A Chelsea Outing [5m1w: Danyil Oranje]

[Makonnen]

I've decided to split the Five Managers, One World stories off into separate places. I think this is going to be easier for people to follow, and as they are beginning to develop different tones and personalities, I figure some people may only want to read a couple of them.

This will happen during the offseason for each manager. This also means that posts may be somewhat irregular. My goal is to post somewhere in the 5m1w universe each day, but that means several days could go by--especially in the offseason--in any particular thread.

If you want a quick summary of his past year, the career thread of monthly updates is the best bet. If you want to read the full backstory, the easiest place to do that is here (which, unfortunately, is in reverse chronological order), or you can read the original Five Mangers One World thread, skipping (or becoming fanatically interested in--whichever) the other stories.

WARNING. These stories will contain adult themes from time to time. And a fair bit of foul language, as Oranje curses a little like a Dutch sailor. And some other social themes, too.

We join Danyil Oranje in Cameroon, holding a quick minicamp before he selects his squad for the upcoming World Cup in South Africa. After the World Cup, we'll return to the business of Chelsea, and will see if Oranje can avoid the odd patches of play that marked his debut year.

Cameroon Minicamp. May 26, 2010.

May in Cameroon is hot and sticky, and every afternoon a wave of dark clouds rolls across the sky, bringing rumbling peals of thunder that shudder the ground. We would train at Ahmadou Ahidjo Stadium each morning for about six hours—drills followed by small side scrimmages and finally full-field walk-throughs as we worked with them on our tactics. Then the thunder would come, and we would listen to unworldly metallic rattles and echos as the stadium shook, and we would call it a day. We had all of the staff: my assistant coach Paul Ottou, the two general coaches I had hired, Bamba Koné and Paul Mballa, as well as the coaches of the three national youth teams—Samuel Ekwalla, Rachid Neqrouz, and Aboubacar Zongo.

The first day was the worst—the walk into the stadium, across the dark orange dirt of the parking lot, a dust that quickly covered everything it touched, was followed by an interminable official presentation that must have involved everyone who worked at FECAFOOT. And several of their cousins. I could feel the sweat dripping down my neck, and all I wanted was to get out on the field and begin to sort through the team. But I had to get up and make my way through some claptrap: the usual stuff about how honored I was and how the indomitable lions would roar again. I believe it. I just would rather not talk about it to people stuffed into suits fanning themselves against the heat.

A condition of my taking the job was that I would have sole control over the makeup of the squad. But such guarantees sometime crumble in the face of reality, so I was concerned about that. I knew there would be some surprises: of the five most capped active players, only Eto’o was definitely on the squad, although I was leaning towards including the grand old man, Rigobert Song, as well. But Geremi, Timothée Atouba, and Joseph-Desiré Job—each of whom had over 50 international caps—were likely on the outside looking in. On the other side, twenty-one year old Henri Bienvenu was likely to make the squad. Some other youngsters would get extended looks, and might even see time in the game against Jamaica, but Herc, Raoul Ngome, Kris Parker, and Mongo Beti were here for the experience and for the opportunity to brush shoulders with the greats of their country. Bienvenu would not be the youngest player in the squad: both Nicolas N’Koulou and Charley Fomen were only twenty, but had already proven themselves on the international stage.

The days went by without incident and, as importantly, without injury. Eto’o is there without his cane and while he is not cleared to run, he is moving easily and I can fool myself into thinking he will be back to being a force of nature in three weeks. He spends his time with the other attacking players, and they all clearly idolize him. When a player is as good as Samuel is, there is no jealousy: they all want to play with him and nobody sees themselves as more worthy of a starting spot than the national talisman.

At the end of it, we settled on thirty players. Some very good players are not on the list: Celtic’s Landry N’Guerro and Ajax’s Eyong Enoh suffer from the glut of talent in midfield and despite being fascinated by Aurélian Chedjou’s flexibility, Achille Emana was sharper all week. Chedjou will get his cap from me eventually, however.

In general, the idea is to maximize the talent overflow that Cameroon has in the midfield: I’m pretty sure there are more world-class holding midfielders per square foot here than anywhere else. So, strong central defenders, lots of help from the DM’s, wing defenders that help get the ball up the field and are able to cross it into the box, and finally lots and lots and lots of quality service to Eto’o. That’s the plan.

Goalkeepers

Souleymanou Hamidou (Kayserispor), Carlos Kameni (Espanyol), Guy Roland Ndy Assembe (FC Nantes, on loan at Valenciennes).

Kameni is the clear number one here, and if all goes well, he will celebrate his 50th cap in South Africa. Ndy Assembe is his backup, while Hamidou is along to fulfill FIFA’s requirement of three goalkeepers.

Defenders

Benoit Angbwa (Saturn), Benoît Assou-Ekotto (Ajax), Timothée Atouba (Ajax), Sébastien Bassong (Tottenham), André Bikey (Burnley), Charley Fomen (Lorient), Nicolas N’Koulou (Monaco), Raoul Ngome (Union Douala), Dany Nounkeu (OM), Rigobert Song (Trabzonspor).

Bassong and N’Koulou will hold down the back line. The wings are a little more troubling: the best players are Assou-Ekotto and Bikey, and while Assou-Ekotta can do what we need on the outside, Bikey is much less comfortable getting forward. Fomen is probably the best attacking back and the weakest pure defender. We’ll probably change up the back line based on the opponent: against Spain, we may be forced to play Bassong, Nounkeu, N’Koulou, and Bikey.

Atouba, Ngome, and Song are all on the bubble: Ngome is too raw, Song’s skills have fallen off too far, and Atouba … well, we may regret that one, having taken Angbwa instead.

Holding Midfielders

Eric Djemba-Djemba (OB), Jean Il Makoun (Olympique Lyonnais), Stéphane Mbia (OM), Kris Parker (Monarcas), Alex Song (Arsenal).

Song and Makoun will play behind Mbia. Those three will be the key to our success throughout the tournament: if they can control the game both defensively and as playmakers, we should win. If one of them needs a rest, Djemba-Djemba is just a shade behind the starting three.

Parker will have to wait until 2014, but since he’ll only be twenty then, that’s probably fine.

Attackers

Paul Alo’o Efoulou (AS Nancy Lorraine), Joël Epalle (Leverkusen), Henri Beinvenu (ES Tunis), Mongo Beti (OL), Achille Emana (Betis), Samuel Eto’o (Inter), Herc (Marquense), Daniel Kome (Tenerife), Meyong (Braga), Franck Songo’o (Osasuna), Somen Tchoyi (RC Lens), Achille Webo (Strasbourg)

The goal is to play three up front, most likely an attacking midfielder to link up the play and two strikers, but if we need width we can play two wide with Eto’o alone up there. I am hoping that Emana is the surprise darling of the World Cup: he is deadly from distance, a good passer, and is fast enough to cause opposing defenses all sorts of worry.

It’s not really clear who should play alongside Samuel. Meyong is stronger and much better defensively, but Alo’o Efoulou is the better pure scorer. Both should see some time, along with Webo, whose pace is always attractive.

[tenthreeleader]

Great to see another expansion to this wonderful tale. Your ambition is great to see!

[mametz1536]

This is awesome. I have enough sleepless nights with one story, but keeping all these going. If I had a hat I'll take it off to you. Well done, mate.

[Satio]

This is awesome. I have enough sleepless nights with one story, but keeping all these going. If I had a hat I'll take it off to you. Well done, mate.

And if I had a hat, I would eat it in admiration of this tale and the others Mak spins.

As with the others, Mak, and multiple other stories on this board that I am enjoying, I will add to my list to check up on and read.

[Makonnen]

Thanks, all three of you. This story is in a sort of breather phase, but I am looking forward to see what Oranje can do next season. Can't say how much it means to have people following, especially three whose writing I enjoy as much as you three. And since we've been discussing songs, the chapter title is taken from some lyrics ...

Cooler than Ice Cream / And Warmer than the Sun. June 2, 2010.

“Danyil, it’s Flemming. Did you see what I sent you?”

“What?”

“The video I sent, did you see it?”

“Video? Oh, yeah, wait, just a sec.” Danyil Orange got up from his couch and walked over to the kitchen, where his laptop was open on a marble counter. He pulled over a stool, and tapped the space bar impatiently until the screen lit up. “Flemming? Yeah, did you send it by e-mail? Oh wait, yeah, I see it. OK. You want me to call you back?”

“No, I want to hear you watch it.”

He taps some keys, and a grainy video starts. “What’s this, U-17?”

“U-16. It’s a select team—the players on the pitch are all under some sort of professional contract. Grades A and B. But the one you’re watching is only fifteen.”

“Which one … oh.”

The is distant, but the action is clear: a player in white has made it through the defense easily, the blue defenders falling like bowling pins as he brushes them off. He is at full speed when he takes on the last defender. The two come together, and the player in white just stops. It’s like he hit an immovable object: full speed and then nothing. The player in blue looks unfazed, touches the ball to the side, and lays a sixty yard pass to a teammate that finds them, in the air, perfectly in stride.

The video cuts. There is a blue free kick from thirty-five yards out. The same defender jogs up to take it. A few steps, and the ball sails, curving as it goes until it enters the top corner of the goal.

Another series of cuts shows three consecutive tackles by the same defender. Each one is devastating: physical, perfectly timed, and the result is the white player dispossessed (and twice on the ground) with the blue defender confidently moving up field with the ball. None of them have even a trace of a foul: it’s just power and defensive technique.

“Jesus, Flemming, who is that.”

“Keep watching.”

The final shot is the only close up of the series. It shows a corner kick, with the defender in blue rising above the rest of a crowd of players to deftly tuck the ball into the net with a confident flick of his head. As he runs towards the camera, which is stationed near the corner flag, his face comes clearly in frame. The shot freezes.

Danyil exhales sharply. “Holy ****.”

The face, exultant in joy over the performance, is framed by curly brown hair matted with sweat, which cannot hide the fact that it is not a boy’s face, but rather a girl’s. Complete with a smooth metal barrette in the shape of a butterfly clipping the hair back above her right eye.

“Who is she?” At this, Ruud, who was already in the kitchen chopping vegetables, turned around, eyebrows raised. He mouthed to Danyil, “she?” Danyil waved him off.

“Her names Leigh. Leigh Muzicek. She’s American. But we have her rights.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Has she been cross-checked?”

“Three times. I’m told she grades higher on skills at the back than anyone we’ve brought through since JT.”

Danyil shook his head and whistled softly.

“Why are you showing me this now, Flemming?” There is a pause on the other end.

“Well, you need to know a few things. One, she’s already signed. Nobody wanted to distract you at the end of the season with it.” Danyil made a noise, but Flemming cut him off. “Let me finish. Two, you will be getting some information from the FIFA office about it. We’ll shield you from most of it, but having a female player requires some … cooperation from the club, and some work with the team. So if you see e-mails about that, don’t delete them all, OK? Third, we’re sending her to South Africa. She’ll be with the development squad that is heading down there. We want her to meet everyone, to watch soccer with them, to make some friends in the club now because she’ll be able to join the team for real this fall sometime. Under-18s to start, of course. But we hoped you could spend some time with her in South Africa.”

It was a lot to take in. “Wait. Back up. She’s already signed?”

“Yeah, it happened in March. April, April, sorry, April. We didn’t know if anything would come of it. There was a fair bit of … skepticism.”

Danyil snorted. “I’m sure there was. OK. Now, what does FIFA have to do with it?”

Flemming Berg sighed. He didn’t dislike Danyil. But he was used to coaches who paid a little more attention to the details of running the club. “FIFA has this program that is all about helping women as they break into professional soccer. The club faces very harsh penalties if we don’t comply. Just pay it some mind.”

“OK, sure. And I’d love to meet Ms. Musicek in South Africa. Just not on match days, yeah?”

Flemming smiled. “OK. And Danyil?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sending you some others, but watch that one a few more times. It just gets better.”

It did.

[Makonnen]

Friendly

Cameroon v Jamaica, Stade Omnisports Ahmadou Ahidjo

Cameroon 3 (Paul Alo’o Efoulou 23, Achille Emana 34 46) – Jamaica 0

MoM: Achille Emana (8.8) Jamaican Best: Ricardo Gardner (6.8)

Attendance: 31,712. Referee: Brian Sibisi.

From Danyil Oranje's Diary. June 5, 2010.

It was a good win. Nothing spectacular, and we can’t afford to take the pressure off in South Africa like we did here in the second half. But it was good to see them out there. Stéphane Mbia is a beast. Anchored the back fantastically, and he has a rocket launcher for a leg. He’s been a revelation.

And I continue to love what Emana brings to the table. He really could flourish, especially if one of the other strikers steps up. Mongo Beti had his first cap. Unlucky not to get a goal to go along with it. The kid has talent—the attack in the future will be just fine with him, Herc, Parker. Hope I’ll be here to see it. FECAFOOT originally insisted the WC didn’t matter, that they would judge me on the competitions coming down the road. But the closer we get to South Africa, the higher expectations seem to rise.

The only real concern is, of course, Samuel. He was at the game, was jogging before hand, but he’s clearly not back to full strength yet. We’ll see. And Bikey. He is a flat four defender, and clearly uncomfortable getting forward the way I want him to. But he’s a trooper about it. So, again, we’ll see. We will go as far as his strong shoulders can carry us.

I found some time for Raoul Ngome as well. He will be quite a defender someday, and should inherit one of the center back roles over time here. But not this summer. I head back to London tomorrow, then we all head off to the WC in about a week. R is going, but I doubt we’ll see much of each other.

There are some strange rumors out of Germany. Alex Nieper, one of our medical staff, called me to ask if I knew anything about it. Word is that Lahm, Adler, some others are being left out of the German squad. No idea what Löw is thinking, but I certainly won’t complain. Maybe he’ll leave Podolski and Schweinsteiger home, too. And maybe Eto’o will show up running like a deer.

[Makonnen]

Today, we introduce Leigh Musicek, the 15 year old Chelsea phenom who will be providing most of the point of view for a 5m1w short story that starts tomorrow covering the 2010 World Cup.

From Leigh Musicek's Diary. June 7, 2010.

I leave tomorrow for South Africa. We’re in Paris now, and have had, as Mom would say, a lovely few days—the Louvre, amazing meals that I can’t pronounce. And crepes! Right from vendors on the sidewalk. Awesomeness personified. Don’t know how to say that in French, but I’ve picked up a few things. Merci. S’il vous plait. Merde. That kind of thing.

Mom and Dad are coping as well as they can, I guess. Mom starts to cry whenever we talk about it, Dad can’t decide if he should be scared or proud, but of course he doesn’t say much. Tells me to listen to the staff, work hard, crap like that. Last night at dinner, Mom looked at me, and her eyes got wet and she reached over and grabbed each of us by the hand and said something like, “Did you think all those years of taking folding chairs to those awful games in the rain would end up like this?” I tried not to roll my eyes.

I fly to Johannesburg tomorrow, while they head back to Houston. I think they’re going to Rome or something first. I’m supposed to be met by Ms. Hardy at the airport, and then the next day she’ll take me to the Chelsea group. She’s been so nice to me through the last few months. Evidently a bunch of people—some of their youth players, some coaches, some others—are all traveling together. The coolest thing is that they said I would be able to meet some of the players for the English team—I GET TO MEET JOHN TERRY! How sweet is that?

And, of course, coach Oranje. I’ve only seen him on TV. He looks scary there, so I hope he’s nice to me. He coaches Cameroon, too. Their team is called the indomitable lions. I think that might be the coolest use of an SAT word in sports yet. I wonder if Ray Wilkins—everyone calls him Butch—will be there? He looks much nicer.

We’ll be going to a game each day—the travel looks like it will be very hectic, but they said they really want us to watch the best players in the world. We should have pretty choice seats, too: Messi, Ronaldo. But they want me to focus on the defenders, of course. Which is fine by me, cuz defenders rule, forwards drool. Ha! I’m such a dweeb. Still … Chiellini, Piqué and Ramos, Alves and Maicon, Mexès and Evra for France. Almost everyone I have pictures of in my room. Well, not in my room any more. In boxes, packed up. But you know what I mean.

And after South Africa, I go to London. Mom will come over for a few weeks in August—she wants to make sure the tutor they provide is good enough. Ugh. They said that, if the training all goes well, I could be playing with their youth team by November.

Me. Playing. For Chelsea. By November.

Mom may annoy me, but she was right. I certainly didn’t think those games in West University would get me here. Or there.

[Makonnen]

Touchline Report, Cameroon v Spain. June 15, 2010.

11:06 AM

“Coach, I can go. I can go.”

I look at Samuel Eto’o and frown. He still limps during drills, and I see him grimacing when he thinks nobody is watching.

“Samuel …”

“Coach. You wanted me to lead. I have to be on the field to do that. I can go.”

I remember our visit in Germany in the bright light of the coffee shop. I can’t help but relent. “OK. But if Paul or I think you’re hurting, we’re going to pull you. And if that happens, I want you to come right off the pitch—no protest, no scene. You move the armband, clap for the crowd, hug your sub, and come off. Deal?”

And there it is, that infectious smile that hides the fierceness of his competitiveness. “Thank you, coach, thank you.” He turns and heads down the hall. Minutes later, I hear a muted cheer. Well, the squad knows now.

If only all of our news was that good: yesterday, Benoît Assou-Ekotto pulled his hamstring, and is out for the rest of the tournament. It happened only days too late: we can’t call up a replacement, so we’re a man light. If you count his hair, we’re a man and a half. I’m not too concerned for this game—Bassong will slide out onto the left side, and Nounkeu and N’Koulou will anchor the center of the defense. They’ll all need to be on their toes today: Fernando Torres is healthy, and is a terror up there.

2:40 PM

Turns out the rumors about Germany were nonsense. It’s the typical lot who showed up—one more trip around the field for Ballack included. I’m happy for him. And, honestly, I’m happy for us, too: some of the better younger players—Kroos, Özil—were left home. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a good squad. But it could be stronger.

That’s for later, though. Today, Spain.

4:07 PM

I wander around the pitch as the players warm up. I want to get a sense of the squad. And, honestly, I’m hoping to run into Piqué or Torres to see if I can plant a seed of their moving to London. It would be a tough sell, but Chelsea needs to really address its back line before the Summer ends. And since Kjær won’t come for a reasonable sum … I don’t run into either one of them, and turn my focus back to my own squad.

5:11 PM

Spain come out with Torres alone up front, but it’s easy to be misled by their formation. With Xabi Alonso in a holding role, all of the midfielders—Riera, Xavi, Iniesta, and Fábregas—have the ability to join in the attack. They are missing Carlos Puyol, but Piqué has surpassed him as the anchor of their defense in any case. And, of corse, they have Iker Casillas in goal who is never easy to beat.

A minute in, and I’m on my feet: Eto’o has burst by Sergio Ramos on the left wing, leaving the Spaniard scrambling to catch up, bewildered. He turns into the box and is met by Gerard Piqué in a fierce collision. Eto’o goes down, and while he is screaming for a penalty, it looks like a safely played tackle. Span has already cleared the ball towards midfield when the referee blows his whistle.

The Spanish players react in disbelief, but soon are clapping: the referee has brought a yellow card out and is holding it out towards Eto’o, claiming he dove. It is a surreally bad call, a call so bad it is almost unbelievable.

What? What are you doing? NO, no, no, NO, no!

FIFA must have sent a memo around to crack down on anything that looks like an offensive foul in the first game. The problem is the way cards are counted in the tournament: now if Eto’o does anything else in any game, he’s gone.

Despite that, we’re playing very brightly—even Bikey gets forward with a nice move down the right flank. Jean Il Makoun has a shot from deep that Casillas can only push away, but we are beaten to the rebound. The game is being played in the right half of the field, and I’m up again, applauding the effort.

Torres’ first shot comes ten minutes in, and it looks safe enough—a twenty yarder from a hard angle. Then, I see the amount of spin he’s put on the ball—it is curving steeply towards the far corner of the goal, and for a moment I think he’s pulled off the impossible. It slides just wide. I just shake my head. He makes that, and all you could do would be applaud and move on.

Thirteen minutes in and there is more nonsense from the referee. This time it’s deadly. Spain has won their first corner of the match and as the ball arcs towards the mass of players gathered in the box, Bassong is called for a push. I’m screaming at the referee, pointing back at where he carded Eto’o. This is ridiculous.

What is that? WHAT is that? If you’re going to call that, you need to call it on every single corner ever taken. Come on. First you card my man back there, now this? What is that?

The fourth official tells me I better sit down if I want to see the rest of the game. I tell him I’m more concerned that his friend on the field is missing it right now. He glowers at me and makes a note on a pad. **** him.

Torres of course takes the penalty cleanly. We are down 1-0 and not deserving of it.

I have to say I am proud of how they respond, though: they keep the pressure up and the defense stays tight. Achille! Patience. Wait for the moment, yeah? He has been flagged for offsides four times already. It only takes one, of course …

Ten minutes later, we have a great chance off a corner when Nounkeu rises to hit it cleanly at the near post, but Casillas reacts well and parries the header away.

They have a kick from just outside the box, and in the ensuing play, the ball is at Torres’ feet in our box. We have two defenders there, and the whistle blows—but this time the foul is on the Spaniard.

About time you got one right. More glowers, more writing.

Just before halftime, Torres clatters a magnificent shot off the crossbar. We clear the rebound safely, but it’s a reminder that we can’t let him alone, even for a second. As we move back up the field, Makoun is cut down by Fábregas, who gets off with a stern lecture from the referee.

What is this? He gets warned, we get a card? For the same foul? You’re missing a good game here, ref!

We head into halftime trailing by one. I tell them how well they are fighting, how we need to keep taking it to them, and how we need to ignore anything that happened with the referee. They seem full of life, and I think we can find a goal—the question is if we can keep Torres under wraps for another forty-five minutes.

We come out of halftime on fire: Eto’o again abuses his man, getting to the corner and sending a strong flat cross into the box where Alo’o Efoulou meets it, but Casillas tips it over the bar. We have a couple more chances, but none as close, and the tide begins to shift. Ten minutes in and Spain is reasserting themselves—again, no thanks to the referee. Now Song and Mbia have joined Bassong and Eto’o in his books.

Xavi has a brilliant chance, but his header from the penalty spot squirts wide of the far post. Eto’o is tiring, but he’s still pushing hard: a long clearance from Kameni bounces just out of his reach in what could have been a great chance. We’ve regained control, but are having a hard time getting good shots off—and we have to stay alert: twice, Torres has gotten the ball on the counter and while we recovered nicely both times, he continues to be incredibly dangerous.

Twenty minutes from time, it’s clear Eto’o has given everything he has. I give him five more minutes, then bring on Achille Webo. I grab Eto’o as he comes off.

You were good out there.

He grimaces. Not good enough.

I shrug. There is still time left. But that is the kind of game we need, the kind of effort we need. I know you’re not back in shape yet, but you did well.

Webo has a drive from the corner of the box that invites hope, but Casillas is again up to it. I really want a point here, so I add another attacker, Meyong, in Song’s place. The last ten minutes are frustrating: we are attacking well, but they know that all they need to do is hoist long balls deep upfield and let Raúl, who is on for Torres, run under them. Each one takes time, and eventually the final whistle blows.

World Cup Group G

Cameroon v Spain, Greenpoint Stadium

Cameroon 0 – Spain 1 (Torres 15p)

MoM: Iker Casillas (7.6) Cameroon’s Best: Stéphane Mbia (7.0)

Attendance: 63,361. Referee: Babak Rafati.

Elsewhere, Brazil coasted past Iran 3-0 behind goals from Kaká, Pato, and Robinho and Germany and Japan tied 1-1 with goals from Lukas Podolski and Keisuke Honda.

World Cup Group F

Brazil v Iran, ABSA Stadium

Brazil 3 (Kaká 27, Pato 37, Robinho 59) – Iran 0

MoM: Felipe Melo (8.9) Iran’s Best: Alireze Vahedi Nikbakht (7.0)

Attendance: 65,657. Referee: Armando Archundia.

World Cup Group G

Japan v Germany

Japan 1 (Keisuke Honda 55) – Germany 1 (Lukas Podolski 73)

MoM: Honda (7.3) German Best: Philipp Lahm (7.1)

Attendance: 45,382. Referee: Mark Clattenburg.

[Makonnen]

Touchline Report: Cameroon v Germany. June 21, 2010

11:45 AM

Well, it’s a bad year to have a hyphen in your name. Assou-Ekotto is already gone for the rest of the tournament, now we’ve found out that Eric Djemba-Djemba is out for the duration as well. Djemba-Djemba was unlikely to see much time for us, so it’s not too much of a worry. As long as it doesn’t snowball. Nobody else has hyphens, so I figure we’re safe.

3:40 PM

I motion to Ballack from the sidelines. He was stretching, walking the field, getting ready for the game, but he nods and heads over, taking my extended hand in his.

Guten Tag. How you doing, Michael?

He smiles. I’m good. I didn’t know if I would make it to this one. I guess our games this spring helped. So, thank you, Danyil.

I shook my head. I had nothing to do with it, you know that. He nods. Michael, I heard things went a little rough with Roman. You OK? We OK?

Ballack smiles, but it’s a grim smile. He looks out over the stadium before saying anything. We’re fine, Danyil. It was … well. Nobody likes getting older, you know? Still. It’s a lot of money to play a game, yeah?

I nod. Ballack had been forced into a pay cut. He had hoped to move on to another club, preferably one back in Germany, but nobody would take on his salary—not even on a free transfer. I could understand that: for a smaller club to take on his wages, at his age. But then Roman had decided to play hardball, using the leverage to resign him to a longer deal at a much reduced rate. I’m glad you’re back with us, Michael. We need you, we need your presence, and we need your touch

He nods, but the smile is still thin. You’re supposed to say that, you know.

I know. I also mean it. We both know your role has changed. But I think we’ll win trophies this year, and I think you’re part of that.

Alright, alright. I hear you.

I clap him on the shoulder as he turns to go. He turns back after a few steps. Danyil?

Yeah?

Be careful with Roman. He’s a shark.

5:57 PM

We’re making one change: Achille Webo will start in place of Paul Alo’o Efoulou. I want Webo’s pace and to be honest, Efoulou looked a bit overwhelmed in the first game.

Three minutes in, it all looks perfect: Eto’o gets the ball at midfield and three German defenders converge on him, leaving Webo all alone dashing down the right flank. He stays onside, and Eto’o delivers a simple through pass that he runs on to, touches nicely to the side, and then slides past Adler in the German goal.

The crowd had already been loud, but now they exploded. It’s like nothing I’ve ever heard, the mixture of screams and vuvuzela’s is deafening. I look around in appreciation: I had been told the crowds would be rooting for us as long as we didn’t actually play South Africa, but this was spectacular. The players feel it too, you could see the energy in their step, their heads head high, the shouts of support and appreciation from the bench.

They are still screaming eight minutes later when Germany draw level. Podolski takes a pass thirty yards out and fires it inches inside the far post. It’s an unstoppable shot, absolutely world class, and Kameni can do nothing except pull the ball out of the back of the net and knock it back upfield for the restart. Half an hour in, Podolski almost does it again, sliding a pass into the box that Kameni gets to just in front of an onrushing Tim Borowski.

Just before halftime, we get another free kick, this one from about twenty-five yards out and Mbia lines it up with seven green shirts in the box. He sends it low and it explodes through the wall without being touched. Adler is covering the other side of the goal and never had a chance: Mbia puts us up by one in added time, and we exit at halftime to the raucous cheers of the crowd.

Five minutes into the second half, Schweinsteiger takes a pass near the penalty spot and slides it home The German team is celebrating when they notice that the AR’s flag is held high: he was offsides, and the goal is disallowed. Löw is screaming at the fourth official, his trademark sweater sliding up as he waves his arms. I just keep my mouth shut, for once.

We’re playing well, but just shy of an hour, they make good: Jérôme Boateng finds enough space on the right side to launch a perfect cross, and Mario Gomez meets it with a strong header. Kameni is wrong footed, and we’re tied 2-2, setting up a tense final half hour.

Just after the restart, Eto’o is called for a foul as he runs up Schweinsteiger’s back and the referee reaches for his pocket. It’s a good call, but the silly yellow from the first match means he’ll now miss our third game. Bikey is in the same boat, but it’s a less serious loss. The only positive is that I can keep Eto’o on the pitch the rest of the game, since he will have some extra recovery time.

With twelve minutes to go, we get lucky: Marko Marin takes a free kick from just inside midfield and it is met in the box by Gomez. Kameni is well beaten, and you can hear the stadium gasp but it ricochets off the cross bar.

A minute before time, and it’s their turn for a spot of luck: Somen Tchoyi had just come on for Emana, and dashes towards a long ball from midfield. Adler beats him to it by a half-step, and the chance is gone. A minute later, only a brilliant sliding tackle by Bikey on Simon Rolfes saves us. He pokes the ball away for a corner.

It’s a frantic end, but nothing changes, and we end with a 2-2 draw. I had dreamed of four points from these first two games and hoped for two. I settle for one, and an uncertain future in our match with Japan.

That game is going to be difficult: we got another five yellow cards this game, and will have to get past Japan without Bikey or Eto’o. I’ll have to find out the official word, but I think we need Spain to at least tie Germany, while we beat Japan in order to go through. It’s doable, but it will be hard, and I hate having to depend on another team’s results.

World Cup Group G

Germany v Cameroon, Loftus

Germany 2 (Lukas Podolski 12, Mario Gomez 58) – Cameroon 2 (Achille Webo 4, Stéphane Mbia 45+1)

MoM: Mbia (7.9) German Best: Jérôme Boateng (7.1)

Attendance: 49,598. Referee: Gianluca Rocchi.

[Makonnen]

Touchline Report, Cameroon v Japan. June 25, 2010.

3:44 PM

If we win, we’re through. OK, that’s not quite true: Spain has to tie or beat Germany. But it means we need to play like it’s true. Bikey and Eto’o will miss the game due to bad calls, and we still have a couple players banged up, so Benoit Angbwa gets his first start on the defensive line and we’ll start with Webo and Meyong up front. I’d like to see Songo’o and Kome in at some point, but we’ll have to see how it goes.

7:04 PM

Five minutes in, Danny Nounkeu is running after a loose ball and pulls up suddenly, grabbing his leg. He takes a couple jumps on his left foot, then collapses in a heap. Evidently, it’s not just the ones with hyphens in their names who are in danger.

It’s obvious that he’s done. I’d ask Frank who should replace him, but we only have one reserve defender healthy without moving Song back there.

Fomen, you’re on. I grab him as he goes to get loose. Look, I want you to do your thing, get forward, make the passes, get the ball into the box. But you’ve got to remember to track back. We don’t need you to be Bikey, just to slow them down enough, alright?

As I watch him jog on, I turn to Ottou. Paul, what do you think? He just shakes his head.

You believe in juju, Danyil? Witchcraft?

I give a small laugh. Sometimes.

He nods. I don’t. Stupidity and superstition. But, between the injuries and the referees, I may begin to believe.

For the first fifteen minutes, we dominate the game, but Japan is slowly gaining possession and shifting the match further towards our side of the field. It’s a disturbing trend, but we seem unable to alter it for the time being.

Twenty-five minutes in, Fomen launches a corner into the box that is met squarely at the near post by Bassong. Eiji Kawashima, the Japanese keeper, blocks it but doesn’t connect cleanly, and it ricochets off the post back to Bassong. He can’t get a shot off under pressure, and the game stays scoreless.

Half an hour in, I wave Webo and Meyong wider—we need more space, and we have the midfielders necessary to storm the middle. It almost pays immediate dividends: Angbwa’s cross is met in the box by Mbia, and only a leaping save from Kawashima keeps the ball out.

Just before halftime, we have the best chance of the match so far: Webo finds Makoun in the box. Jean Il fakes right and the defender bites, and he’s free on goal, but the shot is again stopped by Kawashima, and I’m left waving my arms like an idiot. Somehow, we’ve turned a decent European goalkeeper into Lev Yashin for a day.

They clear the corner out of bounds, so we line up for another. This time, Bassong connects cleanly, and the ball nestles gloriously, magnificently, fabulously in the back of the net. So, maybe not Lev Yashin. The crowd goes crazy. I have to cover my ears for a moment, and just look at Paul in disbelief. He’s giggling with elation, and understandably so. We lead 1-0 at halftime, and the squad goes in on a high.

I find out in the tunnel that Spain is up 1-0 as well thanks to an own goal by Germany’s Jérôme Boateng. Right now, we’re through. We have to get through another forty-five and have Spain hold up. There’s no point hiding the information from the team—half of them already know it, and they’re in the process of telling the other half.

Look, it’s all working out right now. But we can’t control anything that happens in Johannesburg, right? Let’s push them around and get another goal, and hold on to the game here. We do that, you have a chance to write your names in history, yeah? Remember: indomitable lions. That means nobody beats you. Nobody.

Just inside the start of the second half, Emana dribbles through their defense, but his shot is parried away. The deflection leads to a massive breakaway of yellow shirts for Japan, but luckily their shot fades badly, ending up well wide of the goal. As importantly, a cheer goes up in the stadium and I hear that Spain has scored again. With Germany down 2, we may just do it.

I turn to the bench.

Not a minute of let-down, you hear me? Not one ****ing minute. We fight in this game like you never heard that.

Nicolas N’Koulou is limping noticeably, and he looks over at the bench, shaking his head.

Nicolas can’t finish the game, Danyil.

I know. Think he can give us ten more minutes? Paul nods.

I’m pacing the technical area. Ten minutes. Then I need to pull Alex Song back as a defender for N’Koulou because, well, the other choice would be to put a center forward there. This is not feeling good.

The players look shaky, as if they have suddenly realized what is at stake. I shake my head, angry at myself. ****ing idiot, bringing up the Idomitable Lions thing at halftime. What, you thought they would all turn into Roger Milla? Idiot. We are surviving thanks to being better in the air which allows us to send a long series of clearances back the other way, but we can’t string together enough passes to put pressure on them at the other end. Keisuke Honda hits the bar from distance, and I can’t wait any more to make a change.

Somen, you’re on. Send Achille back to deep, Alex to center-half.

Twelve minutes from time, Angbwa makes up for an average game with a perfect sliding block of a shot just inside the box. The shot would have beaten Kameni, and I am applauding for him as soon as he pops up.

Yes Benoit! Great job! All of you, come ON!

Seven minutes from time, and they are on the attack again. A pass from Makoto Hasebe finds Honda in the box. Song moves in strong on him and Honda goes down. In the box. The whistle blows. In the box.

What the hell is it with referees and our squad?

Come on! What the hell is going on here? He went over at a puff of wind, you can’t be serious about that.

But, they are, and Takayuki Morimoto easily beats Kameni from the spot to level the score.

We have five minutes. Five minutes in which Japan can’t score, Germany can’t score, and we really could make it easier by scoring ourselves. Right now, we’re through on goal differential, but everything just got a whole lot shakier.

Coming from the kickoff, Webo finds space at the top of the box. Kawashima is rushing out, so Webo attempts a chip. The ball floats over the keeper and starts to drop but it floats just a little too far, landing on the top of the net. So close …

We’re into extra time, and both scores are holding. Paul and I are both standing, pacing, clapping, trying not to scream. Hold. Hold. Come on, hold.

They hold.

The players explode in joy, jumping and dancing to the drums in the stands. It’s a short celebration—we just barely eked through. But we did make it, and there will be more soccer for the lions this year.

World Cup Group G

Cameroon v Japan, Ellis Park

Cameroon 1 (Sébastien Bassong 45+2) – Japan 1 (Takayuki Morimoto 85p)

MoM: Bassong (9.0) Japan’s Best: Keisuke Honda (7.0)

Attendance: 62,567. Referee: Jie Zhan.

[Makonnen]

From Danyil Oranje's Diary. June 28, 2010.

JFC. What the hell did we do? Who did we **** off?

Makoun is out for five days. Fomen fell and sprained his wrist this morning and is out two weeks. Somen Tchoyi broke a cheekbone, and looks like he is out a week as well. Add that to Nounkeu, N’Koulou, Djemba-Djemba, and Assou-Ekotto. That means we’re missing a starting midfielder, two starting defenders, our top two defensive subs, and our top replacement holder. And a creative player for the bench.

We have sixteen healthy players for tomorrow. Sixteen. Only four defenders, and that counts Alex Song who is now officially for this game a defender and not a midfielder.

Sixteen.

The whole tactical system has gone down in flames, now it’s just whoever can walk without limping. ****, limping is fine. As long as blood isn’t flowing from some open wound, we’ll throw them out there.

And, oh yeah, the referees evidently hate us, given the number of cards we’re getting.

And, oh yeah, we have to play France. You know, ranked top ten in the world, a bit of talent up front, Hugo Lloris in goal, that France.

[Makonnen]

Touchline Report: Cameroon v France. June 29, 2010.

Paul is next to me, translating into French as I review the tactics with the squad. What’s left of them.

OK, this is what we’re going to do. Four in the back, with two in front of them as usual. Achille, you’ll be one of them, and you’ll be working as a playmaker back there. Stéphane, you need to hang back and support the back line. Now the new things: Daniel and Franck, you’re both starting, out wide on the wings. You have two jobs: one, you’ll need to help out defensively in transition; two, you need to get the ball into the box for Samuel and Paul—yes, Paul, you’re starting this one. Achille, you need to be trailing the play at all times: if it comes to you outside the box, take the shot.

We will have five players on the bench: three forwards and two goalkeepers.

I don’t think I’ve ever coached a game where that was true. Even at the much lower levels, at least there players tended to be less settled in their positions. But here, sure, players can move about and they’ll do the best they can … but, well, we’re just about the worst possible position, and everyone—myself included—seems a little shell-shocked.

Our defense is stretched thin, and Song will give it his all back there, but he’s not really a center-half. And France would pour on the attacking style, with Thierry Henry, Franck Ribéry, Yoann Gourcuff, and Nicolas Anelka all coming forward. But if we could exploit the space behind their midfield, we could do some damage. Maybe.

Our best hope was a high scoring game, and I would be thrilled with a 4-3 win. Jesus. I would be thrilled not to have to play Meyong as a defender. I looked around the room again.

Look, nobody believes we can do this. Nobody thinks we have a chance. We’re injured, we’re against the wall, and they’re all saying we’re happy just to be here.

**** that.

We can do this—you just need to play together, take them off their game, and keep the pressure on their back line. If we do that, we can win.

And if we win, you will be legends.

Three minutes in, Song sends a header narrowly over the bar. I will say this much: he’s more dangerous up at that end than your typical center-half.

But a minute later, we’re exposed: Gourcuff sends a long, bouncing pass downfield that Ribéry reaches before Benoit Angbwa can get there. He has no chance to catch him, and Ribéry cooly slides it past Kameni. It’s 1-0 France.

Paul, remember what I said about wanting a high scoring game?

He nods.

Let’s get on with it. Let’s win this thing 5-4.

We settle down after the goal, and have more of the ball. Ribéry is dangerous down the left twice more: once we catch up in time to thwart the attack and the second time his shot hits the outside of the net.

Come on, we have to close that down.

Eto’o has been called for offsides four times already, but he only needs the flag to stay down once for us to get back into the game.

Just under thirty minutes in and the first yellow card of the match is drawn—and it’s not against us! Henry is carded for barging through Emana under a long ball. A minute later, however, normalcy returns, as Daniel Kome is called for a dive in the box. And two minutes later, it is absolutely confirmed: Bassong is called for a push in our box. It’s a horrendous call. Mbia gets a yellow for dissent in arguing against it, and I’m screaming from the touchlines.

How can you call that in the World ****ing Cup? Are you the best your ****ing country has to offer? Jesus Christ … he barely touched him, and you give a penalty? You should be ashamed of yourself. Ashamed!

The Fourth official yells at me to be quiet, and Paul has to grab me to keep me from doing something I would regret. As it is, I’m probably facing a fine. Whatever.

Ribéry, of course, beats Kameni with the penalty, and the French are up 2-0 just under half an hour in. The squad looks resigned out there.

Paul, this isn’t good.

He shakes his head. No, they look like we’re in trouble.

Any ideas? He looks at the bench, then back at me, and shakes his head again.

Don’t worry about it, I don’t have any either.

It’s just been too much: the injuries, the bad calls, on top of a longshot squad to begin with.

Henry gets loose on a break, and Song’s inexperience at center-half leaves Gourcuff free in the box. A simple pass later, and they are up three.

I have never understood the fear of a five-nil loss if you are down three, so we move them into a more attacking position. It leaves us very vulnerable at the back, but if we can make it an up and down game, perhaps we can unlock their defense. So far, we have been unable to get good shots on goal, despite having much of the ball.

Instead, Thierry Henry carves us open. He is racing Mbia to a ball, and just before they collide, Henry reaches out and spins away from the contact, dragging the ball through with him. He hardly slows down, and the move launches him downfield on a breakaway that ends in him sliding the ball under a diving Kameni.

We go into halftime down 4-0.

And, of course, we go in hurt. Song and Bikey are both limping. I single them out in my talk.

Alex, André, we need you to tough it out. Get taped, tie the boots on tighter, whatever. We don’t have any options back there, yeah? Sébastien and Benoit, tighten in. Daniel and Franck, you need to track back even more. Get the ball up quickly, and if you have the shot, take it, OK? Let’s show some fight and get a couple back.

Less than ten minutes into the second half, Kome goes down in a heap, grabbing his knee, and has to come off. Hey, at least it’s not a defender.

I hesitate for a minute, then decide to give twenty-two year old Henri Bienvenu his first cap. Might as well do something useful in this game.

Henri! Ici! Up front, between Samuel and Paul, OK? Link with Achille, and make some shots happen. Allez!

The three striker setup confuses them a bit, and we get some shots off but cannot find the net. We’re not really hoping for a comeback here, just trying to find something to take from the game for the future. I’m pretty sure I have a future with Cameroon. If they want me, at least. I think they want me. Do they want me?

Snap out of it, Oranje. There’s still thirty minutes here.

I can’t say it passes without event. Twenty minutes from time, Eto’o rolls his ankle and has to come out. He can barely put any weight on it. This is just surreal. We have a friendly in August against Ethiopia—wonder if I’ll have any healthy players by then.

Five minutes from time, Achille Webo pulls one back for the good guys, beating two defenders with a strong move to the inside before blasting the ball past Hugo Lloris. It’s something.

We actually score another, but Meyong was offside when the rebound fell to him, so it doesn’t count.

Finally, in extra time, Ribéry gains his hat trick. He deserves it—he worked hard all game even to the end. We were kind enough to leave him totally unmarked on the far post for an Henry cross.

In the locker room, I praise them for their fight and I tell them to ignore the scoreline. In the end, the mixture of injuries and fouls—deserved or not—was too much to overcome. But we made the second round for the first time since the Indomitable Lions marvelous run in 1990. It was something to build on.

World Cup Second Round

Cameroon v France, Peter Mokaba Stadium

Cameroon 1 (Achille Webo 87) – France 5 (Franck Ribéry 5 30p 90+1, Yoann Gourcuff 35, Thierry Henry 44)

MoM: Ribéry (9.7) Cameroon’s Best: Webo (7.2)

Attendance: 45,553. Referee: Eduardo Iturralde González.

Even with Cameroon’s loss, however another African side did make it to the quarterfinals: Ghana defeated Spain 2-1 in extra time in Port Elizabeth. The game started well for the Black Stars, as only two minutes in, a nifty pass from Harrison Afful led Anthony Annan into space outside the penalty box. His shot was a thunderous drive, but Iker Casillas really should have done better with it. It eluded him and the Bolton midfielder gave Ghana a 1-0 lead.

For a while, it looked like that—combined with the jubilant support of the crowd—would be enough. But, on the hour, Andrés Iniesta found David Villa at the corner of the box and he unleashed a volley that rang into the far upper corner of the net despite an acrobatic leap from Adam Larsen in the Ghanaian goal. The score was well deserve, as the game was quite even up to that point.

In the last thirty minutes of regular time, Ghana had more chances, but none bore fruit until, eight minutes from a penalty shootout, Bennard Yao Kumordzi beat Xavi with a burst of speed down the right flank, gaining just enough space to launch a cross into the box. Both Kwadwo Asamoah and Baba Adamu were there, and Asamoah’s jump effectively screened Sergio Ramos, allowing the veteran Adamu to meet the ball, sending it just over Casillas’ hands and into the back of the net.

Ghana was up 2-1, and they held on confidently for the final whistle. With that, the quarterfinals were set: On July 2nd, Portugal would meet the Ivory Coast and Argentina would face off against Colombia; on the 3rd, Ghana would try to continue their run against Brazil while Greece would try to stop France.

So, two African teams in the quarters join three from Europe and three from South America: truly the global game. At this point, though, the smart money seems to be on Brazil or France, both of which seem to be riding a great vein of form at the right time. The entire continent, however, would be rooting for the Black Stars or the Les Éléphants to become the first African team in a World Cup Semifinal.

World Cup Second Round

Spain v Ghana, Nelson Mandela Bay Stadium

Spain 1 (David Villa 61) – Ghana 2 (Anthony Annan 2, Baba Adamu 114)

MoM: Harrison Afful (8.5) Spain’s Best: Villa (8.3)

Attendance: 47,522. Referee: Leonardo Gaciba da Silva.

[Makonnen]

June 9, 2010

Imposter’s Cup Group G

Chelsea v ABC FC, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 4 (Simon Vukcevic 38 56, Ishak Belfodil 64 79) – ABC 0

MoM: Belfodil (9.2)

Attendance: 31,839. Referee: Martin Atkinson.

July 7, 2010

Imposter’s Cup Group C

Racing Club de Montevideo v Chelsea, Parque Osvaldo Roberto

Racing de Montevideo 1 (Sebastian Olivera – Chelsea 1 (Michael Ballack 4)

MoM: Ballack (8.2)

Attendance: 5763. Referee: André Mariner.

From Danyil Oranje's Diary. July 11, 2010

I was horrible to them before the match. I’ll admit that much. But after our performance in Brazil, it was warranted: we were awful. Lifeless. Bored. I know it was a young group—only Cech, Mikel, and Ballack were first team regulars. But it was an unacceptable performance.

So I let them know that. In no uncertain terms. And I didn’t take it easy on the kids. This sixteen year old that the internal folks are all hot on, Jonathan Jones, was almost in tears when I was done with them, and Belfodil was obviously furious with me. I’m ok with that: they need to learn what it means to play at the top of the pyramid, learn what it means to be professional. Accountable.

The rematch was a similar side. Kalou was in there, and Yury. But we also played this 17 year old Finnish kid, Jaakko Rantala. We’re trying to send him out on loan. And find an English teacher. So, we’ll see. If they play better, I’ll have to make sure to find time with JJ and Belfodil and give them some love to go along with the ass-kicking. Carrot, stick, carrot, stick.

We sent Sam Hutchinson to Derby on loan. In addition to Rantala, we’re looking for temporary homes for Alípio, Patrick van Aanholt, and Luca Caldirola. Caldirola was part of the most recent wave of signings—I don’t know most of them, they’re all teenagers that scouts found looking under rocks or whatever in the nether reaches of Europe. All cheap, all with some talent I guess. But all a year or three away from helping.

This year? Well … McEachran will see some first team time. So will Sonogo and Belfodil. Probably Kakuta and Töre as well. And, of course, there’s Leigh. ****. I am not looking forward to that media circus. So far, we’ve kept it pretty much under wraps. But we have to submit her to the league at some point, and then all hell is going to break loose. They’ve already built a little private shower and changing room for her. Right now, it’s marked “Cleaning Supplies.” Figured that was the best way to keep anyone from going in there. She was … young in South Africa. But I like her—there is clearly a strength there, and the little I’ve seen of her on the field is stunning.

Jesus, if these other kids think they have it tough …

Imposter’s Cup Group G

Chelsea v Racing Club de Montevideo, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 5 (Mamadou Sakho 10, Josh McEachran 12, Juan Núñez 20og, Yaya Sanogo 77, Ishak Belfodil 87) – Racing de Montevideo 0

MoM: Yury Zhirkov (8.9)

Attendance: 34,898. Referee: Howard Webb.

[Makonnen]

July 14, 2010

Imposter’s Cup Group G

ABC FC v Chelsea, Frasqueirão

ABC 0 – Chelsea 2 (Daniel Sturridge 30 52)

MoM: Sturridge (8.8)

Attendance: 17,668. Referee: Keith Stroud.

Cousins for a Day. July 17, 2010

“Do you trust me, Leigh?”

Leigh Musicek looked up, puzzled and surprised. Jessica’s expression was unreadable. The two women, one still really a girl, were seated in a hotel room in Munich, Leigh in her usual Chelsea t-shirt and long shorts, perched on the side of the bed, one leg folded underneath her, Jessica in a chair covered in an ochre floral print. Chelsea played 1860 München that evening, and it was the first time Chelsea had invited Leigh along with the team for a game. Jessica knew that she had to move on soon, and that there were several months before she’d return to London, as such it made sense to accompany her young charge to Germany.

“Of course, Jess.”

“Good. So, here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to be down on the field before the game to warm up, knock it around a bit.” Leigh almost exploded out of her seat with excitement.

“Really?” She hopped over to the side of the bed, where her clothes lay on the floor in puddles of cloth that she swore were organized.

“Leigh!”

Leigh looked up, slightly abashed. “Sorry. I mean, it’s not Stamford Bridge … but … you know how long I’ve been waiting.” She leaned down again, rummaging through a pile and tossing a few jerseys onto the bed.

“I do. Here’s the thing. I’ll be down there, too. And if anyone asks, you’re my cousin.”

Leigh straightened up, a light green Chelsea away shirt in her hands. “Wait, what?”

Jessica smiled. “You’re my cousin. I don’t think anyone will ask, but if they do. Cousin.”

Leigh was obviously confused. “Sure, OK. Cousin. But, why?”

Jessica looked away. She didn’t like the answer, had fought hard against it in meetings with the Chelsea Board. But, in the end, it wasn’t her choice. “They aren’t ready to introduce you to the world yet. A few players know, more have heard of you but don’t know what you look like. So, they’re trying to have it both ways: get you some time with the rest of the team, get you some time in front of the coaches. But not have to really dive into the process.”

Leigh was quiet. She looked at the emblem on her shorts. “Can I wear my Chelsea gear?”

Jessica laughed, smirking. “Of course. I would give my cousin that stuff for Christmas, birthdays. That kind of thing. But not that one.” She pointed to the lime green in Leigh’s hands. “That one’s awful.”

Later, on the grounds of the Allianz-Arena, Leigh, Jessica, and newly signed Argentine-Italian defender Hernán Coccia were taking shots at Adam Davies in goal. Jessica, whose Spanish was passable, had called Coccia over while Leigh was stretching, speaking softly to him. Twice, he turned to stare at Leigh, then shrugged and nodded. Eventually, the two young defenders began to face off, driving at each other in one on one’s. Coccia was a good six inches taller than Leigh, with three years and perhaps twenty-five pounds of muscle to his advantage as well. But you could see the grudging respect emerge in his body language, and in the effort both players began to put forth.

Coccia feinted to his right, but Musicek didn’t bite. He rolled over the ball with his right foot, then slid hard down its side, popping it into the air. A quick flick of his toe, and the ball was in headed over Leigh’s shoulder. She turned, anticipating what was coming, and held Coccia off before gathering the ball herself.

She dribbled away from goal, resetting possession before turning again to face him. Leigh tapped the ball from her right foot to her left, then began a stepover but cut it short, using her heel to send the ball sharply outside to her left. Coccia was caught leaning, and before he could recover, Legih was on his outside. She used her body to create some space and then the outside of her right foot to send a ball low and hard across Davies in goal. Adam dove, and tipped the ball out of play.

“Oh, Adam! Man … I thought I had you beat.” Davies laughed as he jogged after the ball. Coccia just turned to look at Musicek and grinned, nodding.

Jessica headed over to Leigh and quietly spoke for a moment. Musicek nodded, turned to Hernán with her hand extended. “Gotta go. Adios, Hernán. Later.”

Coccia took it and smiled. “That last move.” He shook his right foot in a rough approximation of her movements. “You show me?”

Leigh smiled. “Sure, yeah. Later.”

As the two women walked off the field, Leigh smiled at Jessica. “That went well, cousin. Thanks.”

They were seated together for the game, in an area close behind the Chelsea players. Just before kickoff, Alípio slid into an empty seat next to them, concern in place of his usual grin.

“Hey, Leigh.”

“What’s wrong Allie?”

“Do you know where … Gillingham is?”

“What? Gillingham? Um, no. Why?”

“I have been sent there. On loan.”

“Loan?” Leigh turned to Jessica. “Where’s Gillingham? He’s been loaned there. What is that?”

Jessica wasn’t sure where Gillingham was—not too far from London, she thought. Explaining loans took a little longer, and soon Alípio was looking at Jessica’s iPhone, reassured that he wouldn’t be too far from his new home in London.

The game itself was over almost as soon as it began: forty-one seconds in, Nemanja Matic found Didier Drogba in the box with a searching pass. The 1860 defense was slow to react, and Drogba fired the ball through Samir Ujkani and into the back of the net. Drogba would add two more, corralling a long pass from Frank Lampard with a great touch of his toe and then launching on a long drive that took him from midfield all the way to the opposite byline before skinning two defenders and scoring his hat trick.

Imposter’s Cup Group G

TSV 1860 München v Chelsea, Allianz-Arena

1860 München 0 – Chelsea 3 (Didier Drogba 1 46 72)

MoM: Drogba (9.5)

Attendance: 64,466. Referee: Michael Langford.

[Makonnen]

July 21, 2010

Imposter’s Cup Group G

New York Giants Football Club v Chelsea, Icahn Stadium

NY Giants 0 – Chelsea 2 (Edin Dzeko 1 41)

MoM: Dzeko (9.0)

Attendance: 11,049. Referee: Lee Probert.

Touchline Thoughts. July 24, 2010

You hear about the U19?

I stare blankly at Butch, not sure what he’s referring to. U19?

The championship. In France.

Oh, yeah, that. No. What happened?

I just heard from Josef. Ishak was the player of the tournament, scored eight goals. Yaya was second in goals. With three.

I raise my eyebrows, impressed. Kakuta and Alphie play, too?

Butch nods.

That’s a lot of French talent. How’d that happen?

Butch shrugs. No idea. But you’re right, it is.

How’d Josef sound? Josef Mlynarczyk—I gave up even trying to pronounce it the first day I met him—was our new youth coach. He was working with Dermot, but my hope was that he took over on his own within a few months.

He was good. Said it was useful to go. Also said that Belfodil thinks this proves he’s ready for the first team.

I smiled. Yeah, cuz there’s no difference between the U19s and the Premier League. And he’s only got Drogba and Dzeko in front of him.

What do you think, between him and Di Santo?

I pause for a moment. After last spring, Di Santo has been hailed as our golden boy. But I think Belfodil has a shot to be better.

Butch nods. And they’re both a ways behind Dzeko.

Yes. Yes, they are. You happy with your man?

Butch shakes his head. He may be tired of my teasing, but I’m not. He scored thirty-six seconds in to his debut last game. What’s not to love?

The game itself was a rout—which is as it should be. And played in a horrible rainstorm. Which is not.

There is a start of game competition emerging—Drogba scores forty-some odd seconds in, then Dzeko scores thirty-six in. In this one, Lampard finds Drogba with a long pass almost immediately from the opening kick, and his shot is low and hard, beating the New York keeper. Twenty-five seconds in. See if Dzeko can top that next time out.

Imposter’s Cup Group G

Chelsea v New York Giants Football Club, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 5 (Didier Drogba 1, John Obi Mikel 20, Salomon Kalou 25, Frank Lampard 42, Simon Vukcevic 86) – NY Giants 0

MoM: Lampard (9.3)

Attendance: 35,155. Referee: Lee Probert.

[Makonnen]

Touchline Report: The Debut. July 27, 2010.

7:55 AM

Chris, good to see you. On time. I like that. Cathy settled in OK?

Chris Brunt shook my hand, nodded. We had signed him the day before, completing a transfer from West Bromwich Albion that had been months in the making. I had wanted to pursue Brunt last spring, but back then getting Dzeko on board had been top priority. Had to keep Butch happy. Now he was here and I was thrilled. Brunt gave us—along with Kalou and Vukcevic—three great options behind the front line. Simon was clearly the first choice, but there were going to be plenty of times we would want wide players, and the thought of Kalou and Brunt advancing on the wings behind Drogba and Dzeko brought a smile to my face.

Good. I know the next week or two is going to be a bit hectic for the three of you. Just make sure we know about it when you need some time to get settled, OK?

Sure, thanks. That’s no problem. We should be fine. I hope.

Good. Just make sure you’re ready before the friendlies start—that’s the real start for the season, and we’ll need all hands on deck then. Did they give you a schedule for today?

He nodded. I’m off to get fit next. He smiled. Have to look good out there and all that.

Good. So, about that … what do you think of getting some time today?

Really?

Yeah. It’s just football, yeah? Butch will spend some time with you after lunch, go over the shape and spacing we want. But I’d like to get you out there. We’ve already qualified from the group—this is more about getting ready for the season than anything else.

Sure … I mean, I’m up for it. Definitely.

OK. Good man. You’ll be working with the two French kids up front—Belfodil and Sanogo. They’ve been playing together all summer, which should help. But it’s the same setup we’ll use all year: Belfodil is in Dzeko’s role—big target man, good in the air, a nice touch on the pass and the shot. And Sanogo in Drogba’s. Your job is to work with them, get them the ball in good spots, be an outlet when they need it, and take the shot when it comes to you. His face was full of anticipation, eager to show he belonged. Good, good. Go get that uniform.

10:36 AM

I was pacing out on the field, cell phone to my ear. There were a few players running behind me, but the stadium was quiet, anticipatory.

The first thing he said was, Where are you?

I silently cursed caller ID. I liked the pleasantries of our greetings, the implied connection of saying “it’s me.” On the field. I just had the weirdest meeting with Gourlay.

Gourlay?

Yeah. I don’t know what to make of it.

What happened?

He came down to my office, and we were talking about Brunt, you know. And he said something like “you know this basically wipes out the kitty for the year.” And I said yeah, that I thought it left us with something like fifteen million. He said it was less than that—he may be right, whatever, it’s somewhere in there. Twelve. Thirteen. Whatever. But it was odd.

How so?

It felt like he was trying to tell me something. Maybe just that we paid too much for Chris. Maybe we did. I don’t know.

This really unsettled you?

Yeah, I dunno. Something was different here. Ron’s usually good with me, you know?

Yeah.

Oh, hey, there’s Petr. I need to talk with him. Call you later.

OK.

I clicked the phone shut and shouted over to Cech.

Petr! A moment?

He came over. Yeah, coach?

How you doing today?

Good, thanks. What’s up?

I laughed lightly. A few things. You have a chance to spend much time with Alphie?

The French kid?

Yeah, that’s the one.

A bit. He seems nice enough. We were working some drills yesterday, and he’s quick on his feet. Good idea what to do. He’s a keeper.

Fantastic. I think so, too. Anything you can do to help him along, you know. He won’t be up here until we’re both long gone, but he could be a good one. We’re going to go with him to start today. We’ve got plenty of time until the real season starts, and I want you to focus on the games that matter. And he needs as much time with the first team as we can afford, yeah?

He shrugged. Sure, no problem.

Good. There’s something else. You know how last year I didn’t like having to play you in every damn game?

I didn’t mind.

I know that. But I do. We were lucky: it was a lot, and you were superb back there. But it’s a lot to do, and we need you healthy for the big games.

He nodded warily.

Well, we’re fairly far along in negotiations with Guillermo Ochoa.

Ochoa?

Yeah. What do you think of him?

I think he’s a helluva keeper. Young. He’s … he’s pretty used to being a starter.

Yes he is. But he knows that’s not his role here. He knows that. I’ve told him that face to face. You’re the keeper here, Petr. As long as you’re healthy, you’re it. You’ve earned it, and in my mind, you’re the best in this league. Period. But now we’ll have a backup that we can trust, hopefully one that you can work with. And someone to handle some of the midweek chores, maybe a game or three against the bottom table teams. I’d like to keep you to forty, forty-five games this year.

He nodded slowly. I could see the gears turning—how much could he trust me, what wasn’t I saying, what did I really mean.

Look, Petr. I just wanted you to hear about Ochoa from me before the press got hold of it. They’re going to say whatever the **** they’re going to say. You’re the number one here, OK?

I appreciate that. But you know what? If he’s better than me, he should start.

I bob my head a bit. If. But he’s not. Not right now, and not for a while. But he is insurance and cover. And we desperately needed that.

He nodded in agreement. That it?

I laughed. That’s enough. Go on with you. See you in a few hours.

7:29 PM

So who’s it going to be today? Butch just looks at me. Scoring under a minute. We got a streak going here. Who’s it going to be today?

Butch rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

The chance falls to Gaël Kakuta, but three consecutive games with goals in the first minute would be too much to ask: his drive skims over the top of the bar.

Oh! So close …

Jesus, Danyil. You tell him to shoot that quick?

I laugh. Nothing wrong with that shot, nothing at all.

Play calms down after that, a bit of possession here and there, nothing to get too excited about. Half an hour in, Butch voices his unease.

I don’t know about this lineup.

I know. But it’s essentially a friendly.

They aren’t playing that way. He had a point. The German visitors to Stamford Bridge were not being kind, and any flow we managed to get started was cut short by Keith Stroud’s whistle.

Ishak and Yaya, they’ve been playing side by side all summer. And doing great. And we need to get Alphie minutes. It’s a strong back line in front of him, we’ll be OK.

Butch nodded.

You see that? Sakho is going to be great for us. I love that kid.

Butch nods again, although I know he’s not sold on what is clearly a bit of a youth movement for us this year.

Just before halftime, Belfodil has a clean shot from fourteen yards out, but he drives it against the post and watches the rebound slide out of bounds. Butch looks up at me. This ain’t the U21’s.

He’ll do fine.

That said, we don’t score. We go into halftime tied 0-0, and despite our best efforts, we keep not scoring. We have a lot of shots—it seems their defense is scrambling every couple of minutes against our attack. But we’re missing the final step.

Butch, we ever gonna get it inside those little wooden things, or we just going to keep on hitting them?

He looks at me. Dzeko would have scored.

I can’t help but laugh. Yes, I’m sure he would have.

Fifteen minutes from time, it finally happens. Belfodil holds off two defenders at the edge of the box and makes eye contact with Brunt dashing into the area. The pass is well timed, and Brunt avoids a fast-closing Lance Davids to beat Samir Ujkani in the 1860 goal.

Ho ho! Yes! I am out of my seat and at the edge of the field, and grab Chris as he runs back upfield in a quick embrace. Remember this, Chris. Remember this. The first of many. Well done!

I walk back to the bench. Butch, you know what I’m going to say, yeah?

He took it well, sure.

No, not that. Ishak. He made that goal.

Yeah, he did alright.

The last ten minutes get dicey, and Sakho has to clear a corner off the line after a header beats Alphie in goal. But he does so calmly, and we get the win.

Imposter’s Cup Group G

Chelsea v TSV 1860 München, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 1 (Chris Brunt 75) – 1860 München 0

MoM: Brunt (8.4)

Attendance: 37,064. Referee: Keith Stroud.

[Makonnen]

August 1, 2010

Friendly

Chelsea v Sevilla FC, SAD, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 2 (Simon Vukcevic 32p, Andrés Palop 78og) – Sevilla 0

MoM: Ricardo Carvalho (8.7)

Attendance: 39,075. Referee: Clive Oliver.

August 4, 2010

Friendly

Parma v Chelsea, Ennio Tardini

Parma 0 – Chelsea 2 (Yaya Sanogo 7, Ishak Belfodil 58)

MoM: Yury Zhirkov (7.4)

Attendance: 15,362. Referee: Emidio Morganti.

August 6, 2010

Friendly

Chelsea v RSC Anderlecht, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 1 (Michael Ballack 17) – Anderlecht 1 (Sébastien Siani 89)

MoM: Salomon Kalou (8.5)

Attendance: 26,713. Referee: Neal Swarbrick.

August 8, 2010

Friendly

Chelsea v Fenerbahçe SK, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 2 (Daniele De Rossi 45+4, Edin Dzeko 89) – Fenerbahçe 0

MoM: Simon Vukcevic (9.0)

Attendance: 40,529. Referee: Grant Hegley.

August 12, 2010

Friendly

Besiktas JK v Chelsea, Besiktas Inönü

Besiktas 2 (Alphonse Aréola 67og, Cem Balaban 90) – Chelsea 2 (Gaël Kakuta 43, Daniel Sturridge 87)

MoM: Yaya Sanogo (7.1)

Attendance: 15,801. Referee: Babak Rafati.

From Danyil Oranje's Diary. August 12, 2010

Well, that’s that.

I’m on the plane back from Cameroon. The friendly against Ethiopia was a laugher, but it was supposed to be. Eto’o, Webo, and Emana were fantastic, and the only negative was giving up another penalty: I love Mbia, but need him to keep his control inside the box. His reputation precedes him, unfortunately. Well, not quite the only negative. The other goal was idiotic, just a total lapse in concentration in back combined with a ****-poor job on recovering. I pretty much lost it on the sidelines, and the only shot that made the paper, of course, was me waving my hands like some idiot and yelling. Figures.

Back to Chelsea, with two days until the league opens against Portsmouth. It’s been a good preseason—Butch called before I boarded, and we won in Turkey last night. So that brought us to 3-0-2. We weren’t dominant, but we were mixing and matching a ton of players, so there’s no shame there.

Yaya scored the goal of the preseason against Parma—a fabulous strike, where he eluded four defenders before beating their goalkeeper. But we played well, and got plenty of time on the field for some of the youngsters. Our season starts pretty soft: Portsmouth, Middlesbrough, and Newcastle. Nine points is possible, seven should be the minimum.

There are a few concerns, of course. Alex thought he would be a starter this year, and is upset to be stuck behind JT and Carvalho. Mikel is still frustrated to have such a great midfield in front of him. They just need to be patient: we’ll face some injuries soon enough.

And the kids will be tricky. The young defender, Jonathan Jones, is evidently very upset with me. He thinks I am too hard on the team. People keep telling me he’s sixteen, and I need to be gentle with him. ********. He needs to learn what it means to be a great player. But he’s down with the reserves now, and unlikely to resurface very often, so maybe he’ll have a thicker skin next time I see him.

I don’t understand that, though. Either you’re good enough to play at the top or you’re not. You find your level. But if you’re at the top, you have to cope with the fact that it’s a nasty, brutish game full of disappointment and fleeting moments of elation. Deal with it.

[Makonnen]

Chelsea 2010/2011 Season Preview. August 13, 2010

Chelsea looks stronger this year than last. The question is how the pieces all fit together and, of course, how they cope with the inevitable injury crisis. But several key—and very expensive—pieces have joined the lineup at Stamford Bridge, most notably Bosnian striker Edin Dzeko, who will pair with Didier Drogba up front to—if Danyil Oranje’s plans come to fruition—form one of the most dangerous strike partnerships in the league.

Other than Dzeko, the starting lineup remains consistent from last year, however several new additions to the reserves look likely to see quite a bit of action: French defender Mamadou Sakho, attacking players Chris Brunt and Kieran Richardson, and young goalkeeper Guillermo Ochoa all join the squad while holdovers Jon Obi Mikel, Michael Ballack, Nemanja Matic, and Daniel Sturridge complete the bench.

While Drogba, Frank Lampard, and starting defenders John Terry and Ricardo Carvalho are all beginning to show signs of age, Oranje has focused on rotating youth into the ranks. Sakho, Matic, and Sturridge are all 22 or younger—and that’s not considering some of their reserves, most notably the quartet of players on the French U21 team: Ishak Belfodil, Yaya Sanogo, Alphonse Aréole, and Gaël Kakuta. Even younger, we find three players under 18 on the Chelsea reserves: midfielders Josh McEachran and Javier Ochoa, as well as the well-hyped sixteen year old, defender Jonathan Jones.

Starting XI

                        Edin Dzeko    Didier Drogba

                             Simon Vukcevic

                             Frank Lampard

                    Daniele De Rossi    Michael Essien

Yury Zhirkov   John Terry    Ricardo Carvalho     Branislav Ivanovic

                              Peter Cech

Second XI

              Salomon Kalou     Daniel Sturridge

                         Chris Brunt

                      Nemanja Matic

              Michael Ballack     Jon Obi Mikel

Mamadou Sakho     Alex     Rafhael     Michael Mancienne

                     Guillermo Ochoa

And, a look at the Chelsea of the future: Here is the best eleven of players 21 or younger.

Chelsea U21

                    Ishak Belfodil     Yaya Sanogo

                          Jaakko Rantala

                          Josh McEachran

                   Marc Mateau     Conor Clifford

Luca Caldirola     Mamadou Sakho     Rafhael     Jonathan Jones

                         Alphonse Aréola

Chelsea looks a good bet to challenge for the title. The key question is whether they can do more than challenge: if Dzeko gels and if the reserves perform when called upon, it could be a great year in London. However, it won’t be easy, as the talent at the top of the Premier League is quite impressive this year.

[Makonnen]

Touchline Report, Chelsea v Portsmouth. August 14, 2010

Well, here we go again. Butch laughs, but there is a twinkle in his eye. He’s excited for opening day, and if I’m honest, so am I, even if I am fighting off fatigue from the trip back from Cameroon.

We were starting the season by paying a visit to Portsmouth, who were still managed by Avram Grant. Pompey were clearly improved: they had spent nearly $20M in the offseason, most of it going to Abou Diaby from Liverpool and Cristian Nasuti from River—a French attacker and an Argentine defender to shore up the troops. George Elokobi was brought in from Wolves and Andy Wilkinson from Stoke, along with a few others. And, of most interest to the preseason press, Pompey had secured the services of a 32 year old Dennis Rommedahl.

Diaby and Elokobi look to start today, but we won’t see either Nasuti or Rommedahl—Rommedahl is on the bench, Nasuti still in the process of getting his paperwork through.

What’s the news on your man?

Butch doesn’t flinch. Not today. He’s still tired from the international game. We’ll have to wait to unleash him. No Dzeko today, but other than that, it’s our first team.

Mark Clattenburg blows his whistle, and we’re off. And, three minutes in, we lose our ****ing minds. It’s a standard clearance down the left, and Essien just misjudges the header. Simple as that. The ball bounces past him, and Diaby is on it with a free path towards Cech. The shot is a little weak, allowing Petr to get his hand on it, but it still clips the far post and bounces in.

We’re down a goal in a shocking turn of events: a fundamental mental error? From Essien?

Michael!

He jogs over as the teams move to reset, shaking his head. Don’t even say it, Coach. That’s on me, it just happened. I’ll make up for it.

It’s my turn to just smile and nod, so I do. I’m sure I also say something idiotic at the end: Go get them or something like that.

Within two minutes, Essien makes good on his promise: he receives the ball from JT, turns, and threads the needle with a pass that eludes the outstretched leg of Younes Kaboul. Vukcevic is on it in a flash, and his shot also clips the post before going in. We’re back to level, and the team looks fired up.

Essien is possessed: intercepting passes, disrupting any flow that Portsmouth tries to develop. Butch, if it makes Michael play like this, think it’s worth giving up a goal each game? He looks at me like I am batshit crazy. OK, maybe not. But you have to like what you’re seeing from him out there.

That I do.

We have all of the ball, but no more goals: drives from deep from De Rossi and Sturridge come closest. If we can score another before the half, though, we may get three or four by the end of the day.

Pompey have a surge near the end of the half, triggered by a marvelous run by Nadir Belhadj. They gain a couple corners, but we clear them successfully.

Just before the interval, we have two great chances: first, Carvalho controls a corner from Vukcevic and has a shot from eight yards out that Diaby deflects straight at JT, but his header is easily caught by David James. Elokobi, however, knocks the outlet pass from James too far in front of him, and Sturridge dashes onto it. For a moment, he looks clear through, but Tal Ben-Haim touches it away and back to James.

Well, Butch, we’ll see if anything’s changed this year.

Meaning?

Meaning we are dominating the game out there. We need to win these.

Halftime is a series of small corrections.

Simon, you have to get back up faster from corners—twice they’ve flagged you for offsides there. Step back quicker, and we have a second ball into the box with Ricky and JT still up there.

Daniel, make sure you’re ahead of Didier. And trust him—keep making the runs in the box, he’ll find you. For you, Didier, let it fly. I love you trying to bring Simon and Daniel on—and it was your run that cleared space for Simon on the goal—but take the shot when it’s there.

Bane, Yury, push up more. Michael and Daniele will cover for you if they counter.

Ten minutes into the second half, Lampard finds Sturridge with a long pass that frees him at the edge of the six, he turns and shoots from a very close angle, but James is up to it. On the hour mark, we test James again when Lampard launches a lovely curling shot from outside the box. Unfortunately for us, David James is having one of his good days—if he did this more consistently, he’d be England’s leading keeper.

We’re dominating possession, so I move De Rossi and Lampard up, leaving Essien in a single holding role.

When they get the ball, they are happy to knock it backwards, clearly playing it safe. Avram, what are you doing?

He looks at me with those brooding eyes, his brow knitted together. We need points too, you know.

Twenty minutes from time, it looks to be their undoing. Sturridge intercepts a pass and dashes up the right, juking past both Elokobi and Michael Brown before cutting inside and sending a cross into the box, where Drogba is holding off Andy Wilkinson. He meets it squarely with his head, sending it down and into the corner, and this time, James doesn’t have a chance. We have the lead, and it’s well deserved.

But we can’t hold it: a long pass from Brown finds Dave Nugent inside the box and Cech is caught in no-man’s land. Ivanovic closes quickly, but Nugent’s shot splits him and Petr, and we are level again with sixteen minutes to go.

Goddammit, Butch, I thought we were off and running there. What the hell was that?

We have a new thing this year. I ignored most of the details, but it’s basically an iPad hooked up to a service we bought from some stats company. Steve Holland has it during the game, and it shows various bits of “real time” data. ****ing hate that phrase. But it lets me yell things at Steve from time to time, which I don’t mind.

Now he informs me that they have two shots on target, and two goals.

Michael! You ready? Ballack jogs over to me.

Yes, all set.

Great. Remember our talk in South Africa? He nods. Let’s see if we can start today. We’re better, let’s show it. I send him on for Simon.

His first touch is a corner that James is lucky to save from Carvalho’s header, but save it he does. We are absolutely storming the gates at the end—lovely passes, and Lampard is unlucky not to get a penalty kick five minutes from time when he is taken down in the box, but Clattenburg’s whistle stays away from his mouth. Finally, Sturridge has another shot saved after a masterful pass from Drogba.

Stevie! What was the damage?

He glances down. We had 23 shots. Ten on target. They had 5 and 2. And we get one point.

Butch, this better not be an omen of things to come.

Premier Division

Portsmouth v Chelsea, Fratton Park

Portsmouth 2 (Abou Diaby 4, Dave Nugent 74) – Chelsea 2 (Simon Vukcevic 6, Didier Drogba 69)

MoM: Diaby (8.3) Chelsea’s Best: Daniel Sturridge (7.6)

Attendance: 20,600. Referee: Mark Clattenburg.

[Makonnen]

Touchline Report, Chlesea v Middlesbrough. August 17, 2010

9:22 AM

Danyil here.

Hey Jessica, how are you?

Good. Yes, good, thanks. We’ll see. If we can’t beat a newly promoted side, well, we sort of get what we deserve, you know?

Sure.

Ah, yes. How the hell did you hear about that?

I know, I know. We’ve just worked hard to keep it quiet.

No, we’re serious about Stubbs.

Yes.

Of course. No, that was part of the thinking. Halo is a little older, but we were hoping that having her, Leigh, Joanie. That it would help. No, of course not. We don’t consult players on things like this.

Hard to say. Platense is playing hardball, we’re trying to work it out.

Yes, of course. I will. Thanks.

You, too.

1:21 PM

Well, Butch, what do you think?

He grunts in response. There really isn’t much for him to complain about this year: we have an experienced bench, and no teenagers. I would honestly rather see some of the youngsters higher up in the pecking order, but I like this squad. Today, both Guillermo Ochoa and Edin Dzeko should make their debut. With all the attention on Dzeko, it seemed a good time to sneak in Ochoa.

You nervous?

Butch shakes his head. We just have to not take them lightly.

Butch, it’s Middlesbrough. If we can’t beat a newly promoted side … Jesus Christ, that’s the second time today I’ve said that. I’m getting old, Butch. Becoming a senile old man.

He stares at me. You’re not old. You’re just bleeding daft.

Maybe. But I meant, are you nervous about Dzeko. Home debut and all that.

Finally, a smile. He’ll be fine. Talked with him this morning. He’s all set.

7:41 PM

Gordon Strachan is getting a lot of praise for bringing Middlesbrough to the EPL. It’s deserved as far as it goes, but he was a right ass to me in the tunnel. That may be a little strong. But I think I can reduce my holiday card list by one.

7:47 PM

We control possession, stringing together a dozen passes without them coming close to us.

Jesus, Butch. We look like ****ing Arsenal out there.

What?

It’s awfully pretty, but the ball isn’t getting anywhere near the net.

True to form, the first goal comes not from the possession, but on a breakaway: we clear a corner to Dzeko, who sees Drogba streaking upfield. The ball eludes Sean St. Ledger, Didier gets a half step on him, and it’s all over. Brad Jones comes out, but Drogba absolutely unloads on the ball, a high drive into the back of the net.

Thirty-five minutes in, Dzeko unleashes a drive inside the box that bounces hard off the frame—so close. The crowd is applauding his every touch, and the moan as the ball hits the woodwork is as loud as anything yet. If he produces, the crowd here will love him.

We go in at halftime with the 1-0 lead. I’m angry: it’s been total dominance but not enough to show for it on the scoreboard.

Look, it’s not enough. We’re dominating the game, and that’s great. But we need to finish—you can’t just show up and win, you have to work at it. We should have learned that last week. Go out there, and bring it home—we’re a touch away right now. Find that touch.

In the first five minutes of the second half, Zhirkov shanks one well wide of goal and Vukcevic has a long, bending shot saved by Jones. But there is more bite in the attack, and the additional goals seem inevitable.

Just over an hour in, Carvalho frees Drogba by launching a long pass down the right side. Didier takes it to the byline, then slides it back in the box to Vukcevic. He beats Jones low to the near post, and we have the second goal. Middlesbrough is getting tired, and the rest of the game is a bit of an avalanche.

A few minutes later, a drive from Drogba hits off one post, is deflected to the other, and bounces back out. He can’t believe he missed his brace, and stands at the far end, head in his hands and shaking his head.

But it’s only a small setback: again it is Dzeko and Drogba combining. Edin shakes his man at the edge of the box and finds Didier moving towards the spot. His first goal was a thing of beauty—this one was pure hard work, both in Dzeko’s strength to hold off his man and Drogba’s clinical finish.

Dzeko adds a fourth off a lovely pass from Kalou, finishing his first league game with a goal and two assists.

That’s what we’re talking about. That second half. Everyone in this room needs to remember how we just played. That’s the standard for this year. Every game, every half, every touch. To that level. Alright. Training tomorrow afternoon, one o’clock. Those of you without alarm clocks—I’m looking at you and you—remember, it’s a hundred quid every minute you’re late. Go on, get out of here.

Premier Division

Chelsea v Middlesbrough, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 4 (Didier Drogba 7 73, Simon Vukcevic 64, Edin Dzeko 88) – Middlesbrough 0

MoM: Drogba (9.2)

Attendance: 39, 265. Referee: Steve Tanner.

[Makonnen]

Touchline Report, Chelsea v Houston Dynamo. August 23, 2010.

8:50 AM

He looks at me from across the room, eyes wide in disbelief. How old is she?

She’s fifteen.

He shakes his head. Danyil, I know this stuff is in your blood, but it’s barely a step up from child slavery. Fifteen?

I can feel the flush rising. Oh for ****’s sake. Don’t give me that ****. We’re paying over two million for her. She’s no more a whore than any of them are. You’re just reacting to her being a girl.

I am not! At least with the other one—the Tanzanian with the odd name, the keeper—at least she can’t make the move until she’s sixteen. Jesus … do you know if she’s even come of age?

Come of age? What are you, some Victorian novel? And no, we didn’t say, by the way, has she bled yet? Seemed a mite intrusive. I paused. Actually. Oh hell.

What?

It’s in the physical.

What is?

I just shook my head. OK, look, some of this is new territory. Nobody’s done this before. We do know, and yes, she has. But … look, this is the future. She’s that good. And she’s not even the best of them.

He is silent for a moment. This is how our fights are. Moments of intense fire, a burning that threatens to engulf everything, moments of terror when all the years, all the time seem about to vanish in smoke. And then, one of us suddenly backs down, leaving a vacuum behind them with the speed of their retreat, and the other is left with a choice: does he stay burning alone, consuming nothing but himself, or does he rush into the void, filling the cooling air with a touch, a smile, a measured return to conversation?

He sighs. Why?

Why what?

Why her? There are dozens of teenagers out there that would come to Chelsea, and you know of most of them. Why her?

It’s a good question. Stubbs was good, but she wasn’t necessarily that good. For Leigh.

The American girl?

Yes.

She’s that good?

She might be. Stubbs is good, don’t get me wrong. She could play here. But she’s the same as other kids we have—develop them, build them up a bit, sell them on to Bolton or Everton or some club in France for three times what we paid for them, clap when they represent their country. You know how that is. And you’re right—it’s a mean world, far too mean for the innocence of youth. But we have Halo. That’s her name, the Tanzanian. We have Halo, we would have Joanie, and the two of them would offer some support, some protection for Leigh.

And Platense said yes?

Platense creamed their pants at the offer.

You’re crude.

I shrug. Look, there she is. Sky has just broken the news, and there’s a shot of Joanie Stubbs behind the announcer. She’s tall, with sandy blonde hair that frames light blue eyes. She’s a good looking girl and told us people always think she’s a volleyball player, not a footballer. But she is, a strong, fast athlete with a fantastic shot and an engine that never pauses. We watch in silence. The studio guest—some ex-footballer I’ve never heard of with a Scottish accent—is almost speechless. I catch the words publicity stunt, media, serious and turn it off. I go over to the couch and sit down heavily.

His hands work at my neck, and I feel some of the tension slip away. You know what the funniest part is?

He pauses a moment and curves his head around to meet my eyes. Funny? Something is funny?

Yeah. Villareal offered seventeen million for Kalou. And nobody cares.

He gives a slight smile. You going to take it?

It’s tempting. He may not see much time this year—we have Vukcevic starting up there, and now Brunt behind. I don’t know. It depends.

On what?

I turn to face him. On another bit of news. We’ve been playing footsie for a few years with a Brazilian kid, Neymar. If he comes, Kalou goes.

That simple?

Yes.

He shakes his head. I could never do your job. Ever. They really are just pieces on a chess game, aren’t they?

I shrug. Not really. They’re grown men. Well, most of them. Adults, then.

1:09 PM

Jesus, Butch, look at it. It’s a storm, a heavy constant downpour, loud and gray and almost painful to be in. He rubs his pate, and looks at me.

You see the Harry Potter films?

I’m so shocked by the question, I don’t have a snappy comeback. Um. Yeah.

You know the one with the tournament? The dragon and all that? I nod. We need some of that stuff he eats. Gillywort or gillyweed or whatever.

I laugh. Butch, you are a man of constant surprise.

I try.

6:51 PM

We drew the Houston Dynamo in the opening round of the Imposter’s Cup. They’re a good team, not one we should take lightly, even with their injuries. Still, it should be a good chance for some of the first team backups: Alex and Sakho and Jon Obi all get the start, and if we can, Michael Mancienne, McEachran, and Yaya will all see time as well.

Twenty-three seconds in, Ivanovic sends a cross in from the right. Drogba goes up for it but Omar Gonzalez is higher in the air, and there is no first minute goal for us today. I can’t say I mind turning that into a pattern, the whole early score thing.

We look comfortable out there.

Butch wipes his forehead. Comfortable? In this ****er?

Well, as comfortable as we can be.

Ten minutes in, it pays off. Vukcevic, Drogba, and Dzeko have all been working well to start the game and have each had a shot turned away by Andy Gruenebaum in the Dynamo goal. This time, Simon finds Drogba who is onside only because Ricardo Clark is slow in pushing up with his fellow defenders. Dzeko moves in, screening Brian Boswell and giving Didier time to ensure a good strike. It’s a great goal, and it highlights the gap between the sides: a split-second on defense, instinctive cover from the strike partner, and we’re up 1-0.

The goal seems to wake Houston up—or it puts us to sleep, whichever. In any case, their midfield is working hard, especially John Thorrington. But Alex and Sakho in the middle seem well up to the crosses, and we look dangerous on the break whenever we regain possession.

But there is a spark, an urgency that is missing. We aren’t looking for the attack, we’re content to see what we can do, a bit lackadaisical. Right now, it hasn’t hurt us, but I’m not particularly thrilled, and I let them know it at halftime.

Eight minutes into the second half, Lampard drills a shot from twenty yards, and their keeper has no chance. We have the second goal, and suddenly the game feels much more in hand.

Three minutes later, Drogba sends a neat back heel into Dzeko’s path, and after a tidy finish we’re coasting, up 3-0.

Your man and Drogba seem to be getting on well.

Butch just looks at me. Of course they are.

You can tell that Houston is just unused to the quality of our defense—Luis Ángel Llandín breaks free from midfield, and is clearly stunned that a man as big as Alex can catch him. But catch him he does and neatly dispossesses him, sending the ball to Mikel to start it back the other way. Llandín just shakes his head and trudges back upfield.

For once, the youngsters can be used the way we want them to. Bane has picked up an injury and Lampard has a card, so Mancienne and Josh come on.

Twenty minutes from time, Drogba rattles the woodwork from distance and is unlucky not to get his brace, but just a few minutes later Didier gives Dzeko his by hustling to chase a wayward pass from McEachran into the corner. He then sends a cross looping to the far post, where Dzeko out jumps everyone delivering a header hard and low into the corner of the goal.

Alex is having a great game, closing down everyone who gets a sniff of goal. This time, it’s Stuart Holden who thinks he has a shot but doesn’t. A minute from time, it is almost unfair: Bernard Parker does a wonderful job moving around two players, including Alex, but the big Brazilian scrambles back to his feet quickly enough to slide through and poke the ball away just as Parker is setting up for a shot from inside the six. We would have won without him today, but Alex clearly wanted—and deserved—the clean sheet.

Bane will miss a couple weeks. Figures. Right back is the one position we don’t really have great cover, and will have to depend on Mancienne back there unless we can find someone on loan. Or, you know, if Maicon tires of life in Manchester.

Imposter’s Cup First Round, Leg One

Chelsea v Houston Dynamo, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 4 (Didier Drogba 10, Frank Lampard 53, Edin Dzeko 57 76) – Dynamo 0

MoM: Drogba (9.3)

Attendance: 34,039. Referee: Andre Marriner.

[Makonnen]

Putting this here, as Chelsea are the only club involved.

2010/11 UEFA Cup Draw. August 26, 2010

With the qualifying games coming to a close, the draw for the UEFA Cup was finalized earlier today in a ceremony filled with all the pomp and circumstance it deserved. And then some. The sequins are being swept up, the balloons popped, and all that is left is for the pundits to pontificate.

Here are the groups:

Group A: Arsenal, AS Roma, Olympiakos SF Piraeus, Rubin Kazan

Group B: AFC Ajax, FC Internazionale, FK Partizan Beograd, Tottenham Hotspur

Group C: FC Barcelona, Hamburger SV, RSC Anderlecht, BSC Young Boys

Group D: Olympique Lyonnais, Futebol Clube do Porto-SAD, Athletic Club, Hapoel Tel-Aviv

Group E: Real Madrid, Fenerbahçe, Paris Saint-Germain, Genoa

Group F: Sporting CP, PSV, Chelsea, Spartak Moscow

Group G: Werder Bremen, Juventus, Rangers, FC Universitatea Craiova

Group H: Shakhtar, Olympique Marseilles, Everton, Sparta Prague

This competition looks ripe for upsets, with only one group—Barcelona’s Group C—looking like a cakewalk for the favorites. If there is a group of death, it is most likely Group F, where Chelsea has the edge, but none of the other three teams are pushovers.

[Makonnen]

Touchline Report, Chelsea v Newcastle. August 28, 2010

7:27 AM

I snapped the phone shut and put it down on the countertop, giving it a hard spin as I did so. It twisted in a slightly off-center spiral, the face a blur as it moved erratically towards the wall. I smiled, then did a spin myself, stopping suddenly at a noise behind me.

You’re happy this morning.

I couldn’t help but laugh. Yes, yes I am.

Any reason?

Neymar agreed to terms. The Brazilian kid I was telling you about.

Really?

Really. He could be the last piece. Spell Frank, take over in a year or two. I danced over to him, put one hand on his hip, took his other and began to dance, singing softly. Neeeeeymar. That’s what I’m talking ‘bout. Neeeeeeymar. His name just makes me shout. We moved for a moment, then he pulled away, smiling and shaking his head.

More people should see this side of you.

What you want to share all this?

No, I’ll keep it for myself. But more people should see you happy.

I stopped dancing, dropped his hand, and looked at him. Really?

Really.

I paused a moment. Come to the game, and they would.

He narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms, frowned, and turned and walked out of the room.

****. Now why did I have to go and say that?

9:07 AM

You OK?

I look at Butch and shake my head. Sorry. Distracted. He just looks at me, then continues.

They still have Carroll down on the reserves. Last I heard, they were going to loan him out.

Andy Carroll? Loan him out? Butch nods. Idiots, I said, shaking my head. One bad thing about being us—if we ask for him on loan, they’ll suddenly know what they have. You know what Chris thinks of it?

Hughton? No, don’t really know him. You?

Chris Hughton is Newcastle’s manager, and I think a fine young talent in the league. Isn’t that the phrase? Whatever. I like Chris, I think he’s smart, and I think he deserves a better situation than Newcastle’s owners provide. We’ve spoken a few times, and I think he’s the type that would recognize Carroll’s talent, even if he didn’t like where his head was at. But, whatever. Andy Carroll isn’t in the squad.

A bit. I’ll be he wishes Carroll was playing. At least the Russian lets us alone mostly.

Mostly.

Something I should know, Butch? He quickly shakes his head. A little too quickly. OK. What are we doing at right back today? No miracle recovery for Bane?

No, course not. At least another week.

Mancienne, then?

Yeah. And we talked with Mamadou last night, he says he can cover there if needed.

Yury?

He’s willing, too.

12:47 PM

Today, the shot in the first minute fell to Lampard, but it’s sent well over.

Frank! We don’t HAVE to shoot in the first minute! We just like to. He gives me a thumbs up. A minute later, Joey Barton fouls Drogba just outside the box. Vukcevic lines up for the kick and bends it around the outside of the wall. Fraser Forster gets his hands on it, but it’s not enough, and we’re up 1-0 under five minutes in.

As the players reset for the kickoff, I get Alan Wiley’s attention.

Alan! Alan! You have to keep an eye on him. That was a foul, but it could have been a card!

Hughton is up off his bench in a flash.

Hey! Hey! Stop that!

What?

You know damn well, what. All he’s got is a rep. That’s bush, Danyil, you know it.

I shrug, but back off. Chris is right, of course: but if you have Joey Barton on your team, you have to know your opponents are going to try to take advantage of it.

After our goal, Newcastle finds their legs, and maintains possession for some long, uneventful stretches. It’s the best they seem able to do: either they are holding the ball, passing it around midfield, or we’re on attack.

Half an hour in, Drogba tries his own curling shot, but Forster is up to this one. We look clogged in the middle, with De Rossi and Essien playing too close together, so Butch and I spread them out, trying to focus more of our attack down the wings.

Minutes later, De Rossi sends the ball up to Drogba, who spins around Alan Smith with a pure strength move, keeping the defender on his hip while he sends the ball smoothly into the box. Vukcevic has split Steven Taylor and Barton, and beats them both to the ball. He twists, sending the ball back towards the far post, and Forster’s dive comes up short. Simon 2, Newcastle 0.

Just before halftime, it looks like we’re in trouble as Ryan Taylor is free on goal, but he’s flagged for offsides.

I grab Chris as the whistle blows.

Chris! Hey. Sorry about the Barton thing.

You don’t need to do it, you know. You’re better than that, and they already have it out for him.

I nod. You have to protect your players. I know that.

We head to our locker rooms.

The most exciting moment of the second half is trying to decide whether Sakho or Zhirkov should play out of position on the right side. We settle on Zhirkov, who sees his first action there.

Ten minutes from time, Lampard rattles one off the post, and JT sends it wide by less than a yard on the ensuing header. The defense gets sloppy at the end and we give up some corners, but nothing more.

OK, good job, way to close out the second half. Great game, Simon, and good job on the right, Yury. Light applause. We’ll make a two-footed player out of you yet. Light laughter. We’re done with the league for a month now, so I want to make sure you ignore all the media ***** that will come out. We’ll drop in the standings, and when we play Everton at the end of September, it will all start again. Just ignore it. In the meantime, we have Houston on Monday, and when we take care of business there it looks like we’ll play Man U and Spartak Moscow. So it’s going to be busy, and we need to stay focused. Day off tomorrow, but we’ll have the squad for Monday posted by five. If you’re on it, be here by two on Monday. If you’re not on it, morning practice.

Any questions? OK. See you Monday.

I grab one of our assistants and send him with a message to Hughton. By the time Butch and I are done reviewing the work for tomorrow, he’s back and nods. I head out to the hallway and spot him by their locker room. The press has cleared out—we’re both due in front of them in a few minutes. I head out to him and extend my hand, which he takes. We talk in soft tones—there are still some large ears about.

I just wanted to say I’m sorry again about the Barton thing. If it were one of mine, I’d have popped a vein.

Thanks. Didn’t change the game, you know?

Sure. Anyways, I felt bad about it, wanted to be clean.

Appreciated.

I really was trying to find a way to make sure he knew how good Carroll was, but the conversation wasn’t going easily. Not sure what I thought would happen, honestly. I looked into his face—the tight, narrow eyes, the muscles tense on his jaw and neck. This was not the time. OK. Best of luck, Chris.

Premier Division

Chelsea v Newcastle United, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 2 (Simon Vukcevic 3 34) – Newcastle 0

MoM: Vukcevic (8.8)

Attendance: 40,472. Referee: Alan Wiley.

[Makonnen]

Touchline Report, Chelsea v Houston Dynamo. August 30, 2010

Hyatt Regency Downtown, Houston. 8:23 AM.

Danyil.

Hi, Jessica. You’re up early. Or, late. I bet I know why you’re calling.

France? What are you doing in France?

OK, OK, we’ll do our own scouting. So. What can I do for you?

Yeah, I know. We heard last night.

No, we were serious. Absolutely. We were one hundred percent serious.

I don’t know why the work permit was turned down.

Yes, I know.

Well … it’s not all that surprising, is it?

No, no, nothing. I’m just saying. There are certainly some people who hate the idea. I mean, as soon as we made the announcement we started to get a flood of complaints. Sure, some were supportive. But a lot were … crude.

I don’t know. You should talk to someone in marketing, customer services, whatever. Call Ron, he’ll know.

Yeah, maybe. Sure.

Yes, we considered that. But three years in Belgium seemed a bit of a waste—as good as Joanie is, she’ll be over here before then. We can always bring her in then.

Yes, I know. But we are Chelsea after all.

What? No of course not. That’s silly. Look, Jessica, we have two coming in the next few months. Joanie not working out had nothing to do with us. It was someone in the work permit process—the whole ****ing thing isn’t exactly transparent, you know? It’s going to take a few years, and there will be some resistance. It’s just the way it is.

I promise. Really. We’re on the same side here.

OK. Bye.

Robertson Stadium, Houston. 11:37 AM

Butch, who the hell is that over there with De Rossi?

That? That’s our new reserve at right back. Gianluca Comotto.

What? Butch shrugs and nods up to the owner’s box. I look at him incredulously. Really?

His eyebrows arch upwards. I was as surprised as you. Comotto’s good, but … he trails off and turns back to the field. What the hell was this? Roman had stayed out of the day to day running of the club for the past year and this was a pretty unexpected way for him to step back in. Nobody was happy that Bane had gone down, but Mancienne would do fine in the interim, and we had precious little money left in the transfer kitty as it was.

I whip out my phone, remembering a note from Gourlay earlier in the morning that I hadn’t read. There it was.

Danyil,

On my advice, we have arranged for an Italian defender, Gianluca Comotto, to join us on loan from Fiorentina through the end of December.

He’s a veteran, highly rated by our scouts, and should give us the cover we need back there. Roman signed the papers on the 28th and he should have a few practice sessions before tonight’s game. Perhaps he can see some time and you can evaluate his proper role.

-Ron

I stare at the screen, waiting for the anger. It doesn’t come. That’s odd. I turn to Butch.

He good enough to play for us?

His face is wary. I think so. Don’t know if he’s better than Mancienne, but we’ve naught else back there.

I nod and give a soft whistle. I must be growing up. Few years ago, I would have marched up to the Russian and screamed a bit. But we’re not going to do that. We’ve got more important things.

He gives me a grim smile. Yeah, that and you pretty much like this job.

I stare at him. You think I wouldn’t?

Butch’s face softens and he smiles that impish grin of his. I think you shouldn’t, that’s all.

Is that it? Roman Abramovich is clearly not a man to fool with. Was I just cowed? Time to ruminate on that later. I turn back to look at Comotto. Not particularly big, but he’s clearly an athlete. How long has he been here?

Two days.

Jesus, a man goes away for a day and everything changes. I shake my head.

He know the system?

Well enough. Better than Jones. He inclines his head across the field, where Jonathan Jones is listening intently to Meco. I suspect he is concentrating more because of Manuel’s accent than his studious impulses. Jones never struck me as the most intellectual of kids.

Ah. Well enough to protect a four goal lead, you mean.

That’s our edge against Houston going into this game, so we’re sending out what amounts to a second team for us. The Dynamo, of course, are coming at us with all they’ve got. That means we get some time to look at Brian Ching, Stuart Holden, some other players that could hold their own in England. Well, not Ching, not anymore. But Holden definitely, maybe Omar Gonzalez, maybe even Ricardo Clark.

2:42 PM

Ron? It’s Danyil.

Sorry to call you late. Yeah, it’s afternoon here. Nearly three.

Good. Give her my best, and tell her I’m still waiting for that recipe.

Ron, I met Gianluca this morning.

I hope so.

Well, no, actually. I think it was … well, nevermind. If he can help, that’s good. But, Ron, I won’t have it down the road. We’ve worked really hard to pull together a squad here, and I need that to get where we need to go.

No, I understand.

Well, maybe we need to do that. See when he’s available when we’re back, and I’ll make time.

Yes, no, no problem. If Gianluca can help, he’ll play.

Actually, that’s not why I called. It’s about Kalou. What’s the latest?

Really? That’s what we asked for, right?

Any news on Neymar?

OK.

No, I think we have to pass. We can move him in January if we need to, but without knowing that Neymar is coming, we need Salomon.

Yes.

I know. I’m sure.

OK. Do I need to check the papers tomorrow, or are we good?

Good. Thank you.

We will. It may not be pretty, but we will.

Alright, talk to you tomorrow.

7:38 PM

We don’t get our usual first minute goal. Hell, we don’t even see the ball for the first four minutes. And we only get it then because we have to lineup for another kickoff. Ricardo Clark’s cross is parried away by Aréola, but it falls directly to Bernard Parker who has a very simple put back. We’re down 1-0, which is a little disconcerting. But more than that, we’ll learn a bit about how these players can bounce back.

It’s a mix and match team: Aréola in goal, who will see no real time for us this year, but Sakho and the young Brazilian Rafhael playing alongside the veteran Brazilian Alex in back, along with the two French kids, Sanogo and Belfodil, up front. And, of course, Comotto.

We’re half an hour in, and have yet to get a shot off. They have had all of the ball and corner after corner after corner. But we’re holding on, and I can see the team out there beginning to recover.

That said, we still have no shots.

Just before halftime, we have our second corner, and Ballack sends it to the far post. With Belfodil attracting all the attention, Yaya slides behind his man and heads it home. We’re level, and even if it is against the run of play, we are clearly safe through at this point.

Alex has been down twice today with knocks, one to his knee and the last a nasty gash on his arm. I would rather make changes elsewhere, but if he has to come off, that’s fine, too. I catch him as he runs back upfield after the goal. Alex! Can you finish?

He glances down at his arm, where we both can see blood seeping beneath the hastily applied bandage. Yeah, sure. I’m fine. Just a knock.

That’s that, then.

The game is, well, boring. Ballack and Sakho are having good games for us, but Houston’s back line is holding, and Ricardo Clark and the Canadian, Andrew Hainault, are both impressive out there. But neither Ching nor Luis Ángel Llandín are doing much up front for them, and we’re happy, quite honestly, to just knock the ball around a bit and coast through to the next round. I turn to the bench, and find the sixteen year old kid.

JJ, come here.

He hops off the bench quick enough. Yes …

You ready for ten minutes? His eyes get a little bigger. He knows this game matters, even if the result is in hand, it’s not a friendly. I glance out to the field and take a breath.

Look, I know you think I’m mean and I don’t like you. It’s not true. Well, I may be mean, but that’s not the point. I pause. His anxiety is pretty palpable. You have to understand, you’ve chosen to do this. I wave at the field, the crowd. And doing this is hard. You’ve got talent. You need to work to make that talent turn into something. Ten minutes. Keep your side clean, move the ball. Go.

Llandín abuses him with his first touch: a fake gets Jones off balance, and then he is muscled out of the way by the burly Dynamo forward. He’s angry when he gets up, and he looks at the referee, and then at me.

Go! You’re fine, go!

I turn to Butch.

Think he’ll turn into anything?

Butch shrugs. Maybe. We’ll know in three years.

I look around the field: it’s a college stadium, a boxy American thing with brick and steep rows of seats that are half empty. There are ten, maybe twelve minutes left in the game.

Butch, you ever figure out how what to do at times like this? He looks at me quizzically. Game’s good as done. No way they score enough goals in the time left to make it interesting. You just sort of wait for the whistle, hoping nobody does anything stupid enough to make you have to yell.

He looks at the field a moment, then back at me. We’re in America. I just watch the cheerleaders.

I force a laugh. The end is uneventful, and we proceed in the competition. And we have ourselves a new reserve right side defender.

Imposter’s Cup First Round Leg 2

Houston Dynamo v Chelsea, Robertson Stadium

Dynamo 1 (Bernard Parker 4) – Chelsea 1 (Yaya Sanogo 44) [Chelsea win 5-1 on aggregate]

MoM: Ricardo Clark (7.9) Chelsea’s Best: Michael Ballack (7.7)

Attendance: 27,694. Referee: Steve Tanner.

[Drogba11CFC]

I use 4-1-2-2-1 with Chelsea, but your tactics seem to work.

[Makonnen]

@Drogba11CFC. I use a 4-2-1-1-2 right now, but that difference is really due to De Rossi & Dzeko. The goal is two in front of the back four, one as a DM, one as a playmaker, then two mids feeding the two strikers. I have Zhirkov set as a wingback when he plays, and alternate in the game between exploiting middle and flanks, although I'm not sure that does much, tbh.

Cameroon v Guinea, African Cup of Nations Group Stage. September 4, 2010

Young Nicolas N’Koulou was a last minute scratch after banging up his shin, so the even younger Raoul Ngome gets a start in a game that matters. It’s the opening of the African Nation’s Cup and, for the first time, we have some expectations on us: we should qualify out of the group stage, but honestly I am expecting even more from us. The group is Malawi, the Seychelles, and today’s opponent, Guinea. This is the test, though: if we are better than Guinea, we should be better than the other two.

It’s a dry, hot day in Conakry and I’m sweating well before the match begins. Luckily, the coach’s getup is dark green. Still, I’m happy when Fikile Mtitsilane blows his whistle and I can forget about the surroundings a bit. Ten minutes in, Eto’o has a magnificent run down the right side and sends a cross that finds Emana at the far post, but he mistimes his jump and wastes the header, sending our best chance of the young match awry.

Guinea has some skill, especially Toulouse’s Fodé Mansaré up front. We look better than they do, but this isn’t Ethiopia we’re facing here.

Thirteen minutes in, Emana chips a pass back to Stéphane Mbia, who juggles it from his knee to a touch pass that finds Eto’o inside the box. It looks like a sure goal, but somehow ES Sétif’s Youssouf Touré in the Guinea goal is up for the challenge, diving hard to his right to make the block. The ball falls to Emana’s feet, and he easily passes it into the far corner of the goal. I’m amazed Eto’o didn’t score, but we’re still up 1-0 less than fifteen minutes in.

Five minutes later, it’s the same two players: Emana finds Eto’o, who times his run perfectly and now Samuel makes no mistake, sending the ball high and hard into the net. 2-0, and it is feeling more like the Ethiopia game.

Seven minutes from halftime, Achille Webo is unlucky not to add the third when his shot beats Touré, but bounces off the right post.

They come out of halftime with more energy than we do, trying to find a way back into the game. Just minutes in, the pressure pays off for them: Ngome makes a rookie mistake when he tries to bring a high ball down with a header and it runs away from him. Eskisehirspor’s Souleymane Youla has a stunningly quick first step, and he’s on the ball in a flash. He moves around Ngome who looks a bit stunned by his own mistake, but Kameni is up to the save, and we clear the attack.

Just shy of the hour mark, Mbia finds Eto’o with a long pass down the middle of the pitch. He is free on a one-on-one, and it’s no contest—from just inside the edge of the box, he slots the ball neatly inside the post for his brace. The Guinea coach is screaming at the officials—and he has a right to, as replays show that Eto’o is a good yard offsides. But we’ll take it.

The only bad news is that Eto’o and Mbia have both picked up yellow cards, so I want to get them off the pitch, just in case. That alters the substitution strategy, and will probably change who plays in the friendly against Australia. Eric Djemba-Djemba gets his first significant time since I took charge, in for Mbia.

The referee has fallen in love with his whistle, but so far the yellow cards are all being awarded to Guinea. I certainly don’t trust that, however, so I bring Eto’o off as soon as I can. It means Emana and Webo will end the game tired.

But, we end happy with the win, which matters more.

African Nations Qualifiers, Group F

Guinea v Cameroon, Stade du 28 Septembre

Guinea 0 – Cameroon 3 (Achille Emana 14, Samuel Eto’o 22 59)

MoM: Eto’o (8.8)

Attendance: 39,931. Referee: Fikile Mtitsilane.

Elsewhere, headlines on the first day of group play include Emmanuel Adebayor scoring all five of Togo’s goals in their 5-0 rout of Eritrea; the Ivory Coast defeating Chad by the same score with braces from Didier Drogba and Salomon Kalou; and Ghana using goals from Samuel Yeboah and Asamoah Gyan to defeat Ethiopia 2-0.

[Makonnen]

The Swagger Is Becoming Troublesome (Cameroon v Australia). September 9, 2010.

After the victory over Guinea, the squad is confident, even carrying a bit of a swagger. But Australia will be a much stiffer test, and their lineup—combined with the fatigue of some of our players after the last game—call for some strategic changes. Most importantly, Meyong will get the start up front, playing a more supportive, defensive role. We want to hassle Australia, keep possession high up the field.

And, to be honest, I want to **** with Tim Cahill.

Don’t get me wrong: I like him as a player. He’s just an incredible thorn in your side as an opposition coach: he’s so tenacious and no matter how much you scream about not letting him get his head on a ball, he always seems to find a way to do just that.

The match starts with the ball in our end—we can’t clear it, and several crosses fall into the box. Luckily, we have Cahill well sandwiched between Ngome on one side and Sébastien Bassong on the other, and none of the other socceroo’s seems much of a threat. Who the hell lets themselves be called a socceroo?

We settle. And, nine minutes in, Jean Il Makoun is tackled by Lucas Neil at the edge of the box. The ball squirts to Achille Emana. Understandably, Jonathan McKain is shading towards Eto’o, leaving Emana wide open. He blasts it into the top corner, and Mark Schwarzer barely moves. We’re up 1-0, and, if anything, the swagger is becoming troublesome.

Just before halftime, it’s exactly what we discussed before the game. James Troisi plays with the ball on the left side and eventually Cahill makes a run towards the near post. In comes the cross, low and hard, and Cahill dives, extending himself fully horizontal in the air. He meets the ball squarely, sending it back across goal. Kameni can’t get back, and we’re tied.

I’m so ****ed I can barely scream at them once we’re in the dressing room.

What did we talk about? What was the one thing we talked about? Close down the wings and don’t let Cahill get his head to the ball. Look, there it is on the board. Close. Down. The wings. Don’t. Let. Cahill. Use. His HEAD.

What the **** was that, then?

Everything else is good. Everything. Keep everything else the same.

But if you can’t stop the one threat we identify before the game, we’ll get other people on who can. It’s that simple.

You all can do something. You showed that in South Africa. We can do something. We have a few years to put it all together, but you know how you do that? By paying a rat’s ass bit of attention to what we talk about. By figuring out who the biggest threat to you is and shutting them the hell down.

Keep everything else. But for ****’s sake, listen to your coaches. And shut Cahill down.

When they come out of the locker room, the swagger is gone. We’re nervous out there. I just shake my head. They have to learn the hard way.

Just before the hour mark, we give up a silly, horrendous goal. Mark Bresciano sends a looping shot in from thirty yards out, and Kameni makes a complete mess of it. He rushes out, realizes it is over his head and flails helplessly as the ball settles in the back of the net. It’s pretty horrific, and it sucks all life out of us: Kameni has been a rock for us back there, reliable and steady and a strong presence behind an ever-changing back four. Now, he’s screaming at Ngome, waving his arms and pointing. Ngome is too young to realize his goalkeeper is just trying to save face and begins to yell back at Carlos. Benoît Assou-Ekotto has to get between them, and he steers Raoul away, talking to him. They’re on the other side of the pitch, so I can’t say anything or hear what Assou-Ekotto is saying, but I can only hope he’s talking some sense into the teenager.

Carlos! Carlos! Paul lets loose a mighty whistle that makes me cringe. But it works: Kameni looks up. I put my hands in front of my body and gently move them up and down. Easy, easy. He nods, turns back around, and slams a hand across his post.

I turn to Paul. Next time you make that noise, give me fair warning, OK?

They add a third off a corner, and again it’s as much our fault as theirs. The cross is taking inside the box by Patrick Kisnorbo, who chips it inside the six. Ljubo Milicevic rises to meet it, and sends a header across goal that hits off the woodwork. Both Lauren and Mongo Beti are there, but they allow Kasey Wehrman to get a foot on the ball, poking the deflection into the back of the net. I’m furious and flabbergasted.

We’ve lost all of our composure, and Australia is abusing young Ngome.

The Meyong experiment has to be declared a failure, and as soon as I replace him with Achille Webo, we look better. Eto’o hits the bar with five minutes left.

One thing to take from this.

Paul looks at me. What?

Webo starts. He frowns and nods. We both had hoped for more from Meyong.

A minute from time, Eto’o gets one back, but he won’t get the credit: his shot beats Schwarzer, but it bounces off the post, then off the Aussie keeper’s back. An own goal that merely makes the final score more respectable.

I yell at them some more after the game, and go so far as to single out Ngome. If he wants to play at this level, he has to be better.

Paul grabs me after and says he’s young and that I need to be gentler with him. I laugh.

Why is that funny?

I get that a lot these days.

What?

There’s a sixteen year old defender at Chelsea who thinks I’m mean, too. You know what? Maybe I am. But they’re not children, Paul. They need to find it for themselves. He just shakes his head. After a deep exhalation, I try to find some common ground. Look, I am being good to them: I’m giving them caps and time on the international stage. We can’t baby them. But you have a point. We picked them, part of the fault is on us. I’ll make nice with Raoul.

We have a month until our next game when we face Seychelles. They would probably struggle to beat Ethiopia, so we have a chance to get back on track.

Friendly

Cameroon v Australia, Stade Omnisports Ahmadou Ahidjo

Cameroon 2 (Achille Emana 9, Mark Schwarzer 90og) – Australia 3 (Tim Cahill 45+2, Mark Bresciano 58, Kasey Wehrman 69)

MoM: Bresciano (8.2) Best Indomitable Lion: Emana (7.0)

Attendance: 36,399. Referee: Phil Tshabalala.

[Makonnen]

Touchline Report, Chelsea v Manchester United (Imposter's Cup). September 11, 2010.

8:10 AM; Manchester

I’m tired and I’m grumpy and I haven’t gotten enough sleep. I’ve been home barely a day and now we’re in Manchester to play United in an Imposter’s Cup match. My phone rings and I stare at it as if it’s contagious. It’s Gourlay. We haven’t exactly kissed and made up, but Comotto looks OK and there’s really nothing good that can come out of fighting with him.

Hey Ron.

Welcome back, Danyil. Good job against Guinea.

Thanks. Not so good against Australia, though.

That’s what friendlies are for, yeah?

I guess. I didn’t really like it. I really don’t want to get into it with him, though. Anyhow. What’s going on?

I spoke with Brazil this morning.

Ah. Brazil. That means Neymar. I can feel myself getting angry. Not only do we need him, I thought we had him. Hell, we did have him.

And? I hear Gourlay sigh.

And I don’t know. I honestly don’t. He likes you, by the way. I didn’t talk to him but they said that and I believe them.

Wait, who’s them? Who did you talk to?

It’s off the record. Completely. Your word?

OK. Yes. Promise.

I spoke with Teixeira.

Ricardo Teixeira is the head of the Brazilian Football Federation. The man himself?

Yes. Anyhow. He likes you. Neymar. And he likes us. Teixeira’s not so sure to be honest. About us. No idea if he knows who you are. Funny man, Gourlay. He stepped in, he said. Santos loved the offer, of course. It’s roughly the entire value of the team. But the federation convinced him to stay, and convinced Santos to help.

How?

They played the whole nation card. National team, helping kids, all that kind of crap. And he wouldn’t admit it, but I heard from somewhere else they threw some money at him.

I rubbed my eyes. OK. What does it mean?

Huh?

Can we sign him? When?

We can try.

In January?

Maybe. Maybe next summer.

Maybe?

Maybe. I guess I would have to be happy with that.

OK. He’s our focus, Ron. He solves a long-term need, and he frees up space.

I know.

OK. Gotta’ go. United awaits.

Good luck today.

Thanks. I click off.

11:31 AM; Old Trafford, Manchester

It’s going to be a hard day and a hard few weeks. Vukcevic broke his left wrist in a game against Wales three days ago and will miss the next month, so Chris Brunt will start today.

It’s an odd United squad: Rooney and van der Sar are both hurt, and Owen Hargreaves is in their starting lineup. Some are claiming Hargreaves is back for good, but I don’t buy it: he’ll be injured again in another month. But he plays today, so we have to be wary.

But the biggest change for United is at the top: Sir Alex shocked everyone with his sudden retirement last summer, but they moved quickly to hire Carlo Ancelotti as his replacement. It’s quite a change: from Ferguson’s taciturn look on the sidelines to the bushy eyebrows and wry smile of Ancelotti. The smile has been slow to emerge so far, and the fans remain unconvinced: Ancelotti’s first big match was away at Liverpool and his squad laid an egg, losing 5-1. That was enough to start the whispers, but he seems unfazed—every quote I’ve heard from him is about how they are finding their form and still need to be seen as contenders.

Who are we scared of, Butch?

Scared? Don’t know if we’re scared.

Don’t **** with me today, I’m in a foul mood.

He stares at me for a moment and nods curtly. Berbatov is always strong, and Welbeck can run like a deer. But they key is whether we can crack their back line: this Rafael kid looks to be real, and Vidic and Rio in back. Well.

I smile. You know they’ve never had to face two strikers as strong as they are.

He nods.

3:23 PM

Old Trafford is as loud as I’ve known it: the fans are determined to lift the Red Devils out of their slump and three minutes in, it looks like they have: Hargreaves sends a high arc of a corner to the far post, and Darren Fletcher somehow finds his way to the ball. We have three men around him: Ivanovic, Essien, and Lampard are all surrounding the red-clad Fletcher, but none of them make the clearance. The stadium erupts as the ball eludes Cech’s reach and I can feel my stomach tightening with anxiety.

Two minutes later, it calms down: Dzeko latches onto a long pass from Lampard and easily beats Tomasz Kuszczak in their goal. Their defense is apoplectic, screaming at the referee for offsides. And they’re right: Drogba was clearly offsides, but he was nowhere near the play. Dzeko, luckily, was just as clearly on the right side of Vidic when Frank sent the ball upfield.

Butch, you ever feel it’s going to be one of those days?

One of what days?

I look out at the field and catch the eye of Rafael as he jogs past to take position on a throw in. I swear he winks at me. Just a weird ass day.

Butch is quiet and just looks at me.

Ten minutes later, a cross from Patrice Evra bounces off Zhirkov’s heel and falls right to Welbeck who manages to hammer it just inside the near post off the underside of the bar. They surge back in front, and Old Trafford is again rocking. The crowd carries them forward, and they have more of the ball and more shots as well for the rest of the half, but we head into the locker rooms still down just the single goal.

It’s not a good day for it: I’m already annoyed, and it shows. What the hell was that? Seriously. We’re better than they are, top to bottom, and we’re letting them have their way. Three players can’t stop Fletcher from getting an open header? We can’t close down a deflection?

Bane, you know that was a rough forty-five for you. Get better. But it’s not one person—Chris, JT, we need more from you, too. Get the ball up to Edin and Didier, and we win. It’s that simple.

Seven minutes into the second half, Brunt sends a ball down the left side for Drogba. Vidic is stranded—he’s a terror closer to goal, but with this much open space, Drogba has a significant advantage. Vidic recognizes this, and as soon as Drogba gets by him, he sprints back, covering the cross. The problem for United is that nobody else closes Drogba down: Rafael was too slow to get back and Rio stays tight on Dzeko. So Drogba just cuts towards goal and while Rafael catches up, there’s nothing he can do from behind. The goal is a great low strike that easily finds the back of the net.

Old Trafford goes quiet—or as quiet as it gets, and Drogba sprints over to our supporters, screaming before he’s buried beneath a mountain of blue.

The goal breaks the game wide open, and it turns into an end to end affair. Drogba is free on a break, this time down the right side, but his cross is intercepted and Berbatov is free on a break heading the other way, but he can’t get his shot on target and Cech watches it sail wide.

We’re flooding the box with passes, and it feels like it’s just a matter of time before Dzeko gets to one, but it doesn’t come. At the very end, a foul by Rafael sets up a Drogba free kick from a few yards outside the box. He sends it to the far post, where De Rossi is sprinting towards goal and meets it with a diving header, but Kuszcak somehow gets his hands on it.

It was a very good game, and we honestly can’t be too upset with a draw, given that we’ll have a chance to win it at home.

I shake hands with Carlo afterwards, but don’t really remember what he says: I’m elated, exhausted, and honestly distracted by the eyebrow. How does he get that one so much higher than the other?

Imposter’s Cup Quarterfinals, Leg One

Manchester United v Chelsea, Old Trafford

Man Utd 2 (Darren Fletcher 4, Danny Welbeck 13) – Chelsea 2 (Edin Dzeko 6, Didier Drogba 53)

MoM: Drogba (8.3)

Attendance: 73,628. Referee: Phil Dowd.

[Makonnen]

Touchline Report, Chelsea v Spartak Moscow. September 15, 2010.

Jesus, it’s cold. It’s only September. But we had to send an extra set of luggage along with us to Moscow: parkas, gloves, the full winter kit. Still, I’d like to come back here. Moscow confuses me: the mixture of Soviet industrialism and ancient excess, the clear signs of modern decline serving as a backdrop to what I’ve heard described as the closest thing to the American Wild West since, well, the American Wild West. This trip, there’s no time for that: we’re here for under two days all told for our opening match in UEFA play.

No time, and more importantly, no Carvalho, no Zhirkov, no Sakho in back and no Vukcevic up front. We’ll be able to put together an attack—as long as we have Edin and Drogba, we’ll threaten up there. But I’m concerned about the back line. We’re turning to Mancienne on the left, with Cork—who despite being a bit of a whipping boy last season looks much stronger this year—and the young Brazilian Rafhael on the bench. Rafhael has all the talent in the world, but he’s struggling to adopt. I keep hoping that he’ll figure out the opportunity he has here, but so far I’ve seen more pouting than grit.

I spoke to Alex on the flight over about him and encouraged him to spend some time with the youngster. But I’m not sure it will amount to much: Rafhael has to decide for himself that this is where he wants to be and that it’s worth putting the work in.

The stadium is full and loud, but it’s a pretty miserable evening. The cold is a shocking, there’s a biting wind, and the rain keeps coming and going. We’re bundled up pretty good, but the players just have to fight through it. And not get sick.

Ten minutes in, we almost lose it—their keeper sends a long, high ball into our box, and their forward—Prudnikhov, Prusnikov, something like that—nearly collides with Cech. The ball runs free in the box momentarily, but JT and Alex hold their composure, and we clear it away.

Just shy of half an hour, De Rossi finds Drogba at the edge of the box. His shot is blocked by their captain and towering center-half, Martin Jiranek, but falls right to Matic at the top of the circle. He volleys it perfectly, and the ball screams into the back of the net. It’s a fantastic goal, but it won’t stand: Drogba is flagged for offsides on the original move.

Seconds before halftime, Matic frees Drogba on a run to the penalty spot. He’s one on one with their keeper, but the shot is mishit, and deflected back into play. It was the first clear chance of the game, and one that Didier usually buries in the back of the net.

Matic repeats the trick at the start of the second half, this time with Dzeko, but their defense pushes him to the byline and we get the corner. It’s the first of three in quick succession, the first two cleared and the last one met squarely by De Rossi, but it edges over the bar, too high. Butch and I both moan in frustration: we’ve been working on that play in practice, having the Italian midfielder launch himself late to the far post, and both of us believe a goal is coming from it at some point.

Four minutes into the second half, Drogba sends a great header back across goal, but their keeper, Stipe Pletikosa, leaps high to intercept it—both JT and Bane were crashing the far side, and you have to think he saved a goal. We’re pouring on the pressure, but little is coming of it. It continues as the half goes on—they have some chances, but most of the time is spent in front of Pletikosa’s goal. It’s both frustrating and dangerous—as strong as our group looks, we have to get the point here, and cannot surrender a silly goal on a break or something like that. But Cech and the defense—especially JT—seem up to it.

Cech makes two spectacular saves in the last five minutes, both against Milan Bedelj, the first on a curving bullet from thirty yards out, the second on a breakaway. If we keep the points, it’s Petr and the back line that earned them and it’s the attack that really didn’t come through. The reverse of what we thought. ****ing brutal game, this is.

It’s winding down, and it looks like a scoreless draw is in the works. Frustrating. It feels like we’ve had five or six times the shots they have, but Holland informs me it was “only” three times. Still.

Two goals from João Moutinho led Sporting over PSV in the other game in our group, putting the Portuguese side at the top of the table early on. We play them next, and will simply have to play better.

UEFA Cup, Group F

Spartak Moscow v Chelsea, Luzhniki

Spartak Moscow 0 – Chelsea 0

MoM: Petr Cech (8.4)

Attendance: 49,029. Referee: Vladimir Hrinak.

[Makonnen]

Touchline Report, Chelsea v Manchester United (Imposters' Cup). September 18, 2010.

Most fans in England remain quite skeptical of all the newfangled cups that the North American federation talked us into playing. They look down their noses at them as if they weren’t real competitions. But by the time the finals roll around, The Imposters’ Cup has a decent prize pool. And last year the final four teams were United, us, Olympiakos and Real Madrid. That’s a pretty good foursome. This year, Real Madrid are back, we’ll take a spot after we beat United today, and the other two slots will be filled by Real Salt Lake and the winner of a match between Chivas and Dinamo Kiev. Again, quality teams.

Still, it ****s with our schedule something mighty.

Anytime United comes to Stamford Bridge, it’s a big occasion. After Moscow, we’re back to full strength but United is too. Van der Sar is back in goal and Rooney will start, but I can’t see him playing the full ninety after missing the past few weeks with a banged-up ankle. And, surprisingly, Hargreaves hasn’t torn a groin muscle climbing the stairs or something.

Four minutes in, Drogba gets past Rafael in the corner, giving him space to line up a low, hard cross. Dzeko goes up and gets a head to it. Van der Sar has it covered, but the ball squirts free! He lunges at it, trying to gather it back towards his body, but somehow he knocks it into the back of his own net. It’s a horrendous own goal by the veteran keeper, and the fans love it, screaming abuse at him for the next ten minutes.

After the restart, we immediately get into trouble, surrendering a free kick from midway between the box and the sideline but Lampard clears it for a true corner. Terry controls that, and Rooney’s shot from thirty-five yards goes safely wide.

We have a lot more of the ball, but are not getting any shots off—it’s all in their half, though, so the goals may come. United is clearly looking to break on us, but so far we have swarmed them at every change of possession, with our midfielders hustling to cut down any opportunities.

Ten minutes from halftime, Valencia has a brilliant move inside the box, turning Zhirkov onto his wrong foot and getting a shot off before Carvalho can close, but Cech protects his near post well and limits the damage to a corner. United is closing the half strong, and we just need to hold them off for the final few minutes. It’s been a physical game: JT and Bane both have needed attention on the sidelines and, just before halftime, with JT still being looked at, Anderson springs Berbatov on a breakaway. Carvalho is sprinting back as fast as he can, but it looks like Berbatov has him beat. The veteran Spaniard finds the perfect angle, forcing United’s striker wide and allowing Bane time to catch up. The two of them close down the attack, and the follow up shot from Evra goes well wide.

Halftime arrives. There isn’t much to say to them: we’re playing well, and we’re playing a dangerous, dangerous team. Everyone in the room knows it, so we focus on tactical adjustments, small things.

Five minutes into the second half, van der Sar takes a free kick thirty-five yards from his box, and finds a streaking Valencia between Carvalho and Terry. The Ecuadorean controls it magnificently, and gets a strong shot off that Cech is lucky to tip around the post. So close to being tied, but it’s only a corner, which we defend successfully.

We play wonderfully after that—Drogba is coming deep to get the ball, and is maintaining possession when he does so, consistently and dangerously linking up with Zhirkov on the left. A few crosses are sent in that go wide, and Dzeko has one header that momentarily looks destined to float inside the far post but van der Sar gets there. Then Bane passes it back to Essien, who sends a lightning quick pass inside the box to Lampard. Vidic and Ferdinand are both in the center of the box, where Drogba and Dzeko are lurking, which gives Lampard far too much space. He has time to bring the pass under control and sends a shot hard and low across van der Sar and into the far corner of the net.

We’re up by two, but there are over thirty minutes to play.

It only takes three before the game swings again: Carvalho goes high above Rooney for a clearance, but he mistimes the jump, and the ball flies high in the air without moving out of the box. Berbatov is the first to it, just beating Cech’s jump, and his header leaks over the line. We’re back to a one goal game.

Fifteen minutes from time, only a great defensive play by Vidic denies Drogba, who is free in the box. But Vidic is one of the few defenders with the pure strength to lean on either of our strikers, and they are being forced wide more often than we would like. Twenty minutes from time, Welbeck comes on for Rooney and with his entry, United starts throwing more and more players forward.

Drogba is hit hard with a sliding tackle and has to come out. His leg is bleeding, and it looks like he may miss some time, but at least it’s not structural. We’ll see. He’s immediately sent back into the locker room for stitches.

Ten minutes to go and the fans are in full throat.

Five minutes.

Right at ninety minutes, Carvalho sends a free kick into the box that Dzeko meets well inside the six. Somehow, van der Sar makes a reaction save sending the ball high into the air, then easily jumps for it. It’s as good a save as his gaffe was miserable to give us the original lead.

And it’s the last significant action.

It’s still weird not seeing the imposing figure of Sir Alex after this game, but rather the fuzzy eyebrows of Ancelotti. But maybe that is what it took for us to beat them this way: a change of regime, and a change of confidence on our side.

Imposters’ Cup Quarterfinal Leg Two

Chelsea v Manchester United, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 2 (Edwin van der Sar 5og, Frank Lampard 55) – Man Utd 1 (Dmitar Berbatov 59) [Chelsea win 4-3 on aggregate]

MoM: Michael Essien (7.3)

Attendance: 41,761. Referee: Kevin Friend.

[EvilDave]

I don't know how you've done it, but I'm wishing Oranje and his men success. Which as an Arsenal fan, takes a damn good writer. Love the updates for all five, the way you show us each team's place in the footballing world is excellent and only getting better. Excellent work, and I look forward to more

[Makonnen]

Yoikes EvilDave, that's pretty high praise. I appreciate it greatly, especially your seeing how the stories are isolated, but in the same world. I hope they continue to entertain.

League Cup Third Round

Wolverhampton Wanderers v Chelsea, Molineux

Wolves 2 (Micheal Kightly 4, David Jones 28) – Chelsea 3 (Jack Collison 62og, Yaya Sanogo 89, Daniel Sturridge 104)

MoM: Edin Dzeko (8.9)

Attendance: 29,303. Referee: Martin Atkinson.

This Is What It Feels Like. September 22, 2010.

I climb the stairs to our apartment, weary and wet. It’s close to two AM, but I always prefer getting home late to spending the night in some hotel when I’m only a few hours from my own bed. When I open the door, I hear the laugh track from some insipid American comedy: as usual, he’s still up waiting for me.

He meets me in the hall with a smile. Welcome home. Tea’s hot, want one?

Please. I shrug out of my coat and follow him into the kitchen. Jesus, what a game. It was an exhausting match, tense and tight and requiring extra time before we won: that in itself is a bit of a failure, as we really should have blown Wolves out of the park. But they jumped on us quickly when a nice pass from Jack Collison freed Michael Kightly inside the box. Kightly was able to slide it just inside the post before Guillermo Ochoa could get over, and Wolves had themselves a lead just minutes into the game.

Then, just short of half an hour in, Rafhael ****s around with the ball for far too long at the edge of the box. David Jones attacks him, steals the ball, strides into our box with no opposition, and beats Ochoa. It was an inexcusable error: Rafhael got the pass from Alex with plenty of options: Mancienne on the wing, Essien (who had to come on when Nemanja Matic fell awkwardly on his elbow) in front of him, even back to Alex or to Ochoa. But he just sat on it, looking—he said—for Brunt or Dzeko to come into space much further upfield. The problem is that’s not his job. Not right in front of goal, not at that point. Clear the ball, build the attack. So we had words. I saw Alex and him chatting throughout the game, so maybe that’s helping.

It was a typical game for us as of late: we were bombarding Wayne Hennessey in their goal, but were unable to score. Butch and I both tore into them at halftime—the performance was simply unacceptable, and if they wanted to play for us, they needed to raise their game.

An hour in, we began the comeback: Essien drilled a shot from thirty-five yards that took a deflection of the leg of Collison. It was ruled an own goal which was a little harsh to Essien, but, regardless, it gave us a way back. Three minutes from time, Sanogo received the ball from Mikel and spun through two defenders before chipping the ball neatly over Hennessey. We deserved it, and now that we had found a way through to extra time, it felt like we would prevail.

The winning goal came when Dzeko, with his back to goal at midfield, sent a long pass through to Sturridge with a perfectly timed flick of his leg, catching the ball out of midair as neatly as you please. It caught Greg Halford unawares, and Sturridge was gone, picking a nice angle to get the ball through the Welsh goalkeeper.

Even Essien being sent off with his second yellow of the game shortly thereafter didn’t alter the outcome that. They played well from halftime on, but stretches like that first half, well, we can’t survive that many of them.

I sit heavily on one of the stools by the island. You see it?

I did. What did you tell them at halftime?

We told them they were playing like bloody amateurs.

A little harsh.

Maybe. But it was pretty bad. He hands me the tea, and I warm my hands gratefully on the cup.

And how are you?

I look at him. I’m alright. I don’t understand why it always has to be so hard. Why we can’t take the points with confidence from the start of the game. But we can’t right now. And that’s on me.

He stares back gently. It’s not all you.

No, I know. I yawn. Sorry. It’s been a long day.

He nods, then stifles one himself. Yes, it has. Drink up.

I laugh. I don’t know why you wait up. You’ll be wrecked tomorrow. Today.

I know.

He walks by, touching my shoulder briefly before heading on down the hall. For a moment, I am happy, held in the comfort of a house full of love and a small cup of tea. I close my eyes and try to freeze the moment, fixing it in time so sometime soon, when I need it, I can summon it up again. This is what it feels like, this is how I was sitting, this is how the cup felt in my hands, this is the sense of someone I love having just walked out of the room, this is the moment of anticipation of joining him.

I drain the cup and leave it out. We’ll clean the kitchen in the morning, and after that I’ll go back to work getting ready for Everton. But right now that feels so very distant, right now there is just this moment and this memory.

[Makonnen]

Touchline Report, Chelsea v Everton. September 25, 2010

9:07 AM

Jesus, Butch. We’re pretty banged up, no doubt.

Better now than February.

I guess. If we’re playing for anything in February, sure.

He laughs. We will be. We will.

I sure hope so. Right now, Drogba and Simon are still out with injuries, and Essien’s suspended. Dzeko and Zhirkov can’t go either, although Edin will be on the bench.

I look at the squad sheet and frown. You know, the whole point of bringing in your man was to always have at least one of the two available.

Butch is quiet for a moment. I know. But he’s on the bench today. Maybe we won’t need him at all, rest him up for Sporting.

Maybe. In the meantime, I think it’s Kalou and Sturridge. And Richardson to get his first game.

Butch isn’t happy with it, but it’s the best we can do.

Everton worries me. They’re playing with James Vaughan up top with newly signed American star Landon Donovan behind him. And they’re good enough up there, but the real concern is their midfield—Leighton Baines, Jack Rodwell, Marouane Fellaini, and Steven Pienaar. That’s a solid foursome, and we’ll have to find ways both to get through them and to keep them contained. But their backline has some holes and while Tim Howard is still serviceable, he’s beginning to fade a little in goal. Of course, whenever I think that, they seem to become world-beaters against us. And Howard hasn’t let one through in five games.

1:20 PM

Jon, a word?

Mikel was heading back to the training room to get his ankles redone. We’re in the hallway, huddled to one side to stay out of the way of a small camera crew that is getting setup for a pregame segment.

Yeah?

I look around and lower my voice. I need you to run as long as you can today. If Cork’s going to see time, I want us up three, OK?

He nods with a smile on his face. Long as the ankle holds up, I’m out there. Even if it doesn’t, I’ll hop.

Good man.

3:02 PM

Our chance to score in the first minute is undone when Rodwell easily takes the ball off Kieran Richardson at midfield. But the first fifteen minutes are more about us than them. What’s the phrase all the ******** commentators use? Asking questions, that’s it. We’re asking all the questions.

Fifteen minutes in, though, we have to rely on Cech for an answer when Joseph Yobo gets his head to a corner kick inside the six. Cech sends it away with a hard dive to his left, but it was far too close.

Just shy of half an hour, Carvalho and Terry—our veteran backbone—fumble an exchange and James Vaughn pounces on it. Cech has a chance at it, but Vaughn’s shot screams past him, and we’re down 1-0 well against the run of play.

What the hell was that? I’m not really talking to anyone in particular, but I can feel my voice getting higher and more petulant. What the hell was that? What the ****ing hell was that? David Moyes is done celebrating with his assistants when he hears me.

That’s a goal, Danyil, that’s what.

I just stare at him. Little ****er. I start my halftime talk with the same question.

What the hell was that out there? I’m tired of saying the same thing again and again. You have to finish the play. It’s not enough to create the chance, you have to finish it. And you can’t let up. Not against any goddamn team in this league. You think we’re going to win just because we’re ****ing Chelsea? Not a chance. They want this just as much as you do—maybe even more by the look of it.

Prove me wrong. You know you’re the better team. Prove it.

It doesn’t work. Nothing works: not bringing on Dzeko for Sturridge at the hour mark, not pushing more men forward. Nothing.

At one point, I just stand there staring at their goal, mentally taking back everything I said about Howard. He’s having a phenomenal day, of course: a half dozen saves, most made at full stretch in one direction or another. We’re committing everything we have in attack, and in stoppage time, Milos Krasic catches us on the break, but his shot caroms off the post. We’re lucky not to be down two, but just after that comes the sound I’ve been dreading.

Mike Dean blows his whistle, and we’re left staring at the scoreboard.

Goddamit.

Goddamit, goddamit, ****ing goddamit.

I walk into the dressing room well after they’ve headed in. It’s quiet, and it gets quieter when I enter. I don’t say anything, just walk over to the large board that lines one side of it, grab a black marker, and scrawl in large capital letters

GET YOUR ****ING ACT TOGETHER.

I underline a few words, put the cap on the marker, hurl it as hard as I can at the far wall, and walk out.

Premier Division

Chelsea v Everton, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 0 – Everton 1 (James Vaughan 28)

MoM: Tim Howard (7.5) Chelsea’s Best: Branislav Ivanovic (7.2)

Attendance: 40,749. Referee: Mike Dean.

[Makonnen]

Touchline Report, Chelsea v Sporting CP. September 28, 2010.

With Drogba out, we’re going to shift to a different look up front: Brunt and Sturridge on the wings hoping to use their speed to fire cross after cross into the box where Dzeko awaits. Today, it means both teams have the same gameplan: for Sporting, Matías Fernández and Austrian veteran Steffen Hofmann make their living on the wings supporting Liédson up front.

Twenty minutes in, Dzeko has brought out a fantastic save from Rui Patrício, Essien has hit the post from distance, and Sturridge has looked consistently dangerous down the left. We have all the ball, all the shots, and no goals. De Rossi has even connected at the far post from a corner, but it was cleared off the line by Leandro Grimi.

But we can’t score, and it’s beginning to drive everyone a little crazy. Patrício comes up with another save, this time on a bending shot from Lampard, then Dzeko is flagged for offsides. Twice.

The halftime whistle comes, and I’m not sure what to say to them: we need more of the same, but we need to score for ****’s sake. So I tell them that. Then I look up and see the words still written on the board from after the Everton game. I motion over to them in front of the squad.

Just about sums it up, don’t it? Notice that we don’t have to be anyone we’re not. We don’t have to play better than we’re capable. We don’t have to find some new tactical bit of magic pixie dust. We just need to play with confidence, play like ourselves, and the rest will take care of itself. I’m walking over towards the board as I talk. By now, I’m standing next to it, able to tap it harder with every word for emphasis. We just need to get our ****ing act together.

They seem to agree, but the second half starts much the same as the first, with three opportunities in the first two minutes either going wide or being saved quite easily. Finally, five minutes into the period, we break through. It takes an error in judgment from Patrício, but we’ll take it: the Sporting keeper comes outside the box to clear a ball with his head, but he doesn’t get enough on it. Brunt scrambles quickly to the loose ball and sends it to Dzeko who slides it neatly square to Sturridge. Patrício is still not back to his line and it’s an easy shot as long as Sturridge keeps his composure. He does, and we go up by one.

Ten minutes from time, we seal it. Sakho—brought on for Bane and putting Zhirkov over on the right side again—squares the ball nicely into the box for Dzeko, who one times it with amazing power into the back of the net. The two of them hook up again four minutes later, with a long cross from Sakho floating into the middle of the box. Dzeko outjumps everyone, and nods the ball in. Dzeko has a brace and if all you read are the four paragraph summaries, it will look like it was an easy win.

It wasn’t. It took until the last ten minutes for us to get our **** together, but we did.

UEFA Cup, Group F

Chelsea v Sporting Clube do Portugal – SAD, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 3 (Daniel Sturridge 52, Edin Dzeko 81 86) – Sporting 0

MoM: Dzeko (9.3)

Attendance: 41,761. Referee: Cyril Zimmerman.

[Makonnen]

Touchline Report, Chelsea v Wolves. October 1, 2010.

6:03 PM

It’s Wolves again today, and we’re again not sending out the strongest team, but one that should be comfortably strong enough. Course that’s what I thought last time, too. Carvalho and Alex at the back, Matic and Mikel in the middle, Sturridge playing off Dzeko up front. Should be plenty. I move to the front of the locker room and lift my hand slightly. They settle down and I pause for a moment before speaking.

You all know what happened last time we played this team. Take it to them from the first whistle, and we won’t need to scramble at the end. Simple. That’s all I’ve got. Butch has adjustments. You all set? Good. OK, one last thing. Play smart, have fun, OK? We’re being paid to play a game, let’s play it well.

I head out towards the tunnel and catch a glimpse of McCarthy in the hallway. His eyes are already bugging out of his head beneath the shock of disheveled white hair. He just rubs me the wrong way. Beady eyed mother****er. I smile at him and nod, he does the same. Keeping up appearances and all that.

7:47 PM

Wolves are clearly playing for a scoreless draw here: Kevin Doyle alone up front, with five midfielders behind him. It’s working for them: they are packed in so deep we’re finding it hard to get the ball into the attacking third. We finally free Sturridge with a long ball down the left that eventually results in a shot from distance from Ballack that sails well wide. Still, the idea is good, and we need to do more to make use of our speed.

You see that, Butch? He nods. Kalou later maybe? They don’t seem they can handle the pace.

He nods. Just don’t take Dzeko out for it. We need the strength.

Lee Mason blows his whistle after Sakho trips David Jones just past midfield. Mamadou! Mamadou! Easy! It’s his second foul in two minutes, and I want him to avoid the card if he can.

Just after half an hour, Matic lays a lovely ball into the box for Sturridge, but his shot is pulled just wide. Sturridge jogs back upfield with his hands over his mouth—he can’t believe he missed it. I can’t believe we’re still scoreless at halftime: it makes no sense for how far we outplayed them. But that’s where we are.

I don’t know what else to tell you. I point at the board, where someone has tried unsuccessfully to erase the handwriting from last week. It’s still there, you can’t get rid of it. We still need to get our ****ing act together. It’s up to you. I shake my head and move on. Look, the game swings on pace, OK? They can’t handle ours, so we need to spread things out and run a them. And while we do that, just keep an eye on Doyle at all times. It’s their only move: long balls over the top. So Alex, Ricky, make sure you don’t get caught out. And Jon, Michael, track back as you can. But you have to talk to each other—we don’t need all four of you back, right?

With the opening move of the second half, Sakho sends a floating cross into Dzeko who is alone near the far post. He rises to meet the ball and sends it back across goal, but Wayne Hennessey smothers it well.

McCarthy is up and screaming and his team settles momentarily before allowing Sturridge to carry the ball forty yards into the six yard box before giving up the corner.

Butch, is that how I look when I yell?

He shakes his head. Mick’s a bit more suave then you are. You jerk your arms around a bit more.

I laugh. **** you, Butch.

Shortly thereafter, Sakho gets the yellow for persistent fouling. He’s backed off, but he was already on Mason’s radar and it was pretty inevitable. Minutes later, Ballack is dispossessed in the box. Our players are screaming for the penalty, but we only get a corner. As it comes down, Mason blows his whistle. I’m up and off the bench, but the foul’s called on Alex and we lose possession.

Just shy of an hour, Doyle lines up a free kick from just outside the box. He meets it well, and it is curving wickedly. Cech has no chance, but it skims over the bar. It’s their first shot of the game, and it almost proves our undoing.

There comes a point where you just run out of crap to say from the sidelines. If you’re a stoic coach, the type who leans back all game, without expression, conveying instructions to your team with a subtle arch of your eyebrow, well it’s pretty easy to deal with. But when you’re like me, it just feels empty. I find myself standing, arms crossed, watching and once in a while shouting useful things like Come on and You can do this, play together! Really insightful stuff, exactly what players need to hear.

I heard a new saying the other day. Evidently, it’s hip with all the kids: FML. Stands for **** My Life. Pretty much sums it up.

The feeling is accentuated when, twenty minutes from time, Sakho runs through the back of Christophe Berra. It’s an obvious card, and now we’re down to ten men.

McCarthy is off his bench like a shot, yelling at his team. He immediately brings on Ronald Zubar and Andrew Keogh, and for the first time all game looks to go on the attack.

Think it’s that easy, Mick? Get a man up, steal the three points?

He either doesn’t hear me or doesn’t react. Probably better that way.

It’s a frantic ending, with both teams surging forward: Kalou has a shot from fifteen yards that skims just over, Keogh barely misses a breakaway when Cech is wrong footed. Then, David Jones forces Cech to a diving stop, followed by Kalou getting free on a break. Greg Halford, who has a very strong game, stops it and our last effort is a weak, wide shot from Ballack that never comes near Hennessey.

Mick gets his draw, and is thrilled.

Ricky, Alex, you were great. Petr, you were spectacular back there. You kept us from losing the points altogether. But we have to find our consistency, we have to find the extra burst, the extra pass that turns the game. Until we do that, we will keep having questions, keep having to figure things out. I’m sick of that. And you should be, too.

Premier Division

Chelsea v Wolverhampton, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 0 – Wolves 0

MoM: Petr Cech (8.4)

Attendance: 40,108. Referee: Lee Mason.

[Makonnen]

The New Shirts (Touchline Report, Chelsea v Dinamo Kiev). October 4, 2010.

11:23 AM

I walk into the visitor’s dressing room, and there is a large cardboard box in the middle of the floor. Someone’s already opened it, and I can see piles of dark blue cloth inside. It’s full of t-shirts, a huge box of them. I take one out, and they are a deep Chelsea blue with the Dutch lion on the chest in orange. Arced across the back, where the name usually goes on a jersey, are the letters GYFAT.

I’m staring at it quizzically when Lampard walks by. Took me a while, too.

What?

He nods at the shirt. Get your ****ing act together.

I laugh. You know who did it?

He shakes his head. No idea. But they’re good shirts, yah? And there are some women’s and kids down in there, too. Grab one for some bird, never know.

I nod and smile. What else can I do?

Still, I like the shirts. More, I like the spirit. It’s the first thing since I got here that seems a public show of support. I find an XL and pause, then glance around. Nobody is paying much mind—nobody else is really here yet. I can always say it’s for my Dad. I dig through to find a large, and throw them both casually over my shoulder before heading into the attached office to chat with Butch.

12:24 PM

We need this. But it’s why we brought Guillermo over, too. Butch doesn’t react for a moment, then nods. OK, good. It’s what he’s expecting, anyway. So Ochoa in back and Brunt in Simon’s spot. That should do nicely.

Butch stands up. You see the shirts?

Yeah, got one already.

You know who did it?

I shake my head. Sure it wasn’t you?

He smiles. Yeah, I’m sure. Think I’d spend my cash on that?

I shake my head. No, I know you wouldn’t. ****ing cheapskate, you are. He blows me a kiss on his way out.

3:03 PM

We don’t score in the first sixty seconds. We don’t even have a shot. Instead, Lampard waits until the second minute of the game to send a shot from thirty yards out into the top of the net. Shovkovskyi in their goal never had a prayer.

After the goal, our game slowly degenerates. We’re sloppy, a couple steps slow. We have some chances, but we can’t catch up with the pass or we miss the angle. But for all that, our defense is playing well and they have a hard time breaking down our back line. And with Terry, De Rossi, Dzeko, and Drogba, we are nearly unbeatable in the air: while they keep the ball, they can’t do a whole lot with it.

Still, the home crowd is going crazy, chanting loudly in Russian. They can sense that we’re not exactly grabbing the game by the throat, and there is the dense smell of fireworks in the air.

At halftime, I just walk over to the box of shirts and grab a handful of them. I stand in the middle of the room tossing them to players. I haven’t said a word so at the end I just shrug and walk away. I hear Butch fill the silence with his tactical talk as I do.

The game opens up in the second half, with both teams finding chances but neither finding the back of the net.

Twenty minutes from time, Bane sends a lovely cross into the box where Drogba is waiting. A powerful header to the far post, and we finally have the two goal cushion. Drogba lands awkwardly after the header, so the celebration is muted. As he limps upfield I yell out to him.

Didier! You good? He grimaces and nods. I’m not convinced, however, and I turn to the bench. Daniel! Get ready, you’re on.

Minutes later, Sturridge crashes knees with Artem Milevskyi and goes down in a heap, so now Drogba on the bench and Daniel on the field are both limping. The season is a marathon of attrition, unfortunately.

Still, we are comfortable at this point, so much that I even find some time for Gökhan Töre towards the end. And Sturridge recovers well: he adds our final goal from a very nice pass from Essien, although after the match I’m told he’ll be out of action for about a week.

In the dressing room, I congratulate them on a much stronger second half and tell them I expect them all at practice, wearing the new shirts.

Imposters’ Cup Semifinal

Dinamo Kiev v Chelsea, Valeriy Lobanovs’kyi Stadium

Dinamo Kiev 0 – Chelsea 3 (Frank Lampard 2, Didier Drogba 71, Daniel Sturridge 89)

MoM: Branislav Ivanovic (8.8)

Attendance: 14,047. Referee: Michael Langford.

[Makonnen]

I Don't Even Know Where I Am. October 9, 2010.

I don’t even know where I am.

I boarded a plane to SEZ and knew that the city where we were staying was called Victoria. Now there’s a queen who got around. I know the Seychelles are a group of islands. I know they’re off the coast of Africa. Which coast? If I had to bet, I’d bet the East. But it’s not certain. And I know there are supposed to be some fantastic beaches here. Which I could verify if I weren’t turning around the day after the match to head back to the cold of London. I flip through the magazine as we start the descent: the beaches do look fantastic, but they always do in the magazines where the staff are all smiling, and the visitors are all thrilled.

I think of Ruud as we descend. He hates water landings, and this airport looks as if it were built right out of the ocean. The water is a gorgeous light blue near the shore, fading quickly to dark, almost black, further out. The runway is lined with large black rocks on the seaward side, a constant stream of ocean spray is visible as we bank for the final approach. We bounce hard enough for me to hear some gasps from other passengers. I smile: one of the few times he touched me in public was on a bumpy flight into Glasgow. I had bruises on my upper arm for a week afterwards, but I wore them as badges of honor, much to his chagrin. The brakes kick in, and the plane slides to a stop.

I am moved quickly through customs, and Paul is waiting for me at baggage claim, along with some other officials from FECAFOOT whose names I never remembered and promptly forgot again. Paul and I have been going back and forth on e-mail for the past few weeks. He wants to field a full strength team, make a statement, whatever that means. I want to take advantage of the opportunity and take a look at some new faces. We compromise eventually: Ngome gets the start and a chance to redeem himself, but this time wide on the right. Eric Matoukou will debut in back, as will an intriguing young striker, Louis Clément Ngwat Mahop. Mahop plays in Cyprus and has largely flown beneath the radar of European clubs, but he’s a good player. He won’t make anyone forget Eto’o, of course, but we need a stronger strike force both with and without Samuel, who didn’t even make the trip. He has a fractured ankle and is out through the end of the year. It’s the second major injury in sixteen months for him, and while the doctors are making all the right noises, I wonder how many times he can bounce back from things like that.

Football wise, there’s not much to know about the Seychelles. Kevin Betsy had a long career in England, and Chris Dawson made an appearance or two there as well. The rest are unknown to me, and the general assumption is that we’ll take this game easily.

Somen Tchoyi will start behind the strikers, and while Emana is here, my preference would be to give some time to Arélien Chedjou. The two of them are similar players, incredibly flexible, able to play almost anywhere. Never a bad thing to have.

Less than a minute in, Tchoyi misses an absolute sitter, sending it wide of the far post, but we quickly seize the game by the throat, and Seychelles are rarely able to string more than two passes together before we recover possession. In the first ten minutes, we have two more shots from under ten yards—a second by Tchoyi and one from Mahop, but nothing is on target until, just shy of a quarter hour, Tchoyi splits three defenders before sliding the ball square to Mahop who makes no mistake with it. It’s a goal on his debut, and the twenty-three year old is ecstatic.

I’m thrilled with what Tchoyi is providing and make a note to talk with Robson about him back in London. He’s a good player and is basically filling the same role here that Vukcevic does for Chelsea. He’s at RC Lens right now, but he could certainly play in England.

He is again heavily involved in our second goal, meeting a long clearance from Kameni with a strong jump to send the ball forward into Mahop’s path. Mahop shows surprising strength, holding off two defenders before sliding it home for his second of the game. Just before halftime, Mahop adds a third, a low twenty yard drive. I give Paul a little razzing for it—he didn’t think Mahop belonged in the side, let alone the starting eleven. But it’s as much a product of overall dominance as it is Mahop himself—he was the right man in the right place. I worry a little about the media’s treatment of him, though: anyone thinking we have a replacement for Eto’o on our hands is sorely mistaken.

Back in the locker room, he is, of course, glowing, enduring the inevitable teasing from his teammates with a grin plastered across his face. I am happy for him, but concerned about the team. I’ve seen this before. They’re done, finished with today’s game, and already looking forward to returning to their clubs. They know they’re the better team, and they’re going to let up in the second half. They won’t give up, and I would bet they don’t let Seychelles anywhere near the goal, but they won’t push as hard as they did for the first forty-five minutes. They’ll settle.

And as long as they do that, we’ll remain a good, solid national side, but no better than that. It’s the challenge of these games, and since I only work with these players a handful of days a year … well, there’s not much to do except let them know I’m aware of what’s going on.

The second half is uneventful: we are unable to add to the tally, but we don’t give up any, either. To his credit, Ngome was fantastic all game: he and Assou-Ekotto played hard for the full ninety and young Raoul showed again why we’re willing to live through his growing pains.

African Nations Qualifiers, Group F

Seychelles v Cameroon, Stade Linité

Seychelles 0 – Cameroon 3 (Louis Clément Ngwat Mahop 15 39 45+2)

MoM: Mahop (9.5)

Attendance: 10,044. Referee: Ian McLeod.

[Makonnen]

Where's Your Balls? (Chelsea v Manchester United) October 16, 2010

6:56 AM

Danyil … Danyil.

I woke with a start from a vivid dream. I was looking out a window at a small pond beneath a massive blue sky. The pond is remarkably clear, full of an indistinct mass of dark shapes that pulses slowly in the depths. The mass breaks apart, shapes sloughing off and slowly coming into focus as they rise towards the surface: crocodiles. Dozens of crocodiles pouring out of the pond, scattering in all directions in their lumbering crawl, expanding like a reptilian starburst. I turn from the window to mention it to someone—it does seem like the kind of thing you should point out, you know?

Oh … what … wait.

He smiles at me. It’s time. Almost seven.

Aw **** … I sit up and rub my eyes. God, I’m tired. Is it really almost seven? I glance over at the clock. Christ. OK. I’m up, I’m up.

10:06 AM

Butch is distracted, staring out the window at the field below and absent mindedly moving the roster sheet in small circles on the desk between us.

You okay?

He quickly glances at me. What, me? Yeah, yes, fine. Sorry.

I don’t push him. He’s a strange man, Wilkins is—if he wants to chat about something, he will. OK. So, Simon is still out. And your man is wasted from the international, so we’re without him, too.

Butch grimaces. He’s not my man, you know. You need to let up with that, alright. I mean I was happy we signed him, but you just keep going on about it.

I raise my hands. OK, OK. In any case, we’re looking at Sturridge and Mikel to start. I’m just a bit worried about the bench.

He stares at the paper for a moment. The French kids. Pick the one to bring on based on if we need speed or strength. And we’ve always got Kalou.

12:39 PM

Hargreaves still hasn’t pulled a muscle tying his shoes, so he starts for Ancelotti and his men in red. But the concern as always is up front where Rooney and Berbatov play off an in-form Valencia. And at the other end, we have to figure out how to break through Vidic and Ferdinand. We have the pace to do it, and the distribution from midfield—it just has to come together.

But it’s never easy against United, especially at Old Trafford.

Two minutes in, Valencia hits the woodwork from thirty-five yards. We keep our composure and clear the ball, but it sends the United fans into a screaming fit that quiets momentarily as Drogba drives the full length of the pitch, but then rises again to a deafening roar when his finish spins well wide of goal.

We can’t get the ball out of our end for about five minutes, but we don’t give up anything very dangerous until they spring Anderson on a long clearance from Vidic. He’s free on goal, but Cech is up for it and we remain scoreless.

Patrice Evra on the left and Rafael on the right are exposing us for pace—which is shocking given how fast Zhirkov is. It’s a risk in our tactical setup: we don’t have anyone playing wide until the back line, so other teams will have some room to operate out there. Against most sides, though, Bane’s strength and Zhirkov’s pace keeps that under control.

What are we going to do out wide?

Butch shrugs. It’s part of the shape, yeah?

I shake my head. Yeah. But I don’t like giving everyone who watches this game a blueprint of how to play us.

He nods. Not much to do unless you go to one up front. Put Sturridge on one side, Kalou on the other.

Yeah, could do. Let’s give it some time, but let me know if you think we’re desperate, yeah?

Near a half hour in, we begin to find some rhythm but Vidic and Ferdinand are clearing our crosses over and over again. So we go to something a little different: Zhirkov finds Drogba dragging across the top of the box. His movement has drawn both Hargreaves and Rafael to him, giving Lampard space in the middle. Frank receives the ball and sends it immediately forward to a dashing Sturridge who may well be offsides. But the flag stays down and Sturridge finds his way around van der Sar before tapping the ball home. We’ve stolen a goal, and it’s a little against the run of play, but I won’t complain.

Butch leans over to me. That’s a bit lucky, yeah.

I shrug. It’s smart is what it is—Drogba pulling them wide like that. He could coach someday.

Butch snorts. He can bloody well have my job.

I just look at him. Something is up and if this black cloud stays around him, I may need to push and find out what. He sees me staring. Joking. Joking. He looks around. Really, you’re right though. He could be good on the sidelines.

The goal seems to unnerve them slightly, and we add a second from the most unlikely of sources. Lampard recovers a cleared corner and sends the ball to Zhirkov, whose pass to De Rossi is slightly behind the onrushing Italian. It falls right into the path of Carvalho, who is surging back upfield. He takes a touch and finds space before sending a shot hard and low beyond van der Sar’s reach.

Carvalho? Carvalho.

Cech makes a fantastic save on Rooney from seven yards out just before halftime and we head into the locker room with the two goal edge. The message at the interval is clear, and repetitive: there are only so many ways to say it.

You can’t let up. Not an inch. We’ve been ahead by two at halftime here before, yeah?

Ancelotti pulls Valencia off for Giggs at halftime. It’s certainly not a drop in threat from our point of view—Giggs may be ancient, but the veteran Welshman still has a fantastic touch on the ball. But he is, well, let’s say venerable, so we want to run at him, see if we can empty his gas tank a bit.

Just minutes into the second half, only Zhirkov dashing back to clear a Berbatov header from the line keeps them scoreless—Cech had come out on the initial attack, leaving the goal open. United are in full attack mode, and we’re struggling to absorb the pressure.

Yury! Very nice! Smart!

We’re also finding some room on the counter, though, and only a couple of fouls by Evra and Ferdinand keep some dangerous attacks from developing fully. But we can’t keep it up forever: a long cross from Evra finds Berbatov in the box, and Carvalho is caught on his back side. Cech charges out hard, but he can’t get the ball off Berbatov’s feet, and United have come back to within one.

Just shy of an hour, Sturridge goes down in a heap after a collision with Evra. He looks fine, but I’ve been looking to bring him off anyway.

Well, what do you think? Width?

Butch shakes his head. Strength.

Belfodil?

He nods. Yeah. Put him up front, see if he can slow them down a bit, get some time.

So Belfodil comes on.

There have been a lot of fouls, but no cards. Alan Wiley has done a good job in the middle so far, it’s just been a hard fought, physical game.

Ancelotti brings Evans on for Vidic, and immediately our attack brightens. I swear Vidic is the most underappreciated defender in the league—having JT gives you insight into how important it is to have a strong, physical rock to anchor the defense, and Vidic is that, plus the speed and strength of youth.

With nine minutes to go, Berbatov does it to us again, this time with a low rocket from fifteen yards out. I can’t say they don’t deserve it, but it’s still a bit of a blow to the gut. Berbatov was probably a shade offsides when Hargreaves sent the pass, but after the first goal, I can’t complain.

Getting the three points here would be a big win so I keep the offensive pressure on, bringing Kalou on for Lampard, and telling them to keep pressing up.

You’re playing a dangerous game her, Danyil. Take the point.

Where’s your balls, Butch? We have a shot here to find something in the last five minutes. He stares at me for a minute, then spits. And, when Owens sends a header over our bar by the narrowest of margins, he just says Yeah, we can find ourselves with no points at all.

True enough.

But we also have Drogba free at the top of the box for a moment, and then Belfodil all alone, but Drogba’s touch gets away from him and Belfodil’s volley soars well over goal. At the other end, a minute from time, Giggs explodes on a breakaway—so much for tiring him out—but again we rely on Cech to bail us out.

It’s a great game for the fans, but the real difference was out wide: Rafael and Evra, and our inability to consistently close them down.

Premier Division

Manchester United v Chelsea, Old Trafford

Man Utd 2 (Dimitar Berbatov 53 82) – Chelsea 2 (Daniel Sturridge 33, Ricardo Carvalho 38)

MoM: Berbatov (8.8) Chelsea’s Best: Carvalho (7.7)

Attendance: 74,048. Referee: Alan Wiley.

[Makonnen]

Looking For A Sign. October 19, 2010.

Today, the chance in the opening minute is theirs not ours, as they earn an early corner, but Ola Toivonen’s header sails well wide of the post. Toivonen is their main threat today, a big, strong Swedish striker who could very well end up in England one day. Young Ibrahim Afellay is probably the best talent on PSV, but it’s Toivonen who we’ll focus on the most: if we take away Afellay’s target with strong play from Alex and Sakho, we’ll limit his effectiveness out wide.

Or at least that’s the plan.

As we regain possession, I glance around the stadium. I usually don’t even see the crowd—they’re just a blur, a source of noise and heat and motion that fades away from the action on the field. But today I find myself quickly scanning faces, searching for the familiar. Today, he’s out there somewhere, one of the thirty-three thousand who have come to Eindhoven for the game. I can’t help but search for him as I scan the crowd, but of course he won’t tell me where his seats are, or who he’s here with—he left two days before I did, coming home to see family and just as he was leaving, all packed, putting his coat on, he turns to me.

I’ll be there.

I looked at him, confused. Where?

The game. Against PSV. I’ve got a ticket and everything.

Wait, what? You’ll … three staccato honks interrupted me.

That’s my car. See you there. A peck on the cheek, and he left, a tinkle in his eye, quite pleased with himself for throwing me off balance.

I shake my head and refocus on the field.

Didier! Wider … take them on out there! I point towards the near side of the field, and manage to scan the first four or six rows. Nothing. I can’t look like I’m looking. But I like knowing he’s here, watching me, watching us play.

Sakho and Alex are working together very well, one always covering deep as the other moves forward. You couldn’t draw it up any better back there, but we’re not looking as dangerous as I would like up front—a lot of possession and some nifty passes, but nothing that seems likely to produce a score.

Thirteen minutes in, Cléber Santana catches Drogba with an awkward lunge. Didier’s foot catches on the turf, and he has to stretch awkwardly to keep his balance. He immediately falls to the ground, grabbing his upper leg and rolling from side to side. He looks over at the bench and shakes his head, and moments later Rick Carter confirms it. He’s done for the day, and perhaps longer—it’s something with his thigh or his groin, and it doesn’t look good at all.

****, ****, and triple ****, Butch. Snake bit. That’s what we are. Snake bit. He doesn’t answer.

At the restart, Alex takes the free kick and sends it just wide. One of these days, he is going to score from that—he does it regularly in practice, but with Didier and Lampard around most games, doesn’t get much of a chance to do it when it counts.

Yaya comes on for Drogba, and within a minute or two the French teenager has freed Kalou inside the box, but Salomon’s his shot is blocked away by Andreas Isaksson. It’s the first real chance of the game, and comes at the end of a long stretch of possession for us. Moments later, it’s the same two players: a header from Dzeko maintains possession for Sanogo who finds Kalou at the edge of the area. A short dribble finds just enough space and the ball is past Isaksson and in the back of the net for an early lead.

Toivonen continues to look dangerous up top—he has gotten on top of a couple long passes, and looks like he could spring free at any moment. Their gameplan seems to be to spread the ball wide, then look for him in the box, but they’re not used to having to break down as strong a back line as we have. They are struggling to adjust, and end up making a lot of backwards passes when we close down their attacks, making their possession all the less productive.

By the end of the first half, though, we’ve lost our fire and PSV is keeping the ball on our end, earning a few corners in the process. We look confident in our clearances, but it only takes a moment for them to break through. I’m up and screaming on the sidelines, gesticulating like a madman.

Come on! Clear it and control it! Clear and control!

Well, at least he’ll see the full show.

The whistle for halftime finally comes, and in spite of the lead, I’m not particularly happy. Probably the brightest point for us has been the play of Ochoa in goal—he is validating the money spent on him, and I remain confident in his eventually taking Petr’s place as our first line keeper.

I stay positive in the locker room, however: we’re on the road, we’re at or near the top of our group, and we just lost our most recognizable forward. Now is the time for confidence to draw out an assured second half, free of worry and, hopefully, of error as well.

Both Essien and Kalou go close in the first five minutes of the second half, but neither of them find the back of the net. I am pacing the touchlines. I would really love a goal in the next ten minutes, which would let me bring on some players with a little time left. But we’re finding it hard going. The bench today has Cork and Rafhael, and both of them need some confidence building if they are to contribute anything at all this year.

Just shy of an hour, we almost find the second goal when Carlos Salcido is lazy with a pass back to Isaksson. Kalou can’t quite get there in time, however, and their keeper knocks it safely out of play. Minutes later, Toivonen is carded when he and Sakho go up together in the box—when the whistle blew, I felt a sense of dread, but luckily the foul was against the Swede.

I decide to pull Dzeko even with the single goal lead, hoping to save him for the next game. Besides, Di Santo hasn’t had a run yet this year, and I want to see if he still has his magic touch from last season. As I do so, Butch says what are practically his first words all day.

You know that’s the wrong play.

What?

He nods towards the tall youngster. Bring on Kieran, pull a player back, protect the lead.

PSV don’t look much like scoring, so maybe the one goal lead is safe. Still, I wait to make my final substitution. With fifteen minutes to go, Ochoa springs Kalou with a long pass, but again his touch is a little too strong, forcing him to shoot from too tight an angle. We’re all off the bench, but in the end it’s just another goal kick to them. Even when he is slightly off, like today, Kalou’s pace on the ball can be breathtaking—he’s a fantastic player to bring in off the bench to run at a tired defense, even if he started today.

I turn back to my sullen, bald assistant. OK, Butch. Pull them back.

He looks at me. Really?

Yeah. We need the three points in this group, and we could do some damage on the counter, too.

He gets up and waves his arms until Essien notices.

Nemanja Matic is completely winded, so Ballack comes on to close out the last ten minutes. Toivonen comes off at the same time, so we have six minutes to close it out, with PSV down their biggest threat on the day. Predictably, each team has a couple promising chances in the final few minutes, but nothing changes on the scoreboard. We weren’t beautiful, but we did get the win.

As the final whistle blows, Paul Clement shows me his phone. Sporting and Spartak Moscow have played to a scoreless draw, pushing us two points clear of the Russian side atop the table, a result as important as the win itself. I don’t really catch what PSV’s coach, Fred Rutten, says to me after the game—I’m desperately looking for a sign from the crowd, some secret communication that will confirm that we did this together somehow.

It doesn’t come, and my mood worsens when I hear that Drogba’s injury is as serious as feared: it looks like he’s out until December, maybe January.

UEFA Cup, Group F

PSV v Chelsea, Philips Stadion

PSV 0 – Chelsea 1 (Salomon Kalou 22)

MoM: Alex (7.9)

Attendance: 33,213. Referee: Eduardo Iturralde González.

[Makonnen]

Whether He Knows It or Not. October 24, 2010.

11:57 AM

I am seated in the visiting manager’s office deep in the bowels of Emirates, hunched over the desk twirling a pen around while I think. It’s a bit spartan—a desk, a couple chairs, and some generic posters on the wall. But the chairs are comfortable, and the desk is clean and wide enough to hold the various piles of papers I have spread out across its surface: scouting reports on Arsenal, updates on various players we’re tracking, some initial plans around the transfer window that opens in January, much of which surrounds Alex. Seems like several clubs are keen to snap up our Brazilian stalwart, most notably Olympique Lyonnais, but he problem is that he’s a crucial bridge for us: Carvalho and, yes, JT are beginning to fade a little and we have to wait a few years for Sakho, Coccia, Rafhael and the others to grow into their talent.

And Leigh. Leigh has her own damn pile. I like Jessica Hardy, I really do, but she’s getting on my last nerve: security concerns, fan policing, construction schedules, media appearances, screening her tutors, it seems like it never ends. I lean back and sigh. The whole thing is simultaneously tiresome and necessary. It’s exactly the kind of work I dislike most, **** that I usually ignore or push off onto some underling. But this is a pretty unique situation.

I’m hearing some grumbles as well, people moaning about extra work, about how we should just treat her the same as the others, whatever that means. Jessica shut them up, though. She showed them the pictures of the girl in Venezuela and the one in … where was it? Latvia? Estonia? Wherever. Horrific. Both had been beaten, multiple broken bones, one raped. All for daring to play this game with men.

Word has gotten out that we have a girl joining the U18s, and ticket inquiries have quintupled, some of which have been profanity laced tirades of what the fans will do to any girl who dares to pull on the blue. So I look for the fifth time at the proposed changes to the U18 field. It’s really pretty simple—a couple barriers here, a ticket stand there, and suddenly we can keep the players and the fans separated for most of the movement on and off the field. Most.

There’s a knock on the door, and I look up to see Ron Gourlay’s frowning face at the door. A word?

Of course, Ron. Come on in. I shuffle the papers back into a pile, set them aside.

He stands, leaning on the back of the chair across from me. It’s an annoying habit on his part: I always feel like I should stand up, but that’s awkward, so I end up just staring up at him until I get a crick in my neck. How we look today?

It’s an odd question: Gourlay hasn’t asked me about match day issues since … well, ever. We’re fine. It’s always hard here, you know. We’ll see what Arsène throws at us.

He nods. Danyil, I have to ask you something. He pauses, expectantly. I don’t know why people do that: if he just came out and asked me, he could have gotten a reaction. Now? Not a chance. Yeah, well. Have you noticed anything about Wilkins recently?

I look at him quizzically. Butch? Like what?

He shrugs. Anything at all. A change in his behavior, issues with the players. With you. Anything.

I shake my head. No. Not a thing. You know Butch—he is who he is. Solid as the day is long.

He holds my gaze for a beat, then nods. Alright. Thanks. If something comes up, let me know?

Sure. What’s up?

He shakes his head too quickly. Nothing. I’m just concerned about him. Seems stressed lately.

I grin. Ah, it’s just his time of the month.

Ron smiles, but it’s forced, and then makes his exit. I spend some more time staring at the ceiling. The truth, of course, is that Butch has been edgy, and he has been stressed, and there is clearly something going on. But I wasn’t about to help Gourlay with whatever he was planning—and I certainly didn’t buy that he had Butch’s best interests at heart.

1:24 PM

Today’s the day, Butch, I can feel it.

The day for what?

For us to begin our run to the top. It gets a bit of a smile out of him, which was the idea.

You’re daft.

I know. But I still feel it.

He returns his attention to the pregame report. You really want Simon on the bench?

Vukcevic is finally coming back into shape from his injury. I do. I think if we can get him twenty minutes, it will go a ways towards getting him back on form.

Butch nods. We don’t really have a substitute striker.

I shrug. We have Kalou. And Dzeko is pretty much indestructible—worst case we leave him alone up front with three behind.

He takes a breath and looks up. Danyil … I know I’ve been a little bit rough the past few. Just wanted to say, I dunno, sorry. Things are just a little off.

Don’t worry about it. We all hit patches like that. Can I do anything?

He shakes his head. Nah, personal stuff. It’ll be good again soon.

I pause a moment, weighing some options and, as always, take the easy way out. OK. Let me know.

I really want to reach out more, do something else. But I can’t. It’s all part of this complicated cover, the double life I’ve created. Well, not double. I mean, I am who I am in both worlds. But one of them allows men to support each other with more than a bad joke and a punch on the shoulder and one doesn’t. And Butch right now, whether he knows it or not, needs that other world.

4:02 PM

Four minutes in I’m not sure how we don’t take the lead: we’ve earned a corner, and Zhirkov’s cross is cleared to Essien just outside the box. Michael’s shot is strong and on target and Alumnia barely gets a hand on it, but it’s enough to tip it in the air. It pops up between Dzeko and De Rossi, and the Bosnian striker leaps to send a header towards goal. Still on his back, Alumnia is able to tip it away, but it’s still heading towards the back of the net. Gaël Clichy clears it forcefully from the line and the stadium breathes a nearly audible sigh of relief.

We’ve had two good shots from distance, but they’ve been from Zhirkov and Mikel and while both of them can score, I would rather see Essien or Lampard or Dzeko wind it up from thirty yards out.

Sturridge and Philippe Senderos have a private war going on with each bringing down the other pretty forcefully. We take the worst of it in the end: the two of them rise to contest a high clearance near midfield and Daniel finds himself on the receiving end of a nasty elbow to the side of the head. He collapses in a heap, and is clearly not stable on his feet. I’m told he wasn’t too sure where he was at first. For the second game running, one of our strikers comes off in the early going.

Clearly, we bring on Kalou—he’s already up and running on the sidelines. But, where?

What do you think, Butch? Play him up with Dzeko or three behind?

Up top. He’ll fade back no matter what, and there should be some space up there, all the attention they need to pay Edin.

Just shy of half an hour, a free kick from Samir Nasri is met strongly in the box by Sanderos, but Cech is able to deflect it out of bounds. It’s a bit lucky—Petr didn’t know a lot about the header, but was well positioned.

Dzeko looks a little frustrated—things are just not quite falling right for him. Touches from teammates are a little too strong or not quite where he prefers, his passes don’t quite find their target. It’s all part of working a new player into a squad, but with Drogba out we could really use a bounce here or there to help it along. Unfortunately, he’s beginning to run through people, trying to use his strength without regard for the whistle.

Edin! Edin! I motion for him to settle down, to let the game come to him. We’ll see.

It’s been a very good half of soccer, and we can’t really complain about going into the locker room scoreless. Fabregas, Song, and van Persie all picked up cards in the first half, which may bode well, too.

A minute into the second half, we’re flat out lucky. Song sends a searching pass into our box that Walcott meets near the end line. He sends a quick cross low and hard across the face of goal, and van Persie has found space behind JT. Cech moves to that side quickly, forcing the young Dutchman to change his shot but he still somehow manages to direct it towards the far post, where it hits the woodwork and Carvalho is able to chase it down for the clearance.

Ten minutes on, Dzeko goes a long way to addressing my concern, although the architect is really Kalou: it’s a twenty yard pass that allows Edin to split Djourou and Clichy. He has a step on each, and it’s simply a matter of getting Alumnia leaning one way before going the other, and we’re up by one just shy of the hour mark.

From the restart it’s almost a mirror image: a long pass by Nasri frees Walcott, whose pace is just too much for Carvalho and Cech both, and again we’re all level. Emirates is deafening in approval for their comeback, and we’re clearly a little stunned.

That was quick. Butch has turned and is talking to Vukcevic and Brunt about both scores. He finishes and shakes his head.

Too quick. We do that too much—let teams right back in the game after a great moment.

Five minutes later, I’m bemoaning Dzeko again: Djourou has been banging him all day, and he loses his head for a moment and swings an arm wildly. It’s connects with Djourou, and Mike Dean really has no choice but to show him the red card.

Butch is up and yelling immediately. Oh for ****’s sake, Mike! It was accidental—it’s a foul, sure, but a red? As Dzeko comes to the bench, Butch grabs him and gives him an earful—all I catch is keep your head and your team before the sound is lost to the noise of the crowd as they vanish down the tunnel.

He emerges a moment later shaking his head. ****ing silly that was. Cost us here, probably three more games when we’re thin up front anyways. ****ing stupid.

Nothing to do now but play for the point here. We’ll hold on, then figure it out.

Butch nods and moves to the touchline, shouting instructions for a ten man formation.

Kalou is doing a magnificent job up front running tirelessly as the lone striker and finding some chances on breaks, but we’re focused on not taking too many risks and holding them at bay. We manage to do it, even getting Simon a few minutes at the end. Especially losing both Sturridge and Dzeko, we honestly can’t be too upset with the point. The charge up the table will have to wait.

Premier Division

Arsenal v Chelsea, Emirates Stadium

Arsenal 1 (Theo Walcott 59) – Chelsea 1 (Edin Dzeko 55)

MoM: Petr Cech (8.3)

Attendance: 60,361. Referee: Mike Dean.

[Makonnen]

It's Not Played In Fantasyland. October 27, 2010.

It doesn’t get any easier.

We face Liverpool in a League Cup match that has me in a quandary. On the one hand, we really don’t care too much about the League Cup; on the other, it’s Liverpool. And that’s always an important match in the eyes of the supporters.

With both teams lining up in offensive formations, this could be a high scoring game even with Dzeko suspended and the injuries to Drogba and Sturridge. I have to admit, their front four—Benayoun, Gerrard, Kuyt, and Fernando Torres—is probably more threatening on paper than Di Santo, Zhirkov, Vukcevic, and Brunt. But, you know what Butch says: it’s not played on paper.

It’s not played in fantasyland either.

I do believe our back four—Sakho, Carvalho, JT, and Bane—surpasses theirs of Insúa, Agger, Carragher, and Glen Johnson. So, maybe we can squeeze out a 3-2 win.

The first minute threat goes against us completely: Dirk Kuyt slots the ball home from inside the box, and Anfield erupts just moments after the strains of You’ll Never Walk Alone fade away. The play was actually made by Jacob Mellis, who we sold to the Reds over the summer. After a fantastic tackle by JT, the ball fell to Mellis who spotted Kuyt’s run behind Sakho and sent what I must admit was a splendid pass his way. Carvalho couldn’t cover in time, and Ochoa was well beaten.

It’s a back and forth game and twenty minutes in we have a great shot to even it up: Vukcevic sends it back outside the box to Lampard who finds Brunt on the right side. Chris’ shot is well struck, but caroms off the crossbar. Essien settles and the ball finds Bane who unloads a powerful shot that sails over Reina’s goal. Still, we look dangerous, and I can’t think the one goal will be enough for them.

Di Santo is playing his heart out up front, and has even gotten onto a long clearance from Ochoa that led to a nice save by Reina on a header. But we need more up there.

Just before halftime, Brunt makes a great play to find Simon inside the box, but Reina tips his shot over the bar. A minute later, Sakho sends a cross into the box that di Santo meets squarely, but sends straight at Reina. It’s a good tight match, but at halftime they still own the one goal lead.

A minute into the second half, a long pass from Reina finds Torres at the edge of the box. The young Spaniard rises above Carvalho and the ball caroms off his head and sails over Ochoa into the back of the net. It’s a total fluke, and Torres shrugs as he heads, grinning, back to the center circle, clearly aware of how lucky the strike was.

Lucky or not, we’re down by two now.

Five minutes on, Essien meets a corner and sends a powerful header towards the far corner, but Glen Johnson is there to clear it off the line. The clearance turns into a break, with Torres free against Ochoa who makes a magnificent diving save to deny him his brace.

Then, di Santo is called for a push in the box. It’s a penalty and Torres steps up confidently to take it, but Ochoa guesses correctly and turns it wide. Cech is the first up and off the bench, screaming encouragement to his backup. The man is nothing if not professional. So, it’s one fluke goal from Torres and one lucky save against him.

Fifteen minutes from time, it feels very much like not our day: Ballack (on for Lampard) sends a corner into the box that Sakho meets with a hard header, but Reina is able to leap and tip it away. It falls to Kalou, but Fábio Aurélio gets a leg in front of the follow. That’s two clearances off their line.

Six minutes from time, Brunt sends a magnificent curling shot from twenty-five yards out that seems to swerve right around Reina. It’s a great goal, and it gives us a lifeline, but only five minutes in which to take advantage. A minute from time, Essien forces a diving stop from Reina, and seconds later another Sakho header is cleared by a field player, this time Gerrard. Three clearances off their line. Sometimes, it’s just not your day.

The rest of the four minutes of extra time pass without incident, other than a card on Sakho. It’s just hard missing your top three strikers against the best clubs. Luckily, while every game against Liverpool is a big game for us, this one meant less than most.

League Cup, Fourth Round

Liverpool v Chelsea, Anfield

Liverpool 2 (Dirk Kuyt 1, Fernando Torres 47) – Chelsea 1 (Chris Brunt 85)

MoM: Pepe Reina (8.5) Chelsea’s Best: Franco di Santo (7.4)

Attendance: 45,952. Referee: Martin Atkinson.

[Makonnen]

Like, One of Those Things. October 30, 2010.

9:19 AM

I must admit I’m distracted, and the game today has the possibility to catch me unawares. It feels like there are way too many details for tomorrow, way too many things that we’re both working hard to finish and trying to keep under wraps. Jessica is supposed to be here this afternoon, and I can finally dump it all in her lap then. I sigh and square off a pile of papers and place it inside the folder marked LM. It feels good to very deliberately put it to the side and move on to a final review of our preparations for Bolton.

Gary Megson’s squad was picked for a mid-table finish, and that looks to be where they’re headed. There is some talent there: Anthony Annan, Jussi Jääskeläinen in goal. And they brought in Paraguayan striker Nelson Valdez from Dortmund over the summer, along with picking up veteran defender Paul Robinson and young Ryan Bertrand from us. But it really should be three points for us today. Still, I remember well what happened last time I underestimated Bolton.

I’m looking over their preferred formations on free kicks when Butch knocks at the door and lumbers in.

Morning, Butch.

Hey. As usual, he has a cup of tea for himself and a coffee for me. He puts it down and settles into the chair across from me.

I reach out for the warm liquid and lean back, holding it in both hands. Thanks. I’ve been here for hours.

For Bolton? I grimace and nod towards the folder on top. Oh. That.

That. Tomorrow is going to open up a shitstorm.

You sure she’s worth it, Danyil?

I shrug. No. You’re never sure. But I’m sure she’s worth finding out.

He looks away for a moment. It’s not going to be easy.

No, no it’s not. I wave a hand in the air. But we’ve been through all of this … it’s done, it’s happening.

He’s quiet for a bit then reaches over and takes the scouting report from me. Any changes?

I nod. Yeah, a few. Nothing too drastic. But I think it’s a good time for Kieran to get a start, and Comotto and Sakho at back.

Kalou up front with Edin, then?

Yeah. Should be good for a few.

12:44 PM

Bolton is set to pack them in and defend, with only Valdez up front and ten men on the defensive side of the ball.

Ten minutes in a long string of possession is capped by De Rossi finding Mikel who one times it to Kalou. Kalou’s shot is low and unstoppable, and we’re up by one. The stars of the early game are Sakho for us, who looks unstoppable on the left, and Anthony Annan in midfield for them.

Just after half an hour, Kieran sends in a hard shot that is deflected to De Rossi, but Jääskeläinen is up for that one, too and we settle for a corner. Still, a second goal seems imminent, all the more so when Kalou goes inches wide a minute later. It finally comes from an unlikely combination: Alex is out of position, advanced far up the left wing, but he sends a cross into the box that Kalou meets at the near post with a glancing header that skips past Bolton’s Finnish keeper.

We add a third close to time when Kalou finds Dzeko on a break and Edin’s twenty yard volley slams into the back of the net.

Premier Division

Chelsea v Bolton Wanderers, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 3 (Salomon Kalou 11 50, Edin Dzeko 79) – Bolton 0

MoM: Kalou (9.3)

Attendance: 41,103. Referee: Lee Mason.

4:08 PM

Hey, Leigh. How you doing?

She is nervous, a slight flush at her neck as she enters my office, Jessica in tow. I’m good, coach. Good.

I smile. At least you don’t call me Gaffer.

Yeah, I heard that. I had to ask a lot of times what that meant. I mean, like, Gaffer? What is that?

I shrug. I have no idea. But they learned quick—after the first week, each time they called me that, they had to run. She smiles, and I turn to the young woman who, for the foreseeable future, will be her minder. Jessica. Your flight was ok?

It was fine. Long. But fine, thanks. Congrats—I heard you were good today.

Leigh was there. Leigh, what did you think?

They were great. Mamadou had a great game on the left, and Kalou, he’s so quick, he was just always a danger. She looks at me.

Go on.

I think that, like, well that Kieran was, like, a little, I dunno, new to it. He seemed to like be a little slow to find the right space. I mean, I don’t mean that he did anything, wrong, just, like, he had a little rust.

I smile. I don’t know much about her outside this sphere, honestly. I mean, her tutors say she’s very smart, very intuitive, whatever. But her soccer IQ is off the charts. What else?

She grins, enjoying the freedom, the space to talk, the chance to impress her new boss. The second goal was just, like, one of those things. Like, last year, wait two years, ago, no wait, last year. Yeah, last year. I had been pulled way out of position, was just totally in the wrong place, just completely messed up where to go, and the ball just kind of fell to me. And there was space so I took the shot, and, you know, it just like went in. And it got a bunch of attention, but it really was a mistake: I was just, you know, in the absolute wrong place.

What she’s omitting is that she hit the ball on a volley from close to forty yards out and sent it on a straight line into the far corner of the net. It was one of those moments, when you see a teenager announce themselves. And?

And, well, that’s kind of what happened, you know, to Alex. I mean … he’s amazing, he’s … if I could be half the player he is, you know.

She trails off. You’re right. Now, why was he out of position?

She takes a deep breath and pauses, but only momentarily. You like him to charge the far side of goal on corners, either to free himself or, more often, to, like, set a screen for an attacker. And we had just had a corner. They’re defense had pinched in, so he was coming back into position on the wing. I think that Mamadou had already seen him and was covering on the right, so when we got the ball back, he knew he could stay up there. I mean … that’s what I think I remember. She suddenly turns shy, looking at her hands in her lap.

Leigh, look at me. You are an amazing young … woman. You hear me? Amazing. Tomorrow is going to be a whirlwind for you. Just remember to breathe, and know that Jessica and I will be with you, OK?

She nods, but the flush hasn’t gone away, a small patch of red on the right side of her neck that is reaching up towards her ear.

[Makonnen]

Nothing About This Is Remotely Natural. November 1, 2010.

She sits on the padded stool, trying to stay as still as possible, but it’s hard. The PA brushes her cheek rapidly with some blush, and takes a half step backwards, her head cocked to the side, evaluating her work. She dips a finger into a light cream and rubs it gently onto the young girl’s neck, fading it expertly to decrease the crimson flash that has settled on her neck.

“There. Good. You look great, hon. Just relax, you’ll be fine. The shirt looks good on you.”

Leigh looks down instinctively at the white Samsung across her dark blue shirt and nods, swallowing hard. “Thanks, Maria. It’s still pretty … well, thanks.”

As Maria moves off, an older man approaches, his hair an unmoving mass held in place through the careful application of a spray that smells faintly of watermelons. “Hello, Leigh.” He extends a hand. She stands and takes it, shaking firmly and looking him in the eye, just as she has been coached to do. “I’m Robert Stoneville, but please call me Bobby. You holding up OK?”

Leigh nods, and sits back on the stool. “Yes, thank you.”

“Great, great. So, this shouldn’t take very long, just a few questions, nothing you haven’t heard before.”

She nods, and blinks rapidly as two lights are swung in their direction. Their intensity fades and when her eyes clear, Robert has taken up a seat across from her, and is having a quick conversation with someone wearing a large headset, while two other men, one with a walkie-talkie held to his mouth, stand a few feet away. Leigh couldn’t hear them clearly, but it sounded like they were talking a foreign language composed entirely of numbers and abbreviations. Leigh long ago gave up trying to figure out who they all were and just tried to do what she was told.

Robert cranes his around the other way. “Paul, we good? Great, let’s go.” He turns back to her and says, “OK, we’ll shoot my intro and close afterwards. For this, I’ll be off camera, asking questions. Just look at me and carry on a conversation, all natural, OK?”

Natural, thinks Leigh. Nothing about this is natural. Nothing about this is remotely natural. Playing the game, maybe that is. But the rest of this … cameras? Interviews? She shakes her head to clear her thoughts, takes a breath, and says, “Sure, all set.”

The rest is a blur. She focuses on being honest and not having any thoughts that take more than three sentences to express, trying not to think of Bull Durham, which her father made her watch when she was twelve. Twice. When the Texas ODP (which only later did she learn stood for Olympic Development Program) approached her, he asked if she remembered the film. She was puzzled but quickly understood when he said, “They said to expect some interviews. Just be yourself, Lou, you’ll be fine. And, remember, learn your clichés. They’re your friends. Practice them.” Nobody else called her Lou.

It had led to a fight—Leigh always felt that her father was too predictable, his world too narrow and suspicious of anything that approached from outside its borders, with its roots in small town Texas and its trunk in athletics. They shared the love of sport, and he had even come to understand, if not exactly appreciate, soccer. But at this point, Leigh didn’t want to learn clichés. She wanted to be noticed, to stand out, to be seen as funny and intelligent and special. That was before she began to play with boys at the national level, and before the press really cared about her.

Now, all Leigh wanted to do was get through the day intact, without having said anything that raised any eyebrows. She hadn’t expected this to be quite this uncomfortable, quite this difficult. After Robert—Robbie—there was a long interview with Chelsea’s online division, then, worst of all, the camera shoot.

She hesitates at the doorway, feeling her heartbeat accelerate: there were more people, and although these were closer to her age, they wore more intimidating clothes. A man—Leigh assumes he is the photographer—drinks from a brown cardboard cup, dressed in the inevitable black and with more styling product in his short, spiky, black hair than she Leigh wore in her own. He talks excitedly to two female assistants, each perched on heels that Leigh knew she could never pull off, each wearing something tight that probably cost more than her entire wardrobe. The man looks up and his eyes light up. All three of them rush over, arms extended.

“Leigh! Come! This is going to be fantastic.”

Leigh dislikes all of them immediately.

It starts innocently enough: in the white kit, in the blue, holding the ball, juggling the ball, kicking the ball. Then the photographer walks over and looks critically around her face, never meeting here eyes.

“Leigh, darling, can we just perhaps do something with this hair? Let it loose a little?”

He reached up towards her face, and she jerks away. “No.”

“Excuse me, pet?”

She just looks at him. “No hair. No shaking it, no soft lighting, no glamour shots.”

“Don’t you want to be a model, love?”

Leigh stares at him, and a familiar voice rescues her from the doorway. “I believe she said no.”

Leigh turns, a smile breaking across her face. “Jessica!”

The woman, lithe and athletic looking, crosses the room confidently and gives Leigh a quick hug before turning back to the baffled photographer. “Where’s Sammy?”

“And you are?”

She eyes him icily. “Jessica Hardy. FIFA Fair Play Coordinator. And person in charge of everything that happens to Leigh off the field. Where’s Sammy?” It was more a command than a question.

“What? Oh … they brought me in for this. Thought it was more up my alley.”

“Really.” She pauses and looks around “Are we done with the football shots?” He nods. “OK, then we’re done. Leigh, how about some lunch?”

Leigh just nods, and follows the shorter woman out the door, down several hallways to a small conference room, where enough food for a dozen people is spread across one wall. Leigh looks warily around. “Is anyone else coming?”

Jessica smiles. “Not for a little while. Then … “ She looks down at her phone, her thumb moving nimbly across its surface for a moment. “Coach Oranje. And Butch Wilkins. I think you met him in South Africa?” Leigh nods. “And then you’re done until training at three. Closed session on the back field.”

Leigh settles in a chair, swinging side to side and picking absent-mindedly at a sandwich on a paper plate. “You good with that?” Jessica nods towards the food.

“Yeah, sure, it’s fine. It’s the coleslaw. Why do they ruin a perfectly good sandwich like that?”

“I know, right?”

“Jessica, how do you do it?”

“What?”

Leigh shrugs. “I don’t know. How are you so … strong. How do you get people to do what you want them to. How … “ Leigh turns away, but not before Jessica sees her eyes shining. She moves towards Leigh, kneeling and putting her hands on the arms of the chair.

“Leigh, look at me. It’s okay. This won’t be … this won’t be the last time we cry, OK? This is just a moment, one of many that are coming. Some will be good, some great, and some not so much. Everybody that has met you—everybody—thinks you’re amazing. Well, maybe not that photographer.” Leigh laughs and wipes at one eye.

“And I might ask you the same thing?’

“What?”

“How do you do it? How do you know where the ball will be, where the attacker will be, before they do? How do you hit a volley forty yards into the net? How do you take people you’ve barely met and instantly convince them they should listen to you on the field? I’ve seen you do that—with the national teams, with all-star teams, even in that scrimmage here last week.”

“I don’t know. It’s just … it’s just who I am. Or a big part of who I am.”

Jessica stands up and crosses her arms. “Exactly.”

Leigh nods, and takes a piece of bread and places it back on her sandwich, a small mound of coleslaw now mounded neatly to one side.

[Makonnen]

It's Going to Be Like That All Year. November 3, 2010.

We’re not atop the table, but I am thankful for the game today. If I have to say Yes, I think she deserves a shot, like all of our young players, we’ll do everything we can to create an environment where she can succeed one more time, I may vomit. Or hit someone. Or both.

The stewards are in full force, and have confiscated a half dozen banners already. One says **** you, PSV in Dutch, the rest are about Leigh. Two use the word ****. They sit in a pile at the back of the training room. I told Johnny to burn them after the game.

Wish I could sell them on EBay. Make a bleeding fortune.

You do, the Russian will have your head. I hoped the threat was enough—the last thing we need is a black market revolving around Leich Musicek paraphernalia. I’ve already heard enough jokes about someone stealing her panties. She’s ****ing sixteen.

The face we’ll show the world will be one of support and adulation: there are dozens and dozens of signs that range from the simple—we <3 Leigh, Our girl is Blue through and through—to the inexplicable: Leigh will bring the celery. Someone in the marketing department had a gem of an idea: we are selling out of jerseys that have Musicek across the back, but instead of a number, the feminine circle perched atop a cross. Those ****ed Jessica off, sending her on a rant about how it was hard enough for her without carrying the burden of all women. She’s a little idealistic at times—whatever we do, whatever we want to shield her from, the ****ing truth is that is exactly what she is carrying and we’re all just praying her shoulders are strong enough. Her first under 18 game is on Saturday. It should be quite a circus.

I am very happy to have a game today, something in which to lose myself. We’re going to, for the first time in UEFA play, put out a very different side. We’re atop the group, we’re at home, and I think we can risk it. If we had been in any other group, these kids would have already played together, but this has been tough. Mancienne joins Alex, Sakho, and Zhirkov in back, and Nemanja Matic will start in the middle and if things go well, Töre, Rafhael, Sanogo, or Belfodil will come off the bench for us. And, of course, Ochoa in goal, but honestly I see less and less difference between him and Cech as time goes on.

Five minutes in, Kalou sends a lovely header on towards Dzeko in the box, but Mexican veteran Carlos Salcido gets over in time to clear it.

Butch, is it me or is Kalou playing out of his head?

How’s that?

He’s just done everything we could ask—play up front, play wide, no play like a true winger, no cut inside more. Doesn’t matter, he just does it and is doing it well.

Just shy of ten minutes, we again are left to wonder how the goal escapes us: Zhirkov’s corner is met at the near post by Alex, who flicks it across goal where it falls to Essien at the back post, but his volley caroms off the post. Kalou chases down the rebound and sends a cross into the box that bounces four times before trickling just wide of goal. I thought it came from Edin’s head, but we are awarded another corner.

Just before halftime, the goal finally comes. A long pass from Mikel frees Brunt in the box, but Isaksson blocks it; however, the rebound falls right to Dzeko who powers it into the back of the net. We were knocking on the door for so long … but we leave it wide open not two minutes later. PSV’s young star, Nordin Amrabat, makes a lovely drive, then leaves the ball for Otman Bakkal, whose one-time volley is an unstoppable shot just past Ochoa. The home crowd was still in mid celebration when it happens, and the drop in volume is stunning.

We go in tied at one, and honestly disappointed with it. As we head down the tunnel, some idiot in a blue shirt leans out screaming, You’re playing like girls! Good thing you signed one! Cockless bastards!

We hurry past, and Butch says, So, it’s going to be like that all year?

Probably. **** ‘em, Butch. Let’s go.

We have some chances in the second half—a Kalou header, a forty yard curling drive from Ballack that hits the outside of the net, a twisting volley from Dzeko from the edge of the box that hits the woodwork. But none find the spot, and it looks like it will be an uninspired draw until, a minute into extra time, Essien finds Belfodil just outside the box. He winds up and launches it, and the ball clatters off the woodwork and falls against Isaakson’s back before trickling into the goal. It’s a cruel own goal, but a goal it is. Belfodil actually has an even better chance seconds later, but can’t quite find space inside the box. I’m thrilled with the one he took: we deserved the three points and found a way to get them.

UEFA Cup, Group F

Chelsea v PSV, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 2 (Edin Dzeko 42, Andreas Isaksson 90+1og) – PSV 1 (Otman Bakkal 44)

MoM: Dzeko (7.8)

Attendance: 39,690. Referee: Antonio Salvador.

We’re two points clear of the group, but haven’t qualified as it’s still theoretically possible for Sporting to catch us, despite their 4-0 loss to Spartak Moscow behind a brace from Welliton. Still, we’re in the driver’s seat, and can seal qualification in our next game against the Russians, at Stamford Bridge in two weeks time.

Elsewhere, Inter, Barcelona, and Genoa have already qualified for the second round, and the surprise of the first round is probably in Group D, where Athletic find themselves in third place behind Porto and Olympique Lyonnais.

[Makonnen]

A Solid Twenty Minutes. November 6, 2010.

Polish veteran Jozef Mlynarczyk was brought in over the summer expressly to coach Chelsea’s under 18’s. He was impeccably qualified for the position, boasting a long history of success with young players, especially goalkeepers. But his hiring interviews had also, from the beginning, foreshadowed today’s match, and he had—they all had—been preparing for it for nearly six months now.

It was a standard game for the youth squads, Chelsea against Arsenal. Of the thirty or so players involved, maybe a half-dozen would see action at a top tier club in England. Another dozen might make a career of playing the game. The rest were, most without knowing it, close to the end of their football journey at the top clubs, although many would find a living in other leagues for years to come. Arsenal looked quite solid in defense, with Andrew Brown, Ignasi Miquel, and Joseph Mokoena anchoring a firm back line, although Miquel was on the bench to start today’s game in favor of Ghanaian youngster Daniel Boateng. Chelsea’s best youngsters—Javier Ochoa, Alípio, Philip Greenhalgh, Hernán Coccia, and Danny Mooney were either injured or on loan, but Sam Walker in goal and Simone Martini up front both looked to have a rosy future in the game.

And, of course, there was Leigh. This really was all because of her: a match that would usually have fewer than a hundred spectators, with most of those either being scouts and coaches or friends and family, drew close to two thousand fans along with nearly a hundred media personnel. A row of a dozen photographers lined the far touchline, most of them holding their cameras listlessly at their side, a few lazily tracking the action on the field.

It was early in the second half of a scoreless game, and the crowd was getting restless. Chants of Bring Her On and Leigh, Leigh, Leigh would fill the air occasionally. Then a tremor ran through the spectators and the photographers seemed to move in unison, the long black cylinders of their telephoto lenses swinging around towards the Chelsea bench where Leigh Musicek was stretching, intently listening to Mlynarczyk’s instructions before taking off her track suit and moving over to the fourth official’s area.

The statistical record would show that she entered the match in the 56th minute; that she attempted two free kicks from areas just to the side of the penalty box; that she took three of a possible five corners for her team, each of which swerved nicely towards the far post; that she touched the ball seven times without incident, including one marvelous long pass down the left wing, hitting teammate Lewis Paton in stride on an attack that fizzled out; that of those seven touches, two came from winning aerial contests and one resulted in a thirty yard clearance sent directly to a waiting teammate.

It statistical record would however, not show, that twice her teammate, Anton Rodgers, avoided passing to her when the situation clearly called for it, choosing instead to knock the ball upfield. Each time, Chelsea lost possession: the first was followed by an encouraging yell from Mlynarczyk, the second by angry yells from several coaches.

It would also not show that, as she ran back to her position, tracking Arsenal’s promising midfielder, Chuks Aneke, a fan was heard to yell You bounce nicely, Leigh. Or that, as she placed the ball for the first of her corner kicks, another voice screamed out Taking the corner are you? ****ing ****, that’s a man’s job.

Two images from that first game on the back fields of Chelsea’s training ground remain etched in the minds of football fans everywhere. In the first, Musicek is off balance, one leg parallel to the ground, swinging wildly. The ball has just rolled off the woodwork from a header from Martini, and it would have taken a truly amazing shot to connect, let alone connect squarely: it was a situation that happens multiple times every game, where the ball takes a slightly unexpected bounce, and usually assured athletes are left trying to adjust in the middle of their motion to the new trajectory. But this one was caught by one of the photographers, her eyes wide, her mouth open, her pony tail visible to the other side, forming a slight counterpoint to the extended leg. One shoulder hunched higher than the other, she looks awkward, like she is about to fall. This picture was used to question her presence.

The other image shows her standing, left foot on the ball, arm outstretched, pointing ahead of her and to the right. She has just yelled at Conor Clifford to move further out on the right, and she is about to touch the ball forward before launching a long and accurate pass down the left flank. She is the picture of confidence, her face is calm, her shoulders back, her eyes burning with a clear intensity.

After the game, she sat in the small women’s locker room that was constructed over the summer—little more than a privacy stall accessed through a sliding door that separated it from the smaller of the two coach’s offices. At first, the plans called for the women’s room to empty into the main locker room, but those were quickly scrapped when it was realized that Leigh would have to sit there for an hour after each game, waiting for the lads to finish up if she wanted to avoid what would be for her an awkward situation. She would have done so—while comfortable with her own body, she was profoundly self-conscious about others, and had always been reticent in the locker room, regardless of the gender of her teammates.

Today, she sat, one towel tucked around her chest, another wrapped in a cone above her head, hunched over with her head in her hands, staring at the pattern of moisture on the floor. She moved her mouth in wide circles, exercising the side of her jaw where she took a hard elbow, and flexed her left ankle, feeling the dull throb of pain where she had been raked with a set of cleats. Reassured that neither injury was serious, she reached up, unrolled her towel and dried her hair, and proceeded to get dressed in a Chelsea track suit. There was a knock on the door.

“Leigh? It’s Jessica.”

“Hey, come on in, just finishing up.”

Jessica came in, her arms wide and embraced her tightly. “You did it, girl. You did it.”

Leigh drew back. “Did what? It was twenty minutes in a youth game.”

Jessica laughed. “Yes, but it was a solid twenty minutes, and you did it.”

Leigh folded the towels before laughing softly at herself and tossing them into the white basket with the blue Chelsea lion emblazoned on the side. “Is it always going to be like that?”

“Like what?”

Leigh shrugged. “All the cameras. The yelling. The names. My own teammates not passing me the ball.”

Jessica frowned. “You heard. Sorry. It … I don’t know. I would like to say, no, it won’t always be that way, but I don’t know. You’re just so far ahead, Leigh. I know Halo is coming over here, and Precious and YT and Joanie … but you’re first. It may be this way for a while with the fans. Until the idiots get tired of it.”

Leigh looked up, her jaw tight with anger. “And my teammates?”

Jessica sat down next to her and put an arm around the young woman. “They’ll come around first. And Anton. Well … word is he was locked in the coach’s office for a good twenty minutes after the game. I don’t think that will be a problem.”

Leigh relaxed into Jessica’s shoulder for a moment, closing her eyes. She thought of her Mother, of nights spent on the large couch back home, watching classic movies and eating popcorn, draped across each other. She thought of the way her Mother would always take her hand when they were out, especially if there was something making her anxious. She thought of Kate Bush singing Mother … stands for comfort against a backdrop of broken glass, a song she found while digging through her Uncle’s CD collection looking for music to burn before her first trip to train with the American U20 team. She opened her eyes and sat up, running a hand through her air before quickly pulling it back into a pony tail, held in place with a dark blue twist.

“I assume they’re waiting for me out there?”

Jessica smiled gently. “Yeah. But they’ve been warned—softball questions only, and no more than fifteen minutes.”

Leigh nodded and took a breath. “Aight, as they say. Let’s do this.”

# # #

12:55 PM

We’re in Stoke-on-Trent for the game today, and I’ve just gotten off the phone.

Well, Butch, they did it. We did it.

She played?

Yeah, about thirty minutes in the second half. Did fine.

We win?

No, nil-nil.

Butch shook his head. We should’ve won.

Never satisfied, are you?

I’m smiling as I say it, but he never looks up to see that, only grunting What else? in reply.

Not a lot. You know Anton? Rogers? Coaches had to have a go at him—evidently he wasn’t too chuffed about passing the ball to a girl a few times.

Butch looks up at this. You know a lot of them are going to be that way?

I pause, putting together some comments from the last few weeks. What about you? How are you going to be with it?

He looks away momentarily. I’m all for it. You know that. She’s a good kid, and I think she belongs. I just.

What?

He stands up, brushing off his trousers. I just wish she was doing it somewhere else. I don’t like the circus, and I don’t like what they’re saying about us, about the club.

2:55 PM

You would think a team that finished 16th last year would have made some more changes. But no, Tony Pulis’ side is essentially unchanged. Steve Simonsen had moved on to Fulham and Andy Wilkinson to Portsmouth, but that is essentially it. Their success in the young season is really attributable to one thing: Robert Lewandowski’s blossoming into a top notch striker, as evidenced by his eight goals in ten games. Other than Lewandowski, Turkish midfielder Tuncay Sanli has been solid for them but, again, this should be a game that our sheer quality is able to turn into a win.

That’s actually pretty good news for us, with Drogba out and Dzeko serving his suspension. JT will miss the game as well, but we have better cover back there. It’s pretty good timing to be facing Stoke, although it’s a classic crappy English day: wet, and cold, with a ****ing rain.

Seven minutes in, after a long spell of possession, Lampard is given acres of space thirty-five yards from goal. He moves five yards closer and sends a rocket past Tomas Grigar and into the upper right corner of the net. Fifteen minutes later, it’s Frank again, this time from only slightly closer. We’re up by two, and Lampard looks to be in fine form, both of which are welcome bits of news.

Kalou has been sending wonderful crosses across the box all day without anyone getting on the end of them, now, Vukcevic drives to the far corner and arcs a ball across goal with Salomon waiting in the middle. He manages to out jump Robert Huth to send it home.

There have been some mutterings in the press that we haven’t been playing up to our potential. A three-nil lead at halftime on the road should quiet some of that.

Five minutes into the second half, Lampard hits another shot from distance, but this one caroms off the bar and out of bounds: less than a foot away from the hat trick.

They look like scoring twice before the hour mark: once Lewandowski passes up a fifteen yard shot, trying to play Sanli on but we intercept and the other time Glenn Whelan is forced wide when he looks clear on goal.

Stoke has plays well in the second half and honestly deserve a goal: only a great save on Sanli and a few diving tackles by Alex have prevented them from getting on the scoresheet. But time continues to tick off the clock, and the game remains well in hand.

Premier Division

Stoke City v Chelsea, Britannia Stadium

Stoke 0 – Chelsea 3 (Frank Lampard 7 23, Salomon Kalou 38)

MoM: Lampard (9.1)

Attendance: 27,431. Referee: Howard Webb.

[Makonnen]

Not Everyone Bleeds Blue. November 10, 2010.

4:32 PM

Today against Blackburn should be our last game at half strength. That’s the good news. The bad news is that we face them without Drogba, Dzeko, Terry, or Sakho. As always our focus is on Morten Gamst Pedersen. Blackburn has brought in some talent in the offseason: Ahmed El Mohammady will help their back line, as will Espanyol import Grégory Béranger. But it’s Pedersen who we’re talking about before the game: his runs, his vision, and most of all his goddamn surreal throws. I mean, he’s no Rory Delap, but he’s pretty damn good.

Well, Butch, what do you think?

I think we need to be careful here. Pressure’s on, we need to keep moving up, but they’re a solid team.

You always say that.

I usually mean, it too.

We’ll start with Sturridge up front, supported by Kalou and Vukcevic, figuring that what is in essence our first team defense and midfield will find a way to get the ball to them in dangerous spots. Some fans are already up in arms, preferring me to rest some of these players for the mid-week clash with Real Madrid, but honestly these league games are at least as important right now.

7:42 PM

Sturridge has all the talent in the world, but has been slow to mature: he feels a lot of pressure to perform every time on the field, which makes him play more selfishly than he should. It’s a constant struggle in training for him to find his teammates, to realize that if he supports them, his goals will come.

Daniel! Use your teammates! Come on!

How do we get him to change, Butch?

Sturridge? Time. It’s the only thing. He feels such pressure to do something when he plays, tries to do too much.

You think he can change?

I dunno. I mean it’s more than that, innit? He has to both learn that and improve to get a sniff here.

He has a point. Sturridge really has this year to establish himself before di Santo, Sanogo, and Belfodil start pushing him hard for his spot.

A dozen minutes in, Blackburn’s Keith Andrews sends a laser towards goal from twenty yards out that Cech tips over. Know how I was saying Ochoa may be ready for these games? Butch nods. I think maybe we stick with Petr for a while.

It’s a pretty drab match, until twenty minutes on Ivanovic sends up a long ball that Kalou catches and controls before unleashing a shot that hits the corner of the frame then bounces out. A minute later, Zhirkov gives up a free kick right at the edge of the box, a chance for Gamst Pederson. He guesses right and sends the ball hard under the jumping wall, but again Cech is there. Just shy of the half hour mark, he has another free kick and this time finds the bar.

What do you think of him?

Pederson? Butch nods. He’s a great player against us, I’ll give him that.

He’d do well here.

You think? Another nod. He’d have to be OK coming off the bench.

To play for Chelsea? He would.

I dunno. Not everyone bleeds blue like you.

Butch spits and his voice is suddenly harsh. Don’t I ****ing know it.

What’s all that about?

Nothing. He turns his focus back to the game, silent.

A minute later, it’s the Norwegian veteran again: a give and go with Paulo Assunção goes the entire length of the pitch, and Gamst Pederson rockets a ball towards Cech’s near post that he barely manages to turn around the post.

Ten minutes from half, Sturridge frees Kalou with a very nice pass, but Paul Robinson gets his big frame down on it. It caps a nice passage for us, and we’re finally beginning to show some control up front.

We come out strongly in the second half, with both Lampard and Essien providing narrow misses. Then, Lampard finds Vukcevic at the corner of the box. Sturridge has to hop in place to stay onside, a clip sure to find a home on YouTube. But, he does, and Simon’s pass is inch perfect to the now sprinting youngster. Robinson is hurtling off his line—a frightening sight indeed—but Sturridge manages to slide it under him for the opening goal.

Under two minutes later, Zhirkov creates a goal that he’ll get no credit for on the highlight shows: the young Irish international Alan Judge has the ball just inside midfield, and as he turns, Yury steals it right off his foot. Judge never saw him coming, and Zhirkov is off to the races before he can react, laying it forward for Simon, who carries all the way to the end line before sending it back across goal where Essien is waiting. He hammers it in past Robinson, and we’re up by two.

Another two minutes pass, and only a diving stop by Robinson prevent Essien from adding a second with a powerful header. We’re ascendant, and Blackburn looks likely to unravel.

They don’t unravel, but Sturridge adds his second of the game on a lovely individual move, and despite a defensive lapse that gives Andrews a free shot on goal, we close the game out to maintain the clean sheet. It moves us all the way to fourth in the league, tied with Liverpool and Aston Villa.

Premier Division

Blackburn Rovers v Chelsea, Ewood Park

Blackburn 0 – Chelsea 3 (Daniel Sturridge 54 83, Michael Essien 56)

MoM: Sturridge (9.0)

Attendance: 28,867. Referee: Mike Dean.

[Makonnen]

From Guardian.co.uk November 11, 2010.

Ray Wilkins has been left devastated by his surprise dismissal with immediate effect from the post of assistant coach at Chelsea.

The 54-year-old knew nothing about his sacking before being called to meet with Ron Gourlay, the chief executive, while watching Chelsea’s reserves play a training-ground friendly against Bayern Munich at lunchtime today. While Chelsea brass may have hoped all the press coverage of Leigh Musicek’s debut would overshadow this news, the players and staff were clearly shocked by Wilkins’ sudden departure.

His contract had entered its final months and was up for renewal but Wilkins, who had stood alongside the manager Danyil Oranje while the second string took on the German team, did not see what was coming. Gourlay informed him that not only was his deal not going to be continued but that he would have to leave immediately. Sources at the club described the decision as “clinical”, but characteristic of Chelsea’s ruthlessness in decision-making at executive levels. Chelsea have stressed that there had been no major disagreements involving Wilkins and the other coaching staff or executives but the truth behind his departure lies less with what he did wrong and more towards what he no longer did right.

Wilkins had seen a fundamental part of his responsibilities disappear, or no longer carry quite the same value. When he was hurriedly appointed by the club in the wake of the former assistant coach Steve Clarke’s departure to West Ham United in September 2008, he was seen as the man to help the manager at the time, the Brazilian Luiz Felipe Scolari, adapt to the demands of English football, particularly off the field.

As a former Chelsea captain and coach – he had worked under Gianluca Vialli – Wilkins had no little credibility but, moreover, it was his contacts within the English game and his knowledge of the authorities and their procedures – in short, who knew who and how things worked – that made him appear as the ideal sidekick for an overseas manager.

Wilkins served under Scolari, Guus Hiddink and Oranje, and he would even address the media at press conferences on occasion, to take the pressure off the manager, most notably when things began to go wrong for Scolari.

Yet this aspect of his employment had become less important, not least because Oranje has settled into England and English football so well – he has learned to speak the language – and, also, because he has, with the arrival of Francesco Mauro, Alejandro Oliver, Carlos Bucero, and Josef Mlynarczyk begin to put his own unique – and highly international – stamp on the coaching staff at Stamford Bridge.

Wilkins was a well-liked member of the staff but perhaps his biggest problem was that, in the eyes of influential members of the squad, he was not Clarke. The Scot was José Mourinho’s assistant and he played a vital, if largely unsung, role in the club’s Premier League title triumphs of 2005 and 2006.

Wilkins, though a good coach in his own right, lacked Clarke’s panache and his input into Oranje’s training sessions was moderate, largely because the Dutchman is such a hands-on coach. The bottom line, as Wilkins began his soul-searching, was that if Oranje had wanted to keep him then there is no doubt that Wilkins would have been retained.

With Gourlay firmly in control of the club’s business plan, it is clear that Chelsea have decided to make an upgrade in the department. The search for a new assistant is now under way, with three early contenders each having connections to A.C. Milan: Daniele Tognaccini is their current first team coach, while Filippo Galli (who currently holds that same position with Liverpool) and Paolo Maldini each spent many years patrolling the pitch at the San Siro.

Galli has been repeatedly linked with a move to Stamford Bridge and what would be a return to the south-east of England. He spent a season under Vialli at Watford towards the end of his playing career. Paul Clement served as the assistant to Wilkins in the first-team coaching structure and, having already risen from the ranks of the academy, he is regarded as a star of the future. Dark horses for the position include French coach Rudi Garcia, currently unaffiliated; head coach Fred Rutten of PSV, and Doctor Khumalo, currently of South Africa’s Kaizer Chiefs.

Chelsea announced Wilkins’s departure on their website early in the afternoon, with Gourlay confirming that the decision not to renew his contract would “take effect immediately”.

“On behalf of everyone at the club,” Gourlay said, “I would like to thank Ray for everything he has done for Chelsea Football Club. We all wish him well for the future.”

[Makonnen]

November 12, 2010

So what are you going to do?

We’re on the couch, wineglasses on the table, a newly opened chardonnay in the ice bucket nearby. I lean back, eyes closed. What can I do? I don’t know what happened, Butch won’t talk to me. All I know is that it was something with Gourlay and the Russian. He’s silent long enough that I open my eyes to see the concern on his face. What?

His money is good. The rest … I don’t know.

Nobody does. That’s the thing. That much money … he just isolates himself. I sigh and rub my hands against each other, then look back into his eyes. You know that’s how fragile all of this is? It’s not that I’m next, it’s just that any of us could be.

He reaches out to me and briefly I let myself retreat to the comfort of his embrace.

A Ghost Haunting. November 13, 2010.

It’s a full day in the league—seven matches. But not for us: we are off to Wembley to face Real Madrid. They’re always a handful, and today should be no different: it’s the same team as ever, plus the massive purchase of young Brazilian superstar-in-waiting Dentinho. He’s done well for them, but the major threats are still Raúl and Karim Benzema. And Kaká. And Gonzalo Higuaín. And, oh yeah, Cristiano Ronaldo who is still a priss and still one of the best three players in the world for my money. My head begins to hurt just thinking about that attack.

That is also our opportunity: if they have a weakness, it’s the gap between those players and Iker Casillas in goal. Sergio Ramos, Pepe, Marcelo, Cristian Ansaldi: all good, none spectacular. Well, OK, maybe Sergio Ramos.

It is so ****ing weird doing this without Butch. Michael Emenalo showed up yesterday, evidently with instructions to sit next to me on the bench. I don’t know what Emenalo did to earn the Russian’s favor, but it must have been something big. Don’t get me wrong: he’s nice, and he’s good enough with players, but he’s nowhere near what I need in an assistant coach. I’ve already begun looking around for a replacement, unofficially at least. I have a seven AM tomorrow with the Russian—I assume he’ll either approve my plan or I’ll be looking for a job.

We already met with the players yesterday to talk about things. Didn’t go very well: lots of questions I didn’t have answers for, and frankly lots of emotions I agreed with. As I try to get ready for this game, Butch is still here, a ghost haunting my usual rhythms. The feeling only intensifies when the locker room quiets down and they all look at me expectantly.

Look, you know I usually left this to Butch. That’s because I’m not very good with the rah-rah crap. But if there ever was a game where we should think of the fans, a game where Butch would have been happy to talk to you, this is it. Wembley. Real Madrid. A championship cup. This is it, men.

We lost to them in the semis last year thanks to a stupid call on Alex. Remember that? In a game where Simon scored his very first goal in Chelsea blue. That was then. That was a long time ago. We’re better than that now, and we’re better than them now. And our fans deserve not only us being better, but us being at our best. Our best.

Let’s do this for them, and let’s do this for Butch, and let’s do this for each other.

I saw Emenalo’s head jerk up when I said that, and I knew the Russian would hear about this, perhaps even before the opening whistle. Fine by me.

We’re holding the ball quite a bit to start the game, but they are so fast on the counter—two passes and the ball is at the other end of the field. It sets an odd rhythm. We move the ball around, probing, looking for an opening; they get it and start a quick break that we snuff out before they can get off a shot. And we move back into their end to start again. But they are getting closer, and twenty-five minutes in Benzema gets a yard of space and sends a wicked shot that curves into the outside of the net, thankfully. That’s the best chance of the half. It’s been good football, but played in the middle third for the most part.

Pellegrini pulls off both Dentinho and Benzema at the half, but he’s able to replace them with Higuaín and Raúl. That’s a helluva luxury right there.

Carvalho and Alex have been rocks for us at back, defending against a constant stream of aerial threats and winning almost everything. But, five minutes into the second half, they are almost undone when Higuaín drives down the left flank, and Alex leaves him too soon to cover the middle. That gives the young Argentine a clear path and his cross to Raúl is perfectly placed. Raúl cuts inside of Zhirkov, meets the ball squarely with his head, and only a diving stab by Cech manages to send it inches wide of the post. It was a great move and a great chance for them, and one that we are, frankly, lucky to have avoided.

On the ensuing corner, Pepe sends the ball towards the far post, and three of our defenders move to cover Ronaldo. That leaves the most unlikely of suspects, Raúl Albiol, wide open, and he deftly heads the ball into the net. We’re down 1-0.

Minutes later, the complexion of the game takes an ugly turn: Xabi Alonso takes out Vukcevic from behind and the two players face off, forehead to forehead. Alonso is booked, and it’s his second yellow, leaving the Spanish side down a man for the last half hour.

We respond immediately, with Sturridge forcing Casillas’ first save of the game after a nice give-and-go with Simon. From the corner, Essien unleashes a forty yard drive that Casillas is able to turn over the bar, then Dzeko and Sturridge combine in the air to earn another corner. Suddenly, our offense looks alive, the question is if there is enough time for us to take advantage.

Dzeko creates a great chance for Kalou, but again Casillas is up to it. There are twenty minutes to go when I bring Ballack on for Vukcevic, telling him to push forward and to bring Frank along with him, committing four players to the attack in search of the equalizer. We’re creating shots, but not goals.

Fifteen minutes. The crowd is in full throat, but some of them are beginning to whistle along with the cheers.

Ten.

And then a moment to remember: Carvalho taps it forward to Ballack who lays it gently into space for Lampard. Frank looks up and sends a shot from almost forty yards out along the ground. Casillas is surprised, and he can’t get back to his far post quickly enough: it slides in for a magnificent equalizer! Wembley explodes in jubilation, and Lampard is dancing by the corner flag in celebration.

I even hug Emenalo.

Two minutes later, I do it again. While I’m beginning to think about what I’m going to say to them to prepare them for extra time, Kalou has chested the ball down to Zhirkov in the corner. His cross floats to the far post, and Lampard outjumps Cristian Ansaldi to head the ball in. In under four minutes, Lampard scores two goals, one from forty out, one from inside a yard. Super Frank, indeed!

I’m pacing the sideline now. We have the extra man, and just need to work the clock down. Higuaín starts a dangerous breakaway, but again Alex and Carvalho are up for it, and when the final whistle blows, I can barely hear myself think for the roar from the crowd.

Imposters’ Cup Final

Chelsea v Real Madrid C.F., Wembley Stadium

Chelsea 2 (Frank Lampard 85 88) – Real Madrid 1 (Raúl Albiol 53)

MoM: Lampard (9.0)

Attendance: 91,213. Referee: Lee Mason.

November 18, 2010

The meeting with the Russian goes well, and I’m able to send Emenalo back on the road to find new talent in Africa as we end up swapping coaches with A.C. Milan: Daniele Tognaccini comes aboard as my new assistant, but the chance to work closer to home proves too tempting for Franco Baldini, who replaces Tognaccini at Milan. Once the lawyers are done with it all, Milan owes us a little money as well.

But I’m still going to miss Butch.

[Makonnen]

November 22, 2010

UEFA Cup, Group F

Chelsea v Spartak Moscow, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 1 (Edin Dzeko 26) – Spartak Moscow 1 (Milan Badelj 53)

MoM: Daniel Sturridge (8.8)

Attendance: 41,167. Referee: Cyril Zimmerman.

Think I Have A Chance? November 27, 2010.

The game against Spartak was an uneventful affair, marked only by the growing partnership between Dzeko and Sturridge: the tall Bosnian seems to play well alongside a pacey strike partner. We have Daniel and Kalou to fill that role, but he’ll have to find a way to play with Didier as well, but that’s a problem for another day—Drogba is still weeks away from returning from his injury. Since Sporting and PSV mauled each other to a scoreless tie, we qualify from our group—and with a game to play, the rumors of Leigh seeing time in our final group game have already begun.

As if. She’s doing fine, playing forty-five to sixty minutes in each of her three games, but she’s not ready for UEFA play yet. And it’s probably not ready for her. Some of the buzz has died down, but that’s largely due to Jessica’s work—she’s played the media like a fiddle, controlling their access to Leigh while stressing that she’s just another U18 player for us. It’s given a little normalcy to her life, even if a few thousand more fans than expected show up for our youth games.

Today we face Aston Villa. The big change for them is the addition of Honduran veteran Maynor Figueroa from Wigan over the summer, adding significant depth and experience to their back line. As always, Villa is an odd squad—on the one hand, they have some marvelous individual talent in James Milner and Ashley Young, and with Gabby Agbonlahor up front, they have one of the fastest strikers in the league, something that is always a concern when your central defenders are pushing the wrong side of thirty. But even with that, they’re just not very good as a team, always lacking the additional player or two it would take to really charge up the table, and this year is no exception: they are hanging around the middle of the pack, and look unlikely to move much beyond that, although each week they will worry the crap out of their opposing manager.

# # #

Leigh walked into her living room, a small plate precariously balanced in one hand, the other carrying a box of ginger snaps shipped from America by her mother as part of a care package that also contained a t-shirt with www.texas.home beneath a Texas flag on it, a box of Velveeta processed cheese food, a couple trinkets she had forgotten, a jar of jalapeno jelly, and a pecan pie from Goode Company in Houston. The Velveeta was in the fridge—she had told her Mom she could find tortilla chips easily, now she needed some before making chili con queso, and between a visit from Jessica and another from the boys, the pecan pie didn’t survive the first few days.

She placed the plate on a small coffee table, adjusted it to her liking, and shook out a small pile of brown cookies around the mound of white cream cheese topped with the sparkling purple jelly. She glanced up at the flat screen TV on the wall where the pre-game interviews were winding down with the volume muted, and pursed her lips in thought as she surveyed the room. The couch was pretty beat up beneath the dark cloth that covered it, but she liked the pattern, and nobody looked under it anyway. The pile of Match of the Day magazines was underneath the coffee table, and she had a set of coasters out, although she despaired of the boys ever using them.

Even though she expected it, the knock on the door still startled her.

“Hey guys.” Javier Ochoa, Conor Clifford, and Gavin O’Brien bundled into her apartment, filling the air with blue sweatsuits and the constant buzz of athletic energy. Clifford was the veteran of the bunch and at nineteen was at a crossroads in his career: next year he would either move up to the reserves, go out on loan, or move on from Chelsea. For now though, he was the undisputed leader of the youth team, clearly idolized by his younger countryman, O’Brien. Ochoa, however, was the starlet of the team, only sixteen and already being hailed as possibly ready for league play. He and Leigh were drawn together immediately after her arrival, both aware that, despite their years, they were miles ahead of their teammates in skill and both a little lost adapting to life in London.

“What is that?” Ochoa pointed to the plate, and Leigh smiled.

“It’s some Texas cheer. I don’t know what you call it. My Mom sent it all over to me. The cookies, they’re called ginger snaps. You have those in Spain? Ginger snaps?”

Ochoa picked one up and bit into it warily then made a face at the strong taste. “No, we have nothing … like this.”

Leigh laughed. “And that stuff,” she said, pointing, “is cream cheese with a jalapeño jelly.”

Ochoa looked puzzled. “Jalapeño’s I know.”

“You take one of the ginger snaps, put a little on it. It’s good, try it.” She used the small knife to spread some onto one of the wafers and handed it to Clifford, who looked at it dubiously.

“Come on, you have to try it. You scored twice today, that means you get first taste.”

Clifford laughed easily—his two goals in the team’s win that morning were both scorching drives from distance, but the goal of the game was the opening score by Ochoa, where he danced through four defenders before burying his shot in the roof of the goal. He nibbled the strange concoction for a moment, then shrugged, nodding approvingly.

“That’s not half bad. You say it’s Texan?” Leigh nodded. “And there’s no meat involved?” Leigh punched him in the shoulder. “Ow!”

The three young men settled back on the couch and Leigh reached for the remote as O’Brien, seeing Clifford’s approval, helped himself to the snack. She thumbed the volume on as she headed to the small kitchen, calling over her shoulder, “Anyone want something to drink?”

Soon enough, they were settled in the small room, waiting for Kevin Friend to blow his whistle in front of a loud crowd at Stamford Bridge. “Who’s going to be there first?” asked O’Brien just before kickoff.

Javier and Leigh answered at the same time, “Conor.” There was a pause, then Javier added, “but he will be on the visiting team.”

“Hey!” Clifford kicked out his leg at the young Spaniard, who deftly moved out of range.

“Hey, chill guys. We’re about to get started. And I know you think my furniture’s crap, but I like it. Behave.”

With the opening whistle, the four focused on the game, leaning forward and talking in low tones about what they saw. Ten minutes in, De Rossi sent a hard screamer from thirty yards out that Villa’s goalkeeper, Brad Guzan, was unable to corral, and the rebound fell to Daniel Sturridge who calmly volleyed the ball into the net for the early lead.

“What’s wrong, man? We’re up?” Ochoa was smiling, but Clifford had a worried look on his face. Leigh rushed in to answer: “Look in back, Javy. We’re missing something—see Terry there? See how he keeps looking over at Bane?”

Clifford nodded. “She’s right. And watch Agbon … Aggy … whatever the **** his name is—their striker. He’s faster than anyone we have.”

Just shy of twenty minutes in, young Nathan Delfouneso is free on a breakaway, but after wrong-footing Cech, he crashed the ball off the post and while the rebound fell straight to Agbonlahor, Cech was able to deflect the ball. “What was that?” Leigh’s voice is incredulous: the parried ball fell between Terry, Ivanovic, and Carvalho, who all froze momentarily, each expecting one of the others to clear it before Terry angrily knocked it out of bounds.

Clifford whistled. “Damn, Leigh, you may be needed there sooner than you think.” Leigh grimaced, and the four watched tensely as Agbonlahor missed three times by a combined three feet—a shot from distance, a volley across the face of goal, and a header all have Cech beaten, but all go barely wide.

Leigh just shook her head. “We’re really playing poorly back there.”

The camera catches Danyil Oranje on the sideline, gesticulating wildly and O’Brien can’t suppress a small laugh. He sat up, waving his arms in poor imitation before saying, “Don’t get me wrong, I’ll do whatever Mr. Oranje asks. But sometimes he looks like a right git over there.”

Suddenly, Essien is everywhere on the pitch, intercepting passes, making tackles, finding the open player. Ochoa and Clifford just shake their heads. “How does he do that?”

“He’s Michael Essien,” is Ochoa’s only answer. With the short period of dominance from Chelsea’s Ghanaian star, the team in blue began to take control of the game, looking comfortable with the one goal lead into halftime.

“Leigh!” Ochoa’s voice called from the kitchen.

“Yeah?”

“Where are your cups?”

She laughed and rolled her eyes before heading in to help him make a few cups of tea. Once she was out of earshot, O’Brien leaned in towards Clifford. “Think I have a chance?”

Conor raised his eyebrows. “With her?”

“Course with her. Sure as hell not with Ochoa.”

Clifford shook his head. “I doubt it. If anyone does, it’s him.”

O’Brien frowned. “Can’t ****ing compete with a Spanish accent, can I?”

The second half kicked off with Chelsea looking much more assured, and the nervous concern of the first forty-five minutes dissipated into laughter and more than one thing being thrown across the room in response to the constant teasing of teammates. And, just at the stroke of ninety minutes, Chelsea’s supersub, Salomon Kalou, controlled a lovely chip from fellow substitute Chris Brunt and beat Brad Friedel—brought on inexplicably to replace Brad Guzan just minutes before—to his far post.

“Wow, did you see that?”

“Course we did, Javy. We’re sitting right here.”

“**** off, man.”

“Gavin, what’s that?” O’Brien is curled over his mobile phone.

“It’s Jones. He wants to meet up for pizza now the game’s done, over at Lenny’s.” O’Brien looked up. “You in, Leigh?”

Leigh paused a moment before she answered. “Nah, y’all go ahead. I’m good.”

“You sure? He’s not that bad, you know.”

“That’s not it, I just don’t really feel like pizza.”

O’Brien quickly grabbed his phone again. “We could get something else.”

She shook her head. “No, no, go on. I’ll see you all tomorrow. Bright and early, too—we have runs at seven.”

Premier Division

Chelsea v Aston Villa, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 2 (Daniel Sturridge 11, Salomon Kalou 90) – Aston Villa 0

MoM: James Milner (7.8) Chelsea’s Best: Daniele De Rossi (7.4)

Attendance: 41,751. Referee: Kevin Friend.

[Makonnen]

Well Beaten. December 5, 2010.

Well, that’s one way to make the whole Leigh issue go away: she pulled up three minutes from time with a hamstring injury and is out for the next three weeks or so. Frankly, it’s a bit of a relief—the daily inquiries about her injury will be handled by the media staff and we have a few weeks to review the ticketing and security procedures. Just what I love to do.

This is our first serious test in a while. On the road, in Manchester, and against a team that is as good down the wings as anyone we’ll ever face—Ashley Cole and Maicon in back, Robinho and Shaun Wright-Phillips in midfield, and Tevez partnering with Adebayor up top. Ah, Adebayor. I’ve made no secret of being an admirer of his, but honestly, he wouldn’t see much time for us. Maybe he’s better than Drogba at this point, but I’ll take our strike crew. We’re back to full strength as well, or nearly so: we gain Didier, who will make his first start in quite some time but we lose Vukcevic, who was hospitalized with food poisoning last night and is still getting fluids. Message boards are all aflame about how a City supporter works in the hotel kitchen. Wouldn’t put it past them.

They dominate the early play, but our first possession leads to an amazing pass from just in front of the penalty spot from Lampard that frees Didier just outside the six. However, Irish veteran Shay Given dives to his right and turns the shot around the far post by inches. That is just about our only bright spot and we owe Cech, the assistant referee, the post, and Cech again to not being down at least one already. Tevez is finding space inside the box and City is pressuring us very high up the pitch, preventing us from maintaining possession for more than a pass or two.

Finally, with just under five minutes left, we give in: Adebayor gets goalside of JT, and receives the pass in perfect position. A touch later, and we’re picking the ball out of the back of the net while the big Togolese attacker celebrates on his knees in front of the adoring home fans. I’m not happy about it, but it’s no more than they deserve: we’ve been outplayed, and halftime isn’t pretty.

Look, this is the kind of game where you have a chance to make a statement, put a claim on our goals for the season. We’re away, we’re up against a strong side, and we played a bit like **** in that half. But you know what? We’re only down one. It’s nothing. But only if you want it enough, only if you’re willing to do it for each other, and only if you’re able to play a ****load better than what I’ve just seen.

Everything we said there. Applies to every single one of you outside the box, yeah? Petr, just keep doing what you’re doing—you’re having a great game out there.

We look like a different team to start the second half, and five minutes in, Dzeko squares the ball to Essien just outside the box. Michael has turned his body to the pass, shielding his man as well, and uses his right heel to send a ball sharply towards goal where Drogba is waiting. He beats Given to the left, and suddenly we’re tied. I don’t know if we deserve it, but I’d be fine with a point today.

City is right back to it after the restart: Gareth Barry finds Robinho on a lovely diagonal run and JT saves us by getting to the ball just a fraction ahead of the Brazilian and knocking it out of bounds. Moments later, Tevez sends a curling shot from fifty yards that misses the net by only a foot or two and the stadium roars. We need to keep this in hand, and we need to keep them off the ball.

Just past an hour, Kolo Touré is free on a corner, but heads harmlessly over the ball. At the other end, Given does well to deflect a blistering shot from Drogba on one of our rare forays into the attacking end.

Jesus. We need something here, Daniele.

The stoic Italian just looks at me. I do miss Butch.

Fifteen minutes from time, Stephen Ireland chases down a loose ball down the wing and sends it towards Adebayor who outjumps JT and sends a cracking header past Cech for his second goal of the game.

I can feel the point sliding away. We send them forward as much as we can, and Given does well to deny Lampard from distance and then, two minutes into stoppage time, we have a golden opportunity that sees the ball loose in the six yard box twice with Lampard and Kalou both being turned away by Given with fantastic saves. The last few moments are frantic, end to end sprints, but they do little except raise the fitness level of the teams.

We were well beaten today, a reminder of how far we have to go. I’m in a foul mood on the way back to London, and it’s not likely to improve for a while: we have a gimme against Sporting next that is really a lose-lose thing. Win and we’ve done as expected, lose and suddenly we’ll be in a run of bad form. Whatever.

Premier Division

Manchester City v Chelsea, City of Manchester Stadium

Man City 2 (Emmanuel Adebayor 42 75) – Chelsea 1 (Didier Drogba 51)

MoM: Petr Cech (9.2)

Attendance: 44,218. Referee: Steve Tanner.