Chaos Theory: Five Managers, One World

[Makonnen]

Chelsea. II of II

From Danyil Oranje's Diary. February 15, 2010.

Well, glad that’s done with. Too many interviews in a single day, all asking the same questions.

What a group, though. Germany, Japan, and Spain. They’re calling it the group of death this year, and it sure as hell feels that way. Still … we’ll have some talent, no doubt.

Eto’o is magnificent, and whatever we do will have to focus through him. The defense should be solid as well—Dany Nounkeu, the two Songs, Stéphane Mbia, Nicolas N’Koulou, Jean Il Makoun, Sébastien Bassong. An embarrassment of riches, even if the goalkeeping situation is supect. But there’s really nobody to support Eto’o up front. Maybe Achille Emana, maybe Eyong Enoh, maybe Somen Tchoyi. Some talent coming through the ranks though—Ekeng Ekeng, the two kids in America.

A problem for another day. First, to hire some staff to help. Better stick to Cameroon nationals—Cameroonians? Cameroonai? Cameroonée? Have to learn that.

Now, need to focus on Basel, and how to keep this little job at Stamford Bridge in the meantime.

[Makonnen]

Saint George

February 10, 2010

Ethiopian Premiere League

Saint George v. Banks Sporting Club, Addis Ababa Stadium, Addis Ababa

St. George 3 (Mohammed Abera 4 37, Lencho Skibba 64) – Banks SC 1 (Elijah Dadicho 40)

MoM: Mohammed Abera (8.8)

Attendance: 3592. Referee: Tessema Bayisse.

February 13, 2010

Champions League Preliminary Round Leg 1

Saint George v. Ocean Boys, Addis Ababa Stadium, Addis Ababa

St. George 1 (Mohammed Abera 48p) – Ocean Boys 1 (Aniekan Davies 66)

MoM: Aniekan Davies (7.2) St. George’s Best: Samson Mulugeta (6.9)

Attendance: 3827. Referee: Phil Tshabalala.

Coffee in Awassa. February 17th, 2010.

9:18 AM

Tadesse Makonnen sat in the lobby of the Royal Awassa Hotel, gently stirring his coffee with a small silver spoon and a slight frown on his face. The Royal Awassa was an old hotel, run by three generations of a family from Naples. The grandfather had been part of the Italian army that had suffered such an ignominious defeat on this soil, although he had not seen combat himself. Instead, he had been taken with this land, with its beauty, with the gentle politeness of its people. When he returned to Naples, faced with a weakened economy and limited prospects, he took his wife and his infant son, first to Asmara then to Addis Ababa and finally to Awassa.

He built the hotel himself, failing many times before he landed on the right mix of mud and concrete, of wood and metal. But the hotel had prospered: the hospitality was genuine, and it quickly became known as the place to put up any visiting foreigners, especially from Europe or North America.

These roots explained Makonnen’s current lack of satisfaction: the coffee here was undeniably Italian, a small cup filled with an even smaller shot of espresso. But, it would have to do. Makonnen looked up to see Dagchew Damese enter the room, and raised his hand with a slight wave. Damese nodded, made his way over to the table, and sat down across from St. George’s head coach.

“Good morning, Tadesse. Are you well?”

“Yes, thank you, Dagchew. Did you sleep?”

“Yes, very well. How is the coffee this morning?”

“Italian.”

“Ah.” Damese looked around, spotted the granddaughter of the hotel’s founder, now in her twenties with a pointed face, curls of black hair, and a frame that was beginning to thicken towards a matronly future. He caught her attention, pointed to Tadesse’s cup. She nodded, and Damese settled into his seat. “Any news from FIFA?”

Makonnen took a final sip from his cup and grimaced. “No. It appears that our appeals have fallen upon deaf ears.”

Damese shook his head. “Three games last week. Two this week. Four the next. What do they want from us?”

“I’m not sure they want anything from us. That is at heart why they won’t listen.”

“Tadesse, how do you do that?”

Makonnen looked at his older assistant quizzically. “What?”

“Take everything in stride so.”

Makonnen turned his spoon over in his hand, considering. He stopped, seeing his reflection inverted in the curved surface, framed by the red, white, and green of an old Italian flag hung over the bar behind him. He put the spoon carefully on his saucer and looked at his assistant coach. “There are very few things in this world worth anger, Dagchew. And many more worth respect. Rules, regulations, administrative interference. Well, they may be needed, but they just don’t really matter.”

Dagchew shook his head. “I can see that in theory. But … just look at them.” He pointed across the room with his chin, towards a group of players, some splayed across a sofa, others sitting together at tables, talking over their breakfasts. “We’re dead, Ato Tadesse. Half the squad can’t walk, the other half can’t run. They’re just breaking down out there. We may get by against Wonji, but against Sfax?”

Makonnen nodded. “I know. But what else can we do? We will rotate them as best we can, and we will try to control where our weaker sides are exposed. How are the signings coming?”

Damese shrugged, not meeting Makonnen’s eyes. “Not bad. Tonight against Police, Bikilia, Bayalegne, and Mussa can all start. They’ve only had a few days to practice, but they’re fit enough. Bikila should be a threat up front.”

Another nod. “You like him more than Bayalegne?”

Damese shrugged. “I like Skibba and Addisu more.” Makonnen smiled. “And, in back?”

“We’ll be OK. Demeska agreed to the loan, so we have some cover for Owino. And it looks like Kahsay will sign later today.”

“Good, good. We’ll get through this, Damese.”

Ethio Premiere

Southern Police v. Saint George, Awassa Kenema Stadium, Awassa

Southern Police 1 (Merare Agalu 49) – St. George 2 (Ochan Bayalegne 31, Andualem Negussie 84)

MoM: Samuel Degefe (7.5)

Attendance: 752. Referee: Mulugeta Dubarish.

[Makonnen]

Rodengo Saiano

Serious as a Wooly Scarf. February 21, 2010.

The phone rings three times before she answers it.

“Hello?”

“Leti? It’s Terry.”

“Terry! Your game is over already?”

“No, I am just about to leave for the Comunale. You like that? I’m speaking just like a native. Comunale.” He exaggerated the rhythm of the syllables, stretching the ah out until he heard a small laugh. “I Just thought I’d call beforehand.”

“Oh, of course. Everything okay?”

“Sure. It’s a lovely day here. Even above freezing.”

“You serious?”

“Serious as a wooly scarf.”

“As a what?”

“A scratchy, wooly scarf. That’s pretty serious, Leti.”

“You can be so odd, Terry.”

“Just for you. You know how I like to hear you smile.”

“You can hear it?” Leti was laughing now. Something about laughing with Terry made her feel close to him across the distance, the laughter seeming to pull them together, a magnetic force of attraction.

“Yeah, I can hear it. Always could, love.”

“Hmmmm. Who are you playing today?”

“We’re hosting a team called Noceto. They’ve only won two games this year. We’re supposed to beat them. So, I’m nervous. You know how well we did in those games down there.”

“You’ll do fine, Terry. This is going to work out for you.”

Terry shrugged. There was no way for her to know that—it was genuine goodwill on her part, but no more than that. He appreciated the goodwill, but the distance seemed to rush in behind it, the sudden realization of how far away she was, of how little she could know of his life, of how little insight she had into whether or not this was going to work out.

There was so much Leti couldn’t see. The odd, constant echo of life with Matteo. The difficulties of suddenly throwing four nationalities into this tiny town. The small flat he lived in, three rooms and a kitchen that bore no trace of a woman’s touch.

He realized he had been silent too long. “Maybe. I hope so.”

“Well, I wish you luck. Call me later to let me know how it goes?”

“OK.”

“Bye, Terry.”

He put the phone down, confused. It could all change so fast: he had called her on a whim, happy to hear her voice, happier still to make her laugh. And now, he felt empty, far away from anyone, and very alone. A deep breath. No matter. Time to get to work.

# # #

Matteo met him in his office and walked with him down the hall to the locker room.

Gentlemen! Your attention! Today is an important day: this is Abdoura’s fiftieth game for the club! A round of applause and a couple high pitched whistles. Abdoura? Anything to say? The small Senegalese player looked at Terry, slightly embarrassed and shook his head.

Alright then. Another one. Someone in the room has proof that he is, indeed, an old man. Leonardo? I hear this is your four hundredth league game in Italy? Colucci looks surprised. He steps forward, and this time Matteo is translating for me.

“He says that he is surprised. That it only feels like three hundred and eighty. And that he will always be younger than Bertoni.”

More applause, and Bertoni’s voice rumbles above the din. Matteo laughs: he says, “There is only one old man here.”

I let it run its course, then I raise my hand for silence and look at them.

This is our game. We can make a statement out there today. Matteo translates, and I look around the room. Giocare liberamente, giocare con passione, giocare bene.

They head out the door, raucous and focused. I missed that energy in Cape Town: I don’t think we ever had it.

The game starts very well for us: Isma is spectacular, running rings around the defense who are clearly a little put off by the pint sized bundle of energy. The ball never seems to be more than a yard from his feet, and he changes direction faster than most of them sprint. He has danced along the edge of the box several times, and while it has come to naught, only good things can come from that.

We get a breakaway on the 25th minute, started when Dal Bosco controls the ball near midfield. He lays it off to Maglio, who sees Isma ducking between two defenders. The through ball finds him in stride, and the Spaniard drills it low into the far post from just inside the box. He sprints towards the supporters—a few hundred of them today, an improvement—and does a little dance.

They love him, and a sing song of Isma, Isma, omino, omino starts up. I look at Matteo quizzically. “Little man,” he says. Isma is lapping it up, playing to the crowd.

The half ends 1-0, which is a lead and therefore good. But we should be up more. Roberto works them over tactically, looking for more connection, more passes strung together to pick Noceto’s back line apart.

They listen, and Isma again is at the center of it. He and Dal Bosco hook up on an absolutely perfectly timed pass from Isma to our target man. Dal Bosco’s timing is fantastic: I’m already anticipating screaming at the linesman—I’ve been practicing some creative Italian curses under Matteo’s patient tutelage—but his flag stays down. I’m shocked he got it right. The pass runs to Dal Bosco’s outside foot, so he nudges it further that way, twists, and hammers it back across the keeper, who never has a chance.

Roberto, they are working well together, no?

He smiles, nods, mutters something low to Matteo, who then turns to me. “Yes, they are. Too bad we lose Dal Bosco.” I shrug. “Tell him to enjoy it while we can.”

I certainly am—more of this, and I may survive the off season.

Ten minutes later, the two of them are at it again: there is a breakaway and Isma keeps the ball tight to his feet. A final feint, and a soft square ball to a trailing Dal Bosco, who buries it into the net. We’re up 3-0 and the side is jubilant.

The song starts up again when I take Isma off. He is breathing deeply, gasping and exhausted, elated with the flush of a well-played game. I clap him on the shoulder. “Fantastic out there. More of that, all year long.”

I replace Isma with another of our young strikers, Roberto Diaferio, who deep into extra time gets hauled down in the box. Dal Bosco nails the penalty for his hat trick. I’m happy for him, but it probably keeps Isma from a well deserved man of the match.

Serie C2/A

Rodengo Saiano v Crociati Noceto, Comunale

Rodengo 4 (Isma 26, Nicola Dal Bosco 56 71 90+3p) – Noceto 0

MoM: Dal Bosco (9.5)

Attendance: 420. Referee: Giuseppe Margiotta.

[Makonnen]

Chelsea

Touchline Report: Chelsea @ Bolton. February 21, 2010.

11:20 AM

Well, no surprises in store from Megson. Just looking at his players, it’s pretty clear what Bolton is going to do. Kevin Davies up front in a 4-1-4-1, control the midfield, bang it forward once in a while, typical stuff. Davies has 4 league goals in 16 games, so we need pay him some mind, especially in the air. Bolton has done well with their roster management, pulling Abou Diaby and Marco Rossi on loan from Arsenal and Genoa respectively. The center of their midfield—Diaby, Chris Basham, and Anthony Annan—is tough.

So, Butch, what do you think?

“I think we can overwhelm them down the middle. Tuck in, pass it around, make it happen.”

Ah, Christ. Why did I ask? My instinct is the opposite—use the wings, direct passes. Keep the ball away from their midfield by passing over and around it. But I can’t rub Butch’s nose in it now. So, I nod.

Your daughter still dating that kid?

“Which one?”

The one she was studying with.

“They aren’t dating. Just a bit of schoolwork.”

Whatever you say, Butch. Whatever you say.

OK. Narrow it is. To start with. But if we find too much congestion, we’ll switch on them, try to catch them out a bit.

He nods, makes some notes. “So, Vukcevic in the middle up front?”

Yeah. He’ll need to occupy Basham. If he does, the forwards will have space to move through. He makes some more notes.

1:19 PM

I stand up in the locker room. Low key, controlled—I want to say something, but it’s not a game for fire and brimstone. So, I decide to speak first, before the tactics, and let the idea just sit with them for the ninety minutes until game time.

OK, boys. Butch has tactics and final assignments in a sec. Before that, I just want your ears for a second. They’re going to pack it in and try to hit us on the break. We all know that. Your job is to keep that from happening while still going forward yourself. We have a chance to steal one here. Let’s do that.

3:02 PM

Kickoff. Four minutes in, Vukcevic collides with Grétar Steinsson, and collapses in a heap. He is clutching his leg, and slapping his other arm against the turf. The Icelandic defender is waving immediately for someone to come on the field, and I’m out of my seat in a shot. As soon as Rick is out there, he turns to me and shakes his head. ****, and double ****. Simon has been coming along brilliantly, working hard in training to become more versatile up front. And this looks serious. I turn to the bench.

Ballack! Michael, you got 90 in you today? He nods.

OK, get send Frank up top, distribute from midfield. Work with Jon Obi and Daniele on the right shape. Let’s go.

They take Simon straight to the locker room. No news for a while, so I can’t worry about it now.

They are controlling the midfield, and only a good eye from the AR spares us a goal. Rossi has the ball at the top of the box, spins around Terry and lays the ball off to his left. Abou Diaby is free in the box and he beats Cech soundly. Reebok stadium explodes, but the AR flag is raised high. He looked offside to me, but I certainly can’t be trusted.

We’re twenty minutes in, and all we’re doing is pounding the ball from thirty yards out. Enough of this narrow ****. We need space.

Butch … you’re not gonna’ like this. He shrugs, nods.

Michael! Frank! I stretch my arms out, and they nod. Our shape stays the same, but the triangle is wider, with more movement towards the touchlines. It’s better. Lampard has a drive to the low post turned away by the Finnish international Jussi Jääskeläinen, and Drogba is turned away after getting free in the box. When Jääskeläinen stops Drogba, I can’t help but throw my hands up. I desperately want Didier to score today, we need him to get on a roll. We are very dependent on his brilliance. Too dependent?

Didier! Keep it up! This is your day, your day!

And then, 10 minutes from halftime, Zhirkov makes a bad mistake, leaving his man unmarked at the back post for a cross from Paul Robinson. Diaby has drawn four defenders—four—and he outjumps them all, flicking the ball on towards the far post, where Rossi is waiting. The header is grade school stuff. Our work is undone by Bolton’s two loanee’s, and we now we have an uphill struggle.

I light into them at halftime.

What the hell was that? You do know that four of you were clustered around Diaby on that? Four of you! We shouldn’t have to say this, but if there’s a man outside you, you can’t leave the back post. You know that, all of you. A deep breath and a change of tone. They’re professionals, no need to carry on in that vein. And no need to dress Yury down in front of everyone. But I do need to mention his name. Yury, Paulo, we need more from you, more pressure, more help. And up front—it’s open season. You know I usually want you to work the ball into the box for a better shot but they’re packing it in deep in there. If they don’t close you down, take it. If they do, make a move and look for the cross.

You know what we’re going to face out there: they’re quite pleased to pack it back, put ten behind the ball. We need to find a way through that.

Of course, I’m right. It’s not a bit of tactical brilliance, just obvious football: Bolton comes out defensive as hell, and we’re frustrated. We keep pushing forward, though, and it’s hopeful. Jääskeläinen is lucky to parry away a rocket from Lampard, and Kalou can do little more than tap the rebound straight back to the keeper.

Bane! Get ready.

The Serbian defender completes his warm-ups, comes over to me. You’re going in for Paulo. I want you and Yury to push up. We need all the angles we can make—stay wide, track back when you need to, but look to get on them high up the pitch.

Fifteen minutes from time, we string together some possession, capped when Jon Obi Mikel sends a marvelous backheel to return a pass to Ballack in plenty of space. Ballack catches it perfectly, unleashing a bending, spinning blur towards goal. He’s closer to midfield than the penalty box, and I have time to take a couple steps before it nestles into the back of the net. Jääskeläinen had no chance whatsoever on that.

Yes!

We keep pushing, but the end of the match is a drab affair. We’re spent, and they’re barely trying. Still, I’m proud of them for the fight back, and I let them know it after the game. The half full is we’re seven games without a loss; the half empty is that it’s only 15 points from the seven.

The mostly empty is the news on Vukcevic: he’s out at least a month, possibly longer. It’s his hamstring, and it doesn’t look good right now.

Premier Division

Bolton v Chelsea, Reebok Stadium

Bolton 1 (Marco Rossi 37) – Chelsea 1 (Michael Ballack 75)

MoM: Ballack (8.3)

Attendance: 26,681. Referee: Martin Atkinson.

[Makonnen]

St. George

More from the AAC.

February 20, 2010

African Challenge Group C

Saint George v Wonji Sugar, Addis Ababa Stadium, Addis Ababa.

St. George 0 – Wonji 0

MoM: Sibehate Kirbit (7.2) St. George’s Best: Liban Elmi (7.1)

Attendance: 2052. Referee: Shukri Gudina.

Dagchew Damese had finally cornered the official from the All African Challenge Federation, trapping him between the door to the stairwell and a stack of boxes marked with Chinese characters and, in what passed for English, “EQUIPMENT. FRAGILE. NOT TO STACK ABOVE THREE.” The man was a good six inches shorter than Damese, bald, wearing a suit that had seen better days. At one point, it had been patterned, possibly a herringbone, but now was a uniform gray, made dusty by years of service across the continent.

His name was Samson Obaseki, and he had worked at various positions in Abuja before catching on with the Nigeria Football Federation three years ago, then being selected as one of the regional coordinators for the AAC. He had little power, but enough to occasionally enjoy its fruits, and that made it a job worth keeping.

Samson removed his glasses, and was rubbing ineffectually at them with a cloth from his pocket. “I understand your position, Mr. Damese, but I can assure you these regulations were made with only the success of the competition—of African football itself—in mind.” This usually was enough to end inquiries—a generic denial, an appeal to the greater good of the continent.

“How can you say that? You’ve disqualified half our squad. And they’ve never set foot outside of Ethiopia before this year!”

He held his glasses up to the light, squinted through them, shook his head and returned to wiping them.

“Then I am sure that once we receive satisfactory proof, they will be allowed to play.”

“Satisfactory proof? What proof do you need? Look at them! They barely have money for boots, and you’re afraid, what? That they ran off from the family farm in Wolkite to train with Barcelona for a few years? It’s ridiculous.”

The small man said nothing. He had learned that, in these situations, it was best to be patient. Eventually, the wind dropped and the sails lost power. Eventually.

“Ridiculous! Who do I have to talk to?”

“Well, I will certainly pass your concerns along.”

Damese grabbed Obaseki by the shoulders. “Who. Do I have. To Talk. To?” Samson’s eyes were wide—the threat of physical harm was galvanizing. He straightened up, pulling out of the Ethiopian’s grasp. “You are welcome to speak with Mazi Amanze Uchegbulam. He is the Vice President of the NFF. But he will just refer you back to me. In the meantime, we will certainly be closely watching St. George’s performance.”

Damese heard the threat, but wasn’t sure what it was, exactly: as far as he knew, the winner of the EPL was automatically entered into the next year’s Challenge. And V was safe in that regard. The threat was enough, however. He stepped back, and took a final look at the small Nigerian.

No words came to either man. Damese brushed his hands, turned, and headed back down the corridor. Moments later, Obaseki straightened his lapels, took the cloth from his pocket and mopped his brow, and walked slowly out towards the committee’s box in the center of the field.

# # #

February 22, 2010

The locker room was quiet, subdued when Tadesse Makonnen stepped up and cleared his throat. He bowed his head for a moment, hands clasped. The room fell silent: Makonnen didn’t necessarily lead his team in prayer, but he made no secret of his own piety. He looked up, ran a hand through his hair.

“Gentlemen. I know this hurts. I know.” He shook his head slowly. “And I know that my words are small comfort after a loss. But, I do have some words for you. Well, one word.” He looked around the room, catching the eye of the players who raised their heads, nodding at the two central defenders who played so hard, Samuel Degefe and Samson Mulugeta.

“That word is proud. Proud. Not your pride, but mine. I have never been more proud of a group of players than I am right now of the men in this room. We are short-handed. We played for twenty minutes with ten men. And we battled. We left everything we had on the field out there—sweat, blood, everything. For eighty-seven minutes, we stood our ground.”

“Tonight, it was not about being the better team. It was not about the roster with the most talent. It was about heart. It was about effort. And if we keep that up, if we give that effort in practice, and in games. Well, the wins will come.”

All of the heads were up now.

“But no matter how many we win, I do not believe I will ever be happier with the work we put in than I am right now.”

He looked around the room one last time. “OK. Bus leaves in forty-five minutes.”

All Africa Challenge Group C

Club Sportif Sfaxien v. Saint George, Stade Taïeb Mhiri, Sfax

CS Sfax 1 (Dominique da Silva 87) – St. George 0

MoM: Naby Soumah (8.0) St. George’s Best: Samson Mulugeta (6.9)

Attendance: 11,082. Referee: Asmare Zenebe.

[Makonnen]

Chelsea

Game Day, Basel FC @ Chelsea. February 25, 2010.

9:24 AM

“Danyil! Victor here.”

“Yah.”

“Remember Boyd Parham?”

Oranje snorted. “Of course I remember. Not our finest moment, Victor.”

“Well, we may have salvaged something from it.”

“Really? With Parham?”

“Well … no, but I still think we have a good shot at him down the road. But that’s for another day. Do you remember the kid Galván? Martín Galván? Played for Hidalgo?”

Oranje’s looked up at the ceiling, sorting through his memories. They had gone over so many players. “Yeah. Attacker. Bit of a pit bull, but with a real nose for goal. You liked his passing, but he was cross-checked with questions about his body and how he would survive here.”

“Yeah, that’s him.”

“He made our red list, right?” Each senior scout had a red list, a small number of players they had approval to sign, with a budget for each. Once everyone agreed a player was ready for Chelsea, it kept too much administrative back and forth from getting in the way of the scouts’ jobs.

Danyil could hear Victor’s smile in his voice. “Yeah, he did. And now he’s off it. We got him.”

“Really? Good. Good work, Victor. When do we see him?”

“Not until January of next year.”

“He’s Mexican, right?”

“Si, Señor.”

“If nobody pulls the trigger on Chicharito, he could be the first in the league, no?”

“Si.”

“Interesting. OK. Does the media know?”

“They will.”

“Good, thanks. Will you send all the info we have on Galván? No rush, but I need to add him into the plans.”

“Will do.”

1:37 PM

“You gonna’ finish that?”

Butch Wilkins sent a weary look across the table in the Chelsea staff cafeteria to his boss. Whatever else Danyil Oranje was, easy to work for was not at the top of the list. Wilkins had been around—a world class player in his day, a manager, and now top assistant at his boyhood club. He’d survived all sorts of things over the years, hirings, firings, being the favored son of the day, being vilified—or, at least, openly mocked for his tendency to prefer the safe pass to the probing. It had all thickened his skin, but not dented his outlook. Wilkins was, essentially, content with his life, especially when the scoreline at the end of the day favored Chelsea.

When Oranje was hired, the Russian himself had called Butch into his plush office suite, made it clear that they wanted him to stay on, to offer a bit of Chelsea pride, tradition, knowledge of the Chelsea way and all that. He hadn’t thought about it very long: it was a safe assignment, and saying yes to the Russian was generally better than saying no.

The raise was nice, too.

“Yeah, I’m still eating, Danyil.”

“Good, you’ll need your energy today, Butch.”

He looked up. “Really. Why’s that?”

“Well, this one is yours. Team, subs, tactics, the whole nine.”

“Eleven. We play with eleven here.”

“Whole nine? Golf reference?”

The men smiled at each other.

Wilkins rubbed a hand over his bald head. “How’s that going to work?”

“We’ll sit next to each other, talk softly. Once in a while, I’ll jump up and yell something at somebody.” Butch paused. It looked like Oranje was serious.

“Danyil, can I ask you something?”

“Sure, Butch. Course.”

“Why are you doing this?”

Danyil Oranje paused, putting his cup of coffee back down and turning the cup around slowly by the handle. It was a good question, and one that he didn’t want to brush off too casually.

“I’d say it’s just because I love you, Butch. But there’s more to it.” Oranje left his cup alone, steepled his hands beneath his chin. “Butch, I don’t know how long I’ll be here. It’s always touch and go in a job like this, but with my style, with the expectations, and with the difficulties we had in adjusting initially … well.”

Wilkins nodded.

“Anyhow. There are only two outcomes, both good. One, I stay for a dozen years, we win everything in sight, and you remain at my right hand, a managerial partnership for the ages. Two, I suffer greatly from being fired and end up squatting in some flea-ridden basement, but leave you as my logical replacement.” Danyil took another swallow of coffee. “Course if that happens, I’ll have to hunt you down and kill you.”

Wilkins smiled. “You? I’d snap you in half.”

Oranje finished the cup, stood up, nodded. “Probably’d have to do it from distance. In any case—in my office in an hour with the squad?”

Wilkins nodded, watched the Dutch manager leave the cafeteria, hands thrust deep in his pockets. He grabbed a fork, moved some salad around on his plate, thinking carefully to himself. Oranje was running a significant risk in doing this as well, and he was to savvy not to know it. If the players began to question his effectiveness, or even worse if the media began to see through it, there would be hell to pay. Was Oranje trying to set him up? If so, Butch couldn’t figure out the angle. That left his boss being genuine, which would be an interesting change in his experience. So, the question was how to take advantage of the opportunity without overplaying it.

2:55 PM

“Wow, Butch, that’s a full strength side. You sure?”

Wilkins nodded. He wasn’t a big fan of using these cups as ways for the youngsters to get their feet wet. Any game worth playing was a game worth winning.

“OK. It’s your call. You know the Black Cats are coming in on Sunday. I would assume we’ll get Drogba off, Matic and Sturridge on once we’re up?”

Ah, so perhaps he wasn’t completely in charge. Reasonable enough—it was Oranje’s head on the chopping block. “Yeah, definitely. Anything else?”

Oranje shrugged. “No, don’t think so.”

Butch took up the paper, added it to the pile in his hands, and stood up to leave.

“Butch? One thing. I appreciate you keeping the shape. I gave you a chance to make a statement against me, and you didn’t. It’s not who I would have picked, but it is how I would play them. Good man.”

Wilkins nodded again, then smiled. “Wouldn’t want to show you up too badly, Gaffer.”

Oranje closed his eyes. “I told you not to call me that. Silly term. Makes me think of planting potatoes in the Shire.”

“What?”

A wave of the hand. “Never mind. Go get your tactic notes in hand, let me see them before we hit the locker room. Want to make sure I do you proud from the area.”

7:49 PM

Three minutes in, Chelsea takes the lead. De Rossi slides a pass over to Lampard at the edge of the box who sends a creative chip in Drogba’s direction. As Basel’s Beg Ferati closes in expecting a shot back across goal, the talismanic striker just touches the ball with the outside of his foot, adjusting its path past Franco Costanzo and into the back of the net.

“Good start, Butch.”

“Thanks. I’ll get him off soon.”

Oranje smiled. “Don’t worry about it too much. Coach your game. Just give me something to yell about once in a while so they think I matter.”

Twenty minutes on, Chelsea strikes againafter Essien drills a shot off the post. The Blues control the rebound, which finds its way to Paulo Ferreira on the right side. He easily beats Behrang Safari, then skins two more defenders before sliding a well-weighted ball into Lampard’s path, who buries it into the back of the net.

“Butch, what are you doing? Now I have to remind him he’s a defender.”

Oranje moved to the edge of his area. “Paulo! Where’d that come from? You want a job in midfield?” The Portuguese defender, already smiling broadly as he jogged back to position, broke into an open grin. He looked at his coach, shook his head, and pointed to his customary spot in the back.

The game settles down, and Chelsea takes the two goal lead into halftime. While the result was never in doubt, two more moments of note emerged. First, twelve minutes into the second half, a foul on Carvalho sets up a free kick for Basel thirty yards from goal. Both teams take advantage of the break to bring on substitutes, and there is some confusion between Michael Ballack and Daniel Sturridge—newly on for Drogba—about their responsibilities.

Butch Wilkins looks at his coach. “Danyil, get Ballack into the wall.”

Oranje cups his hands, screaming, “Michael! Get back! To the wall!” The German legend nods, heads back to cut off the kick. Intelligently, Basel’s Portuguese winger Carlitos slides the ball to the now wide open Antônio da Silva, who buries a curling shot into the upper left hand corner, past the leaping Cech.

Oranje turns to stare at his assistant. “Lucky that doesn’t matter much, Butch.” Wilkins shrugs and returns his attention to the field, as does Oranje, waving to his German midfielder.

“Michael, over here. That one is on me, ok? Keep them organized out there. I don’t care if we score again, but I don’t want to concede any more. Got it? OK, good.”

The two coaches spend the rest of the game seated, heads close together, pointing and gesticulating. There is little danger from Basel, and with the outcome assured, they turn to planning for Sunderland on the weekend. In doing, they almost miss the final piece of brilliance: with seven minutes to go, Salomon Kalou pulls a long pass out of the air with one foot, controls it immediately, then nudges it just past two converging defenders. A slight hop, and he’s on top of the ball at a full sprint, unleashing a hard shot towards the far post. Costanzo gets a hand on it, but it’s not enough, and it provides the final margin for the 3-1 Chelsea victory.

EURO Cup Knockout Round Leg 2

Chelsea v FC Basel, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 3 (Didier Drogba 3, Frank Lampard 26, Salomon Kalou 84) – Basel 1 (Antônio da Silva 59)

MoM: Lampard (8.5)

Attendance: 39,424. Referee: Gianluca Rocchi.

[tenthreeleader]

I have been highly remiss in not pointing out the general excellence of your thread more often, Makonnen. I apologize for that. I do read but lately I've been either writing my own work or digging out from under mountains of work. This is really fine stuff.

[Makonnen]

TY, 10-3. Much appreciated. And, understood--I find myself for the first time scrambling to edit each day's post. But I should get some buffer again by the end of the week. In the meantime, apologies in advance if I miss a day.

Rodengo Saiano. Sort of Ajax Cape Town, though.

From Terry Langford's Diary. February 25, 2010.

Someone’s having a go at me.

Last night, Ajax lost 3-2 to Kaizer Chiefs, confirming their relegation. Looks like the losses aren’t becoming any less painful: we led 2-0 at home on a brace by George Maluleka—glad to see they haven’t buried him. But gave up 2 in 2 minutes, then a penalty. I would hope Heric is getting hell from the fans.

Today they evidently tried to clean house. I know this because my e-mail was added to the distribution list. So, Rodengo Saiano received offer sheets for Rantje, Keet, Biyela, Segolela, some others. I say someone’s having a go because each of those players is worth more than our entire payroll.

Too bad. I think Rantje and Keet would play for me again. And either of them would be stars here. But they can’t for some reason—I still don’t really understand the rules on foreign players. Wouldn’t that be a great chapter: take Rodengo Saiano up the Italian ladder, then fill the squad with refugees from the Cape Town Disaster.

Why didn’t it work out there?

I guess I’ll never know. Can’t talk to anyone about it. They just tell me to focus on making it work out here. Which I understand. But doesn’t really help put the questions to rest. I guess that’s part of this profession—a need to forget the past in a blind focus on the present that fuels obscene hopes for the future.

Still. Keet would sure make a good Panda.

[Makonnen]

Chelsea

Touchline Report. Chelsea v Sunderland. February 28, 2010

February 28, 2010

1:18 PM

This one counts, men. This is the day that we begin to put it all together, that we go out there on that field and prove that we’re for real, that we’re going to be at the top of that table at the end of the season. This is the beginning. Petr, Ricky, Michael, Daniele … it all starts with the four of you coming up the pitch. Let’s do this.

3:02 PM

A clumsy tackle by Bane less than a minute in gives them a dangerous free kick. Kieran Richardson takes it, but Essien sends it far upfield with a powerful header. Kalou takes off after it, a blue dash with Drogba streaking down the opposite line. Jesús Gámez is first to the ball, but his touch is awkward, and Kalou scoops it up in full stride. Aremend Dallku is playing far too deep, allowing both Kalou and Drogba to be safely onside as they sprint towards goal. Dallku hesitates, then takes a step towards Drogba, anticipating the pass. Instead, Kalou takes the ball on the volley with a mighty kick and rockets a shot high into the net before Craig Gordon can even jump. We’re less than two minutes in, and up 1-0.

Hey, Butch. Think Kalou’s been our best player so far?

Butch smiles, shrugs. “He may be. Could’ve gotten pretty steep odds on that in August.”

Too bad I’m not a gambling man, huh?

I clap for Kalou and Drogba as they come back upfield. It really was a goal from the two of them—either could have scored, and either alone would probably have been turned away. They acknowledge the applause, but nobody looks over for tactics. They know I want another goal before we even think of changing.

We are peppering the goal, but not scoring. The woodwork denies us twice, Gordon twice more, including a point blank stop of Drogba. The best chance, though, is a diving header by Nemanja Matic that edges off the top bar and sits for what seems like an eternity just in front of the goal before they clear it.

Nemanja! Well done! Keep that up! Own the middle, Matic, own it!

He’s playing well out there, Butch.

It certainly feels like it is just a matter of time.

And there it is: 25 minutes in, Matic slips a pass into the box for Drogba, who has spun around his man. The keeper and Daliku arrive at the same time, but Didier is just so freaking strong: he holds them off, just long enough for Gámez to arrive with too much momentum. The Spanish defender knocks into Drogba, and Stroud immediately blows his whistle and points to the spot. Lampard steps up and drills it home, and we are up 2-0.

That’s the score at halftime, too. I let Butch do the bulk of the speaking, stepping in only at the end.

OK, you know how to close this out. Just one thing: I know I said that if we were up by two, you could shoot whenever you had the space. And I meant that. But, (and here I turned to face Carvalho) Ricky, it’s not that it doesn’t apply to defenders. It just applies … less.

They laugh, and Carvalho shakes his head. He had taken three shots from distance at the end of the half, none of which even came close.

The second half is uneventful: we retain possession, and take the three points comfortably.

Premier Division

Chelsea v Sunderland, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 2 (Salomon Kalou 2, Frank Lampard 24p) – Sunderland 0

MoM: Kieran Richardson (7.7) Chelsea’s Best: Kalou (7.6)

Attendance: 39,373. Referee: Keith Stroud.

[Makonnen]

As these seasons end, I'll be moving them into their own threads--I just think five separate threads are going to be easier to manage than the unwieldy beast of this one. The first of those has started, with David Barron's ongoing adventures in Haiti now found here. As they say, further updates as events warrant ...

Chelsea

Touchline Report, Chelsea v Aston Villa. March 3, 2010

8:40 AM.

Woke up in a foul mood. Bad taste in the back of my mouth, stomach bubbling. ****ing Indian last night. Doesn’t matter. Big game today, a game that may decide how long I stay here: Villa are coming to town, one spot behind us in the table.

They’ve had a good year, but we catch them a little down and out. John Carew broke his leg horribly, and Tom Huddlestone has a separated shoulder, so that’s two big threats off the pitch. Still, Gabby Agbonlahor and Emile Heskey are both in form, and Stephen Warnock and Curtis Davies are playing fantastically this year. The fans should enjoy it: we should be able to score on them, so the worst case should be a shootout.

Ooooooooooooh. Where’s that newspaper? ****, all I can find are these ****ing tabloids. Urgh, doesn’t matter, gotta’ get to the toilet fast.

1:15 PM

A knock at the door. It’s JT. Followed by Thierry Laurent, one of our physio’s. That’s not good.

Coach?

I nod, wave them in. Terry has a frown on his face. He takes a deep breath and looks at me.

I can’t go today. I can give you some if you need late, but somethings wrong with my back.

I turn to Laurent with a questioning look.

He’ll be fine—there’s a muscle thats seized up on the left side. He’ll be good. Just not today.

John never begs off a match. Christ, he never begs off training. This must be some serious pain. I nod.

Don’t worry about it, JT. Take care of yourself. You good to watch with the team?

He nods, but looks a little uncertain.

John. Look at me. You know your body. God knows it’s served you well through the years—and will for a few more. You just need to tell me. That’s why we have Alex and Bran here, and you’re no good to us if you’re out for a long time.

He looked down. Thanks, coach.

Thierry, anything else?

No, rest of the squad looks good.

Thanks. Can you give us a minute?

He leaves, leaving JT looking at me.

John, can I ask you to do something?

Sure.

I know it’s been a rough year in spots. And I know some of the team is pulling apart. Can I ask you to call a session, get them to air it out? Players only. And all I want to know is you did it—whatever is said in there, stays in there.

You sure? I think most of the squad is good with you, honestly. Some of ‘em even like you.

I smiled.

Yes, I’m sure. It’s costing us performance on the pitch. And that’s more important than the risk.

He nodded. OK, I’ll do it. Probably tomorrow, maybe Friday.

Thank you, John.

As he left, I felt a little guilty. I wasn’t sure how to handle the end of his career—a Chelsea man his whole career, only a handful away from 300 appearances with the club. But he’s on the downslide. A little slower, a little less quick to turn. A problem for later. Hopefully, much later.

6:45 PM

I leave the pregame talk to Butch. He loves to wind them up at home, talk about the tradition, about the kids in the stands who just bought their first scarf, about doing it for the pride of wearing the shirt. Pretty much ********, but the heads nod.

I busy myself looking at some pregame information.

Brad Friedel is older than I am. Just saying.

7:49 PM

Pretty simple game. Kick the ball off, pass it around a bit, let Zhirkov find De Rossi in a little bit of space outside the box, let De Rossi beat Friedel hard to the far post. Thirty seconds in, we’re up 1-0. Nothing to it.

Yury! Yes! Pass like that all day! Daniele! Magnifico!

Friedel’s still got a great leg, and almost makes us pay three minutes in—a towering kick falls to Agbonglahor near our box, but he’s offside, thankfully.

Good call, Mike. Way to be on top of it.

Ashley Young is giving us fits, and only a fingertip save from Cech keeps us ahead. But we’re also very close to the magical second goal. And twenty-eight minutes in, it comes in the best possible way.

Alex takes control of a cleared corner, and the ball works quickly in nearly a straight line up the pitch—Zhirkov, Ballack, De Rossi, Kalou, and a ball slid onto Drogba’s right foot as if drawn by a magnet. He knocks it cleanly past the old man in goal, and we’re up 2-0, and maybe Didier has regained his form.

Hey, Butch, nothing like Route 1, huh?

He looks at me, clearly uncomprehending, but smiles and nods.

Come on, Mike. Don’t be afraid to use your cards—it’s been a foul every time Drogba’s gone up for a header. One of them deserves a yellow.

We have a string of headers, none of which amount to anything.

Butch, have we scored on a corner yet this year?

Don’t think so.

Anything we can do about that?

I’m on it.

I look up to see another free kick, this one less than a yard outside the box, but Ballack sends it over.

Butch, can we do something about those, too?

Yeah.

From my mouth to God’s ears.

He laughs. Still don’t think he likes me much. But at least I make him laugh. Little smiling gnome. All due respect and all that.

Heskey fairly steps on Zhirkov trying to get under another Friedel kick.

Jim! You’re kidding me, right? There’s no card there? Yury will never have children, and it’s just a whistle?

Hey, look, I made someone else laugh. I should be a damn standup comedian. Laughing refs don’t give any more calls, unfortunately.

We’re up 2-0 at halftime, and the team is in great spirits. As they head up the tunnel, I grab Wilkins.

Butch, I want no praise when we’re in there. Don’t even acknowledge the performance. They keep it up, we’ll give them love after. Right now, I want tactics—go hard on Young, watch the right flank, swap on the forward push, all that stuff.

Danyil, you know I don’t agree with all your methods, yah?

I nod.

But today, you’re spot on. Got it.

I nod again, clap him on the shoulder, and paused outside the locker room. I hear noise, shouts, laughter from inside.

I opened the door slowly. It was mostly quiet by the time I entered, except for Mikel and Ivanovic laughing in the corner. I needed to watch those two—I was losing them and we needed everyone. I stared at them until they shut up.

Watch Young. They’re only stopping us by fouling—give back as good as you get, and take advantage of their willingness to leave their feet. Everyone feeling OK?

Nods all around.

Good. This is where we set the tone for the next weeks. Control the play out there. Let’s finish it.

I walk out, and hear Butch’s voice take over.

We do well in the second half—almost all of the possession, and playing with a calm confidence that should make people remember the Chelsea club of, you know, last year. Ten minutes in, a spectacular header by Zhirkov frees Kalou towards goal, but Friedel makes a fantastic save to deny our 3rd goal.

Yes, Salomon, yes! Yury, fantastic!

On the header, Friedel and Alex collide and Alex falls heavily to the ground. He’s holding his leg, not sure if it’s quad or groin, but it’s not good.

****, so we win but we lose half the squad? Is that it? Drogba slips through, but misses the shot. Worse, he drops to the pitch, stock still. If he were hoping for a penalty, he’d be rolling around. Stock still is no good, and stock still clutching the knee, even worse. He gets up, but I don’t want to take any chances

Butch, get di Santo finished up.

Mike! Mike!

Hey, what the hell, Jones? They did give you cards for this game, didn’t they? Those little yellow things? I’ve heard one of them is even red?

Every game this happens … minutes when we lose our focus, get in each other’s way, lose control of the game. This time, we have a corner. The clearance falls to Carvalho who evidently still fancies himself a midfielder and launches a shot towards goal. The problem is that Drogba is in the way—it catches him in the back of head and bounds the other way, towards midfield. The team looks a bit shocked, and react too slowly.

Everyone reacts slowly. Except Agbonlahor, who headed towards our goal at a sprint. Cech gets there first, but he makes a bollocks of the clearance and it falls right back to Agbonlahor. He easily moves Cech the wrong way, and the young Nigerian makes easy work of the shot, slotting it into the far corner. So much for the clean sheet.

Drogba comes off at the restart, during which I call Essien and Ballack over.

You, you two. Settle them down. We have twenty minutes, and I want another goal. Get it together out there.

As they head back to the pitch, I walk over to the bench, where Drogba is pulling on his vest.

Didier, you were strong out there today. Well done. You’re only coming off to protect the knee.

He nods and smiles. Thank you. Whether for the honesty or the information, I don’t know.

Two minutes later, almost the same thing: Agbonlahor on a break, all alone. This time, Cech is up to it.

COME ON! Tighten up back there, and move the ball up front.

Alex is laboring out there.

Bane, you ready? You’re on for Alex. Get strong back there, and add some energy. Let’s end this strong.

It’s the first time all year that he and Carvalho have been together in the middle and it shows—this may be our back line of the future, but it needs some time to gel. We’re lucky when Heskey’s header comes off the bar.

Bran! Talk to Ricardo! Find the right place to be and shut those bastards down!

What’s this? O’Neill is taking Heskey off. ****, yeah. I like that. I glance over at him. No idea why he did that.

There it is. All day Ballack has been seeing fantastic places to pass, but we couldn’t do anything with it until the 82nd minute, when he finds Lampard sliding behind his man in the box. A touch—and a missed interception—later, and Friedel has no chance against Lampard’s drive.

Jon Obi.

He heads over to me, looking down.

Yeah, Coach?

Ah, ****. Not now, Mikel. He’s a little sullen, he’s looking towards Butch and not me. I don’t need this now, and I don’t need it from him.

Jon Obi, you’re on for Daniele. Drop back, pair with Michael. Bring this one home.

OK, Coach.

And, Jon Obi. I don’t care if you don’t do it for me. Do it for them.

I don’t really care who he thought I meant—the kids, the crowd, his teammates. But now he knew that I knew, and we’ll see what happens.

We hold it, and the 3-1 win feels good. A quick handshake with O’Neill and I head up the tunnel.

OK men. Well done. There’s not much else to say: you were strong, composed, and dominant out there. That is the Chelsea we need for the rest of the year. You can do it. Butch and I, and the rest of the staff can help. But it comes down to you. And if you do what you did today, we’ll be standing proud in a few months.

Light day tomorrow—orange schedule. I’ll see everyone at 4:00 for the film session on Fulham. Daniele, Didier, Salomon—you okay with doing the media thing in 45 minutes?

Premier Division,

Chelsea v Aston Villa, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 3 (Daniele De Rossi 1, Didier Drogba 28, Frank Lampard 83) – Aston Villa 1 (Gabby Agbonlahor 71)

MoM: De Rossi (8.3)

Attendance: 41,761. Referee: Mike Jones.

[Makonnen]

Chelsea

Touchline Report, Chelsea v Fulham. March 6, 2010.

11:00 AM.

****ing Fulham. They are just like the rest of the midtable clubs. Wolves, Burnley, Fulham, Stoke, Bolton. Who the hell can tell them apart? They all have some money, they all have a player or two who can play, they all shouldn’t be on the same pitch as us.

But, today they are. FA Cup. As usual, Premiere League teams dominate: only Derby is left from the Championship. The rest are the usual suspects: us, the two Manchesters, Everton, Arsenal, Villa. And Fulham. Which one of these is not like the others? Which one of these just doesn’t belong?

3:24 PM

What do you think, Butch, Yaya or Anelka?

You serious?

Yeah. I want to give the future some time.

We’re in their house, Danyil.

Good thing you didn’t see my first lineup. I had Gökhan up front.

He sighs, shakes his head.

We need results, Danyil. And we need them now.

I nod.

OK. Anelka it is.

4:58 PM

Butch is going at his usual tripe. For the pride of blue, for the fans who came to invade Craven Cottage. Luckily mentioning the stadium gave me an in.

We have a job to do tonight. That’s to shut their crowd the **** up. I want Craven Cottage to be so quiet I could hear a ****ing pin drop. The only sound out there should be our faithful blue chanting your names, and a ****ing chorus of “Boo’s” raining down on their heads. I want their fans demanding their money back, you hear me? Nothing less.

And, after that, a quick chat with Roy Hodgson, Good luck mate, all that nonsense. I grab Jon Obi just before he takes the pitch.

Jon Obi. His reluctance drips off him. He needs to get on board, or someone this Summer will have a new Nigerian in their midfield. Would be a shame. But he’s either onboard or not.

You’re key today. You need to run the defense and tell Daniele and Essien when they can let it rip upfield. But I want you and Ballack hooking up, too. Both of you can thread passes through needles—lets’s make that count. We need a performance today. Understood?

Of course, he nods.

Blow the damn whistle, Clattenburg.

It’s a nasty game to start: the physios are on the pitch as much as the players, and the fouls are keeping any real flow from developing.

We’re a step slow, and it’s beginning to **** me off.

John Pantsil comes in late and hard on Ballack, but before I can even start to yell, I hear the whistle and, as importantly, the card.

I nod and clap. Good call, Mark, good call!

Eight minutes from half, De Rossi keeps up his good run of play. First, Ferreira lays the ball square to him from the left side, but his shot rockets off Anelka’s backside. There’s a joke in there somewhere. JT beats Andy Johnson to the ball, and sends it back upfield, where Anelka outjumps Dempsey and heads it cleanly back towards Daniele. Simon Davies was racing after the header, and his momentum carries him past De Rossi, who touches once and launches another rocket. Anelka is out of the way this time, and Mark Schwarzer doesn’t have a chance. We’re up 1-0.

Daniele! Magnifico, Daniele, magnifico!

He smiles as he runs up the pitch. It isn’t quiet yet, but it’s getting there.

One more, men one more!

Hodgson scowls at me.

What do you want, Roy? Can’t leave the door open, you know.

I can’t hear his reply.

They’re on their heels now, and I’m hoping for the second before Hodgson can get his halftime speech in, but no such luck.

As I head into the locker room, I see Butch laying into Ferreira. It’s hard not to smile. Butch is almost half a foot shorter than the Portuguese defender. He has a point: Ferreira’s been beaten far too often on his side.

Remember, men. Quiet. I want stillness and quiet and just a few thousand voices chanting Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea. Paulo, you can take over your side. Do it. And, Salomon, you’re better than that. The first half was rough on you, let’s make them remember you for the next forty-five.

We’re the better team here. You know that and I know that. It means **** all unless you show them that out there. Let’s give our fans something to sing about. Remember, from anywhere at anytime. Let’s bring this home by more than one.

I don’t know about calling Kalou out like that. But I need to see how he responds to it.

A warning? A warning? Jesus ****ing Christ, Mark, what does it take to get a card in this game? He practically jumped on his leg! You need to see the bone?

Uh-oh. Better pull back. Clattenburg just shot me the look.

Yes, Salomon, yes! That’s better! It was a lovely cross, but we couldn’t score.

And then a remarkable bit of individual skill is our undoing: Diomansy Kamara takes the ball near midfield, moves through our defense like whatever metaphor you please, and cooly slides it home. We’re tied, in spite of being the most dangerous team, and it ****es me off.

Kalou responded well, and nearly puts us back on top. He magically skins two defenders, but Shwarzer works wonders to tip the ball over. He looks over as he sets up for the corner, and I nod and clap for him. Ballack’s corner finds Carvalho at the near post, and he deftly redirects the ball into the back of the net. We’re back on top.

Ricky! Good job! You’re still not a midfielder!

Hey Butch.

Yeah?

Good job on taking care of that.

What?

The whole corner kick thing.

Ah, that. Thanks.

We still need the cushion though. It’s a little too risky out there.

Yaya, you ready?

Yes, coach.

Good. You’re in for Nicolas. Look for Salomon, and give me energy up there. Hassle their back line. We want another. And, Gökhan? You’re next. Finish off getting ready.

Essien almost puts us through—he wins the ball at midfield, and is in the clear with Kalou alongside and only Schwarzer between them and the net. Unfortunately, the New Zealand international is up for it, and Essien’s shot is deflected for a corner.

They push up, and we are forced to defend a few more corners. After the last, JT motions to me, shakes his head. ****. Not what we needed.

Bran, you’re in for JT.

Michael! Switch with Jon Obi. Daniele! Pull back. Hold it down, boys!

Sanogo holds the ball magnificently at midfield, then fires a pinpoint pass to Töre. Who can’t beat Schwarzer. What the hell? We should have four or five by now.

Butch, you see Yaya up there?

Yeah, I see him.

You like what you see?

Yeah, I do.

Me, too.

We need to dodge a corner, but we do. It was closer than I wanted, but it was a win.

I look at Butch, who shrugs and nods.

Yeah, me too. Not bad, and it’s a win, but nothing to write home about.

FA Cup 6th Round

Fulham v Chelsea, Craven Cottage

Fulham 1 (Diomansy Kamara 52) – Chelsea 2 (Daniele De Rossi 39, Ricardo Carvalho 58)

MoM: Ricardo Carvalho (9.0)

Attendance: 25,661. Referee: Mark Clattenburg.

[Makonnen]

Slightly out of order, sorry about that.

February 24, 2010

Ethio Premiere

Trans Ethiopia v Saint George, Tigray Stadium, Aksum

Trans Ethiopia 0 – St. George 0

MoM: Webenesh Teka (7.6) V’s Best: Mulalem Tessema (7.2)

Attendance 1288. Referee: Shukri Gudina.

February 25, 2010

Addis Cup QuarterFinal

Saint George v Ethiopia Insurance, Addis Ababa Stadium

Saint George 1 (Bereket Addisu, 46) – Insurance 0

MoM: Addisu (8.3)

Attendance: 1957. Referee: Teshager Vassalo.

February 27, 2010

African Champions League, Preliminary Round Second Leg

Saint George v Ocean Boys, Yenagoa Township Stadium

Ocean Boys 1 (Aniekan Davies 78) – Saint George 0

MoM: Dautibi Okolai (7.5) V’s Best: Samson Mulugeta (7.0)

Attendance: 539. Referee: Daniel Bennet.

March 1, 2010

All African Challenge, Group C

Saint George v Wonji Sugar, Wonji Stadium

St. George 1 (Bayeh Kahsay 6) – Wonji 0

MoM: Samson Mulugeta (8.0)

Attendance: 154. Referee: Yohannes Kayira.

Nothing Left. March 3, 2010

All Africa Challenge, Group C

Saint George v Etoile Sportive du Sahel, Addis Ababa Stadium

Saint George 1 (Bereket Addisu 49p) – Etoile du Sahel 0

MoM: Adugna Deyas (7.5)

Attendance: 6056. Referee: Seyoum Haile Mariam.

Tadesse Makonnen surveyed the locker room. It was usually raucous after a win—especially after a win like this, against a team that was heavily, heavily favored. But, today, it was nearly silent. He heard deep breaths as players recovered from their exertions, the rustling of fabric as uniforms came off, the low sounds of involuntary moans as muscles were stretched, wounds prodded.

The team was wrecked. There was Mohammed Abera, his star teenager who wasn’t even able to play today, his left leg wrapped in ice as he struggled to recover from a muscle strain. Bereket Addisu, who buried the penalty just inside the start of the second half for the victory, was on the floor getting treatment on his back. Most of the rest of the team were seated, heads leaning against the lockers or cradled in their hands, emptily staring into the middle distances.

Tadesse turned to his assistant coach, and spoke softly, beyond the hearing of the athletes around them. “Look at them, Dagchew. They don’t have anything else. They can’t give anything else. This should be a time of joy.” He stopped, closed his eyes, and turned into the center of the room.

There was no need to wait for them to quiet down, today. After a moment, he raised his head and looked around.

“I don’t have much to say to you today. There isn’t anything anyone can say to you. You have, over the last two weeks, given us everything you have. Everything. And more. And today.” Makonnen’s voice shook slightly and he stopped, raised a hand to his mouth, shook his head. “I’m sorry. I think … I think all I can say is thank you. For the privilege of being your coach. For your effort. For your spirit. And once again I need to ask even more of you. It is unfair. But it is also what is required, of all of us. Today’s win is one of the best we’ve ever had. Ever. But we have a game on Saturday. And three more next week.” Again he shook his head. He looked around the room, finding the eyes of his players one by one.

“And all we can do, Ato Dagchew and I, is ask more of you.”

He heard a hollow clap and looked up. Adugna Deyas, team captain and stalwart goalkeeper, was sitting, slumped against a locker, his eyes exhausted but focused on his coach, his hands slowly clapping together. The rest of the team began to join in, an echoing heartbeat that filled the locker room.

[Makonnen]

Rodengo Saiano

February 28, 2010

Serie C2/A

Rodengo v Sambonifacese, Comunale

Rodengo 0 – Sambonifacese 1 (Stefano Pietribiasi 60)

MoM: Andrea Tecchio (7.3) Best Panda: Isma (7.3)

Attendance: 480. Referee: Marco Mancin.

March 7, 2010

Serie C2/A

Rodengo v Olbia, Bruno Nespoli

Rodengo 1 (Massimiliano Esposito 80) – Olbia 3 (Massimo De Martis 45+2, Marco Dalla Costa 49, Damien Florian 79)

MoM: Daniele Bordacconi (8.6) Best Panda: Esposito (7.2)

Attendance: 354. Referee: Massimo Raimondi.

The Day After. March 8, 2010.

Terry Langford sat at his kitchen table, a folded newspaper in front of him and beyond that a bottle of wine, mostly empty. His lightly striped dress shirt was pulled free of his dark jeans and unbuttoned. There were small, dark red stains splattered across his undershirt like paint flung from a brush.

“Goddamn him.” He reached for the bottle “Giuseppe son of a whore Di Franco. Goddamn him. Smug, self-satisfied, son of a bitch.”

He lifted up the paper and again read through the article. It was in printed twice, side by side: once in Italian, once in English.

Has Rodengo inherited the same coach that emerged at Cape Town? While we may hope not, recent results may indicate otherwise … loss of control on the sidelines … decision was dubious, but is that how our manager should behave? I think not … foreign talent … impressive, but where is the defense? And how long can we depend on defenders on the wrong side of thirty-five—or, in one case, forty? … deserves some more time. But not too much.

He threw the newspaper down and tipped the bottle back until it was empty then stood up and took a kick at the paper. It fluttered open briefly before settling against the wall. Losing his balance, he grabbed the counter with one hand but dropped the bottle, which broke against the checkerboard floor, sending green shards skittering across the tile and flinging drops of red liquid in short arcs from where the bottle fell.

“Oh Jesus, Langford. What’d you do now?”

He looked at the expanding stain. He shrugged out of his shirt and bent over, then stopped. “No, it’s red wine. Stain would never come out. A towel. Need a towel.” He dropped the shirt on the table and headed into the bedroom towards the linen closet.

He saw his phone on the bed where he had tossed it earlier, after he returned home from practice. He stopped, swayed, and stared at it. “Don’t do it, Langford. Don’t even think of it.”

Moments later, he had shrugged off his shirt and was seated on the bed, the phone ringing in his ear.

“Hello?”

“Hullo, Leti. Howzhit going?”

“Terry?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“Terry. You OK?”

“Course, course.”

“Are you drunk?”

“Drunk? No. Am I … maybe a little.”

Terry slowly leaned back, filling the pause with the motion of his body as he reclined, coming to rest with his head on his pillows and his legs crossed at the knee.

“Terry, why are you calling?”

“I just wanted to talk to you. Do I have to have a reason now?”

“You can’t just call me when you’ve been drinking, Terry. It’s … it’s not fair.”

“Fair? Not fair?” He felt the anger rising, a flush spreading out from his belly. “Am I that much of a ****ing burden to you now?”

“No, that’s not what I meant Terry. It’s just …”

“Just what? Jesus Christ, Leti, I just called to talk.”

Leti sighed deeply. I have to get him off the phone. He thinks he needs me, but he just needs to sleep it off. She was in her kitchen, a pot bubbling on the stove. She stirred the stew, scraping the wooden spoon against the bottom of the pot to loosen whatever had stuck there. She turned down the heat, removed the spoon, knocked it lightly against the pot, and set it on the counter.

“I know, Terry, I know.”

“It’s happening again, Leti.”

“What?”

“It’s happening again. The whole thing. The press, Giuseppe ****ing Di Franco. The bastard. Just like it did there. Once they start writing about you, it’s over. Over.”

“You know that’s not true. They have to find something to write about, and complaining is so easy. That’s all it is, Terry.”

“They ran it in English, Leti. In ****ing English. You know who reads English here? Me. That’s who. Me.”

The phone was clutched between his ear and shoulder now, both hands covering his face.

“Terry, I …”

“Yeah, I know. That’s OK. You go, Leti. Sorry to have bothered you.”

“Yeah, no Terry. It’s not a bother. Really. It’s just late.”

“No worries. Promise.”

“Get some sleep, Terry. Things will feel better tomorrow.”

“Yeah.”

He lay there for quite some time before going back to the kitchen. He picked up the largest few pieces of glass and dropped them in the small trashcan. They rattled like bones. Turning around, he noticed two trails of small coin-sized drops of red running between the kitchen and the bedroom.

What the ****? He began to lift one leg and wobbled, then slowly slid down against the counter until he was seated on the tile. He looked at the bottom of his feet, one at a time. Holy ****. That’s a pretty big piece of glass in your foot there, Terry. There was a green shard a few inches long towards the heel of his right foot. Blood was welling up on one side of it, a small crimson pool running over the dark green. He took the towel in one hand and reached with the other, easing the glass out and pressing down with the towel.

Goddamn, goddamn, goddamn, goddamn. Christ that hurts. The towel was read under his fingers, the stain spreading, blooming outwards across the white fabric. Pressure. Pressure. Ow. Pressure. You’re OK.

He closed his eyes and took a breath, then pulled back the towel. The bleeding had slowed to a seep, just a thin pink line gradually turning darker. He grabbed the counter and hauled himself up, keeping all his weight on his left leg, and twisted the towel under the tap until it ran clear. Folding it into a square, he hopped over to the bedroom and dug in the top drawer of his dresser until he found an ace bandage he had used a few weeks earlier when he twisted his ankle during a practice session.

Sitting on his bed, he wrapped the bandage around his foot until the towel was firmly in place, then took a deep breath, looking at the small puddle of wine on the kitchen floor and the small dots of red between him and it. He felt the adrenaline subsiding, replaced by a heavy fatigue.

To hell with it. Clean it in the morning.

He lay back, still dressed, passed an arm over his face and quickly fell into a deep sleep.

For the first time in Italy, he had the dream. But this time the vines were sharper, leaving more than just scratches. He heard is father’s voice imploring him to kick the ball, but all he could do was look down. There weren’t thorns, but rather snails, a dozen of them, crawling on his legs, leaving behind wet red streams where his blood welled up in a delta of pain. Pa! Help me! The response was distant, brittle, the sound of twigs snapping under great weight from far away. Help you? You can’t even kick the ball. The snails moved on, a dozen razors crawling across his flesh.

[Makonnen]

Just noticed I missed posting on Sunday, so here's a small second helping today.

Chelsea

Mentoring on the Training Ground. March 8, 2010.

“Yury, you good with this?”

The Russian pulled a hand through his black hair and nodded. “I like him. We can work together well.”

“Good. Thank you.” Oranje turned towards the practice field. “Daniel! A word!”

Sturridge turned and the twenty year old striker jogged over to the sidelines, joining the manager alongside Zhirkov. “Yes, coach?”

“Daniel, you remember a few months ago, when we talked about getting players together to help each other out, that whole thing?” Sturridge glanced at Zhirkov, and smiled slightly. “We’d like you to work with Yury. We want you to meet in the middle—Yury needs to learn to do more in the front third, and we want you to work with Daniel on his crosses, on moving wide, on finding the open space. Got it? Questions?”

They both shook their head. “Alright, then. Off with you.”

[Makonnen]

Chelsea

Touchline Report, Chelsea v Wolfsburg. March 10, 2010.

11:25 AM.

Wolfsburg. A home leg, then Arsenal, then the away leg, and then West Ham. Not an easy patch. OK, better go with the young’uns in this one. If we need to storm the barricades in Germany, we will, but hopefully they can give us a good cushion.

So, it’s Kalou and Sturridge up front. And a totally new midfield: Matic, Mateu, Mikel. My three M’s. And no Michael. Talked with more of the coaches, some more with Butch. Ballack is definitely slipping. Everyone loves him, but he’s slipping.

4:11 PM

So, Butch, what you think?

I think Edin Dzeko would look damn fine in blue. He’s young, controls the ball like nobody we have, jumps like a deer.

Butch, do I hear a man crush?

A what?

Never mind. OK, Dzeko is their danger man. I agree. You watch the tapes?

Yah.

I see them jamming the middle, pushing forward that way. What’d you see?

I saw them using route one.

Look at you! You look that up on Wikipedia? Seriously, though … they look pretty susceptible down the wings to me. We’ll need to watch Dzeko, sure, but otherwise, I’m thinking we can run out the youngsters, try to get some rest. You good with that?

He nods. Backfires, we can run them over in Germany.

7:46 PM

Butch leans over. You were right, Danyil. I nod. We need to finish, but they’re clearly weak down the outside. Kalou and Zhirkov hook up once down the left and Ferreira carries all the way down the right a minute later. Both lead to corner, but both corners lead to naught.

Seven minutes in, Ferreira loops a cross in, but Lampard can’t quite bring it under control: another corner for us. It’s a textbook free kick: Zhirkov’s floating cross is met at the near post by Carvalho who heads it across goal. Their keeper, a decent enough player named Benaglio, makes a dive for it, and nobody sees JT dashing for the back post. He meets it squarely, and it’s in. 1-0, under 10 minutes in.

I may have misled them. All the attention on Dzeko is freeing up Obafemi Martins. He is dancing through our defense as if it consisted of orange training cones. Jon Obi! Paulo! You can’t do that! Talk to each other!

Butch, think we scouted the wrong guy?

Nah. Martins is good enough, but Dzeko is class.

OK. A few minutes later, Butch is frowning again.

What’s wrong, Butch?

They’re murdering us in the air. Shouldn’t be happening.

Yah. It’s OK, I think we beat these guys on the ground. Nemanja! Marc! Jon Obi!

I push my hands down, palms parallel to the ground.

I want them to keep the ball low and hard—our movement is better than theirs, as is our skill. If we move it around with precision, we’ll find the net a few more times.

Sturridge looks charged up here, he has several fantastic chances, including one where he corrals a 30 yard bullet from Lampard with a touch, turns and fires low across goal. Somehow Benaglio saves it.

I point at the replay screen. Look at that, Butch. We both shake our heads. He deserved better than that. We go in 1-0.

OK, good enough men, good enough. We’re doing well, we need to keep up the movement. We are outclassing them on the wings, and that should be the key to victory here. But I want to shore up the middle as well. Marc, drop back. Keep playmaking, but do it from alongside Jon Obi. I draw a line on the whiteboard of a soccer field at the front of the room. Here, not here. Nemanja, that will leave you to connect with Frank—you need to run as hard as you can, as long as you can, OK? I nod to the German veteran. Michael, you’ll come in when he runs out of steam. When that happens, Frank, I want you to slide further up, and go on the attack. We’ll have three up there then.

Yury, Paulo, you are doing fantastic. Keep the concentration up.

Benaglio is possessed. If this isn’t the best came of his career, I’m no judge of talent. Kalou makes a fantastic move to curl around Andrea Barzagli, and forces another fingertip save from the Swiss keeper.

Jesus, Butch. What’d that kid eat for breakfast today?

We’re outclassing them, and the desperation is showing: now they’re just trying to beat us up.

About time, Paolo! That should be their third card of the match, not their first. And you know it. The card is on Sascha Riether for a viscous tackle on Sturridge. He’s slow to get up, but he nods at us when he does. That’s good, because I want all three substitutes.

Just past the hour mark, I pull Nemanja off.

I grab him as he goes by. Nemanja, wait. Frank! Lampard looks at me, nods, begins to move up the pitch. I turn back to my young Serbian midfielder. Nemanja, that was great effort. You’ll get in a few more games for us this year, but I want you to play like that with the reserves, too, OK? That kind of effort, every time out.

Butch, you know the plan we told them at halftime?

Yeah.

I’m changing it. I turn to the players warming up. Nicolas! I want to keep pushing the width, OK? Play up front, wide on the right. Tell Salomon to shift to the left, and make sure let Ballack know where you’ll be, OK?

He nods.

Keep it wide, and make your runs. Let the midfielders find you.

We just can’t slide anything past the Swiss kid. Mikel draws a diving parry, Anelka blows by his man and cross to Kalou who takes it in the air, again forcing a strong save.

Paolo! Come on! That’s a card! He can’t barge him like that! Just because Reither has a card doesn’t mean that’s not one! We should be up a man, and you know it!

And then, Ballack shows he still has some good in his tank: a looping pass that spans a third of the field and hits Anelka perfectly in stride. Finally, we beat Benaglio and go up 2-0 as Nicolas slots it across goal, just inside the far post.

I lean in close to Butch.

Slipping, huh?

Butch shakes his head. He still sees the field with the best of them.

Five minutes on, he does it again. Anelka makes a quick dash into the box and Ballack hits him in stride. He can’t get the shot off, but Tobias Klotz pushes him off the ball with a shove to the lower back. Tagliavento is totally out of position—there are at least a half dozen players blocking his view of the collision, but the whistle blows, and we have the penalty. Ballack steps up and coolly slots it home. Butch and I just look at each other, smiles on our faces.

We’ve all but decided to let him go this Summer. But he sure can help us in the meantime.

The last three minutes are ugly. Two yellow cards, a couple phantom fouls. But we escape: we’re three goals to the good for the second leg, and we should be rested—at least those that are healthy—for the Arsenal game.

EURO Cup 2nd Knockout Round Leg 1

Chelsea v. VfL Wolfsburg, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 3 (Terry 9, Anelka 84, Ballack 90p) – Wolfsburg 0

MoM: Yury Zhirkov (8.6)

Attendance: 39,236. Referee: Paolo Tagliavento.

[Satio]

Another really good update, very enjoyable to read. A decent lead going in to the next match for Chelsea

[Makonnen]

Thanks, Satio. I think I unloaded players too quickly with Chelsea--its my first time managing a truly top flight team, and I underestimated the competition. If Oranje sticks around, they'll be back on top, but this year is a bit of a scuffle for them. Off to the training ground in Northern Italy today ...

Rodengo Saiano

Trequartista Training. March 11, 2010.

“Coach, you OK?”

“Yeah, Matteo, I’m fine. Just a little cut on the bottom of the foot.”

“Step on a nail?”

“Something like that.”

The two men were walking down the hallway from the locker room, towards the training ground for the afternoon session. As they emerged into the bright sunlight, they heard the usual sounds—the dull thud of the long kicks, the shouts of players, Roberto’s voice above the others offering encouragement, screaming corrections. They walked over to the assistant, Matteo standing between them as usual, moving his head from manager to coach and back as he translated.

“Roberto, how are they today?”

“Eh. They’re OK. They don’t listen like they should, but it’s improving.”

“You still on board with what we discussed this morning?”

Matteo looked at him. “On board?”

“Does he still agree.”

“Ah.” Roberto listened, nodded. “Yes. We will need to do more in the back, but yes. It’s not like he’s a huge help.”

Langford nodded and headed out to the field, noticeably favoring his right leg. “Isma! A moment, please.”

The small Spaniard jogged over, smiling. Langford grinned as well: his enthusiasm was infectious. Matteo looked at the coach. “It’s OK, Matteo. He doesn’t speak Italian, I don’t speak much Spanish. We’ll muddle through in English.” Matteo nodded, and headed back towards the sidelines.

“Isma, you good today?”

“Yes, coach. We work hard today. It’s fun.”

“Good. How is it in the center of the field?” Isma had come to Rodengo strongly favoring his left foot, but had quickly adjusted to playing from the middle. He was still much stronger on his left, but he enjoyed the freedom of being the only attacking midfielder.

“I like. Very much. I can … “ He waved a hand in a circle parallel to the ground. “Move. Move a lot. Into space.”

“Good. We want to change something. It will let you do more.”

“Yes?”

“You know the word trequartista?”

His eyes lit up. “Si, si. Trequartista.”

“Good. That’s what we want. Move where ever there is space. Don’t worry about marking one man—chase the ball on defense, but always, always, look for space.”

He nodded, clearly enthusiastic about the role.

“We have lots of strikers, yeah? Many delanteros. So you need to work with them all. You here, them here.” Langford held his hands in front, indicating the position and spacing.

Isma nodded vigorously. “Good. I like. When do we start?”

“Now. Today.”

Isma nodded and turned towards the field. Langford clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Go on. And listen to Roberto.”

Isma glanced back over his shoulder.

“Yes, coach. And, coach?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you coach. I am very … happy to have come to you, to Italy.”

Terry Langford inclined his head in appreciation, turned, and limped back towards his assistant, motioning to Matteo as he went.

“Well, Roberto, we’ll see what happens now.”

[Makonnen]

Saint George

March 6, 2010

Ethiopian Premiere League

Saint George v Muger Cement, Addis Ababa Stadium

Saint George 2 (Lencho Skibba, 19; Shalo Bikila, 33) – Muger Cement 0

MoM: Mulalem Tessema (8.2)

Attendance: 2684. Referee: Shukri Gudina.

March 8, 2010

All African Challenge, Group C

Saint George v Club Sportif Sfaxien, Addis Ababa Stadium, Addis Ababa

Saint George 1 (Andualem Negussie 57) – CS Sfax 4 (Haykel Gmamdia 11, Akarandut Orok 23, Abdelkrim Nafti 38, Dominique da Silva 47)

MoM: Naby Soumah (8.6) V’s Best: Andualem Negussie (6.8)

Attendance: 3098. Referee: Samson Gawo.

March 10, 2010

Ethiopian Premiere League

Harrar Beer v Saint George, Harar Bira Stadium, Harar.

Harrar Beer 0 – St. George 0 (Mohammed Abera, 54red)

MoM: Atakilti Wendimagegne (7.5). V’s Best: Mulalem Tessema (7.0)

Attendance: 973. Referee: Atalay Dereje.

Wondergoal. March 13, 2010

African Challenge Group C

Bush Bucks v. Saint George, East London Stadium, Port Elizabeth

Bush Bucks 3 (Samuel Degefe 12og, Papi Mebele, Yohanis Daniel 84og) – St. George (Ochan Bayalegne 18)

MoM: Bayalegne (8.3)

Attendance: 6911. Referee: Umeta Ibrahim.

From Soccer Laduuuuuma’s article on the game:

The visitors were clearly the most influential side on the day, beating themselves 2-1 counting all times they put the ball into the net. And while the two own-goals, one by the usually reliable Samuel Degefe and the other by squad newcomer Yohanis Daniel—were embarrassments, the goal they scored was truly one for the ages, indeed it may be the class of the tournament.

In the seventeenth minute, Saint George forward Bereket Addisu wove through the Bush Bucks’ defense with a mazy run that led to the edge of the box, where he was scissored down by defender Marvin Klaasen, who was lucky to escape without a booking. Ochan Bayalegne stepped up to take the kick, which was deflected over the line by Sibusiso Mazibuko for a corner for the Ethiopian visitors.

Addisu took the corner, and floated the ball nicely towards the far post where Ethiopian National Team defender Samson Mulugeta rose to meet it with a sharp header. Again Mazibuko was there, and he cleared it off the line with a powerful header of his own, sending the ball a dozen yards beyond the edge of the penalty box. As soon as Mazibuko connected, Bayalegne—who was lurking in the middle of the box—spun around and raced towards where the defensive header would land. At a full out sprint, with his back to the goal, he corkscrewed himself around, took the ball on the first bounce, and fired a shot.

This kind of attempts has no right to even get close to the goal. His momentum is taking him the wrong direction at great speed, his balance is all wrong, and the torque needed to get any power behind the kick borders on violating some of Newton’s elementary laws. It is, in short, a desperate attempt to pull off the impossible.

But he has struck it perfectly, and the ball exploded into the upper corner of the net.

The stadium reacted first with silence, then with bedlam: all in attendance realized they had seen a moment for the ages. The Bush Bucks fully deserved their win, but Bayalegne’s goal will live on far after the winner of this year’s All African Challenge is forgotten.

[Makonnen]

Chelsea

Touchline Report, Chelsea v Arsenal. March 14, 2010.

10:38 AM

We’ve been playing well, but this is the first real test. Arsenal is third in the league going into today’s match, but if we win today, we’ll sneak up to being only three points behind them. We need a win today. We’re at home, and we need to hold serve at Stamford Bridge.

The performance against Wolfsburg, the general run of play, should at least have us going into this game on a high. We’ve won five in a row, and Bolton and Villa were good wins. But this is our first game against a team ahead of us since we’ve come together. So, we’ll see.

We need a ****ing win.

1:37 PM

It’s another crappy day. Cold with a driving rain. I can hear it against the stands, a muffled indistinct roar of water impacting metal. It’s going to be sloppy out there.

Fine day for it, eh, Butch?

I’m sitting at my desk across from him, staring at our tactical matchup sheet. He grunts noncommittally in response and leans back, lips pursed. We expect the Gunners to come out with van Persie up top, Eduardo and Arshavin crashing from the wings. Alex Song as their holder.

They look pretty familiar, Butch, don’t you think?

Yah, well, everyone copies Chelsea don’t you know?

Problem is they’re at pretty much full strength. We’re still catching up, up front.

Butch nods. Gotta’ put Anelka up top with Kalou.

Agree. Frank in the hole behind them, Ballack in the middle.

Butch frowns.

What?

Well … Look, I appreciate Michael as much as anyone. He’s great on the team, great on the sideline, a fighter. But, I’ve been watching him in practice. Closely, like. And he’s slipping, Danyil. The vision is there, the idea is there, but his body. Well, it doesn’t listen to the mind as well as it used to.

You talk to Franco about it?

Yeah. Baldini agrees. Fausto, too.

Well, that’s not what I needed to hear. For Butch to say this means it must be noticeable. So it’s a loss on two fronts: I’m being told my first substitute at midfield is no longer a good enough player for our needs and I’m being told something by my coaches that I should have noticed myself.

Scenes from training in the past month flash through my head … Ballack being beaten to the far post on runs through the middle by Sanogo, Ballack being moved off the ball too easily by Matic and Mateu. The signs were there. I just didn’t want to see them: Ballack is such a great presence on the team that I never really thought his skills would deteriorate that quickly. But it happens to everyone, and to most, it happens quickly.

OK. I hear you. We’ll start to push Matic and Mateu more.

2:51 PM

OK, just a couple of things.

First, we have some milestones to recognize. Today is Michael Essien’s 125th game in the Chelsea blue. Which puts him exactly 100 ahead of Yury. A round of applause, some whistles that die down once I raise my hand.

This game is an opportunity, a chance to show that we belong at the top of the table. Let’s focus on the same things we worked on all week, the same focus, the same passion. Butch has the final say today. I’ll see you all in the tunnel. Remember, from anywhere, at anytime.

4:04 PM

We start brightly: Kalou uses an incredible move to slip past two defenders, but the shot is tipped wide by Alumnia.

The game turns several times as we trade surges with Arsenal. Bakary Sagna lofts a fantastic ball into the box, where Robin van Piersie is waiting. The Dutch international dives at it, and his header seems destined for the net, but somehow Cech is able to tip it around the post. Andrey Arshavin takes the corner, but we control it and set off on our first real break of the game: Kalou finds Anelka streaking in front of the defense, but the French attacker’s first touch betrays him, knocking the ball too far in front, and Alumnia rushes out to smother it.

In the fourteenth minute, Lampard winds up for a shot from outside the box, and I leap out of my seat, fist in the air. But it’s in the side netting. Wenger looks over at me, gives a small smile and wags a finger back and forth. It’s not a confrontational gesture.

I spread my arms.

Un homme peut rêver, non? His smile grows larger for a moment, and we both turn back to the game, where all I can do is thank God for Petr Cech. He denies van Peirsie from nearly point blank range twice more.

Butch. What are we going to do about that?

About what?

That little Dutch **** keeps slipping inside our defense.

Yeah, he does.

I stare at Butch. He usually offers an opinion at this point. You testing me?

He shakes his head. No, I just don’t know what else to do about it—we have Ricky sliding towards him, and JT has to watch out for the attack from the wings.

OK, I got it at halftime.

He looks at me for a second, clearly curious, but only nods. Halftime comes quickly, with the game still scoreless.

Good hard half, men. The effort, the focus is all there. Michael, we need better distribution out of the middle from you. Yury, I want you to shade a little higher to help with that. That means Frank, you need to move to your right to free that space up.

Van Persie is getting deep far too often. He’s getting by you with a swim move. JT, you need to give him more space or he’ll keep doing it. Ricky, I want you to get up in his body, bang him a bit. He’s expecting the opposite from each of you. Understood?

We’re the brighter light in the second half: De Rossi frees Anelka with a spectacular pass, but Nicolas’ shot is right at Arsenal’s Spanish goalkeeper. Kalou gets the rebound, feeds it back to Daniele, whose rocket requires a leaping, one-handed save. We make a horrible mistake on the corner: a lazy back pass from Ferriera is pounced on by Dennis Aogo. No idea if he passed too softly to Essien or far too hard to Cech, but either way it was a horrid, ****** bit of business. Luckily, Petr recovers, and we stay scoreless.

Paulo! Come on! Make up for it now, OK? Do something!

Van Persie finally slips one through just after the hour mark. JT completely misses a quick feed by Sagna and van Persie’s shot slides off the far post and into the back of the net. Arsenal is up 1-0.

Bane, Jon Obi, both of you get ready.

Essien! Michael! Come here. We can fight back from this—I need the two of you to press it forward, get those guys up front involved. Let’s make it happen, OK?

We almost equalize immediately, but Kalou’s chip goes just over the bar. Almost. Almost is grinding at me right now, and I’m tired of it.

I am pacing the area now, shaking my head. I would happily take one point. We’re fighting hard, but we can’t seem to finish the chances we have.

We are unlucky at the end—Carvalho deflects a shot well, but it falls right to Eduardo who taps home the gimme goal. That was just unlucky.

Ricky! Nothing to do, forget it right now. Right now!

Wenger grabs me after the whistle blows.

Danyil, stay with it. They are fighting for you—we were the lucky side today.

I nod, but am unable to come up with a good reply. Merci, Arsène is the best I can do. This loss hurt, and will only fuel the voices saying Chelsea has plummeted from their top of the table form.

Premier League

Chelsea v. Arsenal, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 0 – Arsenal 2 (van Persie 63, Eduardo 83)

MoM: Bakary Sagna (8.7) Chelsea’s Best: Petr Cech (7.3)

Attendance: 41,761. Referee: Howard Webb.

[Makonnen]

Rodengo Saiano

Training Ground Scene. March 16, 2010.

I was at the far end of the training ground when it happened. Matteo was with me and we were working with our three central defenders—Cassaro, Bertoni, Belotti—and a half dozen of the players I was desperately trying to turn into something resembling wingbacks. It was basic positioning work—where the clearances should go, where the safety valve should be. Repetition and sweat, concentration and more sweat.

I heard the scream from the other end, and carefully kept myself from being too interested. I could see a crowd gathered around the far goal, and heard the calls for Enrico Castellacci, the physio I brought in when I took over.

I turned to Matteo, calm as I could muster. “Go find out what that’s about.” I turned back to the defensive players. “Matuso! Come up. Belotti—take over at sweeper. Sweeper. Yes. Stefano! Francesco! Ready? OK, go!”

We go through two more rounds before Matteo returns.

“It’s Nicola, coach.” That’s not good. Dal Bosco is easily our best attacker. Well, he’s on loan, so technically he’s not really ours, but I would rather not lose more games this year. I nod. “How bad?”

Matteo shook his head. “Don’t know. It’s his ankle. It looks pretty bad. They’re taking him to the doctor now for the X-ray.”

I motion to Bertoni. “Matuso, come here.”

He jogs over, sweat dripping from his forehead. “Si?”

“Do this three more times, changing out. Change the positions, OK? Then, the long passes. From the back up the line, then a cross to the other side. Slow at first. OK?”

He nods, and turns to the players, already yelling at them in Italian. I asked him once if he wanted to become a coach. He just laughed, but never answered.

“Matteo, come with me. Let’s go find Enrico.”

[Makonnen]

Chelsea

Touchline Report, Chelsea v Wolfsburg (2nd Leg). March 17, 2010.

9:53 AM

I hate hotel phones. Nobody uses them anymore. I don’t use them anymore. Except I’m an idiot and left my mobile in London. So now I’m using a hotel phone.

Hello.

Good, good. Slept fine. About to head over to … what do they call it now … Volkswagen-Arena.

No. Yeah, a bit. I’m just angry.

Yeah, about the phone. No, nott just the phone.

What else? What do you ****ing think? Last weekend sure didn’t leave me little Miss Sunshine, you know.

I’m sorry, you’re right.

Yes, yes. Just, you know, the team is in a fog, we have West Ham on Saturday, and need to avoid disaster here today.

OK.

Yes, I will. Thanks.

You, too.

2:31 PM

Butch is staring at my scribbles. He squints a bit trying to figure out my handwriting. Given that he knows our roster pretty well, not being able to figure out the name of a player is probably not a good sign.

He looks up. Really?

Yeah, we need to rest the others, and they won’t bollocks it up too badly.

Butch looks down again. You sure? Cork, ehm, didn’t do very well last time out.

I grimace. No, no he didn’t. But JT is there to cover for him, and we’re keeping the two holders. And I want to see di Santo up there between the forwards. You know what my question is, though?

Butch shakes his head.

Turnbull. I’d almost rather see Aréola.

He pauses for a moment. I know. But we need Turnbull for a few more months. If something happens to Petr …

If something happens to Petr, I’m polishing my CV, Butch.

6:28 PM

There’s a knock on the door to the makeshift office provided for visiting teams here in Wolfsburg. I’m leaning against the edge of the desk, staring at Wolfsburg’s roster sheet.

Yah? It’s Didier.

Coach, a word?

Of course.

He slides inside the door, stands across from me.

I just saw the roster sheet.

I look at him. And?

And, I’m not on it. I passed the fitness drill this morning. I want to play.

I shake my head. I know. But not today. We need you on Saturday, and we need you after that.

Why’d I come to Germany, then?

I’m sorry, Didier. We needed you to keep working with the medical staff, keep training with the rest of the squad.

He nods. He’s not particularly happy about it, though.

Didier, I love the fact that you want to play. Love it. And when you’ve been on the field, you’ve been spectacular this year—scoring, passing, everything. But we need you on the field. And to get you on the field, we needed you here. And to keep you on the field, we need you to be ready on Saturday, ready for the next few months.

7:47 PM

We have Dzeko pretty well wrapped up. But Obafemi Martins and Grafite are causing us some headaches early. Eventually, Grafite slides through with a perfectly timed run past our back line onto a good pass from Karim Ziani. Turnbull is well beaten, and we’re down 1-0.

What do you think, Butch?

He shrugs. They’re doing OK. Some chances, some nerves. Cork’s playing better.

He couldn’t bloody play any worse. Butch snorts, looks around to make sure nobody heard.

Just past the hour mark, both Matic and Cork are injured and have to come off. So much for finding rest for Ballack and Carvalho.

In the 77th minute, Mikel switches field to Ivanovic, who plays a lovely pass along the ground into the box. Sturridge never has to break stride, and he slams it home.

We’re tied, and more importantly, we now have an away goal. The cat is in the bag.

Butch, that does it. We survived.

He claps me on the shoulder, a smile on his face. That we did.

EURO Cup Knockout Round, Leg 2

VfL Wolfsburg v Chelsea, Volkswagen-Arena, Wolfsburg

Wolfsburg 1 (Grafite 31) – Chelsea 1 (Daniel Sturridge 78)

MoM: Sascha Riether (7.6) Chelsea’s Best: Sturridge (7.4)

Attendance: 22,312. Referee: Frank De Bleeckere.

[Makonnen]

Saint George

March 15, 2010

African Challenge Group C

Etoile Sportive du Sahel v Saint George, Stade Olympique, Sousse

Etoile du Sahel 3 (Tamebo Fwayo 26, Papa Daouda Sène 45+1, Bassem Boulaabi 58) – St. George 0

MoM: Fwayo (8.3) V’s Best: Firdu Demeska (6.9)

Attendance: 13,869. Referee: Shukri Gudina.

March 17, 2010

Ethio Premiere

Saint George v Ethiopian Electric Power Corporation

St. George 3 (Lencho Skibba 35, Ochan Bayalegne 45, 51) – EEPCO 0

MoM: Bayalegne (9.3)

Attendance: 2820. Referee: Zekarias Fega Girma.

March 19, 2010

African Challenge Group C

Saint George v Bush Bucks, Addis Ababa Stadium

St. George 0 – Bush Bucks 0

MoM: Eshetu Mohammed (7.4)

Attendance: 2029. Referee: Haile Gawo.

The Keeper Speaks. March 20, 2010

Dagchew Damese and Tadesse Makonnen were huddled in the manager’s office, deep in conversation. In front of them was that morning’s edition of the Addis Soccer Messenger, open to a large picture of St. George’s goalkeeper and captain, Adugna Deyas, arms crossed, staring impassively into the camera.

“You don’t have a problem with this?” Dagchew was, as he often found himself, confounded by the placid calm of his boss.

“Well, what this, Dagchew? I have a very big problem with Adugna going to the press, yes. And when he arrives … “ Makonnen glanced up at the ornate clock above his bookcase. The hands were elongated Coptic crosses, elegant and intricate filigree decorating their axes of aged silver. “… in about ten minutes, we’ll review that.”

“But his desire to progress? His desire to win championships? No, I have no problem with that at all. It’s the same thing all of them want, the same thing you and I want, no? Adugna needs to want those things, it’s part of what makes him who he is. But he needs to learn about leadership within the team, and about what we’re trying to accomplish here.”

Dagchew nodded. There wasn’t much room to argue. There rarely was, although Damese always felt enough room to have his say.

“Will we address it with the team?”

Makonnen drummed his fingers thoughtfully on his desk. “I hope not. I hope that Adugna does that on his own. We’ll have to wait and see. Do you have the plan over there? That three year thing?” Damese shuffled papers around, located a piece of bright yellow paper and handed it to Makonnen.

“Ah, thanks.”

“You’re going to show that to him?”

“I planned to. Would you?”

“I don’t know. Those goals are awfully ambitious, Tade. Out of the group stages in international competitions in two years? Hosting major friendlies within three?”

“Do you believe in them, Dagchew?”

Dagchew paused, considered. “I believe they are possible.”

“Then we need to share them. The players—especially the leaders on the team—need to know what we’re moving towards, where we see this team going.”

“And if we don’t get there?”

Makonnen smiled. “Then we will have revised the goals on the way. And we will have known that we gave it everything we had. Look at the last few weeks. We’ve won, we’ve lost, but we’ve never left anything but our best on the field. Even when our best is a bunch of kids we signed last week with no professional background, we’ve fought. We held Bush Bucks to a draw, we’re still undefeated in the league. We can do this. All of it.”

He was interrupted by a tentative knock on the door. The two men looked at each other, Makonnen nodded, and Damese crossed the room to the door, opening it for Deyas to enter.

Tadesse stood and moved around his desk, hands outstretched, his left grasping his right arm between the wrist and elbow. They shook hands, Deyas lowering his large frame in a respectful bow. “Adugna! Thank you for coming. Have a seat. How are you?”

“Hello, coach, Ato Dagchew. I am good, thank you. How are you?”

“Good, good. And the family?”

Deyas smiled. “They are good. Menelik and Tesfaye are four now. They keep us busy. Growing fast.”

“Ha! Twins will do that. They are healthy?”

“Yes, thanks to God.”

Makonnen smiled broadly, clasping his hands in front of him. “A blessing.”

“Yes, thank you, coach. How is your family?”

Makonnen shrugged. “We are good. My parents are aging, but they are strong. I will tell them you asked after them. They will like that.”

Deyas nodded. “Thank you, please do. And, Ato Dagchew, tell your wife that we still talk about her kitfo from the team dinner.”

The assistant coach nodded. “I will, Adugna, I will. She will love to hear that.”

There was a pause. These interactions weren’t exactly scripted, but there was a form, a pattern of deference, of the recognition of the wider social context that was the result of thousands of years of history. Adugna had seen the newspaper on the desk, his own face looking out at him, the south stands of Addis Ababa stadium visible both behind his shoulder in the picture and out the window of the office.

“Coach, before you say anything, I just wanted to say that none of this was about you or Ato Dagchew. I have nothing but respect for the two of you and what you’re doing here. You’ve done well by me.”

Makonnen nodded and motioned with his chin towards the paper. “Adugna, does this reflect what you truly feel?”

The keeper looked down, and his voice dropped slightly. “Ato Tadesse, I want to win championships. I want to have that chance. I want to win beyond Ethiopia.”

“We want you to do that too, Adugna. And if the best chance for you to do that is elsewhere, well, you saw how we took care of Ivo when his playing time here was blocked. But, Adugna, I believe—we believe—that the best chance for you to do that, the best chance for you to hold those trophies in your hands, is here with us.”

“But the most important thing here is that if you are going to stay here and be part of this, if you are going to be talked about as the keeper who helped V progress in the African Champions League, in the Red & Arabian States, you need to trust me enough to come to me first. I understand the media, Adugna, and I know that they will write their stories. All I ask is that you speak with them after you speak with me. Especially as a captain, a leader in the team.”

Deyas nodded, but said nothing. It was Dagchew who broke the silence.

“Adugna, you and I were both here two years ago. And I know you heard Mitto talk about future success, too.” Deyas nodded again. “All I can say is that Ato Tadesse is doing more than talking about it. We’re planning on it, we’re working now to make it happen. You’ve seen the changes, you’ve seen the talent we have that are still teenagers. This is the team, Adugna.”

Deyas looked at the two men, considering his words carefully.

“I understand what you’re saying about the press. I should have come to you first—and I will in the future. And, Ato Dagchew, I hear you. The difficulty is that I have heard these words often—all my career, I’ve heard them. At EEPCo, with the national team, here. I am willing to believe that this is different. But I need to see it.”

Damese glanced at his manager, who nodded slightly.

“That’s all we can ask for, I think. You’re a huge part of this team, Adugna. With your continued play, we will do those things. And more.”

Makonnen filled the ensuing silence. “Adugna, what would show you our seriousness?”

He looked around uncomfortably. “I, I’m not sure, coach. I mean, they’re great kids, don’t get me wrong. And Abera is something special, but so are Skibbe, Kebede … all of them, really. But they’re so young. They’re just kids. They … they forget. No, that’s not it. They don’t know any better, so they think they can take time off.”

Gently, Makonnen answered. “I can’t make them any older, Adugna.”

“No, I know. I know.”

“But, and it sounds like perhaps this is what is needed, I can—and Ato Dagchew can—do more to make sure they practice the right things, they learn the right way. We haven’t been able to hold many practices in the past few weeks. But that changes soon.” He paused, again calmly drumming his fingers. “Adugna, will you do something for us?”

“Sure, coach.”

“Will you help us with this? The discipline you talk about, the maturity, it comes both from the work we do.” Makonnen gestured to himself and his assistant coach. “But, it also comes from the examples the leaders set. Will you think about who else on the team should do that? From the younger players. You and Samson, of course, but we need some younger voices to do this, too. And then either talk with them, or let Ato Dagchew know?”

Deyas’ eyes were focused out the window as he thought. This was unexpected—the whole conversation. He had assumed he was being brought in to be yelled at, or at least told his comments were inappropriate. But it felt instead he was being asked to help solve something, even appreciated for having seen a problem.

“Yes, coach. I will do that.” Makonnen nodded, smiled.

Deyas brushed his hands down his trousers. “Is that all?”

Makonnen answered, “Yes, I think it is. Remember, that door is always open to you. Please give my best to your wife, and tell the twins we expect them to start for us in a dozen years.”

After he left, Makonnen turned to his coach, seated across from him. “Well, that went about as well as could be hoped. And we didn’t even show him the three year plan. You think he’s good for a while?”

Damese nodded.”Yes. I think it is just as he says: if he sees us progressing, he’s happy to stay.”

“Good. Still, Dagchew, we need to pay more attention to Taddele and Negash. They may be needed sooner than we wish.”

[Makonnen]

Chelsea

Touchline Report, Chelsea v West Ham. March 20, 2010.

8:28 AM

Coffee. Desperate need for coffee. With a few more sugars than that.

Ah, there. Better. Lovely smell, that. I can almost feel my head clearing.

No, I’m good for another forty-five minutes before I need to go.

West Ham is a curious club: Carlton Cole, Alessandro Diamanti, Scott Parker, Matthew Upson, Robert Green. All quality. Or, can be. But they can all lay eggs as well. Odds against them all sparkling on the same day are fairly large, so we should win, but it isn’t the easiest game in the world. I’m done waiting, though: we’re going to start our strongest side and adjust as we need to for Blackburn mid week.

12:45 PM

We are lethargic to begin with. Little passion, less creativity. Even less possession.

JT! Stay organized back there! Keep the shape!

Settle it down, find the pass!

It doesn’t really matter what I yell. We are slower than West Ham, and it looks like the good Robert Green showed up today, much to our unhappiness. Perhaps even the great Robert Green, the one that occasionally has visions of an unbroken run of a dozen years on the national team.

Butch, I don’t have a good feeling about us back there. You see anything? His eyes narrow and he shakes his head.

There is something not right with our back line. Problem is, I’m the damn coach and if I can’t figure it out, we’re probably ****ed today.

Ricky! Tight back there!

Yeah. That helped.

Butch, something is wrong with JT. Look at how he’s moving.

Yeah, I see it.

Great. Now we both see it and neither one of us has any good ideas. Shaping up to be a long afternoon.

Twenty minutes in the game, it gets worse. Diamanti makes a nice pass to Martin Olsson, who sends a lazy cross into the box. JT is slow to turn on the ball, and it skips past him. Carvalho had slowed down, expecting his captain to clear it, but Diamanti never stopped running. He beats Ricky to the ball and pokes it past Cech.

What the hell was that? JT, Ricky get over here! Yes, here. They jog over as the Hammers celebrate.

I don’t know what the hell is going on out there, but the two of you better figure it out and figure it out in a hurry. JT, if you’re not feeling up to it, you need to let me know. He says that he’s good. I hold his eyes for a minute. Good. Then get back out there and make up for that. Both of you. They head back to their positions.

Come on, it’s only one. We can get this back.

And we should. But we can’t. Drogba is causing them nightmares in back, and our defense has found its feet, but Green is stopping shot after shot. There’s an evil feeling in the air.

In the end, we get lucky: Upson is called for handling in the box, and Lampard drills home the penalty, so we go into halftime 1-1.

This is your game. We made a mistake early, but we’ve solved that and we recovered. They gave us a lifeline at the end there, which we grabbed with both hands. So now it’s up to you. Each of you. Find something. Right now, right here, this game. Let’s turn this around. Find something.

Didier almost breaks clear just shy of an hour when a nice touch from Lampard frees him in the box. He wheels on the ball and fires it from just outside the six, but Green tips it wide.

Good stuff, good stuff! Keep that going. Find something!

Zola looks over at me. Find something?

**** off, Gianfranco. You ever run out of good halftime material?

He almost starts in on me—probably wasn’t expecting to be cursed out. Too bad. Now I really want the win.

Ten minutes later, De Rossi lays a stunning pass on to Drogba, who gives a simple touch of the ball into the path of Anelka cutting in hard from the right. It’s an easy finish, and we’re up 2-1. Anelka wheels away from goal and points at Didier, who runs towards him while pointing at De Rossi. That makes me almost as happy as the goal itself. Almost.

We’re dominating now—they have been lucky to get a sniff of goal and while JT still looks a little uncomfortable for some reason, he and Carvalho have settled down in the back.

We extend the lead when Essien blocks a cross from the byline from Luis Jiménez. The ball falls to Kalou just outside our box, who sends it up to Sturridge (on for Drogba) near midfield. Sturrdige looks to be stopped by Tomás Hübschmann, but he comes out of the tackle with the ball and has an open path to goal. Upson is late, and Daniel gets off a strong shot. Green, however, continues his relatively convincing impression of a world-class keeper and dives to his left, deflecting the ball to Hérita Ilunga. Lampard steals the ball right back, however, and lays it off to De Rossi just near midfield, who lands his second inch perfect pass of the day, this one dropping between two defenders to Kalou at the edge of the six. Green dives, but Kalou takes the ball on the volley and buries it in the top of the net. 3-1.

Butch, I must admit, I love that little Italian.

I know, Danyil.

Not as much as you love Dzeko, sure, but what can compare to that?

I know, Danyil.

Premier Division

West Ham United v Chelsea, Upton Park

West Ham 1 (Alessandro Diamanti 22) – Chelsea 3 (Frank Lampard 32p, Nicolas Anelka 69, Salomon Kalou 81)

MoM: Didier Drogba (8.3)

Attendance: 34,980. Referee: Steve Tanner.

[Makonnen]

Rodengo Saiano

Another Loss, Another Conversation. March 21, 2010.

“Hey, Leti.”

Terry was seated at his kitchen table. The evening light was fading, coating his kitchen in a dusk edged with the purples of the mountain sunset. He could hear ravens chattering to each other in the distance, the rumble of a lorry as it strained up the incline that led out of the village.

“Terry! You okay?”

“Yeah, well … it’s been a rough one, to be honest, Leti.”

“What happened?”

Terry took a deep breath. “Well, we lost, course. But you remember the Senegalese guy I was telling you about? Coly? He busted his ankle up pretty good. Out three months. Best player, and our other best player out a month as well.”

“Aiee. I’m sorry, Terry. That’s hard luck, that is.”

“Yeah, it is.” Langford sighed. “Nothing to do about it. And everyone has injuries, you know? But I’ve only managed to win two out of nine up here, you know?”

Leti was silent.

“Enough of that, though. How’s life at the southernmost?”

“Fair enough, I suppose. Nothing on at the moment.”

Now it was Terry’s turn to be silent. He knew there was something—over their conversations, there had been enough hints, enough slightly awkward silences, enough times she rushed off the call.

“Leti, are you seeing someone?”

“What?”

“You heard, are you seeing someone? It’s OK if you are, I mean, I’m a damn continent away and we’ve had our, our rocky patches, yah?”

Leti closed her eyes, and slowly and silently touched her head to the wall.

“No, Terry, I’m not seeing anyone.”

“Alright.”

The conversation soon ended. That evening, Leti sat at her table, a growing unease eating away at her that, as the night went on, edged into anger. Am I seeing anyone? The selfish ass. Smart enough to know something’s wrong, stupid enough to think it’s about him. Unbidden, tears came to her eyes. She wiped them away, shook her head, stood and went to her refrigerator. She opened it, bathed momentarily in the chill light, and checked the contents of a paper bag, then closed it again.

There was a calendar attached to the side by a large magnet, the head of an antelope done in wire and beads. She touched its horns, traced a finger down towards the dark brown nose, then took a pen from the counter and carefully drew a check in the corner of tomorrow’s box. The month was scattered with similar checks, roughly every third day. She stood there, staring at the days of the month, the checks, the wire sculpture, nothing at all.

Rodengo Saiano v Spezia, Comunale

Rodengo 0 – Spezia 1 (Massimiliano Carlini 38)

MoM: Carlini (8.1) Best Panda: Mauro Bertoni (6.9)

Attendance: 408. Referee: Giuseppe Grillo.

[Makonnen]

Chelsea

Touchline Report, Chelsea v Blackburn. March 24, 2010.

1:53 PM

What’s the best thing to say about Blackburn? They’re probably going to stay clear of relegation. Probably.

I don’t think there’s a player in their system—first team, reserves, youth academy, anywhere—that we’d be interested in. In 2002, we would have been interested in El-Hadji Diouf, but everyone was interested in El-Hadji Diouf after his World Cup. What the hell happened there? I mean the signs were all there—he was a head case in France before the World Cup, he was a head case in England after it. But he certainly was marvelous for six weeks in Asia.

6:37 PM

You all know what happened last time we played them. Today, it’s simple: if Gamst Pederson hurts us with a throw, you’ll all be running tomorrow. Period.

Look, I’m not going to fuss about with you. Whatever I say to the press, I expect a win today. You should expect a win today. Didier, Nicolas, you should own the top of the field. And all of you, bring us home. We have six weeks left in the league. Six weeks. Bring us home.

7:48 PM

The game opens pretty much according to form. They are occasionally dangerous, but we’re simply out of their league. Diouf troubles us on the wings, but his crosses don’t find a mark and we defend Pederson’s towering throws ferociously.

They sure don’t want to run tomorrow, do they Butch?

Just under half an hour in, a lovely pass from Mikel finds Anelka with nothing to do but wind up and power it by Robinson.

Jon Obi! That was fantastic—vision, precise. More! More like that!

He hears his name, looks over, clear annoyance on his face. What the hell is going on with him?

After that, halftime comes quickly, and while I’m watching the game, I’m wondering what needs to happen to pull Mikel out of whatever issue he has with me right now.

Look, we’re doing well, we just need more of it. The game is there for the taking. Put it away. And, Didier, you going to let Nicolas outplay you like that?

Ten minutes into the second half, Terry knocks a ball into the attacking half where Didier picks it up. Blackburn’s defense has fallen asleep, and there is nobody between Drogba and Robinson in goal. Nine times out of ten, he buries this in any one of a dozen ways. Today is the tenth time and his shot bounces directly off the post and rebounds into play. It’s cleared out of play and Drogba is left holding his head in disbelief.

Didier! Just do that again. You’ll be fine!

Five minutes later, he is. De Rossi slides the ball into the box, where Drogba takes it to the byline. He makes a move towards goal, then pulls it back and slides the ball hard across goal where Anelka is waiting at the far post. It’s a gorgeous pass, and Anelka has his brace.

Yes, Didier, fantastic!

They don’t threaten, and we don’t score again.

9:57 PM

Coach, a word? It’s Jon Obi. I know I’ve lost Boswinga. Lost him a while ago, and our run of form doesn’t seem to have brought him back on board. And it’s slowly spreading through the defense—Ivanovic has been more resistant. I don’t know what else we can do, given our current form, but I know there are mutterings about my ability. Problems for other days—right now, Mikel is in front of me, and I need this to end well.

Yeah? How’s the knee?

It’s not good. Thierry says I’m out for a week, maybe two.

That’s not too bad then. We’ll survive. You wanted something?

Yeah, coach. I just wanted … it may seem odd, you’ve been here six months and all. But you know how you always yell out Jon Obi?

Yah?

It’s just Jon. Jon. I dropped the Obi years ago. Just Jon.

Really?

He nods.

Wait … Jon. Has that been why you’ve been a bit off with me? I’ve been calling you the wrong name?

He bristles a little. No, sorry, look, Jon. I’ll call you whatever you want to be called. Mikel, Jon, Mikel Jon. Anything. It’s your name. I just … never mind. From now on, it’s Jon. Promise.

He settles, nods. OK. Thanks, coach. I appreciate it. I’ll be in tomorrow—Thierry wants to run some more tests once the swellings down.

OK, good. See you then. Jon.

Premier Division

Chelsea v Blackburn, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 2 (Nicolas Anelka 29 59) – Blackburn 0

MoM: Anelka (8.8)

Attendance 37,840. Referee: Phil Dowd.

[Makonnen]

March 21, 2010

Ethio Premiere League

Defence Sports Club v Saint George, Addis Ababa Stadium

Defence SC 0 – St. George 2 (Anteneche Gezachsen 11, Fitsum Kebede 90+1)

MoM: Gezachsen (7.8)

Attendance: 2220. Referee: Tessema Bayisse.

March 24, 2010

African Challenge Group C

Saint George v Enyimba International Football Club, Addis Ababa Stadium

St. George 3 (Fitsum Kebede 5, Mesuud Mussa 22, Samson Mulugeta 71) – Enyimba 2 (Humberto 28, 68)

MoM: Kebede (9.1)

Attendance: 2474. Referee: Virgalem Wigidrgis.

The Joy of Training. March 29, 2010

The two men stood on the sidelines at midfield. In front of them, a dozen players were moving three balls quickly through a set of plastic cones set in a complex diamond pattern. Further on, five men with bright red pinnies slung over their training shirts were taking turns two at a time rising to catch crosses lofted into the box. They would start sitting on the endline with their backs to the field, leaping off the ground as soon as they heard the whistle from Meuar Kosrof, each moving towards a different ball lofted from the side in a high arc.

On the other side of the field, behind the two men, the goal had targets hung at each of its four corners and a small group of players were taking turns aiming at them in turn—top left, top right, bottom right, bottom left, each shot taken from a different position across the front of goal.

Voices ran through the air, whistles, the raised voice of the coaching staff.

“Yes, Fitsum, perfect, again!”

“No, Mesfin, you have to catch it at the top of your jump. The top. Not on the way down. Watch Adugna. See?”

“Come on, men, quicker, better control. Quicker.”

“Dagchew?”

“Yes?”

“I missed this. You realize this is our first normal training week in longer than I can remember?”

Damese nodded. Makonnen took his whistle out of his pocket, looped around his wrist, and began swinging it back and forth, the small silver metal banging lightly against his arm, stopping, then heading back the other direction as he moved his hand in small circles.

He began walking towards the goalkeepers, a lightness to his step. Damese watched him as he went. He really did miss this. He enjoys this, the learning, the work, the practice, more than the games.

Tadesse made his way to the near corner, where Mohammed Abera was serving in corner after corner to the goalkeepers. His younger brother, Zerihun, was chasing balls, ensuring his older brother had a steady supply at all times.

“Mohammed?”

The young winger looked up, sweat beaded on his forehead.

“Remember. Before you kick it, you must have a shape in your head. An arc, a path in the air that you want the ball to take. You must see that arc, low and straight, high and looping, curving in, curving out. See it traced in the air, and let the ball find it.”

Abera nodded, backed up, paused for a moment with eyes closed, then launched into the ball with a deep thumping sound. It left his foot in a high curve, heading out and then swerving smoothly back towards the far post where Zerihun Taddele rose to collect it. From one seventeen year old to another: these two were a large part of V’s future.

“Better. Good. As you were.”

Makonnen took a few steps back, watching all of the activity, and smiled.

[Makonnen]

March 28, 2010

Serie C2/A

Pavia v Rodengo Saiano, Pietro Fortunati

Pavia 2 (Luca Ricci 6, Milan Thomas 65) – Rodengo 0

MoM: Ricci (9.0) Best Panda: Leonardo Colucci (6.9)

Attendance: 733. Referee: Massimo Raimondi.

Nombi. March 30, 2010.

Leti glanced at the clock above her monitor and began to chew at her bottom lip. She was racing the clock: Marta had to review the preparations for end of month this afternoon, and she had to get out of the office in twenty … no, seventeen minutes to make it in time. She flipped quickly through the stack of papers to the side of her keyboard, tracing down a column of figures with a long fingernail divided on a diagonal, half red and half white.

A few more double-checks of figures between the paper and the screen, a final few entries, and a hastily written e-mail with an attachment later, and she was out the door, a large purse in one hand and a paper bag held by its rolled top in the other. She walked as quickly as she could to the car park, and minutes later was barreling down the expressway, ocean to one side of her and the imposing bulk of Table Mountain to the other.

The roads changed as she went—a four lane highway that exited onto urban thoroughfares full of department stores and grocery stands, with heavy women in colorful skirts selling merchandise out of overstuffed, large plastic shopping bags on the corners. A few turns and she was in a residential neighborhood, small houses of brick and mortar, well kept lawns with gravel alleys. Homes where three generations may share two rooms, where small mementos of success were enshrined in wall cabinets above plastic wrapped couches in floral prints, where kitchens hummed with women cooking recipes hundreds of years old on secondhand ranges, dented and scarred from their travels.

And then more turns. The houses disappeared, replaced by makeshift structures, corridors of tin stretching in zig-zag patterns. At one corner, a dozen tin barrels squatted ominously, smoke pouring from carefully tended fires. On half of them, goat heads sat, staring with blank and glassy eyes at the road as they roasted, filling the air with thick smells that immediately brought back sense memories from her childhood. And still set her stomach on edge.

There was a cul-de-sac where the road ended, a maze of cars seemingly parked at random. Leti pulled over to the right, halfway onto the curb, and turned off her motor. Her hands grasped the top of the steering wheel and just for a moment she rested her head there, eyes closed, before getting out of the car, pausing to reach back in for the paper bag. She stopped by her bumper and looked around, catching the eye of a young man leaning against a station wagon a small ways off.

She called out in Tswana. “My brother, will you help me out?”

“What do you need, little sister?” He made a high pitched noise from his lips, and pulled something from his mouth before sliding over towards her, one thumb tucked inside the top of his jeans.

Leti flashed a smile at him. “I need you to watch this one, too, if you would. Along with the others. Will you do that for me?” She opened her hands, displaying a few bills.

He smiled as he approached, and took her hand in both of his, smoothly palming the money. “I can do that for you, little sister. I can do that.”

“Thank you, thank you. I’ll be back in an hour or so.” He nodded and watched her frankly as she left.

She wandered down the row of shanties, tracing the route from worn memory. Children ran around her feet, and she absent-mindedly touched their heads as they ran by. “Slow down there, little man. Wait for your sister.” The child stopped running, looked up. “Yes, Auntie.”

She walked past a water pipe, an old rusty well that creaked when the pump handle was worked. A half dozen women were gathered around it, many with infants strapped around their backs, their speech marked by glottal clicks and stops as they spoke to each other while they filled plastic buckets. Just beyond, another turn, and a dark purple cloth marked the doorway of her destination.

She knocked once on the tin by the cloth, then pushed it aside and entered, pausing as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. Dust motes danced in a hard sliver of sunlight that stretched across the small room. On one side of the room, a small wooden shelf, empty other than a couple pieces of clothing folded in a small stack; on the other, a cot where a small figured lay huddled beneath a blanket.

“Nombi?”

The figure moved, perhaps raised itself on an elbow before being taken by a coughing fit, convulsing as the cot shook unsteadily. Leti moved quickly across the room, and knelt by her side, an arm outstretched.

“I’m OK, sister, I’m OK.” The voice was weak and damaged. The coughing stopped, and Nombi Netshamulivho slowly rose to a sitting position and looked up at her sister. She smiled grimly and asked her in Tswana, “and how are you?”

“I’m fine, Nombi, fine.” Leti took out a tissue from her purse and daubed at her sister’s eyes. Nombi reached up and held her sister’s hand. Her arms were uncomfortably thin, the clear outline of her bones visible along their length. They were marked by discolorations, a pattern of dark bruises that spread across her limbs like drops of painful rain.

“Nombi …”

Nombi looked down, saw her sister’s gaze. “Now, stop Leti. We’re not going to have that conversation today. We’re not.”

“I just …”

“I know, sister, I know. But they can’t do anything for me there, either. And it would break you. I’m better here.”

Leti looked around the room, the dusty floor, the small open area that passed for a kitchen in the back—a sink, an old propane burner beneath a wire frame, a small box to hold provisions, a few pots and plates stacked against the wall.

She closed her eyes, shook her head slowly. She thought of a day by the ocean, the two of them laughing, the heat of the sun on her arms, the crust of alt on her skin.

“OK, Nombi, OK. Here, I brought us lunch. Let me get it warm.”

Leti got up, lit the burner, and poured out a thin clear soup from a tupperware container into a dented tin pan. The liquid tumbled into the pan, plopping audibly as pieces of vegetables and meat fell. Leti tapped the back of the container and reached in to dislodge a final bright circle of carrot, gently licked her finger, then resealed the Tupperware and returned it to the paper bag.

After a few minutes, she removed two white hand towels adorned with green birds from the bag, poured two bowls of soup, turned off the stove, and returned to sit by the cot, handing one bowl to Nombi who blew on it softly before dipping into it with a shaky hand.

“Thank you Leti. It’s lovely.”

“It’s nothing.”

Her sister reached out to take her hand and squeezed. “No, Leti, it’s something. I can’t tell you how much. Most of the rest, they won’t come here. The one’s that do, they can’t look at me. They stand by the door, terrified.”

Leti smiled and withdrew her hand, struggling to keep her face under control. She wiped the corner of her eyes.

“No, Leti, don’t cry. Don’t. I chose this. Michael comes by and takes care of me. Nobody bothers me. And I’m here. Where I worked my whole life, with the people I worked for my whole life. This is where I stop, Leti.” She coughed once. “Please.” Another fit shook her. Leti took the half empty bowl from her and placed it on the ground.

She reached out and ran her hand over the short naps of her sister’s hair, rubbed her shoulder lightly until the coughing subsided. Nombi looked up, eyes wet and tried to smile. The two sisters embraced wordlessly for a long while. Nombi’s body slowly sank back onto the cot, seeming to grow even smaller until Leti could only see the faint light of her eyes.

“Good night, Nombi. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Leti washed the dishes and placed them carefully by the sink to dry, packed her bag, and retraced her steps. Her vision swam the whole way, and it took all of her concentration not to run, not to scream, not to collapse at the feet of a passing stranger wailing against the uncertainties of the world. She made her way back to the car and opened the door.

“Hey, little sister, see, it is still here, the same as when you left it, no?” She looked up at the young man, and his smile froze as he paused, uncertain. “Hey now, don’t be sad little sister. Look at that sky? All that blue above us? How can you be sad on a day like this.”

Leti forced a smile, but couldn’t speak. She shook her head, climbed in, and pulled out of the cul-de-sac, heading back through the changes in neighborhoods until she found herself once more on the Expressway, once more pulling past the aerial sculpture in front of Ajax Cape Town’s headquarters.

She sat in her car, shoulders heaving then slowing. A look in the mirror, a hasty touch up of her makeup, and she walked back into the building. As she settled into her office, she sat staring at the three photos that lined her sideboard: one was her and Nombi, taken many years ago, the two of them flush with the bloom of youth on a beach, arms around each other. The second was a large group shot, a portrait of sorts with twenty people seated and standing around a picnic table, from infants in their mother’s arms to an old woman with pure white hair in a wheelchair on the far right. Leti stood next to the woman, not looking at the camera but staring down at the wrinkled and wizened face and smiling. The third was her and Terry, both an Ajax Cape Town scarves, just outside the stadium. Leti’s hands were in the pockets of her jacket and she was smiling, the sun warm on her dark skin. Terry was squinting into the sun, blue eyes flashing, searching for someone who wasn’t yet there.

[Makonnen]

Chelsea Press Conference. March 31, 2010.

Premier Division

Chelsea v Wolverhampton, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 1 (Michael Ballack 9) – Wolves 0

MoM: Wayne Hennessey (7.9) Chelsea’s Best: Didier Drogba (7.8)

Attendance: 40,182. Referee: Steve Bennett.

Steve Willis: Steve Willis, from KiCK! What did you think of the performance Wolverhampton put on against you?

McCarthy has them fighting, they work hard, the pack it in, they make it very hard to get much rhythm. I think Mick can keep them up, to be honest. It’ll take some work as they stumbled a bit at the start of the year, but with a strong finish I think they can do it. Peter?

Peter Cooper: Can you comment on Michael Ballack’s role, given his goal in the game?

What can you say? I love coaching Michael Ballack. He isn’t as quick as he once was, but nobody sees the field better, nobody has a better sense of where they are on the field, where their teammates are. He deserved that goal.

Peter Cooper: Given all that, will he be getting more playing time as you make your late season push?

You never know, you know? I mean, I love our midfield rotation right now, and if any of the starters get nicked up, having Michael available to pick up the slack, along with Mateu and Matic, well, by the end of the season, that depth really matters.

Peter Cooper: There are rumors that Ballack won’t be back next year. Care to comment on that?

Not really, no—right now, all of us are just focused on the last month, month and a half of the season. We haven’t finished yet, and all of our focus is on finishing strong and seeing what happens. We’ll look at next year after this one. Yes, Lise?

Lise Stowers: Ivanovic picked up a yellow card less than a minute into the match. Any thoughts on that, or on how that impacted his play the rest of the game?

Well, I certainly thought it was a foul. And it probably deserved a warning, but a straight yellow, that early, well that was a bit harsh I thought. But, look, Bane is an experienced defender, with great focus and control on the field. He knows how to play with a yellow. It never occurred to us to change our focus because of it, no.

Mike Rivers: Are you happy with a one goal win against Wolves?

I’m always happy with a win, and always happy with a clean sheet. They played hard, they were tenacious. It happens sometimes—I mean, we had two goals disallowed due to offsides, another couple great opportunities called back. Some days you’re like that, you’re always a step early or a step late, but you’re dominating play, just not finding the back of the net. At the end of the day, you don’t get more than three points if you win by eight goals. Steve, back to you.

Steve Willis: As we approach the end of the season, who do you think should win the Player of the Year award.

I think it comes down to two players. I think that Adebayor has been fantastic. He’s a great, great player—size, strength, speed—and he’s been carrying City much of the year, scoring at a higher rate than any other point in his career. But I think that Didier right now is the most dominant player in the world when he’s on the pitch. I have to say Drogba deserves all the accolades he will receive. He’s a superb player, but more importantly, he’s a superb leader, a superb teammate.

Steve Willis: Could you see Adebayor in the Chelsea Blue?

Could I? Sure I could. I had a chance to chat a little with Emmanuel, I think he could fit in anywhere. He is outspoken, but he speaks from the heart, and I think you have to respect that.

Lise Stowers: He’s made no secret of his frustrations with some aspects of staying at City. Will you be making a move for him?

I can’t really comment on that, Lise, you know that. Let me just say that I think that it’s unfortunate that he’s hit some bumps with City—you always want the true talents of the game to show their stuff on the brightest stages, at the top of their form.

[Makonnen]

Saint George

LiveBlogging the Ethiopian-Italian Friendship Cup Semifinal. March 31, 2010.

Welcome to Valentino Mazzola in San Cataldo Nisseno, where Messina hosts visiting Saint George in the semifinal of the Ethio-Italian Friendship Cup. The winner of this match moves on to play Venezia in the final on June 1st.

Messina’s leading scorer, the 35 year old—and Serie A veteran—Arturo Di Napoli will miss this match with a high ankle sprain, while Saint George—thanks to a week’s rest for the first time this year—is healthier than they have been in a while. Still, starting V striker Bereket Addisu will miss the match as he recovers from a groin strain, as will midfielder Mulalem Regassa who is recovering from a torn hamstring.

V’s manager, Tadesse Makonnen, will turn to newcomer Ochan Bayalegne, who has found himself a fine vein of form recently to replace Addisu while Messina will turn to the strike partnership of Carmelo Giuliacci and Bruno Mancini.

The referee for today’s game is Samson Gawo from Ethiopia, and he looks like he’s ready to blow the whistle.

0:00 Saint George with the kickoff.

0:28 A quick foul on Lencho Skibba. Skibba is paired up front with Fitsum Kebede for the first time in quite a while—the two attacking midfielders are clearly the future of the Ethiopian side so it will be interesting to see how they work together today.

1:18 Messina’s first attacking move comes as Eros Ferrante sends a searching cross into the box, but Samson Mulugeta is there to head it away. It falls to Alessandro Sabatino, whose shot from distance is easily caught by the magnificent Adugna Deyas in goal.

6:08 Saint George wins the first corner of the match, but it comes to naught.

10:08 Messina’s first corner is equally ineffective.

14:51 Saint George look dangerous down the wings, with Mohammed Abera on the left and Liban Elmi sweeping up from his fullback position on the right.

18:12 The first real chance of the match goes wasted, as Kebede was free on goal from a lovely pass from Assani Bajope, but his shot inexplicably rolled well wide of goal. V should be up 1-0 after that, but we remain scoreless.

32:28 Pretty drab affair to be honest—possession swinging back and forth largely to Messina in the center, Saint George on the wings.

42:57 Messina allows Skibba to dribble unopposed from midfield to the edge of their penalty box, where he slips a pass through two defenders to Bajope, who makes no mistake with it and coolly slots it past the Italian keeper. Saint George 1 – Messina 0.

45:22 Messina tries to hit back immediately, but Deyas stops a point-blank header from Bruno Mancini.

We go in to halftime with Saint George up 1-0. No changes to the sides for the second half, which is a bit of a surprise as Kebede was limping noticeably for the last bit of the first half.

49:37 Bayalegne has a go from distance, but his shot misses by a couple yards. Saint George emerges brighter from the locker rooms, and Kebede seems to be running well now, showing no ill effects from the earlier knock.

54:38 Luca Tommasi comes in for Giuliacci in a straight swap of strikers.

56:18 Saint George nearly doubles their lead when a one-touch pass from Gorge Owino finds Bayalegne near the penalty spot. He brings the ball under control, but Giulio Novelli is up to the challenge, diving to his right to pluck the ball out of mid-air.

64:09 Kebede is off as the first sub for Saint George, departing for Atakilti Mengesha comes on. Look for him to take over up top, with Bayalegne dropping back alongside Skibba.

67:18 Novelli fumbles a save and the ball is loose, but the scramble is inconclusive, and the ball is sent back out towards midfield.

68:13 Bajope gets free in the box, and he is scissored down by Francesco Montemurro. Gawo immediately points to the spot, ignoring the jeers from the crowd as well as the protests of the Messina players. Mengesha steps up for the kick, and buries it. Odd that starlet Mohammed Abera didn’t take it, as he is Saint George’s usual penalty taker, but Makonnen had mentioned that Abera’s recent spate of red cards would result in some changes in his role in the squad, perhaps this is what he meant. Saint George 2 – Messina 0

71:34 Bereded Gawo comes on for Bajope.

73:09 Abera must have sprinted past the Messina defense a half dozen times today, collecting the ball near his penalty box and ending with a cross at the far byline. The youngster has been deadly, but is clearly becoming exhausted out there.

75:31 Messina uses their last two substitutions, bringing in brothers Armando and Simone Rossi.

83:38 Abera comes off for Firdu Demeska. Saint George is packing it in now, with two holding midfielders in front of the back four.

And there’s the final whistle! Saint George is through for the final in a month’s time against Venezia! What a showing by the Ethiopian side in a hostile environment.

Ethio-Italian Friendship Cup Semifinal

Messina v Saint George, Valentino Mazzola, San Cataldo Nisseno

Messina 0 – St. George 2 (Assani Bajope 43, Atakilti Mengesha 69p)

MoM: Bajope (8.2)

Attendance: 9848. Referee: Samson Gawo.

[Makonnen]

Happy April Fool's Day!

Chelsea

Touchline Report, Chelsea v Celtic. April 1, 2010.

9:45 AM

Butch, I want to put this away today. Grab them by the neck, throw them down on the ground, stomp on them, and make the trip to Scotland a trial for the reserves.

Butch raises his eyebrow at me. Bad night, Danyil?

I can’t help but laugh. I’m serious, Butch. We have today, Hull, then the second leg. And we need to use that time to get ready. It gets harder.

He nods. After those games, we have United, Liverpool, and City all in a week.

So, full side today, then rest them?

I nod. Basically. I want Ballack today—I know, I know, but with Jon Obi, eh, Jon, out, I want to get each midfielder a rest. Here. I slide my notes across to him.

Yeah, that’s good. No Sturridge on the bench?

I shake my head. If we win, he’ll start in Scotland, and I want Yaya to come in once we’re three goals clear.

4:23 PM

Celtic is coming out attacking as far as I can tell, leaving only four at the back, with Willo Flood and Marc Crossas in the middle, then Carlos Esquival, Shaun Maloney, and Aiden McGeady all looking to get forward in support of Marc-Antoine Fortuné. It’s a good club, but we should be able to score against them. And they should struggle for width the way they line up. So we should be able to control the outside of the field. If we do—and if are able to do something with any of the crosses—Mowbray will get ripped apart in the press for not playing more defensively in the away leg. That, of course, is fine with me.

6:21 PM

I gather the defense together. Look, they are going to be flooding the top third of the pitch. That means you two—pointing at JT and Alex—need to be at the top of your game tonight. I’m expecting excellence from you tonight. Nothing less. Hold the middle, work with the two Michael’s to clear possession, and do it well enough that Yury and Bane can get up in support. Understood?

7:32 PM

Butch, his name’s Thorsten, yah? The center? Butch nods.

Thorsten! That’s not a card! We’re a minute in, what happened to a warning?

What is this? Some weird memo to referees to always card us with the first minute of a game? This time it’s Ballack. He was well beaten, and stuck out a leg, tripping McGeady in the process. It’s another sign—a decade ago, he wins the ball easily, a year ago, he doesn’t have to foul to play defense.

What’s happened to Salomon’s shot, Butch? I mean, he controls that thing better than anyone out there, but his shots are off by miles. Butch just shakes his head.

It’s only five minutes in, but we’re pressuring them something fierce. The ball is barely out of their half, and when it is, JT is there with a header to regain possession or Alex is sweeping the deep ball up and sending it back out to the wings.

That’s it! Well done back there!

Now that I’m looking for it, Ballack’s decline is glaring: Celtic’s first corner is a result of their midfielder easily dispossessing him and starting a break. But his passing touch is still remarkable—he places the ball on Didier’s head twice, only to see it saved once by their keeper and once by a defender by the far post.

Unlucky, Didier! Unlucky!

Minutes later, McGeady gets free in the box.

Yes, Alex! That’s the way to deny!

Essien wins the ball at mdfield to start a break, but his cross overshoots a streaking Kalou. Then Kalou comes down the left and lofts one into the box. Anelka rises for it and connects squarely, but the ball hits the post and bounds away. We can’t break through and they won’t break.

You did see who started that, Butch?

Nobody thinks he’s bad, Danyil. He’s just not what he once was.

Who is, Butch, who is?

Butch shrugs, looks back at the pitch. Kalou. His shot may be off, but he’s terrorizing them down that side there. He’s right: Salomon is having a great half so far, and should have a couple of assists.

What the hell! It’s a corner! Defend that! Butch, what the ****? That’s schoolboy stuff, how do we leave him open on the corner? Butch shakes his head, but we’ve ducked out of danger yet again, a strong clearance from Essien lifting the ball back to a midfield scrum.

Kalou does it again, this time a drive to the byline and then a nice layoff for Zhirkov, who sends it to the far post. Their keeper is beat, but Lampard’s header is too strong, topping over the bar, and again we miss from under ten yards out.

Yesssssssss!

I jump, punching the air. Our constant pressure on the left finally breaks through, as Zhirkov’s cross is met by Drogba at the penalty spot. His header easily beats Boruc, and we have a lead just over half an hour into the game. It’s a lead. It’s not the control that I want, but it’s a lead.

Butch, you see that? It looks like they’ve abandoned the attack. Mowbray has pulled them back to a flatter formation, pushing Esquivel up front, but bringing Maloney and McGeady back alongside the two center midfielders. We pull it in a little, using the whole field now that the outside isn’t being kept wide open. We keep Boruc busy, with Lampard powering shots from a long way out that require awkward saves from the Polish keeper, but we go into halftime up the single goal.

OK, it was a good half. Salomon, you were deadly out there and Didier, great work. I want us to work it in and out when we come back: more time for Frank and Nicolas on the ball, more use of the right hand channel. Frank, work the ball in a bit more—your shot is great, and once we’re up by two, you can shoot from midfield, OK?

Alex, JT, all I can say is yes. Yes. That’s exactly what we talked about, exactly what we need.

It almost collapses: Danny Fox has a free kick from twenty-five yards out and curves it around the wall. It’s headed in, but somehow Cech gets there. Here’s how close it was: the fingertip save only deflects the ball into the side netting.

I turn to the players intently watching. Marc and Daniele! Get ready, both of you. Marc, you’ll go on first—straight swap for Ballack. Ballack is tiring, and is holding the yellow. I sit back down.

Butch leans in. Not De Rossi?

I shake my head. Not now. Ten minutes.

That and more goes by, and we are finally into extra time.

Butch, I’m not happy.

We’re going to win, Danyil. Take it.

I will, but it’s not what I wanted.

EURO Cup Quarterfinal First Leg

Chelsea v Celtic, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 1 (Didier Drogba 34) – Celtic 0

MoM: Yury Zhirkov (8.3)

Attendance: 41,761. Referee: Thorsten Kinhöfer.

[Makonnen]

Rodengo Saiano

The Chairman Checks In. April 3, 2010.

We were having breakfast at a small café in town, a new ritual before home games. I sat with my back to the wall, leaning the old metal chair on its back two legs and looking out the window to the street beyond. Roberto and Matteo sat across from me, the morning paper on the table along with our cups of coffee and the remains of some bread.

The proprietor, who I knew only as Signore Pelosi, is an old friend of Roberto’s and seemed happy enough to have us there. It was a bit of a refuge, as the looks and comments as I walked the streets of Rodengo had turned less and less friendly over the struggles of the past few weeks.

“This has danger game written all over it, Roberto.”

Matteo translated quickly and Roberto nodded, then replied, “we can beat them.”

The team in question is Pro Belvedere Vercelli, who are above us in the league standings but, for some odd reason, have been made the heavy underdog by the bookies, a stance repeated in the press. My pal Giuseppe devoted a whole column to how we should win today.

“Yes, we can. But they are a half dozen spots above us for a reason, no?”

Roberto shrugged, then tapped a finger on the table and began a stream of Italian. Matteo turned to me, “he says he spoke with Raffaele this morning. He is still not ready for a full game, but he can be on the bench if we want.”

I nodded. I hadn’t expected Baido back, but it would have been nice. With Dal Bosco still injured, we were sorely lacking in offense and essentially rotating a group of teenagers up front, all of whom would be good someday, but none of whom were really up to snuff at the moment.

“Corsi?” Roberto paused, then nodded in agreement.

We finished our drinks, and I moved to the counter to pay. Signore Pelosi wished us good luck, we thanked him, and began the ten minute walk over to the stadium. It was just after nine in the morning, roughly six hours until the game would begin, but there she was, waiting for me.

I didn’t know her name, but she was there every home game, a small, gnarled figure dressed all in black, including a veil over her face. She had a small folding chair, but when she saw us, she stood up, and as we passed she spoke very quickly in Italian while repeatedly making the sign of the cross.

I always assumed she was also wishing us good luck. But I should probably ask Matteo someday just what it was she said.

The morning passes in fits and starts. I am anxious before this game. The pressure is building for a better performance on the field, and so far it has been elusive. We play well enough in spurts, but we lack both a strong presence in midfield and a dependable back line—and without those, especially the latter, it is very hard to grab the three points.

It’s a typical crowd for us: a few hundred people from the town, another few dozen of visiting support, and a handful of confused tourists wondering what they stumbled upon. Matteo nudges me and directs me with his eye up the stands to the owner’s box. I can see shapes moving behind the glass—more than usual.

“Who’s up there?”

Matteo shrugs. “Not sure. I saw Mr. Ferrari, and, of course, Mr. Lissandro.”

I nod. Marco attends every game. We usually chat for a few minutes at some point, always quite agreeable, but something about it is slightly unnerving about his calm, calculating reserve. I sense that he is always measuring me against some internal calculus, and I’m fairly certain that, if the answer falls below some unknown measure, I’ll be looking for a job. Again.

Just before the game, a small boy runs down from the stands and hands me a folded piece of paper. “Da Signore Ferrari. Signore Ferrari.” I thank him, and he dashes back up the stairs towards the owner’s box. I open the paper. The handwriting is neat, controlled.

Terry,

Good luck today!

I would like to see you for a few minutes after the game. Perhaps after you speak to the team, you can meet me in my box? I would appreciate it.

It was signed AF, but I suspect it was written by Marco. Despite its polite tone, there was clearly no question being asked: it was a summons. I stepped forward and looked up at the box. Alessandro waved. I waved back, the note in my hand and nodded. He gave me a thumbs up, and I returned to the bench. Roberto looked at me questioningly. “I have a meeting after the game.”

Matteo spoke quickly, and Roberto shook his head, muttered something. “Only you?”

“Si.”

Further conversation was cut short by Giorgio Ceravolo’s whistle behind us, starting the game. Five minutes in, any thoughts of the chairman were overwhelmed by my anger at my own team. Pro Belvedere has a corner kick, and they send it in on a high arc. We have five players in the box anticipating the flight of the ball. Five. They have one. One. Their player—a beanpole of a midfielder, and another face that looks vaguely familiar—rises above ours, and heads it home. I’m screaming at the back line, but my voice isn’t alone: the fans are voicing their displeasure as is Pedersoli in goal. Matteo isn’t even trying to translate: my intent is clear. But it looks like Pedersoli could teach me a few new curse words, judging by the looks he’s getting from the defense.

We get better. With all the attention on Isma, our other Spanish import, Juan Francisco Góngora, has flown beneath the radar so far. That’s been a good thing: he’s struggled with his fitness and even more with moving from playing a flat defensive position to a wingback on the left. But there are signs that he’s beginning to transition into the role: he is dominating the left flank in this match, holding possession and drilling crosses into the box.

One of them connects, and the ball is loose in the box, but we can’t beat their keeper to it. We need some of those bounces to go our way.

What we don’t need, however, is what happens next: again we are beaten in the air by a simple cross. We’re down 2-0 from simply horrific execution.

“Matuso! What the hell is that? What is it?”

I am usually joking when I call him Old Man. Not now.

“Roberto, what the hell?”

“I don’t know. That’s just … inexcusable. And he knows it. But where we go from this …” He shrugs, at a loss.

I tear into them at halftime. They’ve never seen me this angry—if I could find something to throw, I would. They’re a little taken aback, but they don’t cower. I end simply.

“OK, I’m done. So is the first half. Forget it. Right now. Forty-five minutes is what we have in front of us. Make it count.” That, Matteo can translate.

The execution is better, but fifteen minutes in, Corsi botches a clear shot at goal. He’s nineteen—it’s going to happen. But my patience is thin today.

“Matteo, go tell Rafaelle to get up. He’s going in up front.”

Before I can make the substitution, though, Corsi shows why he has a future: Alessandro De Pascalis lofts a ball into the box that Corsi chests down to his feet. He touches it to the outside, then rockets a shot beneath the approaching keeper.

It’s a nice goal, and more importantly, it gives us a way back into the match. But I still bring Corsi off.

“Roberto, I like what I see. We deserve something for this half.”

“Yes, we do. But you don’t always get what you deserve in this game.”

“No, no you don’t.”

And, despite continued pressure, we don’t. As the final whistle blows, I grab Roberto. “You take the postgame. Let them know the second half was good, but the game as a whole wasn’t good enough. By far. Let them think I’m upset, and let them know we will work hard, starting Monday at 1:00. OK?”

He waits for Matteo’s translation, nods, and heads down the tunnel while I head up the stairs to the box.

I arrive before I am expected—early enough to see a half dozen people bundling up to leave, including the boy who brought me the note. Clearly, family, but whose?

Alessandro sees me, motions for me to wait. Marco comes my way shortly after, and we commiserate about the game until Alessandro joins us. The three of us are alone in the suite.

“Sit, Terry, please. A drink?”

“Yes, please.”

Marco returns with two glasses of red wine and motions me to drink. It’s a dry red, and is wonderful. I close my eyes to savor it.

“Yes, it is very good, no? It s called Amarone, Amarone della Valpolicella to be precise. It’s a blend, but a good one.”

That’s an understatement. The wine is fantastic. “Yes, thank you. Very nice.”

Alessandro leans in towards me. Uh oh. Here it comes.

“Terry, tell me about tonight’s game.”

Didn’t expect that question. What does he want?

“We played fine the second half. No, we played well. We had life, we had some passion, and Corsi took his goal well. But, the first half … that was … horrible. Embarrassing. And by players that have the experience to know better—both goals, the same mistake.” I shook my head.

Alessandro leans back, studies me carefully. I don’t know what he’s looking for, but I’m fairly sure he’s not finding it. It feels like Comitis, like other moments of not measuring up.

“Yes, that … what is it, Marco? Sums it up? Yes, sums it up well. Good. Terry, it’s been a rough start. But we wanted you to know that we are still happy you came here. But … tonight … the first half.” He shakes his head. “We cannot have that.”

A stay of execution, then. I nod. “I understand. And I agree. It was inexcusable.”

We are silent a moment then, at a glance from Alessandro, Marco speaks up.

“What can we expect from the last four games, Terry? Well, the last three, let’s say.”

I lean back, run a hand through my hair. “I know Alto Adige next week will be difficult. They’re a good club and they’re at home. But I’m not willing to write that game off so easily.” Marco nods. “But, after that? Two of the three are at home, and they are all against teams with similar records. We should be able to close the season strong.”

Marco nods. “Good. We would prefer to avoid the playoffs. The gate receipts would not be worth the risk.”

“I don’t want that. I mean the gate receipts aren’t on my mind. But I think we can get at least five, six points from these last games. And that should keep us clear.”

Serie C2/A

Rodengo Saiano v Pro Belvedere Vercelli, Comunale

Rodengo 1 (Alessandro Corsi 54) – Pro Belvedere 2 (Luca Matteassi 6, Simone De Lorentis 39)

MoM: Matteassi (8.7) Best Panda: Alessandro De Pascalis (6.8)

Attendance: 279. Referee: Giorgio Ceravolo.

[Makonnen]

Chelsea

Touchline Report, Chelsea v Hull. April 4, 2010.

10:24 AM

How the hell did that happen? Here I was all pleased that Martin Galván, the kid Dos Santos helped us sign, was going to be the first Mexican in the league unless Chichartio went somewhere and Hull—Hull—went and picked up Efraín Juárez last Fall for $10M. Who knew? He’s played well for them, too. And not just Hull: Liverpool picked up Israel Castro from Pumas UNAM, and Stoke has Sergio Santana. It’s the Mexican invasion. Galván won’t even cause a ripple when he arrives. Probably better that way.

Anyways. Hull.

They’re better than Blackburn. They even have someone we’d look at in American international Jozy Altidore. But we should win, and it shouldn’t really be in question.

1:03 PM

Jesus, Butch, I wish we had beaten Celtic a little more easily.

He nods. So, what do you want to do.

We need to hold Essien and Frank out. And JT needs to be on the bench. So I want to keep the fullbacks flatter, and only have a single holder. Daniele. I pause. Here’s the part that I think Butch won’t like. And three up top.

Three?

Well, two, with Anelka dropping into the hole.

He nods, reaches over and spins the piece of paper in front of me around so he can read it more clearly, then looks up with surprise on his face.

Taiwo? Really?

Hey, can’t be worse than Cork. That didn’t get a laugh. This could be a rough day. Look, we’re just trying to get the three points, and then get Didier and Daniele off the field as quick as possible.

4:02 PM

The first ten minutes are choppy and full of fouls. The surprising thing is that we’re the one doing it, not Hull—there is no flow, no consistency. I’m up in the technical area, trying to calm them down, but there’s not much I can do from there except yell at them each time Mike Jones blows his whistle.

Ten minutes in, we’re just plain lucky: Kevin Kilbane is free inside the box, and gets it all horribly wrong, thankfully sending a shot from eight yards out sailing miserably wide of the net. I turn around in disgust and go and sit down again.

We’ll be okay, Danyil.

We better be.

Just under twenty minutes in, Sturridge is driving down the left a few yards outside the box when Efraín Juárez pulls him down by his shirt. Mexicans. It’s a free kick and Daniele jogs over to take it. He sends it spinning towards the near post, where Alex easily gets above Stephen Hunt for the flick on. Billy Jones is in front of his own keeper, and Boaz Myhill has no chance to get to the ball before it crosses the line.

We’re up by one, and more importantly we seem to have overcome the early match jitters.

Matic and Mateu are working well together. I’m still not convinced they are our midfield of the future, but they’ve both grown a lot this year. Sturridge finds a nice pass from Nemanja in the box, but Myhill doesn’t have to fight through his own defender this time, and he makes the save.

We’re dominating play in a lackluster kind of way, but another goal feels inevitable. It happens when Mateu and Anelka run a pretty one-two resulting in Nicolas drilling the ball past Myhill just inside the far post. It’s virtually the last action of the half, but we go into halftime with my coveted two goal lead.

The locker room is quiet. I don’t think there’s much to say, so I leave it to Butch who focuses on tactics, small adjustments. I grab him as we head back out to the pitch.

Butch, I want to find players to rest. Nemanja, Mark, Sturridge—they need to leave it all out there. They should plan on being there for the full ninety. He nods, heads off to relay the message to our second string starters.

We are disorganized to start the second half. I don’t like it, but Hull is never really threatening, either. At the hour mark, I pull Anelka in favor of Franco di Santo. The reports from the reserves games have been stellar on the young forward, and I want to see more of it for myself. He’s a big, strong kid, but he’s twenty-one. That’s not old for the real world, but we’re still waiting for him to take the next step, to show that he belongs up here with the starters.

He must have known that: minutes after stepping on the field, we have another free kick. Again, it’s Sturridge who draws the foul and again it’s De Rossi to take it. Di Santo starts his run from the edge of the box, times it perfectly, and slams the ball home with a stunningly powerful header. He’s ecstatic and rightfully so: it’s a well deserved celebration.

Jesus, Butch, where’s that been all year?

With the reserves, evidently.

Think Belfodil can do the same?

Butch shrugs, and I motion to the other young striker on the bench, the French teenager Ishak Belfodil, to finish getting ready. Belfodil is an inch shorter than di Santo, but 20 pounds heavier, all muscle. He’s a beast in the air, even if his ball skills aren’t all they could be. Being three years younger than di Santo doesn’t hurt his chances either, of course. I give him some words of encouragement, some tactical instructions on where I want him and di Santo to play off each other, and send him on for Drogba.

Lightning does strike twice, but not for Belfodil. Instead, with five minutes to play, Matic again has a nice pass, this one finding di Santo in stride. He shields the defender with his body, and volleys it home with his left foot for a brace, his first two senior goals.

We bring on Tom Taiwo to close it out. That’s how confident we were. Tom Taiwo confident.

I grab di Santo after the game, and tell him how great a game he had, and how important it is for him to keep that level of play. He can’t stop smiling, which is, you know, sort of cute. We need to do something about all of our talent up front, though: di Santo, Belfodil, Sanogo, Alípio, Sturridge. Never can have too many young strikers, though. They’re all just a hamstring away from obscurity.

Premier Division

Chelsea v Hull City, The Circle

Hull 0 – Chelsea 4 (Alex 17, Nicolas Anelka 45+1, Franco di Santo 65 84)

MoM: Daniele DeRossi (9.0)

Attendance: 25,213. Referee: Mike Jones.

[Makonnen]

Chelsea

Touchline Report, Chelsea v Celtic. April 8, 2010.

10:48 AM

I don’t know what the **** is on this plate, but it sure as hell can’t pass for breakfast. ****ing Scotland. Butch is attacking his with gusto, however. Must have an iron stomach to go with the chrome dome. Heh. Crack myself up, I do. He looks up. I try not to look guilty.

I thought you were going to start Sturridge?

That’s when I thought we’d be up four goals at this point.

This is where the 1-0 win hurts. We have United on Sunday, so all I can do is try to get my subs on the pitch as soon as possible. If we score one early, I can do that. If not … well, Sunday is the FA Cup, not a league game. And at this point, I’ll sacrifice the FA Cup if I need to.

No, he’ll be on the bench. And I only hope he gets some time in the game. Who do you like in the middle, Butch, Ballack or Frank?

He frowns. Start Ballack. But be ready to bring Lampard in.

I nod. What about José? He seems back to full health. He still out of sorts?

Butch shrugs. He’ll come around.

He better.

7:44 PM

We’re flat. There’s no other term for it. Flat. That means we can’t hold possession, we’re letting them through too easily, and we’re making the wrong choices when we have options. Luckily, Celtic don’t look much like scoring either, but we’re giving away possession fall too easily.

Come on! Get the ball out and make the right pass!

And then, twenty minutes in, we fall asleep. José Boswinga’s rust shows as he and Essien lose Scott Brown, allowing the Scottish midfielder to slip between them. Brown takes his chance well, beating Cech to the far post. Predictably, the crowd goes crazy—Celtic fans are nothing if not exuberant. We’re tied on aggregate at this point, so their cheers are a mite premature. But now, we need two goals to feel safe—which makes it less likely that players can rest. So much for the FA Cup.

The first half continues as good news/bad news. The bad news is that Anelka has missed three open headers so far, sending each well over the bar. The good news is that he’s had three open headers. And that Kalou is terrorizing the left side. So far, though, it’s just not enough.

Salomon! Middle! Nicolas! Move up, along with Didier! Yes, that’s it!

There it is! Oh, Nooooo! Drogba’s clear header powers off the bottom of the bar and bounces the wrong way.

Butch, how long this going to last?

What?

We deserve to be tied, at least.

We don’t deserve anything, Danyil.

No, we do. We’re holding the ball, we’re attacking well … one of these has to go in. No, Alex! You can’t do that up there, come on, get your head in the game!

The whistle blows and we’re still down 1-0. In the locker room, I grab Alex. Alex, what’s going on out there?

What do you mean, coach?

You dribbled the ball out of bounds on one end, gave up a silly foul just outside the box on the other. Look, we need you. We need you if we’re going to win this game. We need you at your best.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. I’m there. I’ll be there.

I clap him on the shoulder. Good man. Let’s do this.

Well, that went well. But it doesn’t really do anything: the second half is more of the same. An hour in, it’s Frank on for Anelka, and while he links better with Ballack between midfield and attack, we still can’t do more than test Polish international Artur Boruc in Celtic’s goal.

Butch, we don’t need this. We don’t need this at all. I’m getting ready to do something stupid.

What are you thinking of, Danyil?

Taking off Ballack. But not for a midfielder. For Yaya. Three up front, push hard for the win. I trust our defense.

I trust them, too. But I don’t like it.

Didn’t think you would.

He looks away, towards the Celtic front line. Maybe di Santo. He’s on form, and he’s big.

We do it. And di Santo even has a nice chance that rolls wide. But the whistle blows with us still tied 1-1 on aggregate. The team gathers around in a semi-circle, sweat dripping from their uniforms.

Look, there’s no getting around it, right? That was a disappointing ninety minutes. We’re the better team here, but we’re not playing like it. But we still have a chance: thirty more minutes to respond. Thirty more minutes to win this game.

José, you let me know when you’re done, OK? We need you as long as you can go.

Franco, you’re job is to win everything in the air, and get the ball to Didier and Salomon. Help the ball on. Didier, Salomon, you’re better than Boruc. Beat him.

The rest of you, stay compact back there, keep it tight. They’re as tired as you are, but we need to keep our focus.

We have to defend a long series of headers before we respond. But respond we do. We still can’t score, however. Di Santo’s header goes over, then Boswinga’s cross is met with a ripping header for Drogba that misses inches to the left of the post, and a screamer from De Rossi edges high.

Fifteen minutes left.

Butch, this team is going to kill me. How many times can we do something like this?

He just sits there rubbing his head. The frustration is getting to him, too.

José has gone as long as he can, so we bring Ivanovic on. That’s all our subs, so these eleven will have to bring it home.

In the 112th minute, Kalou finds De Rossi in the middle, who lays a volley twenty-five yards upfield to find Drogba running parallel to goal. He feints back to his stronger right foot, then calmly sends it home with his left. Our supporters go crazy, and Mowbray is apoplectic, screaming at the fourth official for an offsides call that will never come.

Two minutes later, Kalou gets his legs tied up with Marc Crosas. None of the players respond—they are pursuing the ball upfield, but the whistle blows. I’m out of my seat screaming.

NO! You can’t do that! That’s a horrible decision. You don’t make up for a call like that! Come on!

But, of course, it’s no use. Salomon is shown his second yellow of the game, and we’re down to ten men with six minutes to go.

Never going to be easy, is it Butch.

No, Danyil, I don’t suppose it is.

One minute from time, nearly two hours into the game, Drogba seals it. Di Santo and Zhirkov have had some nice exchanges all game, here the youngster is freed on a long ball from Alex. He controls it, then touches it back to Yury on the wing, whose cross is perfect. Drogba rises to meet it and connects with an insanely strong header. It’s breathtaking stuff, and we’re through.

Butch, this team will be the death of me.

EURO Cup Quarterfinal, Second Leg

Celtic v Chelsea, Celtic Park

Celtic 1 (Scott Brown 20) – Chelsea 2 (Didier Drogba 113, 120) [Chelsea 3-1 on aggregate]

MoM: Drogba (9.0)

Attendance: 60,170. Referee: Michael Kempter.

[Satio]

Still amazes me the amount of work and time this must take up!

Some good wins for Chelsea there, and through to the next round. Keep it up, Mak, you deserve more praise for this epic tale.

[Makonnen]

@Satio, THANKS! I really appreciate the response. I'm hoping that splitting it out into five stories makes it easier to follow for people. Chelsea's feeling good right now--we'll see how high they ride this closing wave. But the Celtic game was one of those yell YAY! and then look around to make sure I didn't wake anyone up ...

Rodengo Saiano

Irish Anger. April 11, 2010.

It’s just over two hours by coach to Balzano. Two hours winding through the mountains on the same route I took just three months ago on my first visit. The morning sun is bright creating a mantle of light in the distance draped gracefully over the snow-capped peaks. The coach rumbles and struggles up the road, and a faint smell of petrol mixes with the air inside.

Roberto and I sit in front as always, sipping coffee from thermoses and chatting. It’s a little awkward—I sit on an aisle seat, stacks of notes next to me. Matteo is across from me, translating between Roberto in the far window. There is a lot of leaning back and forth, as we try both to talk and keep the conversation from being overheard.

Matteo sits back in his chair, yawning. “Late night, Matteo?” He immediately blushes and stammers. I chuck him on the shoulder lightly. “Never mind.” Something to tease him about later though. Roberto looks over inquisitively and I shake my head.

“Hey, did I see that Bertoni is about to set the record for club games?” Matteo is grateful for the change in topic, and turns to Roberto, who nods and says in careful English, “One hundred and forty.” I stand, holding onto seats to keep my balance as I walk back through the bus, temporarily interrupting a card game on the way. Matteo follows.

“Matuso.” He had been staring out the window, nodding slowly to something on his mp3 player. He looks up, reaches down to fiddle with the device, and removes the headphones from his ears. “Si?”

“How are you today? Feeling the years?” Matteo frowns, does the best he can.

Mauro smiles, and I wait for Matteo to relay the response. “Of course. I can only not feel them for ninety minutes at a time.” I smile, it’s a good response.

“Then we better not go to extra time. Mauro, today is a special day for you, I hear?”

He wants to pretend he doesn’t know, but he can’t quite pull it off, and merely nods.

“You’ll get it today. You won’t start, but you’ll get it today. And be ready to say something before the Pro Sesto game next week.”

I make my way back to the front of the bus as we hit the suburbs of Balzano, such as they are. We find our way through the town to Marco Druso Stadium, where Süditrol-Alto Aldige await.

Ten minutes in, Alto Aldige sends a cross into the box. We’ve been screaming at them in practice all week about this after the last game, and we have four defenders around the single offensive player. Belotti goes up and heads it away, but immediately the whistle blows for a penalty.

“What? No! You can’t call that! What was the foul? Ref! Ref!” He ignores my calls. “Matteo, help me! Referee! Signore! Arbitro! What was the foul? What was the call?”

Matteo yells out, “Il fallo? Qual è stato la decisione?” I echo him, louder, “Il fallo? La decisione?”

We are summarily ignored. I can feel the heat rising up my throat. I motion Matteo back to the bench and stare at the referee, ignoring the kick, ignoring the cheers of the home crowd as they take the 1-0 lead, just staring at him, my hands on my hips.

He never looks over.

It takes some time but I calm down. The game does as well. We’re working hard, but Alto Aldige is, at this point, simply a bit better than we are—their touches are surer, their passes are better weighted, and their players look more at ease. Still, we’re battling, and have kept the scoreline at 1-0 through the first half hour of play.

Until another play in the box: Alto Aldige are driving down the right flank and carry the ball into the box. Massimiliano Esposito is tight on his man, and a scene that will stay stark in my memory for quite some time ensues.

From my position on the sideline, I have a perfect view of the whole thing. Unlike the referee who is at the far side of the box, trailing the play. Between him and the battle between Esposito and Carmine Cerchia, the Alto Adige forward, there are at least seven players. Both Esposito and Cerchia fall in a tumble, and the Assistant Referee—who has an unobstructed view directly at the play, keeps his flag down.

But the center ref whistles, and runs to the spot, arm extended.

I am screaming at him in English, gesticulating wildly. He looks directly at me as he shoos players out of the box and holds up two fingers. I have no idea what he means, but it sure as hell isn’t the peace sign. The only thing I can think of is that he is reminding me that this is the second one he’s called, as if I could forget.

I lose it.

I’m not really sure what happened after that: the next thing I remember, Roberto has his arms wrapped around me, Matteo is in front of me, and I’m fifteen yards onto the field.

Luckily, Roberto is a strong man, and pulls me back into my technical area. He’s yelling at me in Italian and Matteo is just confused.

“I’m OK, I’m OK.” I straighten my jacket, but leave my shirt in disarray. I station myself at the edge of the technical area, and watch as they bury the second penalty to go up by two goals. I stay there the rest of the half, ignoring Matteo’s pleas to return to my seat.

I don’t know what I’m waiting for. Somehow, in the ten minutes until halftime, I realize that confronting the referee at this point is unwise. I don’t even know what the penalty for my outburst is in this league. When the referee blows his whistle, I turn on my heel, and am the first one into the tunnel.

I wait for the players, for Matteo to come in. They look at me, unsure of what is to come. I nod to Matteo and take a deep breath.

“Look, later this week I’ll say all the right things and apologize for my actions out there. But you know what? Both of those calls were ********. Idiotic, absolute ********.”

Matteo stumbles at first, but gets into the mood.

“And, you know what? It’s going to continue out there. So it’s up to you to respond. Go out there and show your fight, show your work. But don’t expect any forgiveness from the whistle. Because it’s not coming. So you need to play smart. And we’re going to change a little.”

I turn to the portable whiteboard, and rearrange the magnets. “Vladimir, you’re going to come on, so we’ll have two up top. That means, Isma, you need to work even harder to be the link.”

I look around.

“One more thing. If anyone else gives up a penalty, I may spend the night in jail here. So try not to do that, OK?”

They smile. If nothing else, I guess they know I care.

On the way back to the field, I grab Pedersoli. “Mattia, I know you don’t like the situation here, alternating with Andrea. You’re doing a great job out there today. Just keep that up.”

The second half is more of the same for us—we’re not the better team, but we do a good job keeping them from playing their game. But we make simple tactical mistakes. Like sending a cross in the air when the target is barely five feet tall.

“De Pascalis! It’s Isma! Cross to feet, to feet!”

At the hour mark, I bring Bertoni on to a standing ovation from the few dozen visiting fans. The shout his name, and then I hear a sing-song, the only word I can make out is the chorus of “Ma-tuuu-soooooooo.”

“Matteo, is that new?”

He smiles and nods. Great. So far, my biggest impact on this team has been nicknames.

They add a goal at the end—and were honestly the better team on the day. But that doesn’t rid the bitter taste on those two first half calls. And on the road back, I wonder what Ferrari will think of the outburst.

Serie C2/A

Süditrol-Alto Adige v Rodengo Saiano, Marco Druso

Alto Adige 3 (Roberto Mirri 9p 37p, Thomas Albanese 85) – Rodengo 0

MoM: Mirri (9.0) Panda’s Best: Mattia Pedersoli (6.6)

Attendance: 2631. Referee: Massimiliano Bruni.

[Makonnen]

Chelsea

Touchline Report Chelsea v Manchester United, FA Cup Semifinal. April 11, 2010.

7:12 AM

I wander into the kitchen, still bleary eyed but already nervous.

Hey.

Hey, yourself.

Coffee?

Here. Our hands touch for a moment around the warmth of the cup, and I look up. You’ll do fine, Danyil. You all will.

I take a sip of the coffee. He knows I don’t like it very hot. Must have poured it when I first got up. Sweet, as always. Him, not the coffee. I close my eyes.

It’s Wembley, Ruud. Wembley.

You’ve played there.

Yeah. But I’ve never managed there.

Danyil. Listen to me. You’ll do fine.

10:48 AM

Butch and I are standing on the sideline, watching a few players get loose on the far side. I’m struggling not to look around too much. Act like you’ve been there. Or belong there. Whichever. Rick Carter comes up to us, looking at some notes on a clipboard.

Hey, Rick. How’s it look?

Not all that great. Essien and De Rossi are out.

Butch speaks up. Yury?

Rick shakes his head. He can give you thirty, maybe forty minutes.

Simon? Jon Ob … I catch myself. Mikel?

Vukcevic’s not ready yet. Mikel is good to go, he did fine this morning.

I nod. Good that then. OK, anything else? Thanks. He saunters off towards the tunnel.

So, Butch?

We’re going to be weak in the middle. I have to say, the three up front have done well by us. I’d do it.

Didier, Franco, Yaya?

Butch nods. That’s a surprise, and I appreciate the support. So I bend a little his way.

If we do that, we need to have Paulo and Bane stay flat.

Butch smiles. OK, yeah. But not too flat.

4:00 PM

It’s deafening in here. The crowd is a sea of blue and red, and the atmosphere is electric. There’s no banter with Sir Alex today—he’s all business, and I’m certainly not at ease. The best thing for me is the whistle, and when Martin Atkinson blows it, I can finally breathe again.

Danyil!

I turn to Butch, who nods with his head to the chair next to him. I sit just in time for Dimitar Berbatov to be flagged for offsides. Good for us.

We’re nine minutes in, and Carvalho is slow to push up as United gain possession. JT is in the right place, but Giggs sees the space, and sends a nice pass downfield. Rooney is onside thanks to Ricky’s gaffe, and he’s through clear on goal. Terry can’t catch up, but Cech comes off his line and makes a stunning save diving to his right. The ball slides wide for a corner, but the save will make some highlight shows.

Ricky! I make a questioning motion. He pats his chest and nods—at least he knows what’s happened.

Two minutes later, Lampard and di Santo exchange headers as they move the ball up the field. The last one catches Rafael out of position, and he drags down Lampard for a free kick from about thrity-five yards out.

Butch, di Santo look at all, I dunno, nervous to you?

Nope.

Me, neither.

Didier, Matic, and Mikel surround the ball, but the whole stadium will be shocked if anyone other than Didier takes the kick. He does, and he strikes it magnificently, around the wall with a surreal amount of spin pulling it back in towards van der Sar’s far post. The Dutch veteran is covering the other side of the goal, and cannot get back in time, standing helplessly as the ball nestles in the back of the net. It’s a magnificent kick, and we lead 1-0.

Honestly, although we’ve had more of the ball, they’ve been more dangerous. We’re lucky to be up, and we need to get our heads in the game. Unfortunately, we seem more likely to get thrown out: there are far too many fouls on both sides, and it’s preventing us from getting comfortable on the ball for very long.

Come on, Martin! Just because they touch each other doesn’t mean you need to blow the whistle. Let them play a little. They’re grown men for chrissakes.

Hey, Butch. You know all the press about Rooney? He nods. Berbatov looks far more dangerous today.

As soon as I say that, Rooney gets free again, and Cech has to come off his line quickly to beat him to the ball just outside the area. Butch laughs at me. Yeah, much more dangerous.

Di Santo may not be nervous, but he is having a hard time—he’s been called for offsides and a number of fouls, but he keeps working and he’s been dominant in the air. But just before halftime, Rafael, United’s gifted young fullback, gets lost between Sanogo and di Santo, keeping Franco onside for a pass from Lampard. He uses the size of his stride to stay in front of Rio Fredinand, then buries the ball past van der Sar.

We’re up 2-0, and it lasts until the halftime whistle despite another brilliant chance taken by Berbatov, saved only be a leaping punch from Cech to turn his header over the bar. We head in with the two goal lead, but I’m not comfortable.

When I come into the locker room, it’s subdued. I appreciate that: they remember our last game against United as well as I do. We were up 2-0 at halftime then, too. Look, we’ve been here before against this same team. You cannot let up. Not one inch. We need fewer fouls, but we cannot reduce our intensity one whit. If we do that, if we keep the same desire you showed out there in the first half, we’ll be fine.

Franco, keep working. It was a good half. Nemanja, give me as long as you can. And Frank, you know the rules: we’re up two. Let it rip if you have the space.

Lampard smiles and soon after play restarts he takes advantage, forcing diving stops from van der Sar twice in the first ten minutes. He looks over at me, and I clap for the attempts. I turn to the bench.

Michael, you’re in next. Play alongside Jon. Get him to settle down, OK? Bring Frank back towards midfield, but leave the three of them up front. We’ll pull them back in a bit, but for now, six behind the ball, Frank helping, and the three up top. OK?

Ballack’s entrance brings the game under a little more control. We’re holding the ball better, and while our offense is struggling to add to the lead, the calm is worth it.

Nicolas, you know what to do. Let’s kill this one off, OK?

Anelka embraces di Santo as he heads onto the pitch. I call the young Argentine over.

Franco! When you get back to the bench, look around. Ninety ****ing thousand people in here with you. And you played your ass off. The effort was fantastic. Fantastic. Keep working, we’ll be back here together. A lot.

We’re holding on. I want this.

Alex. I want five at the back to shut this out, OK? Five minutes of intense defense back there.

Butch looks at me. That’s not like you.

I know. But I want this. They deserve it. Hell, Butch, you deserve it.

In extra time, Berbatov finally breaks through, beating Cech to a cross and nodding the ball easily into goal. But that’s it. And as the whistle blows, I hear yells from the players behind me. Butch almost knocks me down as I head over to Sir Alex.

Good game, Sir Alex.

You too. You held on this time.

Barely. I appreciate what you said last time. He nods and turns away. I don’t push my luck, preferring instead to join the players in their celebrations.

FA Cup Semifinal

Manchester United v Chelsea, Wembley

Man Utd 1 (Dimitar Berbatov 90+1) – Chelsea 2 (Didier Drogba 12, Franco di Santo 43)

MoM: Drogba (8.3)

Attendance: 89,854. Referee: Martin Atkinson.

[Makonnen]

Chelsea

Touchline Report, Chelsea v Liverpool. April 14, 2010.

4:18 PM

It’s a setup, Butch. A classic setup for a letdown. Classic.

Butch nods. We held Daniele and Essien out of the last game because we knew it was coming. That should help. I get up, pace. Butch continues, And, we’re nearly healthy. Jon and Didier could use a little blow, but other than that …

I stop and look at him. And Simon should be back for City. Ah, Simon. We’ve missed you. Your signing slid right under the radar, but it was key. And will be again, next year.

Butch slides over our pregame sheet on Liverpool. I know what’s there, but I still study it. They really have no true midfielder: Israel Castro—yes, another Mexican—and Javier Mascherano hold behind the attack. Steven Gerrard is the closest they have, but he slides further up. So there is opportunity there.

But that front four is an issue … Gerrard in the middle, Ryan Babel and Yossi Benayoun on the wings. And golden boy Fernando Torres up front. He’s healthy. I’m glad for him, and I’m glad for football. But I wish he weren’t. When he is on form, he is … well, there is only one striker I would rather have on my team. And I have him on my team already.

5:11 PM

I’m on the field, walking around the players as they warm up. It’s the quiet before the storm, a chance to chat with them, get a feel for the day. My meanderings take me over to the Liverpool side—it’s not on purpose, I had to dance out of the way of a game of tag that erupted between Alex, Ivanovic, and Ferreira. And Alex and Bane are built like trucks, so it was good of me to move.

Sorry, gaffer, yells one of them as they rush by.

Hey! What’d I tell you about gaffer? They laugh and continue. I feel a ball bounce against my leg, and turn quickly to find myself face to face with Fernando José Torres Sanz, Liverpool’s twenty-six year old magnificent striker. He kicks the ball up to his hands and grins at me.

Sorry, coach.

Fernando! Don’t think we’ve ever really met. Danyil Orange. He takes my hand in a strong grip.

You feeling good today? He nods. Too bad for us. He shrugs. Not much of a talker, evidently. I look at his arm.

Hey, is that Tibetan or something? There’s a long tattoo on his arm, an elaborate script I don’t recognize. He looks away, a little sheepishly. No, it’s Elvish.

Elvish?

Now he’s smiling again. Elvish. It’s my turn to shrug. Alright. Carry on. You let me know if you ever get tired of the suburbs and want to come to London proper, you hear?

He doesn’t say anything. So much for my marketing pitch.

Elvish?

7:47 PM

They are keeping the ball, but it’s all in their half. It’s the kind of thing that the stat wonks go all drooly about, but it doesn’t mean much. Possession by itself is useless—it has to have a purpose, and it has to be moving towards that purpose. We’re pinning them back, but not winning the ball. Our problem is that we’re kicking at their legs and feet, not at the little round thing, which means the most common noise heard is Lee Probert’s whistle.

Keep the ball, come on out there!

Their defense looks stout today, we’ll need some patience. A shot by De Rossi goes high over their goal, and in the interim before play resumes, I yell out to Anelka.

Nicolas! Here!

I want you to drop back a little deeper—in front of Frank, but not all the way up. We need your help in the build up, and tell Didier to move more centrally, yeah? Go.

We some benefit immediately: Agger fouls Drogba to stop a break, and the kick leads to a lovely cross from Zhirkov that goes untouched as it floats across goal. Anelka is getting more touches, and it leads to a long spell of possession for us. With Martin Skrtel held out, Greek veteran Sotiris Kyrgiakos is alongside Agger on their back line, and he’s causing us all sorts of trouble, using his height to break up attacks and managing to only foul people when Probert isn’t looking.

Lee! Lee! You can’t let that big Greek do that! It’s a foul, Lee, a foul! A moment later, Oh, I see. Bane breathes wrong, he gets a card? Come, on Lee, that was bush. Bush.

It’s settled down into a very good game. Strong movement, great touches, a battle of heavyweights.

Pretty good game out there, eh Rafa? He glares at me. Whoops.

Carvalho and Alex are doing fantastically in the back, pushing up and cutting out danger before it develops.

Butch, what do you think of that back line?

Ours?

I nod.

He glances over to JT on the bench. I like it, they’re playing well together. But Ricky isn’t young, and I like having our captain out there more.

Half an hour in, we’re almost there. Almost. Essien dribbles the ball into the box, drawing the attention of the defense, then lays it off to Zhirkov behind him who has time to look for the cross, which is perfectly placed on the near post. Drogba gets there, but heads it over.

See that, Butch? That’s how we’re going to score today. Right there.

Liverpool comes on a bit before halftime—a free kick from Gerrard that goes close, a couple corners. But they haven’t really threatened, and they are having a hard time getting the ball to Torres. I like that. And I don’t mind going into halftime scoreless.

Butch and I huddle for a few moments, then he takes the halftime duties. I talk with Anelka about how well the adjustment is working and with Kalou about how we’re going to need him before the game ends.

The second half is encouraging: Lampard has a great exchange with Bane, but his shot is saved by Reina.

Yes, Frank, that’s what I meant! More of that.

On the hour, Butch and I both leap from our seat. Anelka rises above two men for a clean header that has Reina well beaten, but Kyrgiakos is at the far post and clears it away.

That was a real chance, Butch.

Don’t I know it.

It’s OK, we’ll get some more. Daniele! Daniele! Swap with Michael. Yes, up. Michael, back to support. With Jon.

We’re piling on the pressure now. And are, for the time being, are clearly the better team.

Salomon, you’re in. Send Nicolas out on their right, you’re on the left. I want to score in these last fifteen minutes, ok? All out. Make something happen.

And he almost does—a swim move to get around his man, and he’s free in the box. Essien finds him with a deft touch, but Reina is up to it, smothering the ball after a dive to his left.

Three minutes later, Kalou does it again, almost the exact same play. But it has the same result. We deserve more than one point here.

NO!!

With four minutes left, Dirk Kuyt who is now playing up top, Torres having been pulled off, is all alone on a breakaway. The referee’s flag stays down, and he’s through on goal with a head of steam. But his shot lacks power, and Cech knocks it away then pounces on the rebound. As I return to my seat, Rafa is staring at me.

Close, Mr. Benitez, very close. He nods curtly and turns away.

Too ****ing close, Butch. Would have been a ****ing horror show.

Maybe one point isn’t so bad here.

That’s what we get, as it ends a scoreless draw. The quality of play was very good, but it wasn’t good enough from our end, and I let them know it afterwards.

Yury, Petr, both of you had strong days out there for us. Well done. But it’s just not enough. It’s not enough to dominate, it’s not enough to have shots on goal, it’s not enough to have the ball. We need to finish, we need to win. We play down to the level of the other team far too often, and that’s a mark of complacency. We have a month left, men. A month. And it starts at Manchester next week, and then in France. One month to make this a season to remember. We need better.

Premier Division

Chelsea v Liverpool, Stamford Brdige

Chelsea 0 – Liverpool 0

MoM: Petr Cech (8.5)

Attendance: 41,761. Referee: Lee Probert.

[Makonnen]

Chelsea. Since they were back-to-back, figured I would post them the same day.

Getting His Man. April 16, 2010.

“So, it’s all done? And under control, no leaks until the announcement on Monday? Fantastic. There better not be. OK, thanks. You, too.”

Danyil Oranje hangs up the phone and leans back in his chair, a smile slowly spreading across his face. He grabs a piece of paper and a pen, and writes something before folding it in half. He picks up the phone again and hits a button.

“Butch? Yeah, it’s me. Got a sec? Yeah, mine. Thanks.”

Moments later, a knock on the door and Ray Wilkins comes in and sits heavily across from Oranje.

“What’s going on, Danyil?”

“I’ve got something for you Butch.”

“Oh, Christ, Danyil. Not another postcard with a ****ing monkey on it.”

“You wish. No, not this time.”

Wilkins looks apprehensive and curious at the same time. “Well, what is it?”

“Here.” Oranje slides the paper across to his assistant. “Go on.”

Wilkins unfolds it, and starts laughing. “Good one. Give it a rest, will you?”

“Butch, it’s real.”

“There’s no way you could have kept it this quiet. No way.”

“Butch, it’s real.”

Wilkins stops laughing, his eyes darting from the piece of paper back to Oranje. “Really real?”

“Really real. Announcement is Monday. And not a ****ing word of it before then, OK? Merry Christmas, Butch.”

“You’re serious.” Wilkins looks at the paper again, lets out a low whistle. “Jesus, what the hell did he cost us?”

“Don’t you worry about that right now. We got him, that’s what matters.”

“You’re serious.”

“I am. On both sides. He’s your man, Butch. We got him because of your recommendations. I think he’s world class, and I think he makes the difference next year. But he’s here for you.”

Wilkins grins, his bald face creased in two with a lopsided smile. “You’re insane, Danyil Oranje. But if we make it through this summer, this could just work.” Wilkins rose from his seat. “That it?”

“That’s it. I mean, if you come up with some perfect gameplan for City, you let me know. Otherwise, I’ll see you on the field in an hour. And Butch, again, not a breath of this until Monday, yeah?”

He motions above his chest. “Cross my heart.”

Oranje reaches across his desk and opens the piece of paper.

Wolfsburg’s Edin Dzeko to join Chelsea, July 1, 2010.

[Makonnen]

Saint George

April 4, 2010

Saint George v Adama City Football Club, Addis Ababa Stadium

St. George 2 (Haile Hussein 3og, Shalo Bikila 10) – Adama City 0

MoM: Bereded Gawo (8.0)

Attendance: 2868. Referee: Sayoum Haile Mariam.

April 7, 2010

Ethio Premiere

Awassa City v Saint George, Awassa Kenema Stadium

Awassa 0 – St. George 0

MoM: Wubeshet Desaleghn (7.4) V’s Best: (Gorge Owino 7.0)

Attendance: 2150. Referee: Mulugeta Dubarish.

April 13, 2010

Addis Cup Semifinal

Saint George v Dedebit Football Club, Addis Ababa Stadium

St. George 5 (Lencho Skibba 16 29 61p, Ochan Bayalegne 51, Andualem Negussie 90+1) – Dedebit 0

MoM: Skibba (9.6)

Attendance: 1968. Referee: Samson Gawo.

Soccer Ethiopia!, Episode One. April 17, 2010

The intro is, by American standards, amateurish. Cheesy, even. Something you would see on the local late-night community access channel minus the urge towards sleaze. There are shots of the supporters and of the stadiums at sunset and a few of national icons—the church at Lalibela, the Axum obelisk, the Mercado at the height of business; and then a series of images of players from around the league come spinning onto the screen, each one trailing copies of itself as it settles into place. There are Amharic graphics that bounce into place and a soundtrack that combines mid-90’s techno with the high pitched treble of traditional Ethiopian music. The energy is unmistakable: somebody worked very hard on this, convinced that others would see it as they do, a labor of love.

The graphics fade to a small, well-ordered set: a white oval table with a chair on each side, and a backdrop that reads Soccer Ethiopia!! in English and Amharic, preserving the two exclamation points in both languages. One chair is empty, the other filled by a middle aged man wearing a light blue suit with no tie, Bekele Araya, lead reporter for the Ethiopian Soccer Free Press.

The camera zooms in on Araya, who grins broadly into the lens.

“Welcome to the inaugural edition of Soccer Ethiopia! We are your bi-weekly source of everything that is going on in Ethiopian Football from the top of the Premiere League to the part-time sides at the bottom of the National League, we cover it all. Each week, we’ll bring you news, highlights, exclusive interviews, and more. And, we want to hear from you: you can send in your questions by SMS or Facebook or by e-mailing us directly.”

The screen shifts shakily to another graphic displaying URL’s, phone numbers, e-mail addresses. A crawl starts on the bottom repeating the information as well. Araya’s voice continues over the graphic. “And, when we return, an exclusive interview with Saint George’s head coach, Tadesse Makonnen.”

A voice from off-set intrudes. “And … we’re out.”

During the break, Ayala motioned to the man standing just offset. “Ato Tadesse, please, come join me.” Makonnen nervously straightens his coat, nods, and takes his seat opposite Ayala. A young woman comes up and brushes his face lightly with what feels like a feather duster, then fiddles with the microphone attached to the lapel of his dark jacket. She smiles at him, and says softly, “You look great. Just relax and be yourself, coach.”

Makonnen nods. Be myself. Right. He closes his eyes momentarily. My Lord, my God, please grant me the strength to do this, let your wisdom guide me, and let me feel the grace of your infinite blessing. Amen. He opens his eyes and smiles weakly at Araya. From somewhere behind him, he hears the same voice, “and we’re back in five … four … three … two … one … go.”

Ayala turns towards the camera. “Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in welcoming the coach of Saint George, Ato Tadesse Makonnen. Ato Tadesse, welcome to the very first episode of Soccer Ethiopia.”

“Thank you, Ato Bekele. It’s an honor to be here, and I wish you all the best with the show. It’s a great day for football in our country.”

“Thank you very much. We’re very excited about the show, and we hope to see you again on it many times.” Makonnen nodded. “Ato Tadesse, we join V at the end of what has been a mixed campaign for you it seems. Saint George is dominating the domestic play, but have struggled in the international competitions. Can you share your sense of the season with our viewers?”

Don’t let him get the best of you. Relax. Makonnen leans on the table as the camera slowly zooms in on his face. “I am, of course, very pleased with our performance in the league. The men have worked very hard this year, and I think it shows, and we’re all proud to be adding to the tradition of Saint George. But I have to disagree a little with your assessment of our play in other competitions: we will be playing in the final of the first Ethio-Italian Friendship Cup, and our performance in the All-Africa Challenge has had some true bright spots—the victories over Enyimba and Etoile du Sahel especially. These are among the top clubs on the continent, and we have shown that we are closing in on them quite quickly.”

Bekele shrugs slightly. “Yes, those were good wins. But still, you were, if my notes are correct, twelve points shy of qualifying from the group phase in the All-Africa Challenge. Surely that counts as falling short of your goals?”

“Our goals, yes. Expectations, perhaps not. I believe we opened some eyes as to just how good Ethiopian football is through our performance there.”

Bekele pauses, just long enough to communicate his disagreement. “Moving to more recent news, yesterday saw Saint George destroy Dedebit by a score of five – nil to reach the finals of the Addis Cup. Any comments on the game?”

“It was a good win. Dedebit worked hard out there, and they were a bit unlucky in the final score. Lencho Skibba was fantastic for us. He deserved his hat trick, and I think he’s showing great form lately.”

Ayala nodded then turned to face the camera directly. “More from Ato Tadesse later in the program, but now here is Samuel Getachew with a rundown of the games from the past week. Samuel?”

Again the voice from the side. “Cut! Good job everyone.”

Makonnen looked around. “But, where’s Samuel?”

Araya looked at him with a hint of derision in his face. “He’s already recorded the summary—we’ll edit that in later. We just need to wrap up with you, and then you’re on your way. Do you need a break?”

Makonnen shook his head. “No, no, I’m fine.”

“Good. Issa, are we ready for the closing segment with Ato Tadesse?”

The voice from behind answered. “Just a second. I’ll count you down.” Araya leaned towards Makonnen. “OK, this is a special segment, we need just short answers, one or two words, OK?”

“Oh … ok, sure.” Why didn’t they mention this earlier?

The voice returned “and, go in … five … four … three … two … one … now.”

Araya was staring into the camera. “Thank you, Samuel! We’re back in the studio for a feature we like to call the Hot Seat. Today in the chair, Ato Tadesse Makonnen of Saint George.” He turned to face his guest. “You ready, Ato Tadesse?”

Tadesse swallowed and nodded. “Great! Five questions, first answer that comes into your mind, if you will. One, who will win the Premier League title?”

Makonnen smiled. “Saint George.”

Araya nodded. “True or false, your team is danger of losing focus over the final few weeks of the season.”

“No, not true. False.”

“Third question. Your goalkeeper Adugna Deyas recently went public with a desire to move on to a better team. Is it true he will be playing in Europe next year?”

Makonnen stumbled. Relax, you can get through this. “No, no, he’s our first choice.”

“Four. What is the first word that comes into your mind when I say Mohammed Abera?”

That’s more like it. “Unlimited potential.”

“Final question. Is it true that after only a year in the system, you are looking to displace national icon Abraham Teklehaimanot as coach of the national team?”

“What? I, what? No, I don’t … “

Ayala cut him off. “And that is all of your time on the hot seat! Thank you Ato Tadesse, and best of luck out on the pitch.” He turned back to the camera. “When we return, we’ll have an interview with National League leading Bahir Dar coach Girum Ayalew and his veteran striker, Tafess Biru.”

A pause, and the voice again. “And we’re out.”

Makonnen looked at Araya angrily. “What was that about? Those questions … why did you …”

Araya smiled. “It’s called the hot seat for a reason, Ato Tadesse.” The woman was back, removing his microphone and gently moving him out of his chair and off the stage. Makonnen, still confused, found his way out of the building and out into the parking lot, blinking rapidly, confused as much by what just happened as the bright sunlight of the Addis spring.

[Makonnen]

Rodengo Saiano

Possibilities. April 18, 2010

Tomorrow, Pro Sesto. We’re tied with them on points, but we have a two goal edge in differential. A victory would move us out of the relegation playoff zone. Which would certainly help me sleep better at night.

Terry leans back, resting his head on the wall behind his bed, eyes closed. It was late, and despite both common sense and several glasses of scotch, he felt alert, wide awake even.

We get Dal Basco back tomorrow, so maybe, just maybe …

A sudden buzzing from the small table to the side of the bed startles him, and he jerks, banging his head on the wall. “Goddamn! What the … “ He grabs his phone and looks at it angrily. A confused expression crosses his face, then a smile as he taps at the small box. It buzzes again, and he holds it to his ear.

“Hey.” He draws out the word, luxuriating in it comfortably. On the other end of the line, the scene is very different: Leti Netshamulivho is curled into a ball on the floor of her kitchen, caught in the phone cord like a spider’s prey. There are tissues scattered around her, a nearly empty box by her side.

She can barely find her voice. She knows there is one somewhere, but the distance between her and it is so vast as to be incalculable, a gray cloud swirling around inside her. Her body is impossibly heavy, its mass increased by sorrow until movement is only a vague memory. She imagines herself on a featureless plateau surrounded by fog and faint sounds of the ocean. She cannot move, cannot even lift her head. She wants to scream, to wail, to fill her kitchen with the shock of noise, but all she can manage is a slight sob, a small tear in the gray through which a gasp of air escapes.

The noise comes through clearly across the satellites and Terry sits up suddenly. “Hey there, hey now. What’s wrong?”

There is silence on the phone, other than the ragged pattern of her breathing. She squeezes the words out slowly and with great effort, each one bringing her a little further back towards the solid, bright colors of her kitchen cabinets, the hard feel of the floor beneath her.

“I’m sorry, Terry. I know it’s late. I just … I don’t know … I just needed someone to talk to.”

“Leti, what … whatever happened? What’s wrong?”

His voice calls to her, clearing space in the fog. She sits up, smoothes her dress, grabs a tissue and dabs her eyes. “It’s … it’s nothing. Well, no, it’s just … it’s okay, Terry. Really.”

“Leti, you can’t keep doing this, it’s not good for you.”

“Doing what?”

“Something’s up. We both know it. But you keep … just let me in, Leti. Please.”

She makes a low uncertain sound, ragged and torn as it comes out.

“Leti. Please.”

“Hold on.” She hauls herself up by leaning hard on the counter, buries the phone under her arm as she blows her nose, then replaces it by her face. “I just don’t know where to start.”

Terry is sitting very still, barely breathing as he focuses on the phone, the voice at the other end of the line. His voice is soft, trying to create a place for her to rest, a container of sound to hold her. “Just … just start. Anywhere you want. I’ll catch up.”

“My. Well. I guess it’s simple, really. My sister Nombi is dying.”

The words hang in the air in front of Leti, basic and unadorned, a coarse fact. Said that way, it seems to be more a question of practicalities, logistics. It doesn’t feel fair, the words simultaneously encompassing the situation and falling woefully short of adequately describing the chaos and emptiness she feels.

“Oh, Leti … I’m … I’m so sorry.” Questions rush through Terry’s mind—who is Nombi? Why is she dying? Were they close? Where is she? Somehow, he keeps from asking them, knowing that a door has been opened just slightly and that he must tread lightly, or his being there, just his presence, could be enough for it to slam shut again. He repeats himself. “I’m sorry.”

She leans on the counter, listening to his voice, the rhythm of his breathing, and suddenly she is so tired she can hardly stand. Her bones ache with fatigue, and something in her shifts. A lightness, or at least the possibility of lightness, returns and a decision is made. “Terry … I’m so tired. I need to sleep. But I’m glad you were up. And so glad we spoke. And I’d like to come see Italy in May. Can we do that?”

Can we do that? Terry can’t help but grin, and it spills into his voice. “Yes, sure, yes Leti. That would be lovely. You sure you’re OK?”

A small smile appears on Leti’s face, almost painful in its uncertainty. “I’m OK. But I’m much better than I was earlier, alright? Thank you.”

“OK, Leti. You sleep well. Can I call after the game?”

“Please. Night, Terry.”

He sets the phone down, gets out of bed, and wanders into his kitchen. He looks out the window at a sliver moon and a night that seems far brighter than possible. He pours a large glass of water and gulps it down, then wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and rummages through a drawer for a pen and a small pad of paper.

He writes

Leti. May. He pauses a moment, then circles the month, draws a line beneath the two words, and adds Nombi??? He leaves the pad in the middle of the table, and heads back to the other room. His dreams are confused but there are no nightmares.

# # #

“Terry? Hello? Ci sei?”

Roberto waves a hand in front of his face. “I’m sorry. I … I didn’t sleep well.”

Roberto raises his eyebrows at Matteo’s translation, a grin on his face. Terry sighs. “No, nothing like that. Just a hard night. I’m sorry. Must need more coffee.”

Matteo gets up and fetches it. Terry thanks him, and the trio returns to a discussion about the Panda’s opponent, Pro Sesto. Langford runs a hand through his hair. “We match up pretty well with them, which is a backhanded compliment if I’ve ever come up with one.”

Matteo lifts his arm and rotates his wrist with a blank look on his face. “Backhanded. Um … wow … something you say that sounds like it’s a compliment, but really isn’t … never mind. We match up pretty well.”

Roberto carries a bemused expression: he has become used to these exchanges and waits patiently for the English conversation to finish and Matteo to speak to him. He nods, and replies, “yes, yes we are. Their defense, though, it has been slipping recently. Perhaps we can take advantage of that.”

Langford nods. “If we had a forward who wasn’t a teenager.”

Roberto raises a finger. “Ah, but we do: Castellacci cleared Dal Bosco to play late yesterday. He can start.”

That puts a smile on Terry’s face for the first time since he arrived at the café.

Before the game, Terry grabs Matteo and walks over to the referee. “Signore?” The referee looks at him cautiously, keeping a neutral expression on his face. Langford sticks out his hand. “Terry Langford.”

The other man takes it. “Giovanni Pentangelo.”

“You probably heard about last week’s game.” Matteo translates, and Pentangelo nods. “I just wanted to say that I’ve been reprimanded by both the association and my board. You don’t have to worry about that kind of outburst today.”

The referee smiles. “Grazie.”

“As long as we don’t lose by two penalties, OK?” Matteo pauses and stares at his manager. “Never mind, little American joke. Have a good game out there.”

Pro Sesto dominate s the start of the game, and only Andrea Lamacchia in goal and the visitors’ ineptitude taking free kicks saves the home team from an early deficit. That sets the tone for the rest of the game, which is dominated by the visitors but remains scoreless.

The young Spaiards, Isma and Juan Francisco Góngora, combine nicely on the flanks a few times, but aside from that Rodengo looks toothless, a situation that continues into the second half.

Just before the hour mark, Pro Sesto has the best chance of the game: Domenico Bernardino Fumarolo leaves a nice pass for Dino Sangiovanni who is free on goal. Lamacchia goes down, but he gets his trailing foot on the ball and tips it just wide of the goal.

Rodengo’s leading scorer, Nicola Dal Bosco grows fatigued and is pulled in favor of promising forward Roberto Diaferio. Minutes later, Rodengo’s midfielder, Massimiliano Esposito is inadvertently kicked in the head. As the medics attend to him, Terry Langford gathers his team around him in a tight circle, Matteo by his side.

“OK, we’re going to the new formation, yeah? Flatter at the back, Leonardo, come up to true midfield. Alessandro, wide left. Carlo, you will come on for Esposito, on the right. OK? They’ll never expect something so standard from us, we’ll take them by surprise.”

His team is energized, but no goals are forthcoming. Then, in stoppage time, Isma has the ball on the left flank with only one Pro Sesto defender between him and goal. The small midfielder is sprinting at full speed with the ball close to his feet. He feints, and

Tweeeeeeeeeeeeeet! Tweet, tweet!

Pentangelo points with both arms towards midfield.

Langford explodes off the bench. “WHAT? You blew the whistle then? What are you thinking?”

Matteo grabs the American’s sleeve. “Terry! Terry! You promised, Terry, come on, it’s over.” Langford throws his arms in the air, turns on his heel, and heads over to his team.

Serie C2/A

Rodengo Saiano v Pro Sesto, Comunale

Rodengo 0 – Pro Sesto 0

MoM: Alessio Bugno (7.4) Panda’s Best: Silvio Cassaro (6.8)

Attendance: 309. Referee: Giovanni Pentangelo.

[Makonnen]

Chelsea

Touchline Report, Chelsea v Manchester City. April 18, 2010.

8:34 AM

Thinking clichés about hotel rooms is pretty much a cliché. Still can’t figure out why they don’t put the damn flatscreen where you can see it from the desk.

We have five league games left, but this is probably the hardest. City are in third place, four points above us. We have a game in hand against them. A win tonight, and we have a legitimate chance to finish top three. Four games. Four games to get nine, maybe ten points.

But I’m in a hotel. Which means we’re in Manchester.

And they have been a ****ing machine this year, scoring 72 while only yielding 29. It’s the second number that worries me. All the attention has gone to Adebayor, Tevez, Robinho up front. But it’s been Joleon Lescott, Nigel de Jong and Ashley Cole—who the hell gave them Ashley Cole?—at the back that have made the difference. It will take patience to break them down, and it will take concentration to hold our back line. We’ll see if we’re up to it.

2:18 PM

Butch, I thought someone said City was struggling with injuries.

He nods.

Look at this. Can you see a weak spot? I slide their roster sheet over to him and wait a second. He points to their right defender. I laugh.

Yeah, right. Pablo Zabaleta. I dunno’ Butch … if an Argentine international is your weak spot, you’re doing alright.

He laughs. I know. But Given and Kolo Touré have hit a rough patch. Maybe it continues.

We can only hope.

Yeah. Maybe. I take the paper back and stare at it some more. The names don’t change.

Simon get cleared? Butch nods. Well, there’s that, then. That helps. Him and Salomon wide behind Drogba, yeah? We’ll see how that works now.

What are you thinking in midfield?

I don’t know, Butch. Essien’s out, Frank’s struggling with the leg. Ballack. Ballack to start, Frank and Marc to come on.

He nods. We’re on the same page more and more now. I don’t know if he’s come around to me or me to him, but it makes things better. Dropping $40M on his favorite man crush probably didn’t hurt either.

3:10

Holy crap, Butch, you serious? He’s just handed me a sheet of anniversaries longer than most of my pre-match speeches.

OK, everyone listen up. Today is just a grab bag of anniversaries, so hold your screams until the end. Today is … let’s see here, Nicolas’ 75th game for the club and number 100 for Michael B and Jon Mikel. It’s José’s 200th league game, and our grand old man up front, Didier Drogba’s three ****ing hundredth. Jesus. No wonder I spend all my time scouting 17 year olds.

We don’t want to hear about your sex life, gaffer! I don’t catch the voice, so I just send a glare around the room.

Call me that again, you’re running all the way back to London. All of you.

It’s a loose room. I think that’s a good thing, so I let it roll. I drift over to where Cech is wrapping his wrists.

Petr, just a quick word.

Coach?

Just keep doing what you’re doing. It’s been a great few weeks for you, and we need it to keep on rolling today, OK? I glance at the front of the room, where Bane has Yury in a headlock and is wrestling him to the ground. And keep them in line, OK? They need it.

He smiles. Will do.

4:02 PM

In the first minute, Nigel de Jong tries to catch us unawares with a shot from just inside our half. It might have worked—Cech was off his line and is slow to react, but the ball drifts just wide.

Jesus, Butch. Teach me to say something to him before the game.

You said something to de Jong?

No, Cech.

Butch stares at me. Danyil, he’s playing at the top of his game right now. Why you want to mess with that?

You know what, Butch? You’re superstitious. You’ve got to come into the twenty-first century.

We aren’t looking at each other, both intently staring at the field as the game unfolds. Both teams are cautious after de Jong’s shot.

Ah, hell, Danyil. See that? I nod. Simon’s first touch was a silly giveaway that started a small break for City—although it was quickly snuffed out by Ferreira, who sends it back upfield. Drogba bulls through his man and fires a shot right at Given, who fumbles it out of bounds. Perhaps that’s a good sign.

A few minutes later, Vukcevic holds possession then neatly spins around his man before firing a pass into the box to Drogba.

Better, Simon, good! I turn back to the bench.

The problem here, Butch, is they look like they can score every time they have the ball. That’s a helluva front line over there.

You just wait until next year with Dzeko.

You’re welcome, Butch.

Ballack distributes to Drogba and again Given can’t control it, but Vukcevic is a step slow to reach the rebound. Looks promising up there, though.

Butch’s concerns aside, Cech came to play today—Tevez makes a lightning run through our defense and frees himself in the box, but Petr is up to it, tipping it wide for the corner. And if it’s not the mad Argentinian, it’s the Togolese captain: Adebayor muscles past JT and sends the ball upfield. It’s not clear if he intends a shot or a pass, but Tevez gets a touch, redirecting it to the near post. Cech is wrong footed, but manages to tap it up then fall on it. A brilliant save, and one that keeps us in the match.

Salomon, no! Hold that ball and be sure! We can’t give it away like that!

Danyil, the switch was there. He had the switch.

I know the switch was there, Butch. But he has to put it within ten yards of Simon. Come on.

Forty minutes in, Drogba chips a lovely lead for Vukcevic, but Simon can’t get the angle right for the shot, and it spins wide.

Unlucky, Simon, unlucky!

When I sit back down, Butch leans in. Unlucky my arse. Rust. I nod.

Moments later, Adebayor is again free in the box. Terry—for all his struggles at times this year—shows why he’s still a consummate pro back there, using his body to force Adebayor wide while Cech can recover. By the time Adebayor has an opening, we have three defenders in front of him and are able to clear it easily.

We go in at halftime locked in a sweaty, hard fought, scoreless draw. There’s not much else to say: it’s two heavyweights going toe-to-toe in the ring, and someone is going to blink first. Mixed metaphors be damned. As Butch winds down his tactical pointers, I grab Terry.

Your back OK?

Yeah, it’s good.

OK. Not your best half out there. We need better, John. You’re out there as long as you can go, but if you can’t, Ricky’s here. You up to it?

I’ve got it covered.

Alright then. I pause for a moment. I believe you. Let’s do this.

We looked good at the end of the first half, but it doesn’t carry over—only a last ditch toe poke from Alex keeps Adebayor from scoring from eight yards out, and we’re defending a long series of corners. Whatever Hughes said to them at halftime worked better than the tripe Butch and I came up with.

Then it shifts: Drogba gets loose for a moment, Vukcevic earns a corner with some fancy footwork outside the box, de Jong picks up a yellow, and over five to six minutes, we look more than a little dangerous. But the interlude is brief, and quickly we’re back to defending corners.

Drogba gets the ball near midfield, and spins towards the sideline. It leaves Lescott a half step behind, and he brings him down by his shirt for another card against City.

You know Butch, the way this is going, we’re going to be a man up. Only question is if it will be soon enough for us to do anything.

A couple minutes later, Gareth Barry picks up their third card.

Frank! You’re on for Ballack. Nicolas, got some magic for me today?

Oui, je pense.

Bien. Trés bien.

We face some danger when Paulo goes in for a sliding tackle on Shaun Wright-Phillips and misses horribly, freeing the winger on a long run. Luckily, Boswinga is there to clear the cross.

Paulo! If you’re going to make that play, you can’t miss. Can’t miss. I turn away from him. José, good cover!

The fouls have kept coming, but Stroud has swallowed his whistle.

Keith, Come on! Just because they have a card doesn’t mean they can’t foul! Those are fouls!

We have a great chance when Given wanders too far afield after a loose ball. He’s thirty yards out of his box, and Simon is closing in on him at full speed. Given gets to it first, but his kick rockets off of Vukcevic’s leg—it’s one of those moments where we’re at the mercy of a bounce. But instead of heading towards the City goal, it flies out of bounds.

Unlucky there, Butch. One bounce, we’re up.

They pull De Jong off for Nedum Onuoha, moving Zabaleta up to a midfield role. It makes them more defensive, and it feels as if Hughes is happy with the draw, even at home. But we can’t relax: there is just too much firepower up on that side of the pitch.

Alright, Nicolas, let’s go. Allons!

Simon, come here. Good job out there. It’s hard coming back to full speed, and you were dangerous. The rest will come, you know that.

He nods, but the grimace on his face betrays his frustration with his performance. I like the fire. Always have.

Anelka makes an immediate impact, getting touches on our first few moves after his entrance. Then Alex sends a long pass to Kalou, who has pushed up top with Drogba. Lescott is late and hacks him down, and I’m off the bench in a flash, prepared to yell but instead clapping my approval as Stroud has already reached for a card. That’s Lescott’s second yellow, and we have fifteen minutes with a man advantage.

Hughes is cursing up a storm to no avail. He takes off Robinho, who has been dangerous all day, preferring to leave the two strikers up front, but playing what looks like a 3-1-3 behind them, bringing on Vincent Kompany in a holding role. That means they will still be looking to counter if we push up too far, but we should be able to pressure them.

Danyil, Didier’s done. He’s gassed.

I know, I know. Question is if Didier gassed is better or worse than the options.

We need him next week, too.

OK, OK. Yury! Yury, you’re on. Midfield, on the left. Look for long crosses to bring Frank in, Nicolas and Salomon up top, yah? Good.

We take it to them in the final few minutes—some corners, some free kicks, a couple shots on goal, but we can’t break through and have to settle for the point.

Premier League

Chelsea v Manchester City, The City of Manchester Stadium

Man City 0 – Chelsea 0

MoM: Shaun Wright-Phillips (7.4) Chelsea Best: Paulo Ferreira (7.4)

Attenendance: 44,409. Referee: Keith Stroud.

[Makonnen]

As Chelsea's season winds down, we have three touchline reports in a row for them, one today and two tomorrow. I try to alternate, but the timing--and the end of season drama--happened to fall that way.

Chelsea.

Touchline Report, Chelsea v LOSC Lille Métropole. April 22, 2010.

11:19 AM

I’m wandering around this temporary stadium where LOSC plays. It’s still two years until their new home is ready, until then they’re trapped in this piece of ****. I finally peer through the right window: Drogba is getting a rubdown from Bryan English, one of our physio’s. I knock lightly and open the door.

He looks up. Coach?

Hey, Didier. You OK?

Bryan’s getting me back. I’ll be good today.

Good. A word? He nods. I’ve gone over all the stuff we have, but wanted to see what you could tell me about Gervinho. You’ve played with him a few times, yeah?

Didier nods. A while ago. He wasn’t part of the African Nations squad. But, yeah, last year. Some friendlies. World Cup qualifying.

And?

Drogba shrugs. Good player. Great technique. I’ll say one thing, yah? He’s fast.

Faster than Yury?

Didier laughs. Hell, no. Gervinho’s quick, gets up to speed well. But Yury or José, they’re faster. You worried?

I smile. Not as long as you score a brace.

Hat trick, coach, a hat trick.

Alright. Thanks.

11:43 AM

What the hell were we thinking, Butch?

About what?

Simon.

We were thinking he wouldn’t play again this year, that’s what we were thinking.

We were stupid.

Butch shrugs. Done is done.

He’s right, of course. Simon’s not eligible for this game, and Essien’s injured. So we’ll go back to Lampard up top with two strikers—Anelka and Drogba to start, but we have di Santo and Sanogo on the bench. I’d love to get them some extended time.

Just before the game, Butch asks if I’ve seen something—it’s a report from bbc.co.uk saying that Pako Ayestarán wants to come to Chelsea as a coach.

I look at Butch blankly. Who is he?

He’s a good coach. You know him—he was at Liverpool for a while.

Oh … goofy smile, yah? Yeah. And?

Butch shrugs.

Look, we’ll look at all that stuff after the season, OK? I’m here, you’re here. The rest … we’ll sit down, figure that out. I know Piet is retiring, I know that Demichelis is thinking about it. I know there are some folks left over that aren’t really on board with us. But, you like Pato … Pako, you like Pako?

Yeah, I do.

Alright, fair enough. But I already got you Dzeko. Don’t think just because you talk soft about someone, they’ll be here. He rolls his eyes at me. Anyhow, if we’re done with your man crushes, any thoughts about today? I talked with Didier, he thinks Gervinho’s good enough, but nothing we can’t handle.

Butch look up, shakes his head a little. It’s Hazard worries me. We’ll need to watch him. But, honestly Danyil, this should be easier than Celtic was, you know? Can’t take them for granted, but … He trails off.

4:02 PM

Eden Hazard has the first shot of the match, but it’s right at Cech.

We’re controlling the ball, but not getting shots. There’s a tentativeness, a caution to our play that I don’t like.

Come on, show some life out there!

Mikel does—a diving interception that knocks the ball straight upfield to a streaking Anelka. The break fizzles out, but it’s a better effort.

Good, Jon, good!

We finally get off some shots, but they aren’t terribly close until Ivanovic launches a long pass that finds Lampard racing through the middle of the box. Lampard’s header spins over the bar, but we’re beginning to control the game.

Half an hour in, Gervinho shows more than expected: a simple throw from their goalkeeper sends the young Ivoirian sprinting down the left side where he easily outpaces our defense until the very end when we force him out of bounds. Butch looks at me and I shrug.

He got faster, I guess. Jesus.

Our forwards are too isolated. Nicolas! Back by Frank! Didier—move to the middle.

A powerful header from Ivanovic frees Drogba on a streak upfield. He’s a step clear, but can’t get his feet quite right, allowing Brahim Thiam to catch up and knock the ball away.

Inches away there, inches.

Butch looks at me. That’s happening a lot lately, Danyil. You think we’re asking him to do too much?

I shake my head. His goals are down, but his play is up, you know? Scorings not everything.

It is to him.

No, it’s not. He wants to win. Although he did promise me a hat trick today.

Moments later, we break through. Mikel has the ball approaching midfield, looks up, and sees Frank pointing behind the defense. He send a low arc over them and Lampard catches it in stride, uses a knee to edge it ahead, then chips it over the onrushing keeper. It’s a classy goal, and our supporters roar in appreciation.

Just two minutes later, they’re screaming again when Zhirkov’s corner finds JT in the box, but Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang heads it off the line. The ball is sent back in by Mikel, and again Terry rises for it, this time cleanly directing it into the far corner with a snap of his neck. But the flag is up—he was clearly offsides and the goal won’t count.

Just before halftime, another offsides call saves us as Hazard was in on goal with a clear shot. The home fans whistle in derision.

I grab Drogba as he heads up the tunnel at the break. Gervinho got faster, eh? He laughs.

I never said he was slow.

No, but you also promised me a hat trick.

It’s coming.

They’re a bit subdued in the locker room.

Come on, let’s tack a few on, OK? We want to put this away, get some rest, get set for the next game. We’re doing better out there, just finish it out strong.

They’ve been mauling Lampard all game, and he’s been giving it back. He’s on a yellow, and I don’t like his body language—there’s a little too much frustration.

Franco! You’re in for Lampard. Up front, with Didier: control the air, get it down to him and Nicolas. I turn to the field. Daniele! You and Michael! I move my hands around each other. The hope is that by pulling Ballack back he can give me another fifteen minutes. But I tell Cork to get ready anyways.

Ten minutes from time, Drogba is free in the box but Mickaël Landreau finds a diving save from somewhere—it’s a magnificent effort, honestly. The ball runs free to di Santo, who corrals it, then send it to Ballack at the top of the box. We keep possession, and De Rossi sends a hard pass along the ground to di Santo, who is holding off two defenders. He slides between them, and fires a shot to the near post. Landreau is screened and reacts far too slowly: we’re up 2-0, and di Santo is mobbed by his teammates.

Clearly our new secret weapon, Butch.

Not so secret anymore.

No, not so much. Jack, you’re in! And Yaya, you too.

We close it out without event, and the locker room is jubilant afterwards.

Well done, men, well done. That’s exactly what we needed. Frank, Franco, both goals were well taken. Franco, we may just need to find room for you up here. There is laughter and applause. But the real heroes today were in back: JT, Bane, you were magnificent back there, all game long. The applause gets louder. OK, that’s it. Let’s get to the airport. Day off tomorrow, so we’ll see you all on Saturday.

EURO Cup Semifinal, Leg 1

LOSC Lille Métropole v Chelsea, Stadium Lille Métropole

LOSC 0 – Chelsea 2 (Frank Lampard 36, Franco di Santo 82)

MoM: Branislav Ivanovic (7.8)

Attendance: 18,086. Referee: Alfonso Pérez Burrull.

[Makonnen]

Chelsea

Touchline Report, Chelsea v Burnley. April 26, 2010.

1:43 PM

Burnley will be in the Premier League next season because, well, someone has to lurk around the bottom of the table, keeping their fans on edge with fears of relegation. We have this game, and then the second leg against LOSC. Then Villa and Everton. So, today is about rest.

We’re going with the 3M midfield: Mikel, Mateu, and Matic.

Their formation is weird: five in midfield, only three in the back, with Steven Fletcher and Matt Derbyshire up front. We need to go over or around that midfield bunch, but if we do so, there should be a few goals for us here.

3:42 PM

Danyil, are you sure?

Yes, I’m sure. It’s ****ing Burnley, Butch. Burnley. We need to rest the guys for the last half dozen games, OK.

All of them?

Not all of them. Didier, Alex, Nicolas, Bane.

Yeah, that’s not all of them.

It isn’t. Look, the front line will score. Yaya, Franco, with Simon getting back into shape behind them. And it’s not like our back line is bad—we’ll have José, Paulo, JT, and Ricky back there.

I don’t like it. Burnley’s struggling this year, but there are no bad teams in this league, Danyil.

********, Butch. That’s the kind of thing announcers say to keep people from changing the channel.

What about Fletcher?

He’s good, yeah, he’s good. But … Butch, it’s ****ing Burnley.

7:08 PM

Look, I don’t have a lot to say here. We’re the better team: this game should be three points on a platter for us. Go out there, bring it back. I’m quiet. There’s an awkward pause, and Butch starts in after a glance my way.

But remember: these men are paid a lot of money to play this game. You need to work hard out there, hard for each other and hard for the club. You’ve got tens of thousands of people who came here to see you play Chelsea football today. It’s on you to not let them down.

I wander out to the pitch as he goes on and on. It’s ****ing Burnley.

8:02 PM

Less than a minute in, Mikel gives up a free kick just outside our penalty box.

Jon! Think! Come on!

Di Santo clears it with a strong header, but it falls right to Matt Derbyshire. Luckily, his shot is wayward and we have some time to settle down. A minute later, Vukcevic is given far too much space at the edge of the box. He takes a touch, looks for the pass, takes another, and then lets loose with a rocket that easily beats Tom Heaton as the crowd explodes.

Butch, I think he may be healthy again.

We’re fouling too often, but look comfortable aside from that.

Yaya! Marc! Settle down! A little less now!

Vukcevic is unlucky not to have a brace five minutes later—a free kick from thirty five yards hits the left post hard and square. It bounces back to Carvalho just outside the six yard box, but his volley is easily caught by Heaton.

Unlucky, Simon! Keep going!

Twenty minutes in, Burnley hits us on the break. It’s a long pass that falls to Fletcher between Carvalho and JT. Fletcher’s first touch is magnificent, and he never has to break stride, staying in front of the defenders racing back behind him. Cech comes out, but he can’t reach the drive which rolls into the net by the far post. We’re level.

Jesus, Butch, what was that?

I told you Fletcher had some skill.

Whatever. I am not happy.

We can’t get much traction until Boswinga is loose in the box after a free kick, but Heaton again comes up with a good save.

Well, Danyil, now what?

I stare at him for a moment. Patience, dear Wilkins. We’ll get another couple today. I try to look away before I grimace. It’s possible that we do, but I’m not seeing quite where it’s going to come from.

Just before halftime, they show me: Boswinga crosses it into the box, and Yaya splits two defenders to get his head to it. It easily beats Heaton, and we’re up again.

See, Butch, nothing to it. I don’t feel nearly that confident.

We go in at halftime with the lead.

Look, we just need to close this out. We need to keep switching the ball—remember that. Whenever we switch the play, they get caught out of position. Just don’t get careless, OK? It’s Burnley. Just don’t get careless.

We’re almost caught napping five minutes into the second half when Derbyshire lets loose a shot from a horrible angle outside the box. It’s a screamer and has enough spin on it that Cech has to dive at full stretch to turn it around the post.

We trade small periods of dominance. I’m not comfortable.

Butch, we need some more experience out there.

No, really?

Jesus, Butch, give it a rest. I know you didn’t want it, but we have a game to win here.

Calm down, Danyil. We’re winning now. Frank’s ready.

I take a breath. OK, thanks.

On the hour, Sanogo’s drive from outside the box is blocked by Heaton, who scrambles to his feet just in time to tip Vukcevic’s follow out of bounds. I wheel in the technical area, clapping my hands. So close.

Frank, you’re in for Matic. Run the show, bring it home, OK?

Lampard’s entrance seems to change the team—the connection from Mateu to him to Simon is very strong, and the ball is staying at the correct end of the field.

Vukcevic is playing magnificently and again elicits a diving stop from Heaton, this one from a breakaway. Moments later, Heaton has to dive at full stretch to keep Sanogo from his second header on an empty net. We’re dominating at last. The youngsters have done well, but I want to close this out strong.

Salomon, you’re on for di Santo. Take the left flank, tell Simon to spread wider. Keep it under control, but take your chances, OK?

Ten minutes from time, they free Fletcher again, but this time his first touch is too strong and Cech is out to cover. Simon is gassed—he is still finding his match form, so I bring Sturridge on for him.

Ten minutes, Butch.

Five minutes out, Mikel sends a fantastic cross in to the far post, where Ferreira is waiting, unmarked. His header goes off the bar, leaving him holding his head in his hands.

That was it, Butch.

What?

That was the clincher right there. The crowd roars, and I turn around just in time to see Fletcher celebrating. The scoreboard shows it all: the rebound from Ferreira’s header went all the way to midfield, where Derbyshire controlled it, and found Fletcher streaking down the middle of the pitch. He avoids Petr’s charge and deftly passes it inside the near post.

What? You’re kidding me. Butch, how does that happen? We’re dominating, and we give up two points on that?

We have two more chances: a screamer from distance from Lampard that finds the side netting, and a mishit volley from Sanogo. But it’s not enough to capture the points. The locker room is silent when I come in.

This one. My voice cracks. I’m furious. This one’s on me. I took them too lightly, and you followed my lead. You know who should have coached this game? Butch should have. He was concerned about Burnley from the get-go. So, Butch, you were right. I pause, controlling myself best I can. José, Yaya, Simon, great games. The three of you went about your business tonight like we all should have, like I should have. But this one’s on me. That means you can feel bad about it until you go to sleep tonight—which sure as **** better be well before curfew. Then you sleep. And you forget it. And you prepare for the final six games of the season. That’s all we have left. I pause, trying to see if more self-flagellation is needed. No, I think we’re good. OK, that’s all.

Premier League

Chelsea v Burnley, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 2 (Simon Vukcevic 3, Yaya Sanogo 44) – Burnley 2 (Steven Fletcher 22 85)

MoM: Fletcher (8.8) Chelsea’s Best: (Sanogo 7.7)

Attendance: 37,928. Referee: Mark Clattenburg.

[Makonnen]

Chelsea

Touchline Report, Chelsea v LOSC Lille Métropole. April 29, 2010.

9:23 AM

You sure, Piet?

I’m sure Danyil. Ik ben een oude man. Het is tijd.

OK. Ik begrijp. When?

I’ll finish out the season. Go to South Africa. Mid-July sometime.

Well, we’ll miss you. I’ll miss you. You’ve done a lot for me through the years. You need anything—anything—you let me know, yeah?

Thank you, Danyil. Je bent een goed mens.

No, I just don’t forget what you’ve done.

Piet smiles, slowly raises himself from his seat, and heads out of my office. He’s a legend in the game, Piet de Visser is. Coached in Holland for almost thirty years, and got me more opportunities than I can remember. I’ve trusted his scout reports this year more than anyone else on staff—nothing against Robson or de los Santos or any of the others. But I’ve known Piet most of my adult life.

I’ll miss him. I pick up the phone.

Hey. Ja.

Just talked with Piet. No, no change. I know. You’ll send something? Ja. Bye.

2:43 PM

Full on youth tonight, eh Danyil?

We’re two goals up, Butch. We’re at home. We have three league games in a week after this. He frowns. It’s not Burnley, Butch.

He still frowns. I try not to let my exasperation show. What do you want us to do?

I want to start with experience up front. More than that, I want a first team back line. No messing about back there.

I stare at the names on the squad sheet. How about this. I was talking with Piet this morning, and you know who he brought up? Butch shakes his head. McEachran. So how about this. McEachran starts. I raise my hand before he can protest. McEachran starts, but we go with a back four of Paulo, Yury, Bane, and Alex. And up front, Kalou, Sturridge, and Anelka. That’s a strong side there.

He pauses, rubs his head, then nods. Yeah, I’m good with that.

One more thing. Butch looks up, unhappy with what he anticipates. No, nothing big. But I want Aréoloa on the bench, not Turnbull. Cech won’t get hurt, and I want the kid to get a sniff of the top team.

Petr might get hurt. He’s not superman, you know.

Yeah, I know. But you know what? I’ll take my chances with Alphonse.

Ross won’t like it.

Like I really care about that.

7:44 PM

A minute in, Butch and I are both off our bench screaming. LOSC’s Alix Benoit sends a long cross towards Gervinho on the left and he’s through. He has an open path to goal, and visions of disaster are flashing before my eyes: a goal here and anything could happen. The young Ivorian touches it in front of him but it rolls a little off to his right—just enough for Bane to catch up and block the shot before he ever gets through on goal.

Butch and I sit back down and try to appear calmer than we feel.

Thank you, Butch.

What?

For talking sense into me about the back line. Thanks.

LOSC clearly has a plan to knock us off the ball. Literally: they are coming into challenges hard, leading with their hips. Luckily, Antonio Salvador is calling a tight game, and the whistle is active.

Just shy of the half hour mark, Sturridge finds another gear and bursts by François Clerc on the left wing. He has time to pick a target, and lofts a cross towards the six yard box. Both Anelka and Kalou are there and both jump. It comes off Kalou’s head and easily beats Mickaël Landreau to the far post. We’re up 1-0, the crowd at Stamford Bridge is ecstatic, and that should essentially put us through to the final of the EURO Cup.

The group behind our bench is in full voice: And that’s why we love Salomon Kalou! I can’t help but turn and give them a smile.

A minute later, Sturridge almost does it again with another good cross, but Anelka is beaten to the ball by Landreau. We’re in control.

Butch, you think he can play wide out there reliably?

Butch shrugs. No. Not really. He’s got to be up front.

Yeah, me too. But those were good.

Just before halftime, De Rossi is left alone thirty yards out. He fires a shot that never gets more than a foot off the ground before it hits the back of the net: Landreau never has a chance. It’s a great goal.

OK, Butch, who do we take off first.

Daniele. We need him for Villa.

Fair enough. You talk to him at halftime? He nods.

The halftime speech is about history and destiny, about making sure the hard work and sweat of the last nine months doesn’t go to waste. It’s a little over the top, but it’s also true.

We trade goals in the first ten minutes of the second half: Anelka adds a powerful header from a corner, while the Gabonese attacker with the endless name—Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang—scores on a lovely breakaway, just barely beating our offsides trap. So, no clean sheet, but still no real trouble.

The fans spend the last twenty minutes of the match singing. Which is good, because nothing much happens on the field.

We will face Inter Milan in the final, who lost 2-0 to AZ, but still won 4-3 on aggregate. Inter. Visions of Maicon, Cambiasso, Balotelli, and the rest flash in front of me. And, of course, Samuel Eto’o. So at least I will have a chance to chat with him about the Cameroon team for the World Cup.

But that is for another day: today, the fans exit Stamford Bridge still singing, and the players are joyous. They deserve it.

EURO Cup Semifinal (2nd Leg)

Chelsea v LOSC Lille Métropole, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 3 (Salomon Kalou 28, Daniele De Rossi 41, Nicolas Anelka 53) – LOSC 1 (Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang 55) [Chelsea win 5-1 on aggregate]

MoM: Daniel Sturridge (8.1)

Attendance: 38,961. Referee: Antonio Salvador.

[Makonnen]

Saint George

April 21, 2010

Ethio Premiere,

Saint George v Ethiopan Coffee Sport Club, Addis Ababa Stadium

St. George 3 (Mohammed Abera 21, Gorge Owino 41, Ochan Bayalegne 67) – Ethiopian Coffee 0

MoM: Eshetu Mohammed (8.4)

Attendance: 4101. Referee: Zekarias Fega Girma.

April 28, 2010

Ethio Premiere

Dedebit Football Club v Saint George, Nyala Stadium

Dedebit 0 – St. George 4 (Bereket Addisu 35 65 80, Fitsum Kebede 45)

MoM: Addisu (9.6)

Attendance: 542. Referee: Yohannes Kayira.

Soccer Ethiopia! Episode 2. May 1, 2010.

The Ethio/techno mix fades out, and the camera focuses on an older man, heavyset and heavily balding. He smiles nervously, and speaks directly into the lens.

“Welcome to Soccer Ethiopia! We’re back for a second episode! I’m your host this week, Samuel Getachew from the Addis Ababa Soccer Messenger. This week, we’ll talk live via satellite with Bekele Araya from Cienfuegos, Cuba where Saint George take on the Cuban hosts in just a few hours. We’ll also have extended highlights from the past two weeks of games in the EPL and ENL, and, since it’s the start of a new month, we’ll end the show with our monthly awards!”

The lens pulled back, showing a younger man seated across from Samuel. The two bore a close similarity, although the other man was noticeably fitter and his hairline had yet to recede.

Samuel continued, “First, however, we have Jereymia Getachew, also from the Addis Soccer Messenger who will be providing us with this episode’s Media Thoughts. Jereymia?”

The younger man smiled. “Thank you, Ato Samuel, and hello to all of our viewers.”

The camera gently moved, zooming in on the younger Getachew brother. “Last week, Saint George again proved themselves to be leaders in Ethiopian soccer off the pitch as well as on when they announced a formal relationship with the team from Kombolcha Textiles. Kombolcha sit at the bottom of the National League, having managed only four wins on the year.”

“At first this partnership, which joins the top team in the top league with the last place team in the bottom league may make very little sense. But looking more closely, we see the kind of vision that V has shown as the Ethiopian game has grown. V will pay Kombolcha a fee rumored to be in the neighborhood of two-and-a-half thousand dollars per year—for perspective, that is over half of Kombolcha’s annual expense for player salaries.”

“In return, Saint George will be able to send players to Kombolcha on loan. These players will, in all likelihood, move directly into the first team of the part-timers, giving Saint George another outlet for their younger players to receive time on the field.”

“This is the first such partnership between a major club in Ethiopia and one of the true minnows of the second division, but I would suspect we will see many copycat moves over the next few months. Saint George, however, continues to be first.” He pauses and holds the camera’s gaze for a moment. “Back to you, Ato Samuel.”

“Thank you Jereymia. When we come back, live from Cuba, a conversation with Bekele Aray of the Ethiopian Soccer Free Press.”

As the red light that indicated the camera was live went off, a buzz of activity overtook the small studio.

“Do we have Bekele?”

“Yes, on my cell.”

“On your cell? What good is that going to do? We need him on the other line, the one that Britu wired through the sound board.”

“Do we have a receiver there? He says we have to call him.”

“Give me the damn phone. Bekele’s just trying to save money. Give it. Bekele? Yeah, it’s Issa. Get off this line and call us back at the number she gave you, OK? NOW. We’re back on in—how long?—two minutes. NOW.”

A moment later, another voice “Got him. We’re good.”

While all this was happening, a young woman was fitting Samuel with a headset and testing out the volume. “Good here, too.”

“OK, great, we’re back live on Jereymia in in five … four … three … two … one.”

The younger man grinned again. “Welcome back to Soccer Ethiopia! As most of you know, the draw for Saint George’s opponent in the first qualifying round of The Immigrant’s Cup was held last week and saw V paired with lowly Cuban side Cienfuegos.” He glanced down at a stack of papers on the table.

“For those of our viewers unfamiliar with them, a little background: Cienfuegos participates this year in the Cruyff Conference of the North American Division II. Last year, in the Beckenbauer Conference, they only managed 2 victories in 22 league games. They are a team of youngsters, led by Pablo Cárdenas who was appointed head coach after spending less than a week as an assistant last season. I’m told that we have Ato Bekele on the phone live from the stadium, so we’ll go to him now.”

Samuel looked over at his younger brother a little uncertainly. The screen was replaced with a map of Cuba highlighting the city located on the southern coast of central Cuba. A crackly audio connection was heard behind the elder Getachew’s voice.

“Hello, Ato Bekele, are you there?”

“Hello, Ato Samuel! I am here, live from Estadio Luis Pérez Lozano in Cienfuegos, Cuba.” The Spanish escaped his lips with an exaggerated accent, sing-song and with too long of a trill on the r’s.

“Excellent! Ato Bekele, what can you tell us about the mood of the Saint George side as they prepare for the game later today?”

“The team looks confident, in fact, if anything, there is a growing concern here that they are too confident. The home side looks well ready, and they certainly will be searching for the upset tonight.”

“Have you spoken to Ato Tadesse about the game?”

A slight pause, as if such a consideration would be beneath him. “No, Ato Samuel, I can’t say that I have. I did, however, watch the Cienfuegos practice earlier today, and I must say I was impressed. They have a young defender especially, name of Cristobal Torriente, who looks to be the best player on the field tonight for them.”

“Can you tell us anything about how Cienfuegos are likely to play tonight?”

“I can tell you that they’ve done their homework: their coach spoke of the danger posed by Bereket Addisu, and I would expect Torriente to have the job of stopping Addisu tonight.”

“Do you really think an upset is possible?”

“Sure, it happens in football all the time. And just between you, me, and our viewers, I must say that Ato Tadesse, no matter his dominance of national matches, seems to struggle on the international stage.”

“Thank you, Ato Bekele. We look forward to seeing you back here in at our home studio later this week, and we look forward to your reports after the game!”

The older man began to remove his headset, then looked to his left suddenly, stopped and turned to the camera, and exclaimed shakily, “We’ll be back right after this on Soccer Ethiopia!”

May 1, 2010

Immigrant’s Cup First Qualifying Round

Fútbol Club Cienfuegos v Saint George, 5 de Septiembre

Cienfuegos 0 – St. George 4 (Bereket Addisu 51 61, Fitsum Kebede 70, Ochan Bayalegne 73)

MoM: Addisu (9.3)

Attendance: 862. Referee: Miriam Simos.

[Makonnen]

Rodengo Saiano

Success in Sardinia. May 2, 2010.

“What do you think, Roberto?” I slide him the piece of paper as he and Matteo lean forward to see what I’ve written out. Their eyebrows go up. Roberto leans back, scratches under his chin, and nods.

“Mi piace. Is good. Is new.”

We’re trying a new few things—Esposito needs a day off, and I want to see how Colucci plays as a true midfielder. He doesn’t know it, but it’s essentially a tryout for next year for him: if we’re keeping a thirty-eight year old in the squad, he needs to bring something special to the table.

We’re in Villacidro, the home town of our next to last opponent of the year, Villacidrese. Or, hopefully our next to last opponent of the year. In any case, Villacidro is nestled at the edge of the inland mountains in the southern third of the island of Sardinia.

One of the advantages of a two week interval since the last game is that we drove here—sixteen hours on the roads, including a five hour ferry from Piombino to Olbia. It was a long trip, but not wholly unpleasant.

We bought a dozen loaves of bread, and fed the gulls on the voyage. I dislike the noise they make, the constant greedy demands that begin to throb in my ears in concert with the engines. But I enjoy their patterns against the sky, the black tips of their wings drawing spiral traces against the blue as the white blurs of their bodies wheel and dive. I moved to an upper deck to watch the birds and the players.

The team was loose. There were card games on the bus, and here there is a comic scene as Isma tries without success to feed the birds direct from his hand. The problem is that, even at full stretch, the bread is still far too close to the boat and the other bodies. De Pascalis stands next to him, a tall, thin scarecrow with birds swooping down all around him, hovering just above his outstretched arm to grab the bread directly from his hand. He keeps looking at Isma and laughing. Isma tries jumping, but of course that does nothing except momentarily clear the air of the winged scavengers.

Later, as we hit the open sea, there were rumors of dolphins but I didn’t see any.

We arrived in Villacidro three days ago, and have had plenty of time to recover and acclimate ourselves to the conditions here. The comunale is set on a steep hill with roads falling away towards the inland valley on one side and rising towards postcard perfect foothills on the other. The field itself is of course level, but the slant of the surrounding walls lends an impression of one side being downhill from the other.

It’s a typical community stadium in Italy with political posters and spray painted slogans dripping slowly down the outside of concrete walls and space for maybe a few thousand spectators. There is an arch at the eastern corner that opens out onto the main road leading through the town which contains whitewashed buildings painted soft oranges and pinks, lemon yellows and eggshell whites that catch the sun, making everything a shade too bright.

The view when entering through the arch is lovely: the pristine green of the field, mowed to show alternating strips of dark and lighter green and beyond the stands, the hills covered with a dark green scrub. Both teams are out there now, and the seats look just under half full. Not a bad turnout at all, given that the only interest here is whether either team will escape the nightmare of the relegation playoff.

Six minutes in, Isma feeds Dal Bosco just outside the box. He tries a curling shot at the near post. It takes a deflection then bangs off the woodwork for a corner. In the ensuing play, Pietro Maglio is fouled just to the side of the box. Colucci steps up to take the kick and floats it gently across the mouth of the goal. Marco Zentil is unmarked by the back post and sends it home with a powerful header, putting us ahead with the game barely underway.

I hear a familiar groan from the local faithful: like our fans back in Rodengo, they are all too used to occurrences like this.

As always, when Isma touches the ball good things happen for us: neither Dal Bosco nor Colucci can convert their chances, but it is increasingly clear to Roberto and me that he has to be the focal point of our attack.

I’m happy at halftime that we maintain the lead. I grab Isma at the end of the interval, and let him know that he needs to keep getting touches, keep looking to move the ball forward. He has taken to the trequartista role splendidly, and is developing a real feel for how to find the space between the defenders.

Unfortunately for us, Villacidrese comes out on fire in the second half. It’s nail-biting stuff—a fingertip save from Pedersoli, an open shot on goal they screw far over the bar, multiple corner kicks that we are desperately scrambling to clear.

Finally, we break. Mattia Cordeddu, who has been a terror all afternoon, gets loose in the box with fifteen minutes left in the game, and heads home a good cross from the wing, easily beating Pedersoli. We’re back to level, and it’s no more than the hosts deserve.

Roberto and I are resigned—a tie here leaves us still in control of our destiny in next week’s game, where a victory against Valenzana should close our year clear of the playoffs. The problem is that we have the talent to be so much better than this. Every time we talk about it—every time I think about it—I hear echoes of Cape Town. Is there something I do that prevents teams from living up to their potential? And, if so, doesn’t that mean this is fundamentally the wrong line of work?

And then, with under five minutes to go, Isma and Nicola play a quick give and go in midfield that ends with the Spaniard sprinting free of his man. He moves to his left, and fires a shot low towards the post. Their keeper dives and I can’t see what happens until he gets up, head down, and picks the ball out of the back of the net.

I can’t help myself: I scream, a long, loud sound of release that comes from deep in my chest. The players give me odd looks but they are smiling, and Isma stops by for a hug on his way back to midfield. I resist the temptation to ruffle his hair: he is small, but not after all a child.

Serie C2/A

Villacidrese v Rodengo Saiano, Comunale Villacidrese

Villacidrese 1 (Mattia Cordeddu 73) – Rodengo 2 (Marco Zentil 9, Isma 85)

MoM: Isma (8.3)

Attendance: 977. Referee: Giovanni Quartarone.

# # #

“We did it Leti, we did it!”

He’s so happy. I can hear it pouring out of his voice, an exhausted joy that cannot be contained by the static filled connection. He mentions details—plays, players, formations—that I can barely hear, but I don’t interrupt. I understand the end: a last minute goal by this small Spanish forward that seems to be his favorite.

I can’t help but smile.

I surrender, letting his happiness carry me along. There is even something infectious about it, a sense of joining into it, some distant waves of joy lapping against my exterior, trying to find a crevice through which they can enter.

Either there is none, or the waves are too weak: it’s been a hard time. Nombi is getting worse, which seems unimaginable. Each time I see her, less of her remains and each time I am convinced it is the last or that, at least, she has reached some sort of a minimal plateau. But, no. Is this how ghosts are truly made? A slow fading from this world, a loss of half of their substance every time until what remains is indistinguishable from smoke?

This week, she could barely move. I had to feed her, holding her head while she sipped slowly at the soup, a small dribble making its way down her chin until I dab at it with a well worn napkin, frayed at the edges. She only said a few words, even coughing seemed more than she could handle. I cried openly as I cleaned up, my tears joining the trickle of rusty water. I don’t think she noticed.

The lightness in Terry’s voice pushes all that away, offers a promise of sanctuary. It is not sanctuary itself, but right now, a promise is all I need.

We hang up and I tap the keyboard for a few minutes, pausing at the final step for several seconds. The decision feels larger than it should, like there is an implied threat I am somehow missing. But it also feels like what I need.

I click once, sit back, and then forward an e-mail.

Terry –

See the attached. I arrive in Bolzano 17 May, leave the 25, hopefully just before we play in the final of the FA Cup.

I miss your happiness.

-L.

[Makonnen]

Back to two a day posting as I try to catch up. I really think it all becomes easier once each story has its own thread, in the meantime, thanks for sticking with it.

Chelsea

Touchline Report, Chelsea v Aston Villa. May 2, 2010.

12:52 PM

Alright, Butch, no more pussy-footing around. We need to push hard every game from here on out, yeah? He nods. Any word on Essien?

He’s close, but he’s out today.

OK, that’s what we expected anyways. So, Frank to midfield, spread Simon and Salomon out wide? He nods again. Saving all your words for the prematch speech, huh? Take it away. It’s all yours. Just remember it’s JT’s 300th for the club. See, we’re switching roles here, I’m reminding you.

He rolls his eyes. And nods.

3:58 PM

Last time we played Villa, Gabby Agbonlahor was out. He’s healthy today, so we have a bit more of a challenge on our hands. It’s a hard team to get a real feel for, honestly: Ashley Young, Nigel Reo-Coker, Stiliyan Petrov, and James Milner are a very solid midfield, but the back line is a bit soft. And Friedel in goal is fine, but he’s not really a brick wall back there.

Two minutes in, Kalou takes the opening kick, drives past Wilfred Bouma on the right, and lofts a cross into the box where Drogba heads it off the post.

Butch, that’s a sign of things to come.

A day of near misses? He’s grinning, so I know he’s just trying to get under my skin.

**** you, Butch. I don’t smile. Figure I can keep him guessing.

A minute later, we’re in danger: John Carew dances through the box untouched, and passes back to Petrov who fires a hard one that Cech controls.

Come on out there! You have to get him off the ball, and you have to close him down! I think I’m pointing at the wrong player for each command, but they get the idea.

Ten minutes in, Lampard has to limp off the field for treatment.

Mike! Mike! What are you seeing out there? From over here, all Cuéllar and Petrov are doing is fouling my guys. You have to protect them, Mike!

Predictably when I do this, O’Neill starts complaining to the fourth official. Whatever.

In the next ten minutes, Agbonlahor gets free twice: once exploding past JT with his pace, the other time bursting free after a nice pass from midfield. He misses one shot wide and Cech saves the other. Still, not what I want to see.

Alex! JT! One of you has to stop him. It’s that simple! The next time he has the ball near our box, he’s swarmed by three players. Better. Now let’s keep him from getting close.

Twenty-one minutes in, Frank sends a shot from thirty yards out wide of goal. Butch, was that our first shot on goal?

Yeah.

And how far into the game are we?

Twenty, maybe twenty-five.

I sigh and look up towards the heavens. This needs to change.

Moments later, Agbonlahor is free again, but Cech parries the shot. The ball falls to James Milner, who drills it home and starts to celebrate along with the home crowd, but the flag is up—and rightfully so. Good job, Mike! Good call! We take the free kick, and Simon sends a beautiful long diagonal pass to Kalou who is streaking down the right side. Before I can stand up, it’s not needed: Kalou’s first touch is too hard, and Brad Guzan manages to beat him to the ball just inside the box.

Damn, Butch, look at that. We can attack a little. Kalou’s run seems to wake us up a bit: for the first time all day, we hold the ball in the attacking third. The danger of pushing the attack is immediately apparent, however as Agbonlahor gets the ball on a counter and sets up Nigel Reo-Coker for a screming shot from distance. We only remain scoreless thanks to an acrobatic, leaping save from Cech that tips the ball over the bar.

Jesus, Butch. You ever see a keeper play like that?

Not close-up, no.

Butch, you keep an ear out, OK? If he ever gets bored here, we’re ****ed. At least for the next few years.

Kalou and Vukcevic are taking control of the wings, and it finally pays off: Salomon is taken off the ball by Bouma, but he keeps heading to goal. The deflection falls to Lampard who is trailing the play and sends it straight to Drogba. Didier turns, sees the streaking Kalou and, a simple through ball later, he’s behind the defense and easily beats Guzan.

The place goes quiet, other than the Kalou chant from our supporters. I still can’t figure out how they changed the middle verse, but the ending remains superb: and that’s why we love Salomon Kalou.

Butch, you know he’s staying, yeah?

We go into halftime with the lead, but only because again we duck a dangerous situation from Agbonlahor.

We have this, gentlemen. We have this. Close it out, and someone has to stop Agbonlahor, OK? I’m sick and tired of seeing put Petr under pressure. We keep him under wraps, we win this easily.

The second half doesn’t open so well: we are saved first by Zhirkov who clears a corner off the line after Cech was beat, and then moments later a fantastic intervention by JT stops a Villa break.

Butch, we are dancing on the edge of a knife here.

It’s more of the same: Villa has most of the shots, but a mix of Peter Cech and their wastefulness keeps us ahead. Didier! Stay central! Up top, yes!

Just after the hour, Drogba and Kalou combine marvelously, but Guzan tips it wide.

Danyil, you know how I didn’t like you’re whole thing about scoring the second goal.

Yah?

We need that second goal.

Twenty minutes from time, we grab it: Vukcevic’s corner is met by Alex at the near post, and the dependable Brazilian pounds it by the far post with a nice header.

Butch, we may do this yet.

Michael, Nicolas both of you are in. No more wingers—Michael, back with Frank, Nicolas, link up with Didier. Daniele! Let Michael make the plays from back there, help Jon on defending. Keep the lead.

As the game runs down, we hit our stride and only great saves by Guzan keep us from adding two in the last five minutes. But I’m more than happy to get out of here with the 2-0 win.

Premier Division

Aston Villa v Chelsea, Villa Park

Aston Villa 0 – Chelsea 2 (Salomon Kalou 40, Alex 71)

MoM: Simon Vukcevic (8.1)

Attendance: 42,640. Referee: Mike Jones.

You there?

Of course.

You see it?

Of course.

And?

And … you won. Just like I told you you would this morning.

I sigh. He’s exasperating. Look, rumor is you know your footie, yeah? Did you see it? They had, what twice as many shots as we did? Twice as many corners?

More.

So how did we win?

You have Petr.

It’s that simple?

It’s that simple.

We better keep him. Gotta’ run, the media awaits. I’ll be in late tonight, don’t stay up.

You know I will.

I know.

[Makonnen]

Saint George

It Will Be Cold. May 2, 2010.

He sat at his desk, the morning sun flooding the office in warmth, staring at the paperwork in front of him. It was a lot of money for Saint George—nearly as much as Ocean Boys paid for Mapunda. But Mapunda was a backup, not needed by the club. This was Owino. Some thought he had been the best player on the side, game in and game out. And there was no replacement: Demeska would join in the fall, but he was nowhere near the player Owino was.

But it was a lot of money, and Owino was not young anymore.

He leaned back in his chair, stared at the ceiling. Here were the questions: could they win domestically for three years without Owino? Could they find a quality holding midfielder in that time? Well. Maybe we can’t go undefeated without him. But we can win.

A knock on the door, and the Kenyan midfielder entered.

“Gorge, thank you for coming in.”

The Kenyan international nodded nervously, and took a seat across from his manager. “Is it done?”

Makonnen looked at the papers one last time, took out an old fountain pen stained with use and age, and dipped it into a glass inkwell on the corner of his desk. He scrawled across the bottom of the page, then blew gently on it and looked at Owino. “Now it is.”

Owino swallowed hard. “That’s … that’s great. Thank you, Ato Tadesse.” Makonnen smiled: Owino was not Ethiopian, so his use of the honorific was more than cultural instinct.

The coach leaned forward, bringing his thumbs beneath his chin. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

Owino stood up, walked over to the window that looked over the stadium. He spoke slowly, his voice tinged with both sadness and an underlying excitement. “I am. It will be cold. Do you know what the high was yesterday in Vancouver? Twelve. It will be very cold.” He turned to face the manager, the smile on his face turning serious. “But it’s a chance to play on a bit of a larger stage, you know? And I have some family in the area. Cousins. Or something like cousins.”

Makonnen nodded. “I don’t think there is a corner of this globe where we don’t have something like cousins.”

Owino laughed gently. “Tadesse, you are building something great here. I am very proud to have been part of it.”

Makonnen raised his hands. “No, Gorge, it is us who are proud to have worked with you. And we will all be watching you over there, too. Just keep playing like you can, keep working, keep being an example and a leader, and it will be a great success.”

Owino nodded. “Thank you. I will. Is there anything else? For the transfer?”

“No, not really. Vancouver will be contacting you later today about the travel details. Once I fax this to them, it goes into effect tonight. As of tomorrow, you will officially be a Vancouver …” He paused, glancing at the papers underneath. “Whitecap. Vancouver Whitecap. Gorge, what is a whitecap?”

Owino shrugged. “It has something to do with the ocean. I’m not sure. The top of waves? Something like that. They tried to explain it to me.” They both laughed, then Makonnen shuffled the papers together and stood up.

“You can come with me to send it, we’ll get confirmation, then you should go and get your stuff from your locker. If you’re still here, I’d be honored if you sat behind the bench on Wednesday.”

Owino smiled. “I’d like that. I would like to see them lift the cup.”

Makonnen shrugged slightly. “I would like to see that, too. We have a good chance. But on any day, anything can happen.” Owino shook his head. “Not tomorrow. We’ll do it. You’ll do it.”

They went down the hall, and listened to the digital dissonance as the fax was sent. Tadesse walked his departing player to the exit and paused.

“Gorge, will you join me in a short prayer?” Owino nodded, and the two men stepped out into the sunshine and moved s few steps from the door, bowing their heads in silence before Makonnen spoke in a low, steady rhythm. “Dear Lord, please continue to watch over us, continue to shower your blessings on us, and continue to provide Gorge with your holy light and your protection as he starts this new voyage. Keep him close to your bosom as he travels halfway across the world, and protect him and keep him healthy on the playing fields and in the cities of Canada and America. In your name, in the name of your son, and in the name of the sacrifice he made, we pray.”

A pause, then two voices. “Amen.”

[Makonnen]

Chelsea

Touchline Report, Chelsea v Everton. May 5, 2010

12:40 PM

Everton have been shockingly good this year, and are ahead of us in third place. It’s been a mix of Tim Cahill, strong defense from Joseph Yobo and Sylvain Distin, good play from Marouane Fellaini, and more Tim Cahill. And to score against them, we have to beat Tim Howard. Not an easy game. Jô is injured, taking away a potent weapon from their bench, which is something.

We have two league games left. If we win today, we will change places with them behind Tottenham and Aresenal. Next week is Wigan which should be three points as well. If we win both games, we have an outside shot at second. First things first, though.

7:47 PM

We give them three corners in the first three minutes. It’s not the start I wanted.

José! Come on, find a pass.

Instead, he finds a foul. We have had three touches in seven minutes.

Didieeeeer! YES!

Totally against the run of play, some magic. Simon knocks it up the right flank, and Yobo looks to have it easily covered, but Drogba pressures him and comes away with the ball. He sprints to the byline, cuts in, and holds off both Yobo and Distin, muscling his way to the edge of the six. His finish leaves Howard without a prayer, and we’re up eleven minutes in.

How about that, Butch? How ****ing about that?

Drogba looks like a youngster out there: another fantastic move inside their area leads to a shot by Mikel that spins wide.

Butch, this feel like one will do it?

He laughs. Honestly, no, no it doesn’t.

Yeah, me neither.

Twice, they’ve freed Jack Rodwell inside the six, but twice his passes have been intercepted by Cech. We need another goal, or a drastically different defense. Either would be good, but the goal seems more likely.

Lampard comes close, skimming the top of the bar just under a half hour in. We’re finally retaining the ball in the middle third, which allows our defense to hold the back line better. It still doesn’t feel like one goal will be enough, though.

Boswinga finds Frank inside the box, but his shot sails far over goal. José! Nice! He’ll hit that next time, keep finding it.

You know, Butch, you gotta’ love one thing about Frank.

Yeah, what’s that?

He’ll keep shooting. He does, and he comes closer, making Howard tip the ball out of bounds for a corner.

Just before halftime, Cech has to outjump Tim Cahill far outside his box to make a desperate clearance.

See, things like that. That’s why we need that second goal. We head in with the single strike separating the two teams.

I grab Butch just before he heads into the locker room. Butch, I need to check on Alex. Tell them we’re doing better, but they need to watch the second half. No letting up, I want fire in their bellies and passion in their balls, OK?

He agrees. I make my way down to the trainer’s room where Alex is getting his thigh looked at.

Alex, you OK?

He looks at Carter, who catches my eye and frowns.

Can he go? This, to Rick.

He can go, but I don’t know how long.

I kneel down, grab the big Brazilian’s shoulder. Alex, how about it?

I can go, Coach. I can go.

OK. Give me what you can—but let me know if it’s getting in the way.

He nods, and I head back out to the locker room, pausing outside as I hear Butch’s voice urging them on. We come out strong, keeping the ball in their half of the field, and forcing them to defend by conceding corners and throw ins and two free kicks from dangerous positions. But nothing comes of it, other than an injury to Vukcevic—now both he and Alex are limping.

It takes fourteen minutes for Everton to get a sniff of the ball, but that’s all they need—Leighton Baines crosses into the path of James Vaughan who then finds Mikel Arteta at the edge of the box. Zhirkov can’t close him down in time, and Arteta’s shot beats Cech who is slow to recover from the initial cross. We’re tied, with thirty minutes to play.

Goddamit. Knew that was coming. Butch shrugs and rubs his head. Ricky, you’re in for Alex. You and JT need to shut it down back there, OK?

Both goals were totally against the run of play when they happened. The next one isn’t: Zhirkov sends a long diagonal pass to Drogba just outside the box. He spins and splits two defenders, but Distin deflects the ball high in the air. It falls to Lampard who volleys it hard towards goal. Howard saves it, but the deflection falls right into Vukcevic’s path, and he slams it into the back of the net.

Michael! You’re in for Simon. Behind Frank. Let’s bring this home, OK.

As Simon limps off, he allows himself a smile. Helluva goal, Vuk, helluva goal. Get a drink, go get that looked at.

It almost happens again: Mikel slots home a rebound from a drive from distance by De Rossi, but he’s flagged for offsides.

Nicolas or Yaya, Butch?

You ******** me? We’re only up one here, Danyil.

OK. Nicolas! Hold in the hole, OK? Bring us home.

In stoppage time, Ballack almost gets us another: a lovely touch pass is closed down before Drogba can reach it, then the German’s corner finds Carvalho unmarked, but his header goes wide. The pressure is enough, though, and we are in third place.

Premier Division

Chelsea v Everton, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 2 (Didier Drogba 11, Simon Vukcevic 66) – Everton 1 (Mikel Arteta 60)

MoM: Drogba (8.3)

Attendance: 39,831. Referee: Steve Tanner.

[Makonnen]

Saint George

Liveblog, Addis Cup Final. Saint George v Banks SC. May 5, 2010.

Welcome to Addis Ababa Stadium where Saint George and Ethiopian Banks Sports Club meet in the final of the very first Addis Ababa Cup!

Saint George have to be considered overwhelming favorites in this game, but Banks’ Yonas Kirbit has been talking about the possibility of an upset all week and has his team pumped up for what is sure to be an exciting final.

Banks, who are one point out of the relegation zone in the Ethiopian Premiere League, were the final qualifier out of the group stage, but they beat Nyala SC and, in quite an upset, Ethiopian Coffee to earn their place in the final.

They are led by veteran center-back Getu Teshome and teenage sensation midfielder Bayeh Gebrekristos. Saint George … well, V is led by the finest collection of football talent in the country, but you can draw a line from Adugna Deyas in goal to towering defender Samson Mulugeta through the attacking talents of Mohammed Abera and Lencho Skibba through … well, you get the idea.

Saint George will be without the services of their stalwart holding midfielder, Gorge Owino. It has been confirmed that Owino has indeed been sold to, if we have this right, the Vancouver Whitecaps. Owino has been spotted, fully dressed, behind the Saint George bench—it looks like he’ll be cheering his old team on from the sidelines before heading to the mountains of western Canada.

0:00 Zekarias Fega Girma will be our referee today, and he’s all set for kickoff. Away we go!

4:30 St. George win the first corner of the game after a good run down the right side by Bereket Addisu.

9:08 Mohammed Abera easily skips past two defenders, then lays the ball into the box for Lencho Skibba who drives to the byline, then chips a ball into the middle of the six yard box. Addisu and Fitsum Kebede are closing on it, and the ball carries to Kebede, who neatly volleys it into the corner with his right foot. A lovely move to put V into the lead. Saint George 1 – Banks SC 0.

16:16 Addisu sends it over the goal, ending a five minute spell of dominance by Saint George.

25:26 Assani Bajope finds Addisu outside the penalty box. Addisu takes a touch and launches a shot from twenty-five yards out. It’s in! A magnificent strike in the upper right corner of the net. Banks goalkeeper Mulugetu Ghebru never had a chance. Saint George 2 – Banks SC 0.

28:20 Banks clears a corner kick, and it falls to Egziabher Lalemo near midfield. He sends it back to Bajope on the outside of the box. Two dribbles and Bajope tries a curling shot that again has Ghebru beat, but it rattles off the woodwork.

33:28 Getenet Tizazu has Banks’ first shot of the game, a rocket from the edge of the box that sails over the goal. Yes, thirty minutes, one shot: V are dominating this one, and honestly Banks is lucky the score is still only 2-0.

Saint George go into halftime up by two goals, and Banks look completely out of this game at this point. It will take something special to turn it around for them.

65:00 It’s been a dreadful second half so far: Saint George is dominating, but they haven’t been able to score and seem content for the scoreline to remain as it is. Anteneche Gezachsen comes on for Liban Elmi.

75:47 Recent discovery Ochan Bayalegne will come on for Fitsum Kebede. Kebede scored what looks like the winning goal in this game, but who can forget Bayalegne’s stunning goal in South Africa last month? Mohammed Abera is also trotting off, to be replaced by Bereded Gawo on the wing.

76:12 Bayalegne tries an attempt from distance with his thunderous foot, but it sails wide.

77:56 We have our first card of the game, as Saint George’s defender Mulalem Tessema is called for persistent fouling.

80:50 Gezachsen lofts a long cross towards the far post that Lencho Skibba meets with a powerful header, but Mulugetu Ghebru saves and holds the ball. With ten minutes to go, the Saint George fans are in full voice, and the players on the sideline are anticipating a celebration.

And that is how we end: Saint George are the inaugural winners of the Addis Ababa City Cup by a score of 2-0!

Addis Cup Final

Saint George v Ethiopian Banks Sport Club, Addis Ababa Stadium

St. George 2 (Fitsum Kebede 10, Bereket Addisu 26) – Banks SC 0

MoM: Kebede (7.7)

Attendance: 8756. Referee: Zekarias Fega Girma.