed to witness – we would be relegated. I wasn’t quite so gloomy.

Amid yet more injuries, Mauricio Pochettino selected the following starting eleven.

28 – Gjodje Petrovic

2- Axel Disasi

5 – Benoit Badiashile

6 – Thiago Silva

26 – Levi Colwill

23- Conor Gallagher

25 – Moises Caicedo

7 – Raheem Sterling

10 – Mykhailo Mudryk

20 – Cole Palmer

15 – Nicholas

On the bench, for the first time, was Christopher Nkunku and as the day developed I found it sad to read how many Chelsea supporters on social media could not spell Nkunku correctly. God knows how they pronounced it.

One dear friend even struggled with Eden Hazard.

Don’t ask.

So, my teleporter not in action, I watched as the Chelsea vs. Sheffield United game kicked off. This was a busy month for us – eight games – and one that could either send us further into misery or give us some degree of hope for the future.

I was happy to see the visitors in red and white striped shirts, a nice nod to a bloody lovely Admiral kit from the mid-‘seventies that my local village team wore for a while.

“COME ON CHELS.”

For the first fifteen minutes, attacking The Shed, there was a very similar vibe to Goodison. Tons of possession, almost total this time, but awful passing and movement in the final third. There were two God-awful corners from the troubled foot of Mykhailo Mudryk, one from each side I think, that failed to clear the first man. My annoyance was bubbling away and starting to grow.

A shot from distance from the busy Conor Gallagher did not test the Blades’ ‘keeper Wes Foderingham, hit centrally, and there were groans. This first real effort took a quarter of an hour to materialise.

The away fans were quiet, perhaps with good reason. I tried to listen in for a rendition of “Greasy Chip Butty” but heard nothing. It never appeared all match long.

On twenty-one minutes, there was a lovely burst inside from Mudryk but his blast high and wide – very wide – drew more groans.

Cameron Archer approached the area down below us in The Sleepy Hollow and I snapped as he sent a curler in on goal, but Petrovic saw it fly wide of his far post. It was a rare attack indeed.

Mudryk then slid past a glut of defenders but on reaching the goal-line, was unable to pick out a ball to anyone in blue. Frustrating stuff.

The home crowd were virtually silent.

Sigh.

One of the Sheffield United players was called Jayden Bogle.

Top marks.

Jackson was naively caught offside. Moans.

This was terrible to watch.

I hated the lack of movement. I hated how Raheem Sterling was often alone in so much space on the right but was often ignored. Nobody played well, despite the sporadic bursts from Mudryk. It annoys me that he has been with us for around ten months and I can’t ever remember seeing him smile. Cole Palmer tried his best with his promptings but runners were immobile.

It was all so frustrating.

On the half-hour, a Sheffield United low cross slid across the six-yard box but thankfully nobody was on hand to apply the necessary touch.

Mudryk went closer. There was genuine applause from us as we saw the ball narrowly miss the target. We are all willing him on. The noise finally came.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

I joined in.

Moises Caicedo slid in Nicolas Jackson with a fine ball, but Foderingham just beat our man to the ball.

It had been a rotten half of football.

Poor movement, no intensity, a disappointing quality of passing, all played out in front of a docile atmosphere. Despite the manager’s tactical plan, full of stratagems and ruses, there is no legislation for poor passing from the players. I wondered if the ticket man on Fulham Broadway station could perform better.

Down in deepest Somerset, at least Dodge were 2-1 up.

Just before the break, Jackson went wide and there was more genuine applause.

I spoke to Oxford Frank at half-time. It was all negative. A chap nearby called it “dogshit football.”

Soon into the second-half, a fine move allowed Palmer to shoot, but the effort went narrowly wide, deflected for a corner. The crowd in the Matthew Harding made a racket now, and we hoped for more.

Not so long after, Palmer set Sterling off on a fine little run at the heart of the Blades’ defence. He moved wide, to the touchline, then delivered a fantastic ball back into the six-yard box. At last a move that was joined-up. Palmer had continued his run and tapped the ball in.

GET IN.

Lovely noise, lovely celebrations.

And then…the grim spectre of VAR.

Oh do fuck off.

The goal stood.

I didn’t celebrate.

On the hour, just seven minutes later, a couple of crisp passes found Palmer who cut in on his favoured left foot. I expected a shot but the ball was dug towards Sterling. I clicked as Sterling – and Gallagher – were sent flying. A Sheffield United defender – hello Anel Ahmedhodzic, how are you? – awkwardly headed the ball towards the goal and Foderingham scrambled down low to claw the it away. Palmer was on hand to gather and prod the ball square. By this stage, my subconscious mind had already suspected a foul that VAR would get its grubby paws on, so as Jackson tapped in from a yard out, I did not celebrate one iota.

Thanks VAR and all those who decreed it a fucking necessity. You have spoiled my football. It’s choking the life out of the game.

We bellowed “Carefree” – however – like our life depended it.

Then – ugh – VAR was signalled. For a foul, I think.

Overruled.

I did not cheer.

More noise. Phew.

Chelsea 2 Sheffield United 0.

On sixty-seven minutes, Foderingham raced out to thwart the run of Sterling, set free from a great ball from deep from the much improved Caicedo, at last showing us his full arsenal of skills. This was much better now. The shackles were off. Badiashile, Disasi and Caicedo all had good moments. There were surprisingly fast bursts from Disasi and Caicedo.

Excellent.

Enzo replaced Mudryk, who was nicely applauded off.

Just after, Petrovic leapt to his left to palm away a free-kick from someone or other. It was, surely, his only real save of note the entire day.

One of the Sheffield United players was called Auston Trusty.

Bogle and Trusty.

Fucking love it.

As the game continued on, my attention began to wander a little.

Armando Broja replaced Sterling.

We were treated to a lovely little cameo from Enzo over on the far touchline, skipping out of trouble with a few delightful touches and feints.

The visitors managed to prod the ball in but I immediately spotted an offside flag.

Palmer again created havoc in the inside-left channel but Broja managed to miss from right underneath the bar, the miss of the season and all others. There were two more late chances for Broja and Jackson. Even the visitors had a second shot on goal.

Fackinell.

There were two more late substitutions.

Ian Maatsen for Jackson.

Malo Gusto for Palmer.

Again, both were applauded off.

It ended 2-0.

Altogether now…”phew.”

Sadly, Frome Town could not hold on to the lead and sadly drew 2-2. Maybe it was just as well the old teleporter was unavailable after all.

Outside, a mild night, and the visiting fans were in a noisy and belligerent mood.

“Hate fuckin’ Cockneys, United hate fucking Cockneys…”

I wondered what they thought about those from Somerset, Wiltshire and Normandy.

Next up, a League Cup tie at home to Newcastle United on Tuesday.