Jump to content

A Chelsea Outing [5m1w: Danyil Oranje]


Makonnen

Recommended Posts

Precarious Disarray. October 18, 2011

Hello? Leigh struggled with the door, bracing it open with her cast while pulling her roller bag behind her into the small entranceway of the apartment she shared with Halo Jones. Her duffel, slung over her shoulder, caught on the doorframe throwing her slightly off balance and she reached out instinctively, catching some of her weight with her left arm and wincing as a shiver of pain laced its way from her wrist to her shoulder.

She gasped and bent over, holding her arm close while shrugging out of the strap of her kitbag. Hello?, she asked again, her voice shaking slightly.

Oh, hey. In here.

Leigh was still cradling her arm when she walked into the living room, her bags leaning against each other in precarious disarray in the hallway. Halo was stretched on the couch, magazines surrounding her like driftwood scattered on a beach, folded over, lying on their spines, pages akimbo in long series of closed curves. Her eyes were fixed on the screen on the wall, barely registering Leigh’s presence.

Hey. Leigh stood, unsure, her attention scattered between her roommate, her throbbing arm, and the action on the screen. She looked more closely at the wall. That us? Halo nodded. What’s the score?

Two – one. They just pulled one back.

Who scored for us?

Stud had two in the first half.

You know he hates being called that.

Halo grinned, turning to face Leigh for the first time. No boy hates being called a stud. Besides, Danny’s pretty cute. Oh, hey, she said, her green eyes flickering over the cast, I heard about that. You okay?

Leigh half-shrugged. Yeah. Broken, but, you know, whatever.

Halo nodded. Leigh took a step across the room, but Halo made no move to change her sprawled ownership of the couch, so Leigh settled in one of the side chairs, just in time to see Lucas Biglia almost effortlessly steal the ball from a Chelsea player and tear down the right sideline. Leigh didn’t catch the number as the camera panned after the Anderlecht player. Jesus. Who was that?

The hair?

Leigh shook her head. No, for us.

Oh. Tommy Spurr. He’s played like **** the whole game. They keep showing coach screaming at him—and Mam is getting ready to come in for him, too.

Leigh tried not to smile. Spurr had been brought in during the summer with the anticipation of quite a few games as a reserve at the back; but in the interim, Muniesa and Salinas had been brought into the first team and his opportunities had all but vanished. Leigh thought Spurr had handled it all quite poorly: he had sulked and publicly spoken of expecting to move on in January. If instead he had buckled down and worked hard to show he could play on the right side, he probably would have forced himself onto the pitch in more meaningful games.

With twenty minutes showing on the clock, Spurr was tackled hard from behind by Manuel Ruz. After limping to the sideline, the cameras showed Mark Gillett talking with him. Spurr, lying on the ground while Gillett worked on his calf, throws his hands up in frustration as he sees the fourth official holds up the board with Mamadou Sakho waiting to take his place on the field.

Halo giggled. He’s not hurt.

You could see Spurr clearly looking over towards the Chelsea bench, yelling I’m fine. It’s a cramp for ****’s sake. I’m fine.

Moments later, the two girls were cheering and exchanging a high five as they watched a replay of a mazy run through the box by Eyal Golasa, culminating in a well-placed chip from the right side that gave Branislav Ivanovic plenty of time to measure his jump and head the ball squarely home.

He is just so good, enthused Leigh.

Eyal? He is. Bit of a cold fish though.

Leigh focused on the screen, watching her teammates celebrate, wondering how her roommate could be so judgmental all the time. She thought it must be exhausting. They watched the final fifteen minutes largely in silence other than a comment on how strong Sakho looked on the left.

Tommy is probably back in the locker room talking to his agent, laughed Halo.

Leigh shook her head and got up, stretching. As she turned, she caught sight of her bags and she sighed, then struggled down the hall with them noisily in tow. Just as she reached her door, Halo’s voice reached her, You need any help, Leigh?

She kicked open the door to her room, a little harder than she meant. No, thanks, I’m … She was going to say good, but faded into a softer fine.

She collapsed on her bed, exhausted from the flights, the pain medications, the difference in time zones and emptied out by her homecoming. She felt drained, like Halo pulled all the energy in the room into her, leaving Leigh inconsequential, an afterthought. As her eyes closed, she remembered a brief conversation with Marcelo, a Brazilian midfielder even younger than she was, who was going to play in Portugal in two years: Benfica had already purchased his rights from Palmeiras.

The USA had lost the game 2-0, with goals from Zezinho and Henrique and a spectacular game from Dudu driving the Brazilians on. Leigh was in a sour mood: she had desperately wanted to test herself against the three of them, against Neymar and João José and the rest, but had been forced to watch because of her arm. She wasn’t sure if Jack Beckerman or Drew Cárdenas could have found the back of the net if she had played, but she was pretty sure she could have helped slow down the constant attack of the Brazilian teenagers.

Leigh! Leigh.

She paused, looking around. Marcelo was shorter and smaller than she was, his hair tightly corn-rowed in tight geometry, his eyes dark and intense. He smiled and held out his hand. I’m Marcelo.

She looked at him cautiously, not knowing what was coming, but took his hand. Leigh.

His grin grew bigger. I know who you are. I wanted you to play today. To tell my children. You saw me play?

Leigh was confused and could only respond to his last question. Yes, I saw you.

Marcelo nodded. We will play together in Europe. In a year.

She smiled. OK. Marcelo grinned again, nodded and turned, jogging towards the tunnel. Leigh stood for a moment looking after him, unsure what to make of the conversation, but understanding that it was, somehow, a compliment. She turned back to the field: there were interviews going on, fans yelling for signatures. She pretended not to hear her own name and just looked out at the green expanse scarred by brown gouges from the game, a crosshatch pattern of lines and worn spots that stood in relief to the dark grass.

She felt a hand on her shoulder: it was Silas, his white jersey smeared with mud and sweat. He grinned at her. You just hate to leave the field, don’t you.

Leigh laughed and turned towards the tall defender. Damn straight.

Adams clapped her on the back. Me neither. But this one’s done. Let’s get out of here. They moved to the exit, pausing so Leigh could sign a few jerseys. The locker room was quiet but not dismayed: making it to the quarterfinals was a good result for the USA, and losing to Brazil brought no shame.

Much later that night, Leigh emerged from her room and padded down the hall to the kitchen. The sink was piled with dishes and glasses, and a pan sat on the stove with the remnants of burnt eggs crusted on its bottom. Leigh sighed and moved to the sink. Working largely with one hand, she filled the kettle with water and placed it on an empty burner and managed to rinse the dishes and glasses before loading them into the dishwasher. She left the pots and pans, made herself a mug of tea, and headed back down the hallway to her room.

Outside her door, she could hear giggles coming from Halo’s room. Her arm hurt and as she lay on her bed she realized that this small apartment was the place in the world she felt the most alone.

Champion’s League Group G

Chelsea v RSC Anderlecht, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 3 (Daniel Sturridge 24 47, Branislav Ivanovic 74) – Anderlecht 1 (Tom De Sutter 58)

MoM: Eyal Golasa (9.0)

Attendance: 41,709. Referee: Helmut Fleischer.

Link to post
Share on other sites

  • Replies 152
  • Created
  • Last Reply

You Trust Them. October 21, 2011

Premier League

Chelsea v Stoke City, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 2 (Edin Dzeko 42, Yaya Touré 78) – Stoke 0

MoM: Touré (7.7)

Attendance: 39,729. Referee: Lee Mason.

October 24, 2011

We won the Imposter’s Cup last year and, if we beat Columbus today, we’ll be back in the final this year. It may not be much, but it’s hardware, and hardware matters.

The Crew are a good club. Not great, but good: they certainly could compete at the bottom of the Premier League. But not at the top. They’ve sat in the middle of the top tier of North American football for each of the past three years.

Columbus is most effective when their play through the right wing, looking to Eddie Gaven to hook up with their leading scoring threats, Brazilian veteran Magnum and the young American striker Peri Marosevic. The defense, led by Chris Leitch and Chad Marshall, is solid, but their midfield is vulnerable: they splurged fifteen million on young Turkish international Aymen Abdennour and brought in South Korean Seung-Hyun Lee for free. Unfortunately for them, Seung-Hyun’s price has been more indicative of their performance this year, even if Abdennour does look like a solid player down the road. I remember their coach, Robert Warzycha, from his three years at Everton in the early nineties, but I haven’t followed his career since, so I’m not sure what to expect from him.

We’re staying true to our goal of allowing our youth to shine in these competitions, so Salinas and Muniesa will lead the back line and Michael Larsen gets a start behind Eyal with Sturridge and Belfodil up top. If Racing manages somehow to win the other semifinal, maybe we’ll continue with that, but I can’t see us putting that young a team on the field against Real Madrid, Racing’s opponent.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

The way the game starts, that could be dangerous: we’re uncoordinated and confused in the opening minutes. De Rossi gives up a cheap corner and Golasa commits a silly foul on Fran Mérida to give the Crew a dangerous free kick. More distressingly, Sturridge seems struggling to play off Belfodil, which is a surprise: he’s been so dangerous working off a strong, central partner all year.

Golasa, however, looks fantastic with the ball, silky and confident, and a lovely pass slides behind Tomothée Atouba and into Sturridge’s path where only a dive at full extension allows Andrew Weber to keep the ball out of the back of the net. Weber’s only playing because Will Hesmer is out with a hip injury, but he’s been doing a great job for the Crew in the meantime.

Atouba is glaring at me every time he runs upfield. He had over fifty caps with Cameroon before I took over, none since and he’s unlikely to get any in the future, not with the young defensive talent we have.

With five minutes to go in the half, Atouba tries to show me the error of my ways, sending a long cross into the box. Salinas and Muniesa are bunched too closely together leaving a huge gap between Salinas and Tommy Spurr on the far side. The space is wide open for Marosevic, who meets the ball squarely with his head from eight yards out, and only a magnificent leap from Ochoa tips the ball over the top of the bar.

I won’t know whose fault that is until I see the film tomorrow, but I suspect it’s Spurr’s. I’m really looking forward to his moving on. It just hasn’t worked out.

The half ends with us defending a series of corners from Columbus. Their attack leaves us on our back foot, with only clearances from Salinas and Yaya Touré keeping their attack from developing into clean shots on Ochoa’s goal. They start another wave of attack, Magnum and Kim Doo-Hyun exchanging quick passes just outside the box, but Larsen is able to step in and send a clearance towards midfield where Sturridge is waiting.

His first touch is fantastic, allowing him to beat Chad Marshall and Drew Moor, and once he’s behind their line, it’s all over: Weber has no chance and we go into halftime leading by a goal which, arguably, has come against the run of play.

That’s simply unacceptable, and they can tell I’m not happy before I start my speech. But I don’t bring out the hairdryer. Instead, we talk about playing together, about working as a team, about trusting each other.

This is what it means to play for a club like Chelsea. You don’t play with the same men each week. I pause and smile. Or, women at some point. But no matter who is on the field next to you, you play our game, you play our system, and you trust the other players wearing your shirt. You trust them. You trust them to be in the right place. You trust them to cover for you. You trust them to know how to do their job and to help you do yours.

Whether my talk helped or not, we’ll never know. As a manager, you like to think it does, but it could just as easily be that our superior talent just rose to the forefront. Whichever, Ishak scores twice, once off a tricky volley from Sturridge and once from another long, pinpoint pass from Larsen. He’s unlucky not to have a hat-trick after a long run from Golasa sets him up perfectly for a header only to see Weber’s trailing foot keep the ball out of the goal.

Still, we win comfortably.

The other semifinal went according to form as well, with two first half goals from Cristiano Ronaldo lifting Real over Racing. So, a rematch for the final—and the third year Real Madrid have played in it. One of us will be the first two-time winner of the Imposter’s Cup.

I admit, this year, I like our chances.

Imposter’s Cup Semifinal

Columbus Crew v Chelsea, Columbus Crew Stadium

Columbus 0 – Chelsea 3 (Daniel Sturridge 45+1, Ishak Belfodil 46 55)

MoM: Belfodil (9.1)

Attendance: 19,910. Referee: Jamie Cole.

October 26, 2011

For the second time in five days, Stoke and Tony Pulis are coming to Stamford Bridge, this time in the fourth round of the League Cup.

We won somewhat comfortably in the first game, holding off the constant aerial threat of Peter Crouch and going up two on a stunning drive from thirty-six yards from Yaya Touré. Surprisingly, both Lampard and Vukcevic struggled, with Frank even missing a penalty in the second half. But other than Wilson Palacios, nobody really stepped up for the Potters and JT and Sakho were very strong in the air all day.

Today began on a bittersweet note: we completed an agreement with Panathinaikos on the sale of Nemanja Matic. It will add eleven million to our coffers and remove a player who has little chance of seeing the field for us. But it was still hard: Matic made over fifty appearances for me and did well, and there is no masking the step down from England to Greece.

The game has two storylines. The first is Tom Soares, who is easily the best player on the field all day, making run after run down the right side and exposing Zhirkov’s defensive liabilities as he does so. We never have an answer for him, but luckily for us neither Mexican veteran Sergio Santana nor Robert Lewandowski get on the end of his crosses and, perhaps most importantly, Pulis never brings on Kenwyne Jones to torment us in the box.

The other story is Drogba, but not in a good way: instead, today is the day it becomes clear to everyone that the magnificent Ivorian is no longer the player he once was. Time and time again, Torres or Essien or find him with fantastic passes only to see Ryan Shawcross either beat Didier to the ball or muscle him off it shortly thereafter.

Some will say it was Pulis’ decision to have Shawcross shadow him all day, others will claim he just put in a poor performance, but I think there is more to it than that, and it sours my mood: Drogba, Lampard, JT, even Cech. They’re all getting older and while we’ve got the pieces lined up to replace them, shepherding team legends through their final years is never easy and rarely pleasant.

We win on a nice goal from Torres and by dominating the center of the pitch, where Essien and Lampard are as good for us as Soares is for them. Some will say we should have done better, but I am fine with just progressing to the next round.

I look back over what I’ve written and laugh: one day, I think we can beat Real Madrid. The next, I’m happy with scraping past Stoke.

League Cup 4th Round

Chelsea v Stoke, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 1 (Fernando Torres 36) – Stoke 0

MoM: Tom Soares (7.7) Chelsea’s Best: Frank Lampard (7.5)

Attendance: 41,700. Referee: Mike Dean.

Link to post
Share on other sites

  • 3 weeks later...

Just Something to Do. October 29, 2011

Morning in the small training room at Cobham found Leigh alone with her thoughts. It was just past noon and the autumn sun leaked through the window in weak strands of light swimming with flecks of dust, giving the room a slightly faded look. Leigh liked this room more than the larger training space down the hall with its brand new equipment, its muted beeps, and its maze of options. Here, the equipment was older and the noises were the heavy thrum of the roll of the treadmills punctuated by the rhythmic footfalls of the runners and the faint yells from the training fields outside.

It was unusual for her to be here by herself, but the youth squads were being worked hard by Antonio Torrisi and Fred Barber outside and most of the reserves had travelled to Fulham for the game. Those that had stayed behind were either out running on the fields or down in the physio room being tortured by the two medical staff who stayed behind, Alex Nieper and Jason Palmer.

Leigh finished her stretching and slid her earbuds into place, reaching for the remote and flicking on the flatscreen, muting the volume as she stepped onto the treadmill and touching buttons on the small control panel to bring the machine to life. Fulham’s lineup was displayed on the television. Leigh ran through their squad in her mind: their attacking quartet of Steve Sidwell, Clint Dempsey, Moussa Dembélé, and Steven Fletcher was a cause for concern, but Mark Schwarzer in their goal had little protection in front of him with Wayne Bridge struggling to regain his form and Aaron Hughes on the outside little more than passable. Still, it would be a challenge: Dempsey really played more like a third attacker than a midfielder, and the only way to track the crafty American was to be aware of where he as at all times. Add to that the sheer power and subtle athleticism of Dembélé, and the only way to succeed would be for JT and Guillermo Salinas to be in constant communication, passing offensive players back and forth as they made their runs through the defensive zones.

When Phil Dowd blew his whistle, Leigh edged the machine into higher gear. She would run at a good clip for each half, settling to a light jog only for the halftime proceedings. As her feet found their rhythm, she thumbed the volume up on the music so it covered the machine, her tread, everything. The song was unfamiliar—another mix sent by her Uncle, and she smiled to herself as a drum began, lonely and insistent and something from somewhere in West Africa she guessed as she lost herself in the sound of the music and the sights of the game.

Chelsea scored twice in the first two minutes, once on a thunderous drive from thirty yards out from Yaya Touré and once from a splendid move from Simon Vukcevic where he split three defenders, leaving Steve Sidwell on the ground to watch his shot, cut from a very sharp angle, skip past a diving Schwarzer. The joy from the two goal lead was short lived: just thirteen minutes into the game, Edin Dzeko had to come off, limping heavily.

For Chelsea, the game never looked comfortable: Dembélé and Fletcher were troubling Salinas and JT at the back throughout the first half and when, just past half an hour into the contest, Fletcher managed to find space between the young Mexican, Michael Essien, and Mamadou Sakho to snap a header past Cech, it was little more than Fulham deserved.

Leigh never broke stride, but she shook her head in disbelief, a few drops of sweat spraying onto the old floor. It was a simple goal, and while Fletcher did a good job finding space, Salinas should have known better than to let him get above his hip like that. She ran her hand up and down the cast on her arm: she knew it was healing, but she was getting impatient with the pain and with being unable to play, even in training, and most of all with the constant itching.

Fletcher’s goal seemed to settle the game: it represented the best Fulham had to offer and it reintroduced a sense of urgency to the men in blue. While Dembélé and Fletcher looked dangerous, so did Torres and Drogba and when, just shy of an hour Sidwell was sent off for a two-footed challenge on Vukcevic, the game lost all of its remaining momentum, a situation emphasized when, with five to go, Fletcher was shown his second yellow, ensuring that the final score remained 2-1 in Chelsea’s favor.

Leigh’s clothes were drenched with sweat as she stopped the machine and stepped off. She grabbed a towel and wiped her forehead, feeling the perspiration slide down her back. She reached for the remote, snapped off the TV, and spent a few minutes stretching out her legs and back, relishing the feeling of her muscles having been worked, the solid strength of her legs, the looseness of her hips.

She dug her phone out of her bag, texted Nieper to let him know she was on her way, and tossed the towel in the bin as she looked around the room to make sure she left it in good shape before heading downstairs to the physio rooms. Opening the door, she stopped in surprise: on the table to her right was Halo, a grimace on her face and a large icepack on her left knee.

What happened?

Halo looked up and shook her head. Dunno. I came down and twisted it wrong.

Leigh sat at a small table across from Halo’s head and shook off her bag. You okay?

Yeah, I’m fine. I mean, you know, it hurts, but whatever. I’m fine.

Leigh looked up as Nieper approached. The usual?

The tall German smiled and nodded, placing a small box on the table. Let me know when you’ve done them all. First though, here. He extended his hand and Leigh grasped it. Squeeze.

Leigh’s brow furrowed and, a moment later, Nieper winced. OK, OK, OK. Good. That hurt? Leigh shook her head. Leigh. His voice was stern, disapproving.

Leigh looked away before answering softly, OK. A little.

A little? Leigh nodded. One to ten.

Leigh shrugged. Three. Four.

Nieper smiled. I’ll just put down five, OK? He nodded towards the desk. Three sets.

Leigh frowned as she emptied the box, spilling out a mixture of multi colored golf tees and small rubber bands. She stretched one of the bands around the knuckles of her right hand and started slowly opening and closing her hand.

Halo perched herself on her elbows, studying Leigh’s face. What’s all that?

Leigh glanced up. Rehab. She shook her head. I’ve spent hours doing this. Open the hand, close the hand, open the hand, close the hand.

Halo stared for a while in silence. You’re pretty intense, Leigh.

What?

Look at you. It’s like nothing exists but those, whatever, rubber bands.

Leigh laughed nervously and looked around the room. I guess. I mean … it’s just something to do, right? So you just, I dunno, do it.

Nieper came back and asked Leigh how she was doing before turning to Halo. He removed the icepack and frowned at the swelling in the young goalkeeper’s leg. He manipulated the leg in two different directions, and, each time, Halo’s face twisted in a grimace of pain. What is it? she asked.

He didn’t answer for a moment, while Halo, much to Leigh’s surprise, sent an anxious glance her way. We won’t know until the MRI. And I don’t think we’ll be able to do that for a day or two. But I’m going to send you home with some crutches and some icepacks. Throw them in the freezer and stay off it until Tuesday. He glanced at Halo’s enlarged knee. Maybe Wednesday—we have to bring the swelling down. Halo nodded, her face drained of color, pale blue eyes floating against almost snow-white skin. Nieper nodded abruptly. OK. You have my number, you have any questions give me a call. He turned to face Leigh.When you’re done, you’ll help her home, yeah?

Leigh answered before she could think. Sure, course. She returned her focus to her hand, opening and closing it in a slow, controlled rhythm, ignoring the pain building near her elbow as she realized she may have just agreed to more than she anticipated.

Premier League

Fulham v Chelsea, Craven Cottage

Fulham 1 (Steven Fletcher 36) – Chelsea 2 (Yaya Touré 6, Simon Vukcevic 9)

MoM: Vukcevic (8.3)

Attendance: 25,666. Referee: Phil Dowd.

November 1, 2011

Danyil snapped his phone shut and frowned. Rick Carter’s news had not been particularly good: Essien was out another two weeks, and Halo Jones, the young goalkeeper, would miss about a month of action. Jones wasn’t really a problem on the field, his concern was more on the impact on Leigh Musicek; with her arm healing nicely, the last thing he needed was for her to be distracted from her rehab work by playing nurse to her roommate.

He rubbed at the cleft between his eyes and flipped his phone open again, thumbing through his contacts until he settled on the pseudonym he used for Ruud and, swiping his finger, showed the picture: Ruud’s face, sun-kissed and bronzed, a chain of white beads around his neck, his eyes staring out into the distance where Danyil knew the ocean rolled, rough and choppy. The wind had just come up, and they were about to get too cold to stay on the shore, retreating to the privacy of a small cabana they had rented for the week.

He loved the picture as much for its content as for the miracle of its occurrence: Danyil was useless with cameras, but this one shot from his phone caught everything just right: Ruud’s face wasn’t in shadow, his eyes weren’t distorted and blurred in mid-blink, and the camera hadn’t decided to focus on something over his far shoulder. He smiled faintly to himself and tapped his phone again.

Hey.

Hello? You okay?

I’m fine. Fine. Just …

What?

Nothing. Dzeko’s fine.

In London, Ruud pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it for a moment before lifting it again. That’s good.

Yeah.

Danyil?

Yes.

You sure you’re okay?

He laughed. Yes, I’m fine. I just wanted to hear your voice.

That’s sweet. You ready for tomorrow?

Danyil sighed heavily. I think so. I mean … Anderlecht? We have a walk-through in … he checked his watch. Oh, hell. Gotta’ go. Bus leaves in five.

Ruud again stared at his phone for a moment and then burst into laughter. A moment later, he crossed to the sink to fill the kettle, still chuckling to himself.

Link to post
Share on other sites

  • 4 weeks later...

November 2, 2011

Champions League Group G

Anderlecht v Chelsea, Stade Constant Vanden Stock

Anderlecht 3 (Branislav Ivanovic 14og, Walter 56 78) – Chelsea 2 (Daniel Sturridge 65, Frank Lampard 85)

MoM: Walter (8.8) Chelsea’s Best: Frank Lampard (8.3)

Attendance: 26,004. Referee: Peter Gagelmann.

Dip In Form. November 4, 2011

Premier Division

Blackburn Rovers v Chelsea, Ewood Park

Blackburn 2 (Morten Gamst-Pedersen 48, Christopher Samba 81) – Chelsea 0

MoM: Alan Judge (8.5): Chelsea’s Best: Petr Cech (7.2)

Attendance: 30,957. Referee: Keith Stroud.

Danyil squinted against the lights and spread his arms, leaning heavily on the podium. He felt it tilt to one side and frowned, steadying himself and looking around to see if any of the reporters spread out before him like a spray of thorns noticed. He had just come from the TV interview, the one you always see with the logos on the clapboard behind the coaches. He wasn’t really sure what he had muttered into the microphone there—something clever, he hoped. This was the real thing, though. This was where the journalists earned their keep and where he had to make sure the right message was conveyed.

There were usually a few friendly faces in the mix, but not today: they smelled a story and even Jimmie from the BBC, one of his staunchest supporters, had a tight set to his jaw and refused to meet Danyil’s gaze.

Alright, he growled. Let’s get this started.

They brayed. There was no other word for it, a loud cacophony of noise that rolled over the room with an unpleasant echo trailing behind. Danyil smiled and shook his head and looked to his side where Maureen stood, a faint smile playing at the corner of her lips. She enjoyed his press conferences—if you were on Danyil’s side, they were often command performances.

If you weren’t, they were a massive display of narcissism by someone intentionally being a *****, which may explain the aggressive tone of the questions he sometimes faced.

Maureen carefully composed her face into a mask of neutrality and stepped forward, her hands raised. One at a time,boys, one at a time, she said as the room quieted. Neil?

Neil frowned and sighed. He didn’t like to be early in the queue, something Maureen knew quite well. Being first in the queue meant you were supposed to ask something banal and general. Alright, he said resignedly. This was clearly not the result you were hoping for. What happened out there today?

Danyil pursed his lips. It was a fair question, and Neil didn’t deserve any flak for it. We just weren’t very good. They sat deep, took their chances on the break. Gamst-Pedersen always seems to be a problem for us and then they scored on a corner. Danyil shrugged. That’s it, really. Torres had the one shot in the first half for us and Simon missed the sitter, but we just weren’t very good. Defending, spacing, choosing where to set the line, finding space to anticipate the pass. None of it.

Danyil paused and a hand went up towards the back. He nodded and an unfamiliar voice asked, Are you concerned about the current dip in form?

Danyil chuckled. Dip in form?

Well, losing to Anderlecht and then losing today?

Those are two very different games. We played well in Belgium. Lampard’s goal was one of the best you’ll ever see. We just got unlucky at the end and their big man had a great day. Nothing you can do there. Today, today we can fix. We will. It’s a long season and everyone will drop points here and there. I don’t think that makes it a dip in form, though.

Another hand, this time Mike Rivers from the Observer, a big bear of a man with tufts of hair reaching down his cheeks like black mold. So you still think you can contend for the title?

Of course. This league is a marathon not a sprint. We’re a bit down in the table, but we have, what, three? Two? Two or three games in hand against all of the teams above us. Danyil paused and continued, glancing towards the back of the room, And they have yet to hit their own dip in form, which drew a few chuckles.

Another new voice asked, You have a game against Burnley and then a break before the final in the … he paused, checking his notes, the Imposter’s Cup and your final group match against Nancy-Lorraine. Do you feel you need those ten days to get back on track?

We need those ten days to get healthy. Everyone knows we’re a bit thin on the right side, we need Ivanovic and Essien healthy, and I’d like to get our front line back in form as well.

There was a pause and Danyil exhaled softly. He had feared a more difficult time—losing two-nil to Blackburn was not something he had anticipated, and no matter how he glossed it over both losses were upsetting. Anderlecht perhaps even moreso as he now had to play to win in their final game, instead of just letting some of the teenagers see the field in a meaningless game.

Maureen stepped forward. Last one?

Danyil? It was that *****, Simon Long. The two hadn’t spoken in months, since Danyil had refused an invitation to appear on his show.

Simon, good to see you. When can I come back to your show?

Simon smiled tightly, his face stretched thin like dough just before it broke under a baker’s touch. You’re always welcome, you know that. Danyil, I hear that Leigh Muiscek’s arm is nearly healed. Any word on when she might make her debut?

She’s already made her debut, Simon.

I meant in a real game.

The Champions League isn’t real? Danyil put as much warmth as he could into his voice and raised his arms slightly in appeasement. I know what you mean. You want to know when she’ll play her first game in the Premier League? Danyil paused. Well, I don’t know what you’ve heard, but it’s not quite correct. Simon frowned, as much as for being publically doubted as for the new information. Danyil added, I spoke to Rick earlier today, and her arm is healing but she won’t be cleared for full practices for at least a few weeks. That’s the medical staff’s call, of course, but as soon as she can be out there, we’ll look at bringing her into the rotation.

Simon coughed softly, keeping Danyil’s attention on him. Do you really think she’s up to the … he paused and looked around the room with a half-smile on his face before continuing, rough side of the English game?

Do I really think she’s up for it? If I didn’t, what business would I have picking her?

Simon paused before answering. She’ll be going up against defenders that have six inches and forty pounds on her. Don’t you think that’s a bit much for a teenage girl to handle?

Danyil’s eyes flashed, but a quick smile appeared on his face. You played a bit, right Simon?

Yes, he answered quickly, before remembering quite where he was. Well, a bit. Just schoolboy teams, you know.

Danyil repeated the words slowly, dipping each one in honey. A bit. How about this, then? Once her arms healed, you, me and Leigh, we’ll go out to a field at Cobham. I’ll send some balls into the box, and you can try to win them. We’ll see if she’s, what did you say? Up for it.

Simon swallowed. He was in good shape—his personal trainer saw to that—but he also knew that, whether or not she could handle the physical rigors of a Premier League game, Leigh Musicek was a far better player than he ever was. Still, the potential publicity was more than his ego would let him pass up. I just may take you up on that, he replied.

Danyil’s grin grew broader. Good. I hope you do.

Link to post
Share on other sites

  • 3 weeks later...

November 9, 2011

Premier Division

Chelsea v Burnley, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 5 (Fernando Torres 6 56, Frank Lampard 14, Simon Vukcevic 18, John Obi Mikel 49) – Burnley 1 (Matt Derbyshire 82)

MoM: Lampard (9.3)

Attendance: 40,629. Referee: Howard Webb.

November 13, 2011

Shaking his head as the familiar theme music started up, Danyil stood in the archway that opened into their small living room. He held two glasses of wine in his hands and, crossing the room, he offered one to Ruud. Why do you watch this silliness?

Ruud smiled, and the two men gently touched glasses before he answered. It amuses me. And sometimes, they even show pictures of you.

Danyil rolled his eyes as the logos of the teams in the Premier League morphed one into the next, ending with a cartoon cluster of cannons firing behind the Arsenal logo. Whatever. It’s silly. Just a litany of goals and fouls with the occasional save thrown in.

Ruud adopted a shocked expression. What, there’s more to football than that?

Oh, hush you.

The two settled in next to each other and as the television screen showed a parade of two lines of players, one in red and the other in blue, exiting the tunnel, Ruud turned towards Danyil. Wow. You win five one and still don’t get first billing.

Danyil only nodded as the parade of goals by Manchester United unfolded. The Red Devils had beaten Wigan 7-0, continuing their unbeaten run at the top of the table.

Ruud’s face turned serious as Dimitar Berbatov knocked in the final score, an easy volley past Ali Al Habsi in Wigan’s goal after he had deflected a shot from Rooney that looked destined to net United’s star a hat-trick on the day. You think you can catch them?

Danyil nodded without hesitation. Those Brazilian twins can’t play like this the whole year. And I really think they let too much good talent go—Young to Inter. Nani leaving in January. They’re weaker than they were.

Even with Busquets?

Danyil shrugged. I like any of our three more.

Sure, but how long will you have them?

Yaya and Essien, forever. Well … Essien at least for a few more years. De Rossi …Danyil paused to take another sip of wine. Well. We haven’t gotten any offers for him. But I wouldn’t be surprised to see him return to Italy. He sees the writing on the wall.

Ruud nodded, his eyes flickering back to the screen. He smiled and nodded towards the TV. Ah, look, there you are.

The opening shot was of the players in blue lined up before the game, the camera stopping at the brown-haired visage of Fernando Torres. And then, a goal most who saw would remember for quite some time: Torres, taking a quick pass from Frank Lampard well inside his own half and then out-sprinting most of the Burnley defense. At the last moment, André Bikey crossed to force him hard to the touchline, but the Spanish international deftly changed direction and fired a shot from a near-impossible angle beyond Dorus de Vries’ dive.

A shot of the players in a celebratory huddle was followed by a close up of Danyil’s face, largely expressionless as he watched. The female announcer’s voice-over continued, But the single goal seemed not to satisfy Danyil Oranje on the Chelsea sideline. Luckily for the Dutch manager, more were to come.

Danyil snorted. I loved the goal. The look was about Bikey.

Bikey?

Yeah. His on the fringe for the Cup of Nations.

He won’t have to face Torres.

Before Danyil could reply, the show continued with Chelsea’s domination of Burnley: a Lampard drive from thirty yards, a solid volley from inside the box from Vukcevic, a header near the end to give Torres his brace. But the largest celebration shown was when, just shy of an hour in, Jon Obi Mikel took a diagonal pass from De Rossi and, from a few steps outside the box, sent a looping shot that ducked just inside the upper right corner of the goal.

It was a rare score for the Nigerian playmaker, who was seeing less and less playing time as the Chelsea squad’s depth at holding midfielder kept him mostly to the reserves. This time, when the camera found Danyil, he was clapping enthusiastically, a broad smile on his face.

For the Cabinet. November 19, 2011

We were in Madrid. We were playing Real Madrid. But we weren’t playing at the Bernabéu. Instead, we were at a small stadium, home to some second rate Spanish team.

Sometimes the bureaucracies of modern international football confound me.

Instead of a neutral site—which is what the competition demands—we are playing what is in essence a home game for Los Blancos in front of fifteen thousand screaming fans.

It’s only this Imposters Cup thing, but Manuel Pelligrini is fielding a good side, if not quite his first choice. The same could be said of us, with Ochoa in goal, young Danish international Michael Larsen in the starting eleven and with Daniel Sturridge playing a largely unfamiliar central role behind Dzeko and Torres. It’s not his natural position by a long shot, but with the freedom Yaya and De Rossi have to move forward, he’ll spend plenty of time on the wings where he belongs.

It could be tough going on both sides of the ball: we need to break down a back line of Sergio Ramos, Arbeola, Pepe, and Raúl Albiol and defend against an attacking four of Kaká, Higuaín, Raúl and, of course, pretty boy Cristiano Ronaldo.

The game starts at a breakneck pace: five minutes in, Iker Casillas sees that Ochoa has moved off his line and sends a free kick high and deep towards our goal. The crowd roars as the ball is in the air, thinking Casillas has a shot at a goal that will live forever, but Ochoa moves back in time to calmly catch the ball, much to their dismay.

A few minutes later, De Rossi takes a free kick outside their penalty box and absolutely lashes the ball, which takes a deflection off Pepe and into the corner of the net. It’s a lucky goal, but a goal nonetheless, and despite the whistles from the crowd, we enthusiastically celebrate being up by one.

Both Xabi and Higuaín miss by inches within the next ten minutes, Xabi looping a shot off the top of the crossbar that has Ochoa beaten, and our Mexican keeper barely able to tip a curling shot from Higuaín around the post.

Despite the frantic pace, we’re beginning to exert our will on the game, especially in the defensive half, where De Rossi and Touré are intercepting more passes than Real Madrid are able to connect. This is frustrating the Real Madrid players and, just over twenty minutes in, Xabi takes it out on Edin Dzeko, who falls to the ground with a yell, clutching his ankle. It’s bad: he doesn’t move, just lays there with his hands around his leg, mouthing a silent scream of pain.

Drogba warms up in a hurry and after he enters the game, play calms down with the only moments of note a dipping shot from Ronaldo that grazes the side post and a mazy, twisting run from Torres that leads an attack for us that ultimately fizzles out.

Sturridge is thriving in the center—his pace is too much for them, but so far, their back line has held off our attacks and we go into halftime up the one goal but with everything left to play for.

The second half seems them in the ascendancy, with us hanging onto our lead by our fingernails. On the hour, a foolish foul by Essien gives them a free kick from just under thirty yards out and an opposing manager’s worst nightmare unfolds before my eyes: the chiseled face of Cristiano Ronaldo gazing at your defenders lined up in a wall as he prepares a free kick. It’s on target, a rocket that seems destined for the corner of our goal until Sturridge is able to kick it away at the last moment with a sliding effort. He was out of position for his defensive assignment, having lost Xabi Alonso in the shuffle, but luckily was in the right place to preserve the clean sheet.

It only underscores how narrow our advantage—if we have any—is.

But football is a fickle game and just a few minutes later, we move the ball quickly from Larsen to Drogba to Torres, who sees that Christoph Metzelder (on for Lassana Diarra), Albiol and Pepe have all pulled too tight towards his side of the field. Torres lays the ball into the open space where a streaking Sturridge is able to meet it squarely, sending it just under Casillas’ dive.

Only two minutes later, Larsen sends the ball long towards their defense. Everyone in the stadium—including the Real Madrid back line—sees Drogba, who is well offsides. He stands still, letting the ball bounce past him and, before the defenders in white are able to react, Torres is onto the ball at full speed. He takes one touch and powers a shot past Casillas that seems like it will burst through the back of the net, it’s hit so hard and true.

I don’t know if we deserve it, and when Ochoa gets his revenge on Casillas with ten minutes left, sending a goal kick almost into their penalty box where it is again corralled by Torres who scores our fourth, the scoreline is undoubtedly unkind to our hosts.

But it holds, and we successfully defend the Imposter’s Cup, something that will pale in comparison to the Premier League or the Champions League, but is still some hardware for the cabinet.

Imposter’s Cup Final

Real Madrid CF v Chelsea, Nuevo Vallecas Teresa Rivero

Real Madrid 0 – Chelsea 4 (Pepe 8og, Daniel Sturridge 67, Fernando Torres 69 82)

MoM: Torres (9.3)

Attendance: 15,524. Referee: Steve Tanner.

Link to post
Share on other sites

  • 2 weeks later...

November 22, 2011

Champions Cup Group G

Chelsea v AS Nancy Lorraine, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 6 (Didier Drogba 18 59, Fernando Torres 21 27 36, Michael Essien 65)– AS Nancy Lorraine 0

MoM: Torres (9.6)

Attendance: 41,287. Referee: J’erôme Laperrière

Did it work?

I can’t help but laugh. Yeah, it worked. Too well, maybe.

Too well? Ruud’s voice is puzzled.

Six. Four nothing at halftime. Ruud whistles, low and steady. Ja.

Well, at least you qualified. You can do whatever you want against Fiorentina.

Ik denk.

You’re not happy? His voice is concerned and puzzled in equal measure.

No, I am. Torres was magnificent, Didier had two. Only thing that went wrong was Efoulou, who was pretty poor.

Efoulou?

Alo’o Efoulou. For Nancy Lorraine’s. Another one on the fringe for January.

Ah. So …

So?

So, what’s wrong?

I sigh. We have City and then Liverpool in the League Cup. We needed to qualify, but we need our squad for both of those, too. I should have kept Drogba for City.

You can’t do that.

What? I began to line up the reasons in my mind why it would have made sense, why Belfodil would have been a perfectly good choice to start, when Ruud continued.

You can’t double guess yourself like that. You did what you thought was needed and the only way to do this thing is one game at a time.

One game at a time?

Ja.

I smile, warming myself with the conversation. Never thought I’d hear you resort to clichés.

November 27, 2011

Premier Division

Manchester City v Chelsea, City of Manchester Stadium

Man City 0 – Chelsea 0

MoM: Joe Hart (7.4) Chelsea’s Best: John Terry (7.4)

Attendance: 44,524. Referee: Howard Webb.

My Only Worry. November 30, 2011

This was not the way I wanted this to happen.

Apart from a few moments from Balotelli, another from Milner, and a final few minutes when Essien was absolutely everywhere, the game against City was one of the absolute worst I’ve ever seen. A miserable day with a wet, driving wind and a complete lack of passion.

Just absolutely ****ing nothing.

And that, of course, has the faithful quite concerned: the wins against Burnley and Nancy-Lorraine are dismissed through the lack of quality of opposition, and the win against Real Madrid—Real Madrid for ****’s sake—is ignored because it was only the Imposter’s Cup. Only.

Honestly, I’ve had it up to here with the damn faithful. I’ve heard them chant things at their own players I wouldn’t dream of saying. And it seems like every other month there’s a police investigation into their behavior somewhere. It terrifies me what they will end up screaming at Leigh the first time she lets a goal in or hacks someone down in the box.

Actually, they’d probably like that. The hacking down in the box bit.

Ruud and I fought about her yesterday. I don’t remember how it started. I think he just asked me how her arm was healing.

And then? he asked. I shrugged. Come on, you have a plan. You always do.

I don’t know. Really. I mean she’ll be on the bench in Italy. And she’ll go to that silly FIFA World Cup kletskoek.

And after that?

We’ll see, I said.

We’ll see?

What do you want from me? We’ll see. We’ll see how she does, we’ll see when the right time is.

The right time? I nodded. You can’t protect her, Danyil.

I’m not trying to protect her, I protested.

You are. If you weren’t, your only worry would be if she was healthy and whether she could help the team. Starting, from the bench, whatever.

That is my only worry, I protested.

Then what’s all this about the right time?

I think I stormed out of the room at that point, I’m not sure. I do know we barely spoke and when I came to bed, he was facing the other way, his back a dark wall, imposing and unyielding and this morning was cold and distant, a silence broken only by the soft percolation of the coffee machine and the brittle clink of our silverware on our plates.

I told him I loved him just before I left, and his only response was, Ja, Ik weet, but when I checked my phone after we arrived, there was a text from him that read, Ik hou ook van jou.

So, we’ll get through it.

I pushed thoughts of both Ruud and Leigh away: we had a quarterfinal match in the League Cup to play today at what was, I think, the most hostile environment on earth for Chelsea. Old Trafford was loud, and some of the smaller clubs spouted vitriol at our players with a vengeance. But Anfield was unique: incredibly loud with a bitter edge that always seemed to teeter on the verge of violence, on and off the field.

We are closer to fielding a first-choice team than they are: both Luis Suárez and Steven Gerrard are injured, leaving Javier Aguirre to start young Hungarian Krisztián Németh up front with Maxi Rodríguez, Dirk Kuyt, and Eden Hazard behind him.

It’s an ugly day, and the lashing rain has the crowd a little quieter than usual. Or it may just be the wind in my ears that is drowning out the noise of their shouts. Either way, I have the collar of my jacket turned up against the weather and am standing with my arms crossed as Mark Clattenburg starts the game.

I can’t stay still for long: Lucas is called for three fouls in the first five minutes, and I can’t restrain myself, waving my arms and yelling, Mark! Mark! Come on—persistent fouling is a card. It has to be a card! Aguirre glares at me as I finally turn to sit down, and I am pretty sure that whatever goodwill there was between us a few years ago had faded entirely.

In spite of my protests, it’s Bane who gets the first card after pulling down Hazard on a breakaway: a clear yellow, but no more than that despite the screams of protest that rise above the wind. I grimace and dig my hands deeper into my pockets.

The first thirty minutes are a picture of what’s wrong with everyone’s current fascination with possession. We have all of the ball, but the Reds have five shots on goal and we have none.

Finally, we see a glimmer of life when Torres skips by Fábio Aurélio before sending a cross towards the far post, but Drogba’s header skims wide. After that, at long last, Clattenburg summons Lucas to show him a yellow card. I resist the temptation to clap sarcastically.

The half ends entertainingly: a lovely drive from Maxi Rodrígeuz elicits a dive at full stretch from Cech and then, with four minutes to go, Drogba winds up for one of his shots from thirty yards out that leaves you shaking your head—first at the apparent idiocy of the shot, given that he had no angle and was off-balance, and then at the incredible skill as the ball dips in and clatters off the woodwork.

But it spells danger for the home side, and only a minute later, Lampard chips the ball into the box where Didier has spun around a largely immobile Jamie Carragher, and brings the ball down and instantly under control with his right foot, shooting between Skrtel and Daniel Agger and just under Reina.

Drogba turns around both hands clenched in fists as he screams in celebration. He continues the rush two minutes later, easily splitting Skrtel and Agger again to lay the ball off into the path of a streaking Torres who taps it in for a two goal lead. Anfield quiets dramatically with the second goal, and the wind is dampening the noise coming from our support in the far corner. It’s a bit surreal: the ground seems almost peaceful in the sudden drop in volume. I look around and I see stunned faces, and a few contorted in screams, but I hear nothing but the wind.

Both goals were moments of brilliance from Drogba, something that has been in short supply this season. He is slowing down and his physical dominance isn’t what it once was, but this shows that, on any given day and especially one where the elements are forcing a slower pace on the game, he can still be a dominant player.

We’re in stoppage time when Lucas hacks down Torres. I’m screaming for the red, but Clattenburg, after dramatically gesturing other players away, lets the Brazilian midfielder off with a warning. Twenty seconds later, however he does it again and by now Clattenburg has no choice: Lucas has been looking for an early shower for the past fifteen minutes and, seconds before halftime, he gets it.

To start the second half, Aguirre brings on Charlie Adam for Németh, sliding Kuyt up top but, despite a spirited ten minutes when as so often happens the team that is short a man outplays their opposition, Liverpool are unable to overcome the man disadvantage. At full strength, we looked unlikely to leave with the victory, but Lucas’ sending off, combined with a couple goalline clearances—one from Terry’s head on a drive from Hazard and the other a sliding save from Larsen—allow us to close out the second half relatively comfortably.

Hazard scores on the final touch of the game to prevent the clean sheet, but it’s cold consolation for the Anfield faithful, who trudge out into the wet and the wind, leaving us celebrating on their hallowed ground.

That night, I call Ruud three times before he answered.

Ja, he said.

Not even a hello. A pause.

Hello, Danyil.

I sigh. Please don’t. I’m sorry for what I said. I am. You know I am.

There is a pause, and then a softening. I know.

I just … nobody’s ever done this. I mean, of course, it’s harder on her. She’s the one who has to go through it on the field. But nobody’s ever managed this either.

You’re doing fine. Really.

I frown. It feels like he is patronizing me, but I’m not up for another fight. You watch? I ask.

Of course.

And?

And I’d hate to be Lucas tomorrow.

League Cup Quarterfinal

Liverpool v Chelsea, Anfield

Liverpool 1 (Eden Hazard 90+5) – Chelsea 2 (Didier Drogba 43, Fernando Torres 45)

MoM: Drogba (9.0)

Attendance: 45,362. Referee: Mark Clattenburg.

Link to post
Share on other sites

@gavrenwick, Thanks! Really appreciative that people are reading this.

December 3, 2011

Premier Division

Chelsea v Aston Villa, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 2 (Ishak Belfodil 17 45+2) – Aston Villa 1 (Gabby Agbonlahor 90+2)

MoM: Fernando Torres (9.0)

Attendance: 41,761. Referee: Martin Atkinson.

December 5, 2011

Danyil stared at the two young players seated across the wide expanse of his desk. Javier Ochoa was seventeen, all courage and bravado, and had spent the last year learning to play higher and higher up the pitch. He had put in a fair number of good spells with the reserves, and with the mixture of injuries and Chelsea having already secured qualification from their Champion’s League group, he was looking at his first significant start with the first team in two days against Fiorentina.

The other person was Leigh, looking as serious as ever. Her arm was healed and she had been back with the reserves for a few weeks including a forty-five minute stint in their match against Arsenal the prior week. Daniele Tognaccini had given her a positive review, and here they were.

Danyil forced a smile that he only partially felt and leaned forwards. Alright. Right down to it. Both of you are starting in Italy.

Leigh just nodded, a slight bob of her head, her expression unchanging. Ochoa’s face exploded in a big grin and he looked around the room as if he expected someone to leap out from behind the small palm in the corner. Yes!he exclaimed. Gracias! Thank you!

Well. You’re welcome, I guess. But remember—the way to earn more time is to take care of your jobs out there, right? Javy, you’re the pivot. Spread the ball around, look for the opportunities, and press high, right? You’ll have Töre in front of you with Yaya and Ishak, so there’s lots of options. And, Leigh, you’ll have to be on your game. We think Gilardino is starting, but whoever Zenga throws out there with him, Matri, Jovetic, whoever, you’ll have to work hard to keep them out.

Again, Leigh nodded. Danyil stared at her for a moment and was struck, not for the first time, by the dissonance of the glance: her face was a girl’s, high cheekbones falling away from her eyes in the sharp angles of youth, but her eyes were so very old, deep and brown and serene and they held his gaze without blinking.

Alright. We fly out tomorrow morning, practice there in the evening and the next morning for the walk-through. Questions?

Javy shook his head, the grin still plastered across his face, already half out of his seat. Leigh, who hadn’t moved, asked, So, me and JT in back?

No, even he gets a day off now and then. We’re still thinking about it, but probably you and Larsen. You’ll have Mammy on the wing, so you’ll get a lot of backside help. He grinned. You know. If you need it.

Leigh just nodded again and stood up, quickly followed by Ochoa who had frozen raised slightly out of his chair when she had asked her question. She motioned him through the door and then turned back to Danyil.

Coach?

Yeah?

Will there be, you know, anything else I need to do?

Danyil nodded slowly, noting the weary caution of her voice. Yeah, I’m afraid so. I’ll be submitting the team sheet tomorrow, and when I do, there will be a lot of noise. Probably some interviews once we get there. That okay?

Yeah, of course, you know, like, it’s fine. I just. I dunno. Leigh’s face brightened slightly. I just want to play.

I know, Leigh. I know. We just have to get through all these firsts—first game, first start, all the rest. She stared at him, and her eyes narrowed with an intensity that came on like a sudden fire. What?

First league start?

Danyil closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them, hers were still locked on him. He nodded slowly. Yes. At some point. First league start.

Leigh smiled slowly, and the fire cooled, leaving only a faint trace in its wake.Alright. Thanks, coach. You know, like, for everything. Suddenly her face was sparkling with uncertainty and she was again a sixteen year old girl, flustered and a little self-conscious.

He grinned and waved her out of his office. Go on with you.

Shed Them Lightly. December 7, 2011

Last thing. Danyil capped the marker and turned to face the team. On corners, Corkie and Lars will stay deep, Mammy in the box. Leigh takes them unless you’re running a quick kick. In which case, for ****’s sake, let her know. There were nods around the room: they had worked on exactly this setup in practice, so Danyil’s speech was more a reminder than anything else.

OK, any questions on tactics? He turned and gestured towards the whiteboard where three points were scribbled in his close scrawl. The room was silent and he asked himself again whether he was going to be as happy with his choices at the end of ninety minutes: this was a ridiculously young side, and, if he were pressed to be honest, a bit underskilled. Sakho was the only dependable defender, Larsen was better suited further up the field but was partnering Leigh in the middle, Marc Mateu was being given a start largely as an unspoken reward for a good couple of years as the young Spaniard was destined to be shopped around in January, and the combination of Ochoa and Gökhan Töre was very unproven in the middle. But they did have Ishak and Yaya up front, so at least he thought a few goals might be in order.

Half the challenge, though, was that everyone in the room knew it was a weaker side for Chelsea: putting out a team like this needed belief, needed a sense of opportunity. That had been their theme all week: the coaches had talked amongst themselves of the danger of the players being overwhelmed, but had spoken to them again and again about opportunity, about the chance to do something special for themselves and for their careers.

And then there was Leigh.

He took a breath before continuing, Look, you can’t pretend it’s not there, you know? He pointed his chin in Leigh’s general direction. Tonight, you will witness history. Most of you will do more than that: you’ll be a part of it. What is up to you is how you write it. If I were you, I would want to take it in my hands and squeeze for all it’s worth. I would want to win tonight, to show that I belong, to show that she belongs, and to show that we belong—all of us, every single ****ing one of us that pulls on the blue.

# # #

In the hallway before the team headed out for the match, John Terry tapped Leigh on the shoulder.

You good?

Leigh nodded, Yeah, thanks. She smiled a nervous smile at him. Going to be different without you, Captain.

Terry clapped her on the shoulder. Yeah well, take care of business out there.His eyes turned steely and cold. But don’t ****ing get used to it. The Chelsea captain turned and moved back to where the reserve players were lined up, leaving a stunned Leigh Musicek in his wake.

# # #

Danyil stood on the sideline, hands stuffed deep in his pockets. Something was wrong with his team and he couldn’t figure out what. More specifically, something was wrong with Leigh. It was clear from the introductions: she smiled and waved as forty-five thousand people screamed their support from stands dotted with signs proclaiming Amiamo Leigh, but she looked tense and distracted and her bottom lip kept slipping under her teeth, a habit Danyil had noticed only came out when she was worried.

Three minutes in, she was beaten to a cross by Alessandro Matri, and when Ivan Babek blew for the foul, Danyil could hear shrill whistles of disdain scattered throughout Artemio Franchi. As Sakho yelled at the defense, organizing them for the free kick, he saw her shake her head and raise her hand to her teammates, acknowledging her mistake.

As Antonio Candreva lined up the kick, Leigh wrapped an arm around Jack Cork, taking her position on the edge of the wall. Get it next time, said Cork.

I will, answered Leigh. Her thoughts flashed back to the brief conversation with Terry in the tunnel. This was a side of the Chelsea captain she hadn’t seen before: he had always been so supportive, so helpful ever since they first met in South Africa at the World Cup. She realized she was still confused and stung by the conversation and suddenly she heard her Uncle’s voice in her head. People will disappoint you, he had told her. It’s the way of the world, and it will unfortunately be a large part of your world. You can’t control it. I’m not going to tell you some ******** about how you can only try to not disappoint yourself. I mean, that’s true and all, but it’s still ********. You just need to find a way to grow scabs quickly and deep, and to shed them lightly.

Candreva ran up, a short stutter of steps stretching into a long stride, and she heard Sakho say, Now! There was no real need for them to jump: the ball sailed dozens of yards high, curving wildly away from Guillermo Ochoa in the Chelsea goal. As Ochoa boomed the goal kick downfield, Leigh checked her distance from Michael Larsen and yelled, Tighten up, Lars!

She thought to herself, Alright Leigh. Quick and deep and shed it lightly. You’ve got a game to play.

She saw Yaya Sanogo cut inside and send a shot towards goal that, from the reaction of the players and the fans, she knew was saved by Sébastien Frey. Suddenly, she saw Alessandro Matri streaking diagonally towards her. Larsen had pulled in tighter, but his instincts to push upfield had gotten the best of him, and when Matri receives the long pass from Ondrej Mazuch, he was clear on goal, and a step out of her reach.

Leigh turned and sprinted as hard as she could in a straight line to where she thought Matri was headed. Matri was faster, but he had the ball and a touch that spun a little wider than he intended gave her the step-and-a-half she needed to catch up. They were a step outside the box when contact was made, but it’s just two players fighting for the ball. The bump forced Matri a little wider than he wanted, and his shot, while well struck, was an easy save for Ochoa.

After the ball was cleared, Larsen yelled over at her, That’s on me. Good cover. Thanks.

A few minutes later, Leigh was streaking down the field, her arms raised in celebration: Sanogo headed the ball on to Cork on the far side of goal only to have the young Irish defender chip it right back into the box. Outjumping three defenders, Sanogo met the ball cleanly, sending it back across Frey’s body and into the corner of the net. As the huddle of Chelsea players unwound and they jogged back upfield for the kickoff, Leigh looked up to watch the replay of the goal on the stadium screens: it was a fantastic score, and the image of Yaya, sprinting for the corner flag, his long arms extended and his face overflowing with joy, remained frozen, staring down at her.

Just before the restart, Sakho called over Leigh, Larsen, and Cork. OK, that’s it, yah? A clean sheet, a win, we go home happy.

Larsen grinned and said, Yes, Mammy, which he knew Sakho disliked. It earned him a grimace and a playful slap on the back of the head from the captain.

No ****ing around, let’s do this.

Leigh clapped and echoed Sakho’s words. Let’s do this.

The rest of the half was smoother and more focused, and Leigh even earned a loud reaction from the crowd, half cheers and half whistles, when she sent Matri to the ground with a hard elbow that went unseen by Bebek.

Zenga brought on all three of his substitutes at halftime, making Danyil think he must have cast aspersions on his team’s masculinity. Whatever the Brazilian coach said worked: Fiorentina was much brighter in the second half, but they remained unable to get the ball past Ochoa.

With fifteen minutes to go, Danyil told Yury Zhirkov to warm up and when the fourth official held up the sign indicating he was coming on for Leigh, a chorus of disapproval rang around the ground, only to be quickly drowned out with applause as she trotted off the field. Danyil moved to intercept her before she turned towards the bench and he put a hand lightly on her shoulder.

Good job out there.

Leigh nodded, Thanks.

Yeah, look, it’s important to act like it’s any other game and all that, but it’s not. You can give them a wave.

Leigh stopped and looked around the stadium, where forty-five thousand fans were clapping for her. It was as if she heard them for the first time, and her face broke into an embarrassed smile. Someone tossed her warmup jacket at her head and she caught it instinctively, then gave a half wave to the crowd before shrugging into the blue windbreaker and sliding down the row into her seat, touching hands with her teammates as she did so.

Good job out there, was all John Terry said to her, along with what looked like an encouraging smile, but Leigh was no longer so sure.

Thanks, she said to him, while thinking again about wounds and their scabs.

The scoreline remained unchanged, and neither manager were well-pleased as they shook hands and headed back down the tunnel. In the Chelsea dressing room, Danyil’s message was clear and direct: Now you know something about what it takes to play at the top level. If you want to get back there, every one of you have to improve. Every one of you. We were lucky to win, and luck is a fickle bitch who rarely sticks around for the next game. Remember that when you go back to work next week with Daniele or Jozef or me. And let that drive you to make it back here, to put in the time and the work.

He smiled. Enough of that. You know what to do. In the meantime, don’t forget that you won and that you were a part of history tonight. For that, no training tomorrow, flight back to London in the evening. Coach leaves the hotel at four. You’re on your own until then. The announcement was greeted with cheers.Just remember, curfew hasn’t changed and I don’t care what the drinking age is in Italy, it’s eighteen for the club.

Champions League, Group G

Fiorentina v Chelsea, Artemio Franchi

Fiorentina 0 – Chelsea 1 (Yaya Sanogo 18)

MoM: Mamadou Sakho (7.8)

Attendance: 45,554. Referee: Ivan Babek.

With today’s games, the final sixteen in the Champions League for 2011/12 are set: Liverpool, Juventus, Olympique de Marseille, Genoa, Atlético Madrid, HSV, Real Madrid, Everton, Barcelona, Celtic, Manchester City, Bayern Munich, Chelsea, Anderlecht, Inter Milan, and Rubin Kazan are all through to the knockout rounds.

Romanian side Unirea Urziceni were the only team not to manage a single point in the group phase, while Real Madrid and Manchester City were the sole unbeaten teams. Anderlecht’s Walter topped the scoring chart for the group stage with nine goals in the Belgian side’s six games, while Real Madrid’s Cristiano Ronaldo and Sparta Prague’s Daúd Gazale were second with seven. Ronaldo and—surprisingly—Walter will look forward to increasing their totals in the next stage.

If there were any significant surprises, they were Celtic beating out Paris Saint-Germain and Anderlecht finishing ahead of both Fiorentina and AS Nancy Lorraine.

Link to post
Share on other sites

December 10, 2011

Premier League

Everton v Chelsea, Goodison Park

Everton 1 (Cristián Zapata 82) – Chelsea 0

MoM: Zapata (7.9) Chelsea’s Best: Michael Essien (7.1)

Attendance: 38,103. Referee: Stuart Atwell.

Where are you?

Taxi.

All the way from Goodison?

Yeah. Faster in the end. Danyil craned his neck back looking at the suburban flow of houses and stores as the dark taxi made its way through yet another roundabout. We’re just about at the M6.

And straight to the airport?

Yeah. Danyil could hear Ruud’s frown through the phone.

You need a break, Danyil.

I’m fine.

OK. I need a break.

From what?

From not being with you.

Danyil kept the phone to his ear but leaned forward, rubbing his temples with his other hand. We will.

What?

Take a break. Go away.

When?

I don’t know. Season ends in March. April. After that. Before the ******** games start. A week. A week on the beach.

Ruud could hear the fatigue in Danyil’s voice and he relented. OK. Good.

Danyil sat up and stretched, his hands trailing against the soft fabric of the ceiling of the taxi. You see it?

Of course.

I told you I wanted to sign Zapata. He exhaled hard. ****. Moments after Tim Cahill had to be carted off the field, Colombian defender, Cristián Zapata had won the game with only eight minutes remaining. Not Leighton Baines, not Marouane Fellllaini, not even Landon Donovan, whom David Moyes had inexplicably left on his bench. Instead, a pass from Joseph Yobo to Johnny Heitinga had freed the Dutchman for a shot that Cech was unable to control, the rebound falling in front of Zapata, who poked it across the line with his toe, sending the home crowd into ecstasy.

I know. Never should have been tied at that point.

Ja. Did Didier look … I don’t know. Did he look old to you?

Old? No. But … older. Zeker oudere. A little slow, a little less strong.

Me, too. I thought Sturridge outplayed him, and in only twenty minutes. Danyil sat back in his seat and watched the tops of the trees flow by for a moment, an irregular green wave keeping pace with the car. How were the other games.

Not good for you. United and City both won.

I know that. How were the games?

United did their usual thing. Blackburn was up with fifteen to go, something like that. And boom, Welbeck and Valencia in four minutes, they win.

Valencia is a helluva player.

Ja, he is.

City?

It was, as I think I have heard someone say, ****ing Burnley.

Nothing else to say, then.

No.

Another pause before Danyil nodded to himself. OK. You still going to Pol’s?

Yeah.

Alright. Give him my … best. Danyil caught the driver’s eye in the mirror just as he finished his sentence. He knew there was a pane of privacy glass between the two of them, but old habits die hard, and he had substituted the word without really thinking about it.

Your best?

You know what I mean.

Ruud sighed. Yes. All too well. April. Grasmaand. We both need it.

A New and Unexpected Weakness. December 13, 2011

Danyil wasn’t sure what day it was anymore: the flight from England was subdued, any excitement about going to Japan lost in the desolation of the loss. Not for the first time, he cursed FIFA who in their wisdom was making them fly halfway around the world for an idiotic competition. The World Club Championship or some such nonsense featuring Chelsea and three second rate squads: Al-Ittihad, Al-Ahly, and Grêmio. He wasn’t even sure how two clubs with Arabic names qualified.

Ruud would know. He knew things like that, and he would, if the mood struck him, explain them gently, unraveling the intricate details of some global political situation as if it were a simple knot in a length of yarn and all you needed to know was the right place to put your fingernail and apply a small pull to watch it slide elegantly back to a the precise clarity of a straight line.

Danyil was just trying to get through these games. The rules made it nearly impossible to field a youth team, which annoyed him to no end. Despite that, he had practically been ordered to include Leigh in the squad, which suited him fine. This was exactly the kind of meaningless exercise he liked to see her in, a game where the stakes were only high because of the false expectations laid on her and a game where, even were she to fall flat, her teammates would be more than able to cover.

But the restrictions were maddening elsewhere: between the players out on loan and FIFA’s meddling, he was forced to start nearly a full squad of first-team players. Usually, that would be fine, but in eight days, Manchester United, who were undefeated in the league, would be paying a visit to Stamford Bridge. That game occupied his thoughts continually, and he had to force himself to pay attention to the scouting sessions on Al-Ittihad without storming out to go watch yet another video of Rooney and the Brazilian twins Rafael and Fábio destroying another Premier League defense.

For the first seven minutes of the game against Al-Ittihad, the team from Saudi Arabia hangs in tough, with Ibrahim Al-Shahrani in their goal stopping Ishak Belfodil not once, not twice, but three times from within ten yards. After the third one, Danyil was up on the sideline yelling at his young French prodigy.Come on, Ishak, come on! Finish it off!

A minute later, he does, taking a floating cross from Michael Essien and heading it home and a little further on, De Rossi scores with a line drive sent in from twenty-five yards. With the second goal the game is over, and when Belfodil scores again off a nice pass from Yaya Sanogo, Danyil is whistling shrilly for his team’s attention. He holds his hands up, palms out, and the players adjust immediately. Up three, everyone knows the drill: slow it down, conserve energy maintain possession and for ****’s sake, don’t get hurt.

At halftime, he drives the point home and, once done, grabs Leigh and John Terry. Alright, JT, that’s it for you. Leigh, you’re on. Don’t give me that, John: I need you in a week. I can’t be ****ing bothered with these games. It’s United we’re looking at. Terry grimaces, but nods, reaching up to undo the captain’s armband from his arm. Danyil turns to Leigh. Just play your game. We’re all just giving the people what they want.

Leigh grinned and sang something softly.

Danyil was puzzled. What?

Nothing. It’s an old song. I dunno.

No, what was it?

Leigh reddened, embarrassed at being put on the spot, but knowing at this point there was no way out. She bobbed her head lightly to the rhythm, singing, Give the people what they want when they want it and they want it just ‘bout all the time.

John Terry turned to look at her, his face a mixture of incredulity and mocking amusement. You didn’t just … was all he could get out.

Leigh shrugged. Dunno. It’s something my Uncle played for me.

It’s Parliament. Parliament Funkadelic. They both turned to look at Michael Larsen, who was standing nearby. He shrugged. I listened to a lot of 70’s funk. Denmark’s cold, not much else to do. What?

Terry and Leigh looked at each other and burst into laughter. Danyil stepped away, leaving the players to their teasing, but he was uneasy: Terry’s face had more than a hint of cruelty in it, the look of a schoolyard bully who had just discovered a new and unexpected weakness. He had seen that look from his captain before, and knew it was important to fuel some competitive fire between him and the young American: Terry wasn’t really close to anyone on the team, but other players respected him; or at least most of them did. He returned the favor grudgingly, if at all, but seemed more likely to accept his fellow defensive teammates when they were pushing him for a spot, when he could see tangible proof of their potential.

Danyil thought of Sam Hutchinson, of Ryan Bertrand, of Patrick van Aanholt, all players whose departure from Chelsea had been hastened by Terry’s disdain for their skills, although van Aanholt remained on loan at Valencia, at least for this year. It had been especially hard on Hutchinson, a young man that everyone associated with the club seemed to love and one who idolized Terry.

Danyil sighed to himself: now that the novelty was beginning to wear off around Leigh’s presence, she would have to start proving herself all over again to her teammates. Danyil felt the frustration build up in his mind and he tried as hard as he could to push it aside, to shove it into some dark corner that he would be able to peer into later. For now, he had these games in Japan and, beyond them, United.

Other than a slight injury to Belfodil which put him in doubt for the championship, the second half was more of the same: Leigh did well, Didier scored, Larsen played up front for the first time this season and used his first touch to send a shot from twenty-two yards past Al-Shahrani for the fifth goal, and Sanogo made a spectacular run to get on the end of a Zhirkov cross for the final tally.

Club World Championship Semifinal

Al-Ittihad v Chelsea, Yokohama International Stadium

Al-Ittihad 0 – Chelsea 6 (Ishak Belfodil 9 21, Daniele De Rossi 18, Didier Drogba 56, Michael Larsen 63, Yaya Sanogo 81)

MoM: Belfodil (9.4)

Attendance: 43,974. Referee: Bakary Traoré.

Link to post
Share on other sites

  • 2 weeks later...

December 17, 2011

Club World Championship Final

Al-Ahly Sporting Club v Chelasea, Yokohama International Stadium

Al-Ahly 0 – Chelsea 5 (Eyal Golasa 4, Frank Lampard 17p, John Obi Mikel 60, Daniel Sturridge 65, Yaya Sanogo 90)

MoM: Golasa (9.2)

Attendance: 72,370. Referee: Roshan Chaudhary.

December 19, 2011

The beast wakens. I scowl at Ruud, but I can’t really say anything. I had closed my eyes at eight o’clock yesterday and when I opened them next, the clock showed nearly eleven and the December sun cutting through a gap in the dark curtains made it clear more than three hours had passed.

I pour myself a cup of coffee and ask, It is Monday, ja?

He crosses the kitchen to my side and puts a hand affectionately on the back of my neck. My poor grote beer.

I nod, feeling the weight of his hand, his arm against my back. I didn’t even hear you last night, I murmur.

You were out. Dead to the world.

Where were you?

Movies. With Jonas.

I nod and take a deep breath before settling across from him at the kitchen island.

Well, he says, a twinkle in his eyes, congratulations are in order.

For what?

For you! You are now the defending FIFA World Champion.

I roll my eyes. ****ing useless waste of time. You know what we were doing every game? He shakes his head. Scoring three and then trying to do everything while walking. Everything. I told them I was fining anyone I saw at full sprint.

He laughs. They must have loved that.

It confused them, that’s for sure. Wait. You saw the game?

He shakes his head. Just the highlights on Sky.

You see Golasa?

No.

I shake my head. ****ing Sky. He controlled the whole thing. Showed what he can be out there. He doesn’t have Vuk’s leg in free kicks, but the kid has a shot. I blow on my coffee, watching the steam rise as it ripples away from my mouth.You saw Mikel’s goal? He nods. You know what they were doing on the plane? I couldn’t tell who it was, but someone was yelling about how, if Jon Obi scored, the game must have been meaningless.

Ruud laughs again. How’d he take it?

Who knows? He knows he’s been buried here.

And you didn’t find out who it was?

No. You know how it is. They don’t need to like each other. Hell, sometimes it’s better if they don’t.

Ruud shrugged. Sometimes. His looked up suddenly. Hey. You hear about United? I shake my head. They lost. City beat them one nothing. Zabaleta.

Zabaleta? Really? This changes things. I mean, our game against them will still be tough, but the added pressure, the added scrutiny of facing a team that is undefeated was suddenly gone. And, if I knew anything about the British press, the focus would be on them, on how they would bounce back after the loss or some crap like that. I grin at him. That’s good.

A Day of Errors. December 21, 2011

It’s a wet and rainy day at Stamford Bridge, and I’m standing on the touchline, stamping my feet to stay warm. I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn to see the fantastically unruly eyebrows of Carlo Ancelotti.

Good luck, Danyil, he says.

His tone is all business, and he’s already pulling out of the handshake before I can answer, You too. You too.

I watch him trudge away and smile to myself. Ancelotti’s been at Old Trafford almost two years, and seems to be settling in well. He’s done some odd things with his squad: brought in Ashley Young and sent him right out again, moved Nani and Mame Biram Diouf on their way, too. But Sergio Busquets has been a great addition and picking up Artur Boruc from the scrap heap was a piece of genius with the Polish keeper holding down the first-team spot at keeper for them all season.

In the end, all of our machinations in Japan worked out, leaving us at full strength for this game which is more than Ancelotti could say: Rooney, who was again proving himself to be a fantastic player, one of the best in the world, would miss today with a hamstring injury. In his place, United starts with Welbeck and Berbatov up front.

I never know how to prepare for Berbatov. If he decides to come and play, he is a sublime player, always dangerous, always probing for space; if he doesn’t, he can disappear for an entire game. Welbeck, at least, you know what to expect: speed, and more speed. We have Zhirkov and Essien on the wings, so we should be able to cope with it there, as long as we don’t find him isolated on Terry in back.

Was a time you never said something like that. But that’s the struggle now, isn’t it? Terry, Lampard, Drogba. And how to make the transition to Leigh, Golasa, Sturridge. Or Salinas, Larsen, and Belfodil. Whatever. We have options, but that’s like having potential. It makes your fans feel better, but at the end of the day it has to become performance.

Seven minutes in, the home fans are treated to a candidate for goal of the year, one of those shots that is destined to live on highlight reels and Youtube forever. A cross from Welbeck is cleared towards midfield where Torres picks it up. He glances up and sees that Boruc has drifted off his line for United, moving a few steps outside of his box. Fernando takes a touch, and lofts the ball down the field. The coaches are up and moving towards the touchline as soon as it leaves his foot: it’s obvious that it has a chance, and when the ball bounces in front of and then over a hapless Boruc who stumbles and falls as it nestles in the back of the net, the entire stadium erupts.

Just about the only person who doesn’t join in the celebration is Cech in our goal, who stoutly remains impassive, knowing just how embarrassing a moment it was for his opposite number.

For all that, I am not happy and, for fifteen minutes after the restart, I am yelling and waving my arms from the technical area. United are in control, and it feels like there is little that we can do: Anderson and Valencia are outplaying our midfield and despite Torres’ strong game, we are struggling, a situation not helped by the fact that Essien is down twice in ten minutes for treatment on his right calf.

Mark insists he’s fine to continue, but I’ve seen him injured too many times to be sure. He’s only twenty-nine, but he probably belongs on that list too. The list of men I need to find a way to move on.

Ten minutes from halftime, Jonny Evans sends a horribly lazy pass back towards Boruc that Edin Dzeko is able to pounce on, leaving United’s keeper no chance and suddenly, despite the visitors being the better team in the opening half, we’re up by two thanks to horrific mistakes on their part.

It’s hard to scream too much at halftime with a two goal lead, but I give it my best shot. Still, the lead provide some breathing room, allowing me to give some of the youngsters—Larsen, Golasa, perhaps even Salinas in back—some time to develop their potential in the most important of circumstances.

Potential. There it is again. I ****ing hate that word. It means that a player isn’t helping you yet, and United gets back into the game when Eyal Golasa proves my point. Just on for a tiring Vukcevic, the young Israeli midfielder slides into Berbatov just inside the box. It’s an obvious penalty, and when Federico Macheda drills it home, you can almost feel the nerves of our supporters begin to fray as murmurs of unrest ripple through Stamford Bridge.

This is what United do. They give you hope, give you a lead, and then, in the most painful way possible, they take it away. They did it for years with Sir Alex, and now Carlo is carrying on the tradition, damn him.

Five minutes on, the same situation occurs again, but this time in mirror image: it is Anderson who slides in on Torres, and when Yury Zhirkov steps forward to take the shot, the surprise in the stadium at the selection is only overwhelmed by the cheers as the ball sails over Boruc’s outstretched arms.

I was asked what I thought of the game afterwards and I tried to maintain an innocent expression. It was one of those days. Sometimes, this game isn’t about what you do well, it’s about what you do wrong. Today was a day like that, a day of errors. We made one, they made three. The rest didn’t matter.

Premier League

Chelsea v Manchester United, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 3 (Fernando Torres 8, Edin Dzeko 37, Yury Zhirkov 88p) – Manchester United 1 (Federico Macheda 82p)

MoM: Torres (9.0)

Attendance: 41,715. Referee: Martin Atkinson.

Link to post
Share on other sites

December 24, 2011

You see the news?

Liverpool? I asked.

Ja.

I nodded and Ruud smirked. It surprised me: he is usually the one reminding me of the basic tenets of human kindness, but his grin had a vicious undertone to it. What do you have against Hicks?

He stretched and yawned, his teeth flashing brilliant white. Nothing, I guess. Never met the man. I just enjoy American exceptionalism being smacked down once in a while.

I furrowed my brows. I don’t know if it’s exceptionalism.

Whatever, he replied. Hush. You should be happy. Hicks may have been American, but he also was a better businessman than Purslow.

I shrugged. You think Aguirre survives?

Ruud glanced out the window for a moment before answering. No, no I don’t think so.

Really?

He nodded. I think Purslow probably wants to shake things up. It’s been such a bad year there—the financial fiasco, you stealing their best player, I think that unless they reel off a ton of wins in a row, Aguirre doesn’t last the season.

Pretty good job for someone. He nodded. Gerrard doesn’t have much left, but Suárez, Hazard. Lucas.

He grinned at me. Thinking of jumping town?

I laughed. No. Not like they’d have me, anyways. You think they’d be angry if they knew about us, you should see what they’d do to me if I went to Anfield.

When The Ball Comes Down. December 26, 2011

Coach Oranje had called me yesterday. At first to wish me a Merry Christmas and then to tell me I’d be in the squad today. He made it clear that I’d only see action if JT or Mammy got hurt, but still. In the squad for the second time. But against Villa I don’t think I would have played even if someone got injured.

I mean, I’m not, like, you know. I’m not hoping anyone gets injured.

But it’s so close. So very close.

I didn’t even know how much I wanted this. How much I want to prove to everyone—Coach, JT, everyone—that I belong here.

I hardly spoke to anyone in warm-ups. Not even Yaya—Sanogo, not Touré—who came over, trying to joke with me. He quickly got the message and, after musing my hair and saying something in French too quick for me to comprehend, left me alone.

Before the game started, Coach Oranje came over to me. Remember what I said? he asked.

About not playing? He nodded, his eyes flicking over my face. I was a little uneasy, wondering what he was looking for. I remember.

Good. That doesn’t mean you don’t have a job to do. Watch the game. Watch JT and Larsen. Especially Larsen, OK? I want to hear afterwards what he does right, what he does wrong.

I nodded and Coach began to move away. Coach? He turned back to me. What are you not saying?

What?

I shook my head. This. Like, there’s something else, right?

He laughed. You’re too smart for your own good, Leigh. Just watch the back and we’ll talk afterwards.

He turned and headed towards the touchline, shaking hands with someone on Hull’s staff while I slid into the padded seats that hold the reserves during games at Stamford Bridge. The game itself was a pretty dull affair: Simon Vukcevic and Daniel Sturridge each scored two for us, and Hull barely troubled our defense at all in the ninety minutes. But I watched intently, making mental notes to myself as the game went on.

Torres banged knees with Kamil Zayette half an hour in and had to come off. He didn’t even glance at the bench, just limped heavily down the tunnel to the training room. He’s an odd one. We’ve had a couple conversations and he’s nice enough, but there’s something else going on there. There’s a lot of noise about how there’s too much competition here for playing time, but I understand it: injuries are such a big part of the game, you have to keep a deep squad.

The loudest moment of the game happened when, with twenty minutes to go, Coach brought on Eyal Golasa for Ivanovic, moving Essien to right back. I had been warming up with Eyal, and when they realized it was him coming on, the cheers turned to whistles over the low thrum of disapproving boo’s. I just sank a little deeper into my jacket, hoping the collar covered up the flush I could feel creeping up my neck.

I waited after the game in my dressing room. We had a system where, once the guys were done with their showers, Eva would come and knock. We changed the pattern up for each game, but that didn’t stop a few of them from knocking on the door, trying to get me to come in too soon. I usually thought it was Lampard, but it could be any of them. They don’t mean much by it, and I just try not to look around a whole lot.

Eva knocked, and I slid into the main locker room, trying to go unnoticed. Coach’s speech was short and to the point—we won, we were expected to win, and our next three games were Port Vale, Hull again, and Wigan, so it was time to focus and take care of business. Afterwards he caught my eye and motioned towards his office.

Well? he asked after I had sat down.

He had a good game. Clean sheet.

Coach frowned. And?

He wants to play further up. And he has the touch to do it—he’s better with the ball than JT is, passes better, too.

And?

I looked down. I dunno. I mean, like, he’s not all that, you know, good in the air.

Coach grinned. Good. Why?

He just needs to settle more before jumping. He’s always still, like, running, so he’s never quite as high as he should be when the ball comes down.

Coach’s eyes narrowed as he thought about what I said. Never as high as when … He must have seen that I was flustered, because he just waved his hand dismissively. Ja, that is good. Good. Do you know why I wanted you to watch him closely?

I paused a moment. To learn, I guess. To stay, like, in the game.

Well, yes. But more because you’re starting against Port Vale.

Premier Division

Chelsea v Hull City, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 4 (Simon Vukcevic 7 26, Daniel Sturridge 21 68) – Hull 0

MoM: Vukcevic (9.1)

Attendance: 41,628. Referee: Kevin Friend.

December 31, 2011

I was trying to rest all of our veterans, but JT came to me yesterday.

It’s a cup game, Coach, he said.

It’s Port ****ing Vale, I said.

He shrugged. Still. I’d like to start.

I took a deep breath. OK. You’ve earned that much, John. Just be sure. You’re not getting any younger.

His eyes flashed momentarily. You think I don’t ****ing know that? He looked away and took a breath. Sorry. Just, you know.

I waved off his apology. No need. I know it’s not easy. We’ve brought in a lot of kids behind you. But that’s where they are, right? Well behind you. We brought them in for three, four years down the road. The lie rolled off my tongue a little too glibly, but it wasn’t much of a lie: I expected Terry to still start most every game next year. But after that … we would have to see how Muniesa and Salinas and Leigh all progressed.

And today, this kid Phil Jones who just came back from a short loan spell at Watford. He had been released by United earlier in the season and one of our scouts saw something in him. I wasn’t quite sure what yet—he was a big, strong kid, but he was reckless and seemed to want to play in the midfield more than at the back.

He would line up on the right, Sakho on the left, with JT and Leigh in the middle. As I stared at the team sheet, I realized that, other than Jones, Leigh, and Javier Ochoa in the middle, this team was actually not quite the group of inexperienced youth I had planned: Mikel was a regular just a season ago, Larsen and Golasa were a fixture on our bench, and while Yaya Sanogo had seen less time than Ishak up front, both had played in front of larger crowds than they would face today.

Three minutes in, we heard what I was sure would be the loudest response of the day when Leigh slid in hard and late on Simon Dawkins on the left side, leaving Robbie Thompson no choice but to show her a yellow card. Half the crowd was incensed at the call, the other half were mocking Dawkins for going down under her challenge.

As the players lined up to defend the free kick, I yelled out to her, Leigh! Leigh!She looked my direction, a hand raised slightly in apology. It’s OK, just play smart now, right? She nodded and then turned away, moving slightly to her right in response to Guillermo Ochoa’s frantically waving his arms to position his wall just so.

The kick was harmless, but for most of the first half so were we. Michael McGovern in their goal was doing well and while both Belfodil and Sanogo were moving well, we lacked any fluidity in the midfield, sending far too many of our final passes to Port Vale players.

I yelled a little, but it was hard to get too worked up at this point: it seemed inevitable that we’d score, and as long as we didn’t make some idiotic mistake, we would be fine.

Just before halftime, we finally got the ball past McGovern when Javier Ochoa laid it on for a streaking Golasa, who picked out the pass just inside the box and volleyed it hard and low, just inside the far post. Late in the game, Ishak added a second, heading in a ball that seemed to bounce around the box forever before he put it out of its misery.

It was an apt description: the game is pretty poor, but that wasn’t really the point. We got the win, Leigh played ninety minutes, and nearly everyone else got some well-deserved rest before 2012 rolled around.

FA Cup 3rd Round

Port Vale v Chelsea, Vale Park

Port Vale 0 – Chelsea 2 (Eyal Golasa 41, Ishak Belfodil 88)

MoM: Belfodil (8.0)

Attendance: 19,892. Referee: Robbie Thompson.

Link to post
Share on other sites

  • 3 weeks later...

January 4, 2012

League Cup Semifinal Leg 1

Chelsea v Hull City, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 0 – Hull 0

MoM: Michael Essien (7.7)

Attendance: 39,956. Referee: Michael Langford.

January 8, 2012

Premier Division

Chelsea v Wigan, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 5 (Simon Vukcevic 14 53, Daniel Sturridge 35, Guillermo Salinas 57 74) – Wigan 0

MoM: Vukcevic (9.6)

Attendance: 40,969. Referee: Phil Dowd.

January 10, 2012

Everything alright, Mr. Oranje?

Danyil dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a white linen napkin and nodded. Yes, thank you. Everything is fine.

Would you like to see the desserts?

No, that’s fine. Just some coffee when you can.

The young man nodded and straightened like a towel snapping smartly from a sudden flick of the wrist. Danyil watched him go. If I were younger, he thought.

He kept his head down and glanced furtively around the restaurant. There had been a steady stream of looks his way throughout the meal, a couple fingers actually pointed his direction, and a few people had even come over to wish him luck or ask for his autograph.

Other than that, it had been a lovely meal. God I miss this, he thought. I almost look forward to him going away. A flash of guilt rolled over him. I want him here more than I want that. He took a final sip of Brunello di Montalcino, savoring the velvet hints of cedar. That’s the rub, though, he thought. When he managed at ATC ’65, they could eat together outside of Hengelo, but it was greasy spoons and Chinese takeaways. Now it was Brunello di Montalcino, public scrutiny, and takeaways at home on the island in the kitchen.

So maybe not so much had changed.

But it felt like it had. They had spent years wanting more, wanting to be able to enjoy the fruits of their hard work. And now Danyil’s bank account was swelling and there was little they could do together.

They had met last week in Nancy, where Danyil was checking in on some of the players on the fringes of the Cameroon squad for the African Cup of Nations later in the month, but it was a hurried and distracted day. Danyil was bothered by Chelsea’s recent form: a convincing win over Wigan did little to address the flaws in the scoreless draw with Hull, and the squad remained largely unchanged two weeks into the January transfer window.

They had obtained help for the troublesome right-back position in the form of twenty year old Marius Moldovan, on loan from Benfica. Moldovan might never be a star in the league, but he was serviceable, good defensively and quick enough to provide cover on that side of the field.

Danyil had been unable to relax in France, and one morning as they prepared to head out from the small bed and breakfast nestled in a courtyard just off the Cour-Léopold, Ruud stood by the window, his back to Danyil, one hand resting atop the window frame as morning light crept in, diffused through faded curtains edged with lace. I’m just worried, that’s all, said Danyil.

Ruud shook his head without turning around. You have United in a few days, but after that it’s wide open.

Danyil knew that he was right: for the next few weeks the only true challenge, other than coping with the players departing next week for their African national teams, was a game at Anfield at the end of the month. I know, said Danyil. I’m just out of sorts. You know I hate the travel in January.

Africa? Ruud asked, turning to face him, the light forming a pale halo around his shaven head.

Danyil nodded. We lose five. And I have flights back and forth every week.

Ruud just stared at him. That’s then, he said, his voice unforgiving. Now, right now, you can be here. With me. Right now.

Danyil’s voice was tight and small when he finally answered. I’m trying. I’m trying as hard as I can.

The waiter returned, setting a cup of coffee in front of Danyil, followed by a silver tray with a creamer and a square container of sugar packets. He nodded his thanks and poured the cream, stirring softly until the color faded from a dark black to tan the color of … well … the color of Ruud’s skin in the half-light.

He sipped the coffee and made a motion to his waiter for the bill. When it came, there was a business card inside, with a note on the back that read, Good luck in Manchester. Go Blue! The bill only reflected the bottle of wine. Danyil thumbed through his wallet for a few bills, enough to include a hefty tip for the waiter, and made his way out into the cold London night.

You Know We're Better. January 14, 2012

It’s only three weeks since we somehow beat United 3-1 despite being soundly outplayed for most of the match. Their fans are in full throat about it as well: chants of You know we’re better and something I can’t make out that features the word luck are ringing around Old Trafford before Kevin Friend blows his whistle to start the game.

Both sides are back to full strength for this one: Torres is back for us, Rooney for them.

Ancelotti has his club basically running away with the league. They’ve lost twice on the season, once to us and once to City and other than that have run roughshod over everyone else. The Hull team that just held us scoreless? United dominated them five to nothing, and followed that up with a four to one victory over Bolton. Nine goals over two games by eight different players.

We’re lucky to withstand their onslaught in the first half: Rodrigo Possebon and Anderson are everywhere, and other than a few long boots toward Dzeko up front, we hardly get the ball out of our own half.

But despite flurries of shots from Rooney and Welbeck up top, they can’t put the ball in the back of the net either and while the scoreless half flatters us, it also gives us a chance to reset in the locker room.

We come out better, holding the ball a bit and even getting a few shots on Boruc.

But there are no goals until just after an hour when Torres slides the ball to a wide open Ivanovic on the right. Bane cuts down on the ball, and chips it high across the edge of the six yard box, finding Dzeko on the far side. His volley is well struck, and easily past Boruc, who barely has time to react.

Once again, we’ve scored against United against the run of play, and this time I make no mistake about our intentions: by the end of the game, we have Dzeko up front and ten players behind the ball denying them space. They begin throwing more players forward, but it doesn’t help: Nemanja Vidic is open outside the box on several occasions, but his shots are wild, well wide or well over Cech’s goal.

Ancelotti is getting more and more agitated on his side: he knows they are outplaying us, but every time his gaze moves off the field and around the sea of red inside Old Trafford, he sees the score illuminated in bright lights.

Premier League

Manchester United v Chelsea, Stamford Bridge

Man Utd 0 – Chelsea 1 (Edin Dzeko 66)

MoM: Fábio (8.2) Chelsea’s Best: Petr Cech (7.6)

Attendance: 74,639. Referee: Kevin Friend.

Link to post
Share on other sites

January 18, 2012

League Cup Semifinal Leg Two

Hull City v Chelsea, The Circle

Hull 0 – Chelsea 2 (Michael Essien 3, Didier Drogba 56)

MoM: Mamadou Sakho (9.0)

Attendance: 25,404. Referee: Mark Clattenburg.

More than Anticipated. January 21, 2012

Danyil was neatly barricaded in the cramped visiting manager’s office at Sincil Bank: there was enough room for an old desk and a rickety chair, but little else. Metal bookshelves covered one wall, and a painting of the Lincoln City crest was peeling off another. He had spent three hours that morning doing press for the game, mostly because Leigh would again start. He had danced around the question of when she would play in the league in more ways than he thought possible. And if the questions weren’t about her, they were about how the club could hope to survive the loss of the half-dozen players who had shipped out for the African Cup of Nations.

Danyil smiled to himself at that—he wasn’t too sure how much those players would help their countries in their first few games, as hard as they had been worked against Hull.

Still, he was exhausted and needed some time to focus before the game.

A knock interrupted his thoughts and he instinctively answered, Come in.

Danyil looked up and paused momentarily. It was Branislav Ivanovic, Chelsea’s stout Serbian defender. Danyil’s brain began moving quickly, assimilating details, fragments of the past few days, scanning back through the weeks and months and years since he first met Ivanovic. It was instinctive: an inventory of the recent past followed immediately by a search for more distant context.

They had a solid relationship, or at least Danyil thought they did.

But when a player who has never sought out the manager’s office in two years suddenly knocks on your door, it’s usually not good.

He wasn’t playing tonight, but he had been getting regular playing time, so that wasn’t it. Danyil’s thoughts paused for a minute, catching on the possibility that could indeed be the issue: John Terry made it clear that he desperately wanted, no, needed to play in any competition that had a trophy at the end of it. But Ivanovic didn’t seem to be cut from that particular cloth.

What else was there? He seemed to enjoy moving back and forth between the right wing and the center of defense. So that could be it, but Danyil didn’t think so. He hadn’t heard of any real friction between Bane and his teammates. It wasn’t easy playing on Chelsea’s back line: Terry allowed nobody to forget that he was in charge back there and shouting matches weren’t uncommon on the practice field. But that was generally accepted as competitive fire, and with all the focus on either Chelsea’s influx of foreign defenders or on Leigh’s future, there was little attention paid to those flare ups.

Still, that must be it, thought Danyil, already rehearsing a speech in his mind about Bane’s importance to the club, about how Terry was moving towards the end of his career, and the back four would be essentially Ivanovic’s to command until the youngsters grew into their roles.

Danyil had been put in this position often enough to trust the speed of his thought process. He considered an instant longer between addressing Ivanovic by his nickname or not and decided it showed more respect not to.Branislav. Come in.

Ivanovic nodded slightly and slid inside the door. Danyil gestured to the rickety chair across from the tin desk and shrugged apologetically. Not much, but it’s what we have. Sit.

Ivanovic eyed the chair suspiciously and shook his head. It’s OK. It’s quick.

Alright. What can I do for you?

The tall defender looked around for a moment. I heard that Jones was sent out on loan?

Jones? Which? Danyil spun through the three candidates in his mind: Jonathan Jones was a promising, annoying teenager in the youth side, full of seventeen year old swagger. Halo Jones was being kept largely to give Leigh a roommate, an arrangement that seemed to be working poorly for both of them. Phil Jones had been picked up in the fall and had yet to impress Danyil, although the scouts loved the gangly teenager for some reason. He was the closest to the first team, and the one who played most similarly to Ivanovic. That must be it.

Jonathan. He almost spat the name.

This was a surprising turn to the conversation and Danyil was intrigued.Jonathan? Yes, Derby.

Ivanovic nodded. Good. He’s … He paused, running a hand through his short hair. He’s a little ****. We don’t need him here, Coach. I know we need some help outside, but he’s not worth it. He shook his head, his lips tight.

Did he do something? No, never mind. Danyil took a breath before continuing,He’s a kid. I can’t write him straight off. But right now, right now, you’re right. We sent him down there on purpose—if anyone can get him under control, it’s Nigel Clough.

A brief smile crossed Ivanovic’s face. Yeah. True enough. He brushed his hands across his tracksuit.

Anything else? Ivanovic shook his head. Your ankle ok?

It’s fine. He nodded towards the hallway. I need to get ice on it.

Alright. Branislav turned to go. Bane. Before you go. He’s always rubbed me wrong, too. We’ve got enough going on without that. It was a gambit on Danyil’s part, perhaps an opportunity to get Ivanovic’s opinion of Leigh, but that avenue of discussion remained closed, as the dark-haired defender just nodded before leaving the room.

Danyil stared at the door for a moment before returning to preparations for the day’s game. It’s Lincoln, he thought. We should be able to play our weakest eleven and win here. Terry would start, because he insisted and De Rossi because Danyil wanted some experience to hold the defense together and to work the transition game. But the rest were used to reserve games and bench appearances: Larsen, Mikel, young Josh McEachran. Danyil’s goal was to get Sturridge and Belfodil off the field within an hour as well, hopefully to take a closer look at Sanogo or Kakuta or even Töre.

The first fifteen minutes showed both sides of the gamble: eight minutes in, a fantastic pass inside the box by Sturridge was neatly volleyed home by Belfodil. But five minutes on, the new defender, Marius Moldovan, committed a silly foul inside the box, and Lincoln—to the deafening roar of the home supporters—tied the game when the veteran David Prutton slammed the ball past a diving Cech from the ensuing penalty kick.

But in the end Chelsea—and Sturridge specifically—were too much for the minnows, with the young striker picking up a hat trick within twenty minutes of the first half.

Moldovan strained a muscle midway through the second half and instead of bringing on John Keen, who really looked to have no future with the club, Danyil turned to Hernán Coccia and told him he was going in. Tell Leigh to slide out to the right, OK? You and JT in the middle.

Coccia nodded and headed to the fourth official while the trainers were working on Moldovan for the second time in five minutes. Danyil tracked the young Italian defender as he moved onto the field, motioning to Leigh. She clearly made him repeat the instructions, and then her head turned to the Chelsea bench.

Danyil pointed to the other side of the field, nodding.

She reached up and tightened her ponytail, nodded, and jogged over towards the far touchline.

He allowed himself a slight smile as the game restarted—yet again, she had not shown a whit of resistance when asked to do more than anticipated.

FA Cup, Fourth Round

Lincoln City v Chelsea, Sincil Bank

Lincoln 1 (David Prutton 14p) – Chelsea 5 (Ishak Belfodil 9, Daniel Sturridge 17 22 37, Yaya Sanogo 59)

MoM: Sturridge (9.6)

Attendance: 10,120. Referee: Kevin Friend.

Link to post
Share on other sites

January 23, 2012

Leigh’s phone chirped in her pocket. As she fished it out, Halo rolled her eyes.That has to be the most annoying tone.

Leigh shrugged. I like it. She wiped a finger across the front of the phone. It was from Yaya.

U in?

Leigh grinned: after the game against Lincoln, she assumed she would head back to the reserves, but Coach Oranje had told her today she would be on the bench for tomorrow’s game against Birmingham.

Yah. U?

Who is it? asked Halo.

Yaya.

The young one, right? Leigh nodded and her phone chirped again: Sanogo’s answer was a simple emoticon.

;')

Halo stood up suddenly. I’m going out.

It’s late, said Leigh.

Halo froze her with a stare, her pale blue eyes cold beneath the spikes of her short blond hair. Didn’t ask you. Leigh began to say something and stopped herself. Halo didn’t move until Leigh looked up. What? You’re not my mom, Leigh.

Leigh shoved the phone into her pocket and got up, muttering, Never said I was.

Halo didn’t move and Leigh brushed her shoulder as she walked by, pushing Halo slightly off balance. She reached out and braced herself on Leigh’s other arm and for a moment the two women stood in an awkward face-off, one tall and lean, with the high cheekbones of a model, the other shorter and more thickly muscled, with her brown hair pulled back in a ponytail.

Leigh could see that her roommate was looking for a confrontation. She disentangled her arm and took a step back, her hands raised slightly. Do what you want, Halo.

I will was the reply.

Forty-Seven. January 24, 2012

Leigh waited just inside the player’s entrance for half an hour, spending part of the time chatting on the phone with her parents and the rest trying to playAngry Birds. She looked up to see the tall, thin frame of Yaya Sanogo, a dark blue kitbag slung over his shoulder and a wide grin on his face.

Petite soeur! He gave her a quick hug, looking at her phone as she slid it into her jacket pocket. Ah! You are trying it! I still cannot believe you had never played it.

Leigh shrugged as the two of them headed down the hallway. Never played video games.

He spoke in an exaggerated imitation of her drawl, adding syllables where none were ever intended to exist. Nev-uh played no vide-yah games. Is everything in Texas as backwards as you? Leigh shook her head, a smile on her face. Well? Are you any good?

She laughed out loud. Course not. I, like, suck at it.

Do you like it?

Leigh shrugged. I guess. I dunno. It’s ok. It’s just like the same thing, like over and over, right?

Yaya shook his head as they approached the locker rooms—the two large doors with the club crest etched into them, and then, further down the hall, the simple door marked only with the letter w in Chelsea blue. Ah, mademoiselle, this is where we part ways.

See you out there. Don’t take so long this time.

Yaya moved toward the door, his arm sweeping the length of his torso. I have to make sure all of this looks as good as it should.

Leigh grinned at him. And they call me the girl.

Fifteen minutes later, Leigh was on the field, alternating between stretching and lightly juggling a ball. Thirty-five more, and Yaya emerged, still smiling. Leigh just shook her head at him. Come on, she said, let’s get going.

Hours later, they had been on the field, in the trainer’s room getting re-taped, in the locker room for the pre-game session, in the tunnel, and back on the field to a now-full Stamford Bridge.

As Rob Clarke started the game, Yaya leaned over to Leigh. You know you will never catch me.

What?

This my forty-seventh game. Three more for a half-century.

You count?

Yaya shrugged. Of course.

Leigh thought for a moment. Friendlies count?

Mais non.

Her nose wrinkled in concentration. I don’t know.

It will be your seventh.

She looked at him in disbelief. How do you know that?

Their conversation was interrupted by the roar of the crowd as Edin Dzeko launched a header that Fabio Coltorti was barely able to palm away. It fell to Gianluca Comotto, who had turned his half-year on loan with Chelsea into a long-term contract with Birmingham. Comotto quickly sent the ball upfield to Obafemi Martins, but a streaking Guillermo Salinas was able to race back in time to knock it into touch.

Leigh shook her head. He never looks like he’s that fast.

Salinas?

Yeah. He just always gets there.

The two watched the game in silence for a while. Twenty-five minutes in, Comotto earned a yellow when he came in late and hard on Daniel Sturridge. The Italian bounced up and turned to the still-prone Sturridge, about to yell at him to get up. He brought himself short and suddenly gestured to the Chelsea bench.

Uh oh, said Leigh.

Moments later, they heard Óscar Fradera’s voice calling out, Yaya! Get ready. Y Rápida.

Yaya turned to Leigh, concern and confusion colliding on his face.

Rápida. Quick. Go!

He stood up, and tossed her his jacket, saying, Forty-seven. That’s forty more. You’ll never catch up, before he headed down towards the sidelines, shaking his long limbs and doing standing hurdles to re-awaken his muscles.

Leigh glanced at the field, where they were moving Sturridge into the bright orange stretcher. Good thing for Yaya it came this early, she thought. He’s still basically warmed up.

A few minutes later, Sturridge had been carried down the tunnel, his right leg held in the air, his face a grimace of pain and Clarke had waved to the fourth official to let Yaya onto the field.

Just before halftime, Javier Ochoa launched a long ball that Sanogo read perfectly, controlling off his chest at the edge of the box with a lovely touch to free himself behind David Wheater. His shot was low and hard, and well past Coltorti’s dive. As the crowd exploded, Leigh jumped out of her seat, her arms thrust above her head.

Sanogo stretched out his long arms, and zoomed away towards the corner flag where he was mobbed by his teammates. He shook them off and ran up the sideline, his face contorted with joy. He pointed at Leigh, mouthing Forty-seven to her as he went, pausing to embrace Lillian Thuram, wrapping the famous French defender in his arms before heading back onto the field.

Daniele De Rossi, the lone veteran on the Chelsea bench for this game, turned and looked at Leigh, a smirk on his face. I think the French kid likes you.

Leigh pressed her lips together and felt her skin grow warm. She shrank into her seat as De Rossi laughed good-naturedly.

Yaya made the second goal with a great cross to the far post that Lampard was able to comfortably head into the net. It was an easy win: Chelsea’s young center-backs, Salinas and Hernán Coccia had excellent games and while Martins always looked dangerous, Birmingham simply lacked the talent to compete with even a largely reserve Chelsea side.

Premier League

Chelsea v Birmingham City, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 2 (Yaya Sanogo 44, Frank Lampard 73) – Birmingham 0

MoM: Sanogo (7.9)

Attendance: 39,198. Referee: Rob Clarke.

With Manchester United only managing a scoreless tie against Tottenham, Chelsea moved to third in the table, behind the other club from Manchester as well. As importantly, Wayne Rooney was sent off from the game under ten minutes in, meaning he would miss at least United’s next two contests.

He would, however, be back for what is easily the most highly anticipated match of the fifth round of the FA Cup, which saw Chelsea draw United. After facing Port Vale and Lincoln in their opening rounds, Chelsea really couldn’t complain about finally being asked to show their worth against a team of a higher standard. And, this year, they didn’t come any higher than United.

Link to post
Share on other sites

This Particular Conversation. January 28, 2012

Danyil Oranje’s day started poorly. To begin with, he was in Liverpool, a location that was difficult to love if you were Chelsea’s manager. But that wasn’t really the source of his mood: it was the tedium of waking up alone, of breakfast in the hotel with a few coaches, of the endless sameness of yet another twenty minute drive by coach to another stadium where our dressing room will be just slightly inferior to the home side. At least at Anfield that meant it was still pretty well appointed.

It didn’t get much better, however. It was a chilly day, and even in his quilted jacket, Danyil couldn’t quite get warm. He was stamping his feet and blowing on his hands when he was approached by Ishak Belfodil.

A word? asked the young striker.

Danyil lowered his fist from his mouth. Sure, Ishak, he replied, nodding towards the seats at the edge of the field. As they settled themselves, Danyil steeled himself for what was to come: Ishak had swept a lot of FIFA’s annual youth awards, even finishing ahead of incandescent talents like the young Brazilian Neymar. It was a bit of a farce, really: Danyil appreciated Belfodil as a player, but he also knew he was no Neymar. Even more the young Frenchman’s goalscoring record was as much a result of how Oranje had used him as anything else.

Not that he expected Belfodil to realize that. Ishak had been seen on the phone more and more lately, nodding and gesticulating wildly. Danyil had barely noticed at first, but at one point Lillian Thuram had mentioned thatIshak was talking to his agent again.

Danyil knew what that meant.

The two sat down and Danyil looked at Belfodil expectantly, focusing on keeping his face open and blank, even as his thoughts were busy and aggravated: Belfodil was starting today in an important league game at Anfield for Christ’s sake. It was an odd time to have this particular conversation.

Ishak looked down and rubbed his hands together, his long lashes closed and his face seeming strangely subdued. Suddenly Danyil got a glimpse of the twenty year old, a shadow of adolescence that still clung to the young man like cobwebs. Belfodil took a deep breath and exhaled slowly like a tire deflating, the cold air sailing away from them and taking much of Danyil’s annoyance with it.

I don’t know how to start. He smiled thinly, muttered something in French too low for Danyil to catch, and looked up to steadily hold his coach’s eyes. You know I want to play more, yes? Danyil thought of saying something, but only nodded. I just don’t think that will happen here. His gaze travelled over the field. Nando. Studs. Edin. He looked back at Danyil.

Ishak, you’ve done well. You’ve had a magnificent year. But you have to—Danyil reached out and placed a hand on Ishak’s arm, repeating himself. Have to believe in yourself. You can create the opportunity. We knew we were only going to keep one of you and Franco. He played well. You played better. That’s all you need to do. More of that.

Ishak was silent for a while, long enough that Danyil began to feel a need to fill the silence when he finally responded. I don’t know that I can do that here. I think I need, I mean. He took a breath and dropped his eyes. I would like to ask the club for a change.

Are you sure? Are you sure this is you wanting a change, and not you being talked into something.

Ishak faltered. Danyil could see the uncertainty in his eyes and as Ishak rubbed his throat, his mouth was cut in a tight frown. No, he said. I just think I need a new start, a place to show my skill each week.

The line was practiced, fed to him by someone else, and he delivered it woodenly and without conviction. Danyil stood up suddenly, surprising Belfodil who seemed to shrink in his seat. No.

Quoi? Wait, what?

No. We won’t move you on, Ishak. We want you here. I want you here. It’s up to you to believe that. Danyil turned and walked away without looking back. He forced himself to keep his hands in his pockets as he made his way across the field and then down the sidelines to where Thuram was running the central defenders through drills practicing defensive headers.

He finally glanced towards where they had been sitting, and saw those seats were now empty and the tall form of Belfodil had joined a group on the far side of the field under the tutelage of Diego Davidson.

Danyil smiled to himself. The day was getting marginally better.

A few minutes later, he felt his phone vibrate and quickly pulled it out, expecting to see Ruud’s number. Instead, it was a number from America that he only thought he recognized.

Danyil?

He smiled and turned away from the field. Jessica! Jessica Hardy! How lovely. It’s been a while.

Yes, it has.

He stared across the striped green of the field to the bright red stands emblazoned with the letters LFC, a brilliant white that almost hurt his eyes.What can I do for you? he asked, already thinking through the possible motivations for her call.

Has Bob gotten in touch with you?

Bob?

Jessica sighed to herself. She felt an unaccountable affection for the Chelsea coach but he never made it easy on her. Bradley. You know. Coaches the American national team?

That Bob. No, he hasn’t.

Well, he will.

So, I assume this is about Leigh?

It is. They’ve put together their Olympic qualifying squad, and she’s on it.

Ah, so you’re calling to see if you can steal her away for a while?

Yes. The first two weeks in February.

Jessica. February is in three days.

I know. So is their first game.

Danyil was pleased, although he would resist revealing that. Leigh being gone for most of February meant another month he wouldn’t have to think about her playing in the league. As the year progressed, he had realized that at first unconsciously and then quite intentionally, he was delaying her debut appearance. It wasn’t that she wasn’t ready physically—Leigh wasn’t a great Premier League defender at this point, but nor would she be the worst in the league.

It was more that he felt instinctively that a year spent being around the club, a year traveling, a year playing in the lower level competitions, a year hearing the cheers and rude screams of the fans, a year learning what the next decade of her life would be like, a year doing all that would be time well spent.

So far, he had been unable to share this strategy: Jessica would scream for his head if she knew and Ruud, who probably did know, would just accuse him of trying to be her father and not her coach.

It wasn’t too far off: he knew that part of his motivation was a protective instinct. But part of it wasn’t, and that part was convinced it was the right thing for the team, for her, and most of all for her career.

You’ll be there? asked Danyil.

I will.

She’ll be glad to hear that. She really looks up to you, you know.

I know. It’s one of the wonders of this job: I have these young women doing things I could never dream of, stronger than I ever could be. And they look up to me.

Danyil paused, considering a moment. That’s because you care about them. Even when you have to deal with crusty old coaches who aren’t very helpful. Alright, he said, we’ll figure something out. That’s great for her. Sixteen and on that team.

She’s not the only one.

Really?

Well, she’s the youngest. But Adam Johnson, I know you know him, two others. All under eighteen. She’s not even the only young woman.

This intrigued Danyil—one of the odd and unexpected impacts of having Leigh Musicek on his team was he tended to be a little deaf to the accomplishments of others in the growing wave of female players. There were noises about that midfielder Ramotswe in France and once in a while some human interest story on Sky would show pictures of girls in the new American leagues. But those leagues weren’t very good, and it was hard for him to see them as more than curiosities.

Yeah, they picked Andrea Jones as well.

Who?

Andrea Jones. Midfielder for FC Dallas. She’s good. Smooth on the ball.

They take her as a player or as a roommate?

There was a moment of silence on the far end, and when Jessica replied, her voice was distant and disapproving. Danyil.

I’m sorry, Jessica. I am. You know as well as I do it’s what we did here.

Danyil, it’s my job to help them succeed. All of them. Not just Leigh. Halo, Andrea Jones, all of them. Jessica’s voice gained an edge of accusation as she continued, Jones is a spectacular young player, and she’s getting more playing time than Leigh is. Which reminds me …

OK, OK. Fair enough. We’ll get it sorted with Leigh soon as we can. This time, maybe we can get her back in one piece?

Jessica forced a smile into her voice. We’ll see what we can do.

That was a joke, Jessica.

This time, the smile was real. I know. You know I love you, right?

Of course, replied Danyil before clicking off.

The day continued to improve a few hours later when moments after kickoff, a fired up Belfodil sent a low shot at Pepe Reina’s goal from just outside the box that was turned around the post. From the corner, Guillermo Salinas was able to get off a shot that took a deflection off the back of Jamie Carragher, who was slow to react when the young Mexican defender chested the ball into position for the volley.

Chelsea added two more in the half, both from Dzeko and both more the result of incisive passes than Dzeko’s individual play: the first came after a brilliant run from Simon Vukcevic who sent the ball neatly into Dzeko’s path at the edge of the six yard box and the second when Lampard moved the ball on after a nifty backheel from Belfodil, sliding the ball directly into Dzeko’s path at almost the same spot.

Liverpool would pull one back from Maxi Rodríguez on a corner kick late in the game, but by then the red-clad faithful were already beginning to file out of the stadium.

Premier League

Liverpool v Chelsea, Anfield

Liverpool 1 (Maxi Rodríguez 84) – Chelsea 3 (Guillermo Salinas 2, Edin Dzeko 31 41)

MoM: Dzeko (9.0)

Attendance: 45,362. Referee: Michael Langford.

Link to post
Share on other sites

This segment of Leigh's story will cross-over between this story and Y'all Come Back: Leigh is with the American Under23 team participating in Olympic qualifying and Comets Coach Levi McKinnon is there scouting. My hope is each thread works on its own, but if you're interested, the first episode is here.

January 31, 2012

Premier League

Chelsea v Bolton, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 4 (Ishak Belfodil 6 30, Fernando Torres 12, Yaya Sanogo 87) – Bolton 1 (Chris Basham 44)

MoM: Torres (8.9)

Attendance: 41,225. Referee: Kevin Friend.

February 2, 2012

Leigh was heading across the lobby of the team hotel in Guadeloupe when she caught a glimpse of a familiar head of brown hair seated in an overstuffed chair by the window. Her steps quickened as she approached, recognizing Jessica Hardy in the chair. She caught herself short before she said anything: Jessica’s face was red and she was curled into herself, one arm wrapped tightly around a knee drawn up to her chin. Before Leigh could decide what to do, Jessica glanced up.

She saw Leigh and quickly drew the back of her hand across her eyes and tried to smile. Her face collapsed halfway through the effort, leaving her mouth a thin slash across her face, and a mumbled Hey was all Jessica could manage before looking out again towards the plaza beyond the thick window.

Leigh took a step and Jessica nodded almost imperceptibly towards the empty chair. Leigh sat down, then raised up and scooted closer to the older woman, glancing around as the chair scraped against the floor emitting a short, high-pitched squeak. She reached a hand out and tentatively brushed Jessica’s forearm. What’s wrong?

Jessica turned to her and began to speak, then just shook her head and turned away.

How could she explain it?

She had known it was inevitable, but when official word came through today that WUSA, the emergent woman’s league in America, was folding, disbanding all seven of its teams effective immediately, it hit her hard, a desolate feeling that spread quickly from her stomach to her chest, leaving her gasping for breath.

Even worse, as far as anyone could tell, there was a blacklist in effect: nobody who played in the league would be signed by a professional team, not Marta, not Abby, not even Hope Solo, even though the resistance to women in the game was at its weakest for goalies. None of them. There were rumors, but no more than that, that the youngsters might have a chance in a year or two: Sydney Leroux, Alex Morgan, the two Fabiana’s from Brazil, the others that were flowing through the youth programs in South America, in England, in Germany.

But for the rest, all those years, all those games toiling in front of a few hundred fans in stadiums that were striped with end zones and yard markers, all those bus rides, all those hours spent taping each other’s ankles because there was nobody else to do it, pumping up balls by hand before games, taking ice-cold showers in dirty locker rooms, gone. And the elation of the well-placed pass, the adulation of the girls who made their parents wait for an hour after the game for a hurried autograph scrawled across a mini-ball, the deeply unique bonds that existed between professional athletes whether or not they actually liked each other. All of that. Gone.

And it was in some small, specific way, Jessica’s fault.

She had been dimly aware of that in the past, knowledge that was tugged at her thoughts from time to time, a small irritant, easily brushed away or forgotten. But today it had exploded, sending shrapnel of guilt through her body. Twice she was sure she would throw up, even sitting by the toilet in her hotel room, one hand on her phone, the other steadying herself on the white porcelain.

She had thought she had gotten through the worst of it until right now. Because all this could, in a twisted way, be traced back to the sixteen year old woman-child staring at her with large brown eyes wet with concern, this amazing athlete who was handling an impossible situation with a calm determination that never ceased to astound Jessica, who was leading the vanguard in a charge against deeply entrenched tradition, sending hoary splinters crashing to the ground in her wake.

If Leigh was good enough for Chelsea, there was no longer a place in the world for the Boston Breakers, not really. Not as a professional club, anyway.

Jessica, what is it. What happened. Leigh’s voice was small and scared, and the sound of it, her teenage vulnerability, cut through Jessica’s emotions like a bright light cleaving the darkness. Jessica took a deep breath and scavenged a tissue from her purse. She blew her nose and wiped her eyes and faced Leigh.

It’s OK, Leigh. I’m OK. It’s … it’s complicated. Did you ever go see a women’s game, I mean professional?

Leigh’s eyes narrowed in confusion. No, I don’t think so. Houston never had a team and by the time I was nine or ten, we had the Dynamo.

Jessica nodded. You knew they were there, though, right?

Yeah, yeah, of course. I met some of the, you know, like the players from it but also, like the ones before it. Mia. Uhm. Michelle. Akers?

Akers-Stahl. Yeah. Did you hear about the league? Leigh shook her head. It … closed. Just today.

Leigh was silent for a moment, expectant. And that’s why you’re sad?

Jessica nodded, fighting another wave of emotion that was threatening to rush outward. She pulled an arm tight against her stomach, feeling the strength of her forearm against her abdomen and breathed deeply. It’s hard to explain, Leigh. A lot of those women are my friends. Some of them, well, when I was your age, I had their pictures all over my room. And now …

Why can’t they keep playing? I mean, I’ve played with some of the younger ones. They’re good. They could play in America, or in, I dunno, the Blue whatever in England.

Nobody will let them.

What?

Jessica shook her head, picking her words carefully. When we, when I, first began to work for women to play in the best leagues, we had to make a … a compromise. Teams wanted to only allow players that came through their own youth systems. It was a way of buying time, of letting them get ready, get coaches and dressing rooms and all the rest.

Leigh’s face froze, a cold light of recognition in her eyes. Wait, what?

Jessica saw it and instantly reached out a hand to the young girl’s arm. No, no, no. Leigh. Don’t think that.

It’s my fault that league stopped?

No. Leigh. Look at me. Every one of the women I know well. Every one of them. Would give up what they’ve done for what you’re doing. Every one of them, all they wanted, all they ever wanted was to compete. To play the game at the highest level they could.

Leigh stared out the window. Behind the shadowy form of their own reflections, she saw three children, no more than ten or twelve, running through the street, a torn football caroming from foot to foot. The tallest one, her hair in two long pigtails, narrowly avoided an old woman who turned to yell at her as the three streaking shapes disappeared.

Jesus, Jessica, did you plan that?

Jessica laughed. No. I mean, I would have. But, no.

Leigh smiled. I was just going to get some food. You wanna’ come?

Jessica hovered for a minute, poised between mourning for what was and her duties to what was coming. Sure. If you don’t mind being seen with someone whose makeup is a mess.

One Big Family. February 3, 2012

Hey. I saw you last night. You and Leigh seemed to be having a good time.

Jessica smiled at Levi McKinnon, head coach of the Houston Comets, and took the seat next to him. You should have joined us. At least say hello.

He shrugged. Like I said, it looked like you were having a good time. She playing today? The muscles along Jessica’s jaw tightened as she shook her head. Hey, look. Don’t do that, OK? Yesterday I mentioned her and next thing I knew, you were gone. I just want to see her play.

Jessica nodded. OK. Sorry. She’s a little bit of a touchy subject with me.

Levi smiled, but remained silent for a moment. I assume Jones is out too after the first game. So you’re just here as a fan?

I guess so. She thought for a moment and grinned. You mind if I watch it with you. As a fan?

Long as you don’t mind me scribbling the occasional note. I may be a fan, but I’ve got a job to do, too.

She considered a moment. Yeah, that’s OK. Just not too many. Notes.

Levi glanced down at his pad. The USA squad today was decidedly weaker than the opening game: it looked like Oscar Pareja was looking for the defensive pairing of Silas Adams and Nick Johnson to handle Canada’s attack, while hoping that somehow Andrew Wenger or Peri Marosevic would be able to create something up front. There was firepower on the American bench in the form of Percy Jackson, Feddy Adu, Brek Shea, and Drew Cárdenas, but it looked like a defensive game was in store.

Canada’s team was pretty nondescript for Levi. He wanted to see Richard King play since the defender was out of contract and therefore might be available for the Comets, but while King made the match day squad, he would start the day on the bench. The only other name he knew well was Derek Guadet, who wasn’t playing today, but who had spent a month on trial for the Comets … what was it … two years ago? Three? He had moved on to the LA Galaxy in a well-publicized signing that puzzled Levi at the time. Then in two years with the Galaxy and on loan with AS Montréal, he appeared in all of two league games.

I don’t think I’ll be making many notes.

Yeah, it doesn’t look like a barnburner, does it?

Levi shook his head. I don’t really understand it. He’s got Marosevic starting, who must be gassed and he’s got Nick Johnson—who I think is one of the best teenage strikers I’ve ever seen—playing in midfield.

Jessica shrugged. I’ve learned that coaching decisions for national teams are pretty much black boxes full of mystery and intrigue.

Levi paused a moment, unsure of what to make of the comfortable and even flirtatious attitude. He glanced down at his notepad again, his eyes drawn to Canada’s back line, which consisted of Victor and Michael Ricketts alongside Dan and Mick Blicharski. You know if they’re really brothers?

Who, the Canadians? Levi nodded. I think so.

That’s gotta’ be pretty unique, don’t you think? All four defenders, brothers? I mean, you know, two sets.

Jessica shrugged. Who knows? I mean, you gotta’ bet, whatever, the Fiji team in 1947 was, you know, just one big family, all eleven players related.

Seriously?

Jessica laughed again. Who knows? Just saying.

Without Shea or Chase Carroll in midfield, the American’s game was slow and plodding, and neither team was able to score until the second half, when Nick Johnson was able to outjump Dan—the younger Blicharski brother—and head the ball solidly past José Francisco Palma for an American lead.

They were unable to hold it, however, as Enrico Piazza sent a lovely volley home from a corner kick, easily beating Josh Lambo and sending the Americans to a very surprising result, one that had the potential of putting their qualification efforts in danger: now they would require a victory over El Salvador in their next game to progress.

After the final whistle, Levi looked over his notes, made a couple small corrections, and clicked his pen shut. Well, he said, that’s that. You want some dinner?

Jessica nodded. Sure. There’s this place—not where Leigh and I went, but real. It’s a bit of a dive, out of the way. But the food’s good, and the beer’s cold.

Levi smiled in delight at the offer to get off the beaten path. Sure, sounds fantastic.

Olympic Qualifying Group B

Canada U23’s v USA U23’s, Rivière des Pères

Canada 1 (Enrico Piazza 80) – USA 1 (Nick Johnson 48)

MoM: Johnson (7.7) Canada’s Best: Dan Bilcharski (7.4)

Attendance 859. Referee: Iván López.

Link to post
Share on other sites

February 4, 2011

Premier League

Chelsea v Ipswich Town, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 3 (Yaya Sanogo 6, Frank Lampard 8, Edin Dzeko 46) – Ipswich 0

MoM: Dzeko (8.9)

Attendance: 41,049. Referee: Michael Langford.

February 7, 2011

Premier League

Stoke City v Chelsea, Britannia Stadium

Stoke 1 (Wilson Palacios 61) – Chelsea 0

MoM: Robert Huth (8.5) Chelsea’s Best: Petr Cech (8.3)

Attendance: 27,484. Referee: Lee Mason.

Indisposed. February 9, 2011

Leigh jogged over to the familiar form leaning on the rail of the stadium. She wiped the sweat form her forehead and tightened her ponytail. A ball-boy on the sideline tossed her a squeeze bottle, which she fumbled, then retrieved, laughing. Jessica was smiling as she approached.

Smooth.

Leigh grinned. I know, right? She took a deep drink, surveying the empty stadium. Big difference from England.

Jessica looked behind her at the horizontal lines of the metal benches, receding up the stadium bowl. It made her a little dizzy to see them in an unbroken pile, line after line. Yeah, been a while since you’ve played in front of a few dozen people I bet.

Leigh nodded. Where’s your, I mean, Coach McKinnon?

Jessica smiled to herself at Leigh’s correction. He’s … indisposed.

Leigh’s brow furrowed. Why do grown-ups use that word?

What?

Indisposed. It’s only used when people are, you know, sick.

He’s sick.

Leigh grinned and adopted a mock indignant tone, waving a hand in front of her face. Indisposed, please. I’m a delicate southern thing. She couldn’t keep it up and laughed, dropping the affectation before asking, Dinner didn’t sit well with him?

Jessica shook her head. She and Levi had a second dinner together the previous night. This time, Jessica had gotten a recommendation for a local place, little more than a shack with a grill attached in a small yard behind, enclosed by a well-cared for fence that had recently been painted a deep blue, the color of the sky in transition from dusk to darkness. A slight boy, no more than seven or eight, had taken their order, grinning broadly at Jessica’s Spanish and looking suspiciously at Levi. He returned with their beers in a bright red plastic bucket half packed with ice that he needed to carry with two hands, bouncing it off his thigh as he crossed the room.

The food was good, cleanly cooked with sharp spices that encouraged them to drink more beer and the conversation was, for Jessica, intriguing. Levi was smart and engaging, and most of all seemed to have an innate kindness somewhere inside him that was unshakable, and that remained in view even among the flashes of bravado that peppered his words.

But there was something awkward and missing as well, pauses where she knew his mind was elsewhere. Jessica took that as a hint, and kept the evening moving, friendly and light, and the kiss on the cheek she received at the door of her hotel room was almost chaste in its innocence.

She looked up at Leigh. He was impressed by you.

I just came over to say hi.

No, silly. Not in the lobby. The game against El Salvador.

Leigh shrugged. We won, she replied, her voice gone dead.

Jessica studied her face for a moment. It’s OK, Leigh. Really. He just said he was impressed.

And?

What?

They all say they’re impressed, Jessica. What does that mean? Like, I play for a pretty good club, right? If they’re not impressed, that’s, like, pretty bad, right?Leigh looked over towards the cluster of American coaches that had gathered at midfield. I’ve gotta’ go.

Jessica was surprised. You playing today?

Bench. See you after?

Of course.

Jessica watched Leigh jog off thoughtfully. Not for the first time, she reminded herself that she was dealing with a teenager, a girl trying to figure out what kind of woman she’d be. The hard part for Jessica was keeping up with the changes while leaving Leigh the space to make them: everyone else wanted Leigh to be a certain way, a certain player, a certain mouthpiece, a certain role model.

Jessica dug her phone out of her purse. You OK? she wrote. A few minutes later, the reply came from Levi’s number.

Yeah. I mean not rly. But fine. Game started?

No. Ten mins.

There was a longer pause before Levi’s reply came, K. Call me after?

Will do.

The game itself lasted barely twenty minutes, or should have: the Americans scored four in the time, two from Drew Cárdenas in addition to goals from Brek Shea and Mark Rudge. The rest of the contest was nondescript, and Jessica spent more time playing peek-a-boo with a young, dark-skinned girl dressed in a simple white dress than paying close attention to the action, until just over an hour in, a deep moan of pain from the field was followed after a few moments from a voice from the sidelines shouting, Leigh! Get loose.

Jessica looked up in time to see the tall form of Silas Adams being helped to the sidelines. She called down to a young man in a white shirt that had crumpled against the onslaught of the heat, dark patches appearing on his back and under his arms. From glances exchanged earlier, she assumed he was the young girl’s brother, What happened?

He called back in accented English, Ankle, while miming a rapid turning motion with his hands.

Jessica nodded and drew the young girl’s attention to Leigh, who was jogging onto the field to take up a position next to Sam Chávez. You see her? The little girl nodded. Do you know who that is? She shook her head slowly from side to side. Jessica smiled at the young girl. You will. You will.

Olympic Qualifiers Semifinal

USA U23’s v Trinidad & Tobago U23’s, Stade de Montauban

USA 4 (Mark Rudge 3, Brek Shea 10, Drew Cárdenas 11 19) – Trinidad & Tobago 0

MoM: Rudge (9.3)

Attendance: 1113. Referee: Alexei Downer.

Link to post
Share on other sites

Self-Awareness. February 11, 2012

We sat at the kitchen island, sipping our coffee in silence. You okay? Ruud asked, eyeing me over the rim of his cup.

Fine, fine. He just looks at me, one eyebrow arched questioningly like a wing.I’m OK, really.

Ben je zenuwachtig?

I frown. Een beetje. He’s about the only person I would admit it to, but he’s right. I am a little nervous. We’ve beaten United twice this season, but we didn’t deserve to win either game. So not only do we need to beat them in our FA Cup match today, we need to avoid Lady Luck paying us back for the earlier victories.

It won’t be easy. But it would be helped a lot if Rooney were out—right now, the media is split on whether he’ll play or not. My bet is he does.

The week has been intense in terms of media. I lost count of the press conferences sometime on Wednesday, and wasn’t sure I could come up with many more ways to say nothing while still answering questions. Just about the only good thing about this matchup is that it has kept them from asking me about why Leigh’s not playing in the USA’s matches. Like I would know that.

I grin momentarily.

He’s surprised and, if anything, his eyebrow reaches even higher. What’s that for?

I haven’t been very nice the past few days, have I?

Ruud shrugs. I’m used to it. How’d you figure it out?

Every time I think of something, I think of why it’s a bad idea. Figure I’ve been treating just about everyone that way, too.

He nods in appreciation. Self-awareness. There’s hope for you yet, Danyil.

We both laugh, and the moment is preserved in my memory, one in a long series of small slices of happiness that we share. At times like this, when there is little in my life that exists outside of the club, these are treasures, gifts that I wrap carefully and store away to call up later, when I can settle calmly into the sense of comfort and belonging.

Today, there is no room for that. There is only thinking about tactics and matchups and space. Always and forever, space. How to create it, how to collapse it; how to pull a midfielder across the middle of the field, forcing a defender to choose between two players; how to rotate defensively to keep a man advantage at the back; how to probe the defensive channels once, twice, thrice before finally bursting clear on goal.

As we go through our final review later that day, staring at the thickly drawn lines on the whiteboard, reinforcing the same four points we’ve focused on in practice all week, I am reminded again of the similarity of the two sides.

Somehow Ancelotti and I have become mirror images of each other, if you discount his alien eyebrows. With everyone else in the world seeming to drift towards wider formations, using midfielders to maraud upfield in support of wingers cutting inside, we have both maintained a firm dependence on our outside defenders, focusing on players with technical skill inside the area and looking to strong, physical midfielders to drop deep and start the offense.

He prefers a single holding player, I prefer two; but one of ours drifts so far up the pitch that our formations are almost identical, to the point that I’ve thought about changing specifically for this game. But we haven’t played with wide midfielders all year, and the squad has shown such confidence in knowing where their teammates should be, understanding when to cover and when to pressure, where their support is coming from, that I don’t want to risk it here.

So we head out with Torres and Dzeko up top, and our usual Christmas tree behind them. They counter with Berbatov and Rooney, who emerges from the tunnel with a thick white bandage around his head, covering the gash that kept him out of their previous game.

Wayne, ya look like a ****ing mummy. It’s John Terry’s voice heckling his England teammate.

Sod off, is the only reply he receives. I look at Terry and grin.

I’m much less pleased with him shortly thereafter: two minutes in, Valencia has sliced through our defense, sliding the ball across the six to a wide open Rooney who sends it home with a neatly angled shot from the side of his foot. Terry had lost track of Rooney, and was clearly at fault for the goal, and for a moment he and Cech were yelling at each other in exasperation.

I stand on the sidelines, silent and hopefully impassive. It’s a moment that needs sorting out on the pitch amongst themselves and soon both of the players are nodding at each other.

So, good, they sorted it out. At least until halftime.

Then if things don’t get better by then, they’re mine.

Lucky for them, they do: ten minutes later, Larsen sends a stunning curving pass that arc gently to the far post where Dzeko is able to out jump Nemanja Vidic, sending the ball spinning over the line.

We’re tied and as importantly, for once against the Red Devils, we’re the better side at the start.

It evens out for the rest of the first half. Anderson and De Rossi both have decent chances from free kicks, and while De Rossi’s requires a leaping save from Artur Boruc, neither really threatens to change the scoreline.

Five minutes into the second half, Zhirkov cuts inside from the left flank and chips the ball towards the penalty spot where again Dzeko is able to beat Vidic, who is now hearing it from the Stamford Bridge faithful.

They are quieted a few minutes later when a low spinning cross from Patrice Evra bounces off De Rossi’s foot and into the air. Dimitar Berbatov is able to turn his body between Ivanovic and the ball, shielding the defender and controlling the ball off his chest. His volley is well struck, and when Cech’s dive comes up short, we’re again tied.

The crowd noise is incredible: four goals, two ties, and several moments of fantastic individual play.

Ivanovic really couldn’t do anything about Berbatov’s goal without being called for a penalty. Twenty minutes on, he doesn’t let that stop him, tripping Anderson just outside the six yard box. Steve Tanner has no choice but to point to the spot.

Steve, what are you doing? He barely touched him! Carlo turns to me with disbelief on his face and I quiet down quickly: it was a pretty blatant foul and both of us know I’m just keeping up appearances.

I am surprised to see the young Brazilian Fábio step up to take the kick, though. From what I can see, Rooney is too, turning to gesticulate at Ancelotti in disbelief. Carlo yells at him to settle down but doesn’t change the proceedings. Fábio clatters it off the post but it goes in, and United take a 3-2 lead.

I can’t say I’m all that surprised: it’s been an even game, but if I’m honest, they deserve a little something after the past two matches. I clap at the players from the sidelines, but I can feel myself disengaging, already preparing for the press conference after the final whistle.

Luckily, the players don’t share my attitude, and we end up taking the game to United. Their energy pulls me back into the game and soon I’m back on the touchline, screaming and waving my arms. It doesn’t come to much until a cross from Lampard finds Dzeko at the top of the box. One touch later and our Bosnian striker had his hat trick and we are again tied.

We keep the pressure up, but no more goals were to be had.

Sometimes at the end of games there is elation, sometimes a heart-rending sense of disappointment that threatens to swallow the entire world. Often, there is frustration at the enormous weight of small mistakes.

Tonight there was just an empty exhaustion. This was a special game, a see-saw battle that left the players on both sides stooped over, hands on their knees as they caught their breath.

And we get to do it all over again in a week.

FA Cup 5th Round

Chelsea v Manchester United, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 3 (Edin Dzeko 17 50 82) – Man Utd 3 (Wayne Rooney 3, Dimitar Berbatov 56, Fábio 75p)

MoM: Dzeko (9.5)

Attendance: 41,803. Referee: Steve Tanner.

Link to post
Share on other sites

Happy Valentine's Day. February 14, 2012

My phone buzzes with increasing intensity, waking me from a surprisingly deep sleep. I grope awkwardly on the side table, forcing my eyes open. There is a moment of disorientation: everything is silver. The sheets, the table, even the square shade on the lamp gleam with a metallic sheen in the morning light.

It makes me a little queasy. The phone stutters again threatening to shake itself off the table and tumble to the metallic rug below. I pull it to my ear.Hello?

Happy Valentine’s Day, mijn beer.

I grunt in response and hear a chuckle from the other end. What time is it? I mutter.

It’s early, don’t worry. I just wanted mine to be the first voice you heard.

I smile. That’s sweet.

Yes, I am.

There is a pause, and I luxuriate in the warmth of his breathing.

I’ll let you go, he says.

So soon?

You have a game to win.

Alright.

I love you, Danyil.

All I can say is Alright before I hang up. I’m not sure why, and I spend a few minutes staring at the phone trying to figure it out. Nothing comes to mind so I sigh and lift myself heavily from the bed. There is more silver in the bathroom: a deep square sink with a faucet that confuses me momentarily. I hate that: I just want some water, not an aesthetic experience.

I can’t decide if I’m in a good mood or not: the call was sweet, but I know I pulled away from him and I can’t for the life of me understand why. I push the thoughts away, creating a space soon filled by the details of the game in a few hours. We are in Germany to face Bayern Münich in the first leg of the Champion’s League.

We have a chance of winning the whole thing. A win today would sends us on our way, but even with Mario Gómez out with a shin injury, the German midfield worries me: Toni Kroos, Franck Ribéry, Arjen Robben. Robben isn’t the only one with a link to Chelsea, either: José Boswinga starts for them at right-back and Florent Malouda is on their bench.

But I’m more interested in Carlos Kameni, who I have a quick chat with before the game. He’s lost his starting role to French veteran Mickaël Landreau and I want to find out why. It’s important for Cameroon that Kameni get playing time: he’s easily the best at his position for his country, but no position shows rust quite like goalkeeper.

The weather is foul: a cold spitting rain that finds new and surprising ways to invade the seams between skin and clothing makes it a brief conversation, both of us wiping moisture off our foreheads by the end. He’s friendly enough, but there’s little insight: he just says that Louis van Gaal likes Landreau more and that he’s working as hard as he can in training. I ask him what he thinks of his team these days and he motions with his chin towards the massive form of Romelu Lukaku, a towering man-child who at eighteen is already scoring a few goals for the club according to the scouting reports.

That one, says Kameni. That one is the real thing.

Ja?

He nods before clapping me on the shoulder and jogging over to his teammates.

The game starts slowly for us, and fifteen minutes in, Ribéry bursts free to seize on a pass from the young Israeli Mohammed Gadir and power it just inside Cech’s near post.

I get a chance to see what van Gaal sees in Landreau: he is able to get down incredibly quickly to smother a close-range shot from Michael Essien and, towards the end of the half, works very intelligently with Martín Demichelis to crowd Frank Lampard off a long pass that looked for the briefest of moments to have set him free in the box.

The one goal deficit is deserved, but it’s also acceptable in the end: we would like an away goal of course, and would like a victory even more. But we can make that up.

Five minutes into the second half, a header from Robben bounces off the crossbar and down, hitting the back of Cech’s leg before rolling over the line changing the situation dramatically.

I’m trying to help the team find some energy, some spark, but the rain seems to immediately extinguish any flame we get going. I look at the substitute’s bench and call out, Ishak! Ici.

He’s a little surprised to be the first off the bench, but he walks over to where I stand, just behind the technical area. Coach?

You’re in. I’m putting you in for Marius.

Marius?

Yes. Three up front. You between Nando and Edin. Stay behind them and play them in. If they back off you, score. You got it? He nods. Alright. Make them work to chase you, OK?

He says something, but I don’t hear it clearly. My words are echoing through my head, growing louder with each repetition. Make him work to chase you.

I lean my head back, closing my eyes and feeling the rain against my cheeks, my eyelids. It clears my mind and I open my eyes, wiping away the water with my hand as I watch Belfodil jog down the sidelines to the corner and back.

Ishak’s entry gives us more options in attack, but nothing comes of it until, with five minutes to go, Dzeko meets a lovely cross from Essien with his head, leaving Landreau flat-footed.

If we had played the full ninety as well as we played the last ten, we would have won going away. As it is, we scored a precious away goal, but still need to win at home in the second leg.

After the locker room, after the interviews, after the waiting, we are on the bus to the airport where the Russian has arranged for a late night flight back to London. I slide my phone out and send a single text.

I do love you. I do.

Champions League Knockout Round Leg One

FC Bayern München v Chelsea, Allianz-Arena

FC Bayern 2 (Franck Ribéry 15, Petr Cech 49og) – Chelsea 1 (Edin Dzeko 85)

MoM: Michael Essien (8.6)

Attendance: 56,132. Referee: Vladimir Hrinak.

Link to post
Share on other sites

February 19, 2012

Premier League

Chelsea v Fulham, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 2 (Fernando Torres 39 84) – Fulham 1 (John Arne Riise 17)

MoM: Torres (8.8)

Attendance: 41,721. Referee: Mark Clattenburg.

February 22, 2012

Premier League

Chelsea v Tottenham Hotspur, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 3 (Gaël Kakuta 2, Fernando Torres 52 73) – Tottenham 1 (Roman Pavlyuchenko 60)

MoM: Torres (8.8)

Attendance: 41,749. Referee: Andre Marriner.

Infinite Brutality. February 26, 2012

You all set? Ruud looks at me over the edge of his glasses. He is sitting on our black couch, which is increasingly showing its wear, light patterns of grey beginning to streak across the leather. A newspaper is crisply folded in his left hand, a pen, still capped, in his right. I nod. You’ll do fine.

I hope so.

It’s Everton, he says, taking off the cap.

Still. Any given day. I turn to head out and stop for a moment. I tell you about my conversation with Jessica yesterday?

No. About Leigh?

What else. A team in Houston wants her. Not the Dynamo, the other one. Loan for their season.

He arches his eyebrows in surprise and lowers the paper. You’re considering it?

Not sure. It’s home. She’ll be back here for the Olympics. She’d play every day.

You talk to her?

Not yet.

Ruud shakes his head. Danyil …

I raise my hands in defense. I know, I know. I will. I glance at my watch. Gotta run. Wembley and all that.

He smiles. Veel success, mijn beer.

I’m thinking about our conversation as I ride to Wembley. He’s right as he so often is: this needs to be Leigh’s choice, not the club’s and not mine. I sigh and rub my eyes for a moment. Things will be so much easier in a few years, and we can treat her just like a player. It’s all so bloody idiotic: everyone is bending over backwards insisting that she’s just another teenager looking to break into the first team when she’s anything but that. And the moment it serves their purpose to remember she’s unique, there are no qualms about loading her down with media requests and even worse, the burden of historic expectations.

That would still be there in Houston.

But it would be home. And that has to count for something.

League Cup Final

Chelsea v Everton, Wembley

Chelsea 0 – Everton 1 (John Heitinga 96)

MoM: Leighton Baines (8.1) Chelsea’s Best: Mamadou Sakho (7.3)

Attendance: 89,747. Referee: Rob Clarke.

Did you see that ****?

Ruud smiles at me from the far end of the hallway. Hello to you, too.

I kick off my boot angrily, sending it spinning back towards the door. I suddenly feel childish, so I make a show of picking it up and placing it neatly beside the others beneath our coats, a series of disembodied sentinels that guard the entrance to our apartment, the pale wall showing through in the space between the hems of the garments and the footwear.

He’s waiting by the opening to the kitchen, the light spilling over his broad shoulders, edging his silhouette with a crisp darkness that makes me squint as I move towards him. He takes a step back, moving into the light, revealing the burnished tones of his skin.

I want to grab him by the shoulders, to be held.

Instead, I lean on the doorway and shake my head.

Water? he asks.

Wijn, I reply.

He inclines his head and turns towards the rack under the window, his hands running along the necks of the bottles, pulling out one from the second row.Ah, he says, this will do.

He walks over to me and holds the bottle out, a portrait of the consummate sommelier. The label has a swan on it. The Russian River Valley?

He nods. California.

California? We buy California wines?

He smiles. I do. Plus, it’s late. You’ll be asleep soon: a better bottle would be a waste.

I shake my head in silence and cross to one of the stools that sit by the island as he opens the bottle and pours two glasses. We touch them gently together and I swirl mine slightly, watching the dull violet cling to the inside of the glass before it drips slowly back towards the rest of the liquid. The wine is smooth, almost too silky on the throat, but the aroma carries a pleasant and spicy earthiness. Not bad. I take a deep breath and lean forward, my head cradled in the palms of my hands.

It wasn’t that bad, he says.

I raise my head to look at him. We gave up a goal five minutes into extra time to Johnny ****ing Heitinga to lose the League Cup. I take another drink. It was simply and absolutely that bad.

Ruud shakes his head. You were shutout by the best young keeper in the world.

I pause for a moment, my curiosity raised. You think that much of Akinfeev?

I do.

I shrug and take another sip. It’s not just that. Hotspur. Fulham. Torres saved us in both but we played … My voice trails off into silence.

Ruud puts his glass down and leans against the counter, his arms crossed. You feel they are slipping?

No, not slipping. Not so much. But a little off form. And you know the Russian. Making the final isn’t enough. Second in the Cup, second in the league. It won’t be enough.

Ruud comes over and puts a hand on my shoulder. He’s an idiot.

He’s the owner.

You can catch United in the league. You have the FA Cup, the Champion’s League.

I shake my head. Not playing like this. He moves away and looks at me, considering. What?

You know United won at Anfield?

Of course they did.

Valencia near the end of the game.

Of course.

Aguirre’s out.

I stop and turn to him, my glass in mid-air. For losing to United?

For everything, I guess. It was announced after the game.

I stare a moment and raise my glass. To Javier Aguirre, and the infinite brutality of owners everywhere.

Link to post
Share on other sites

  • 2 weeks later...

Just Play. March 2, 2012

We’re back at Old Trafford for the replay against United. Of course I never said it in public, but I’m still not sure what to do. I don’t think I even said it in private. Doesn’t change it. We have Bayern in four days, we have Sturridge and Lampard out with injuries, we have Sakho and Essien unfit to start.

And Carlo has a full strength side at home in front of a raucous sea of red.

The issue is our bench. If we have to dip into it, we’re looking at Michael Larsen and Gaël Kakuta or Guillermo Salinas and Hernán Coccia. In four years, that quartet will be starting for us, or at least for someone. But a do-or-die game away at Old Trafford?

I shake my head and add Yaya Sanogo to the lineup card. At least he’s played in some big games for us, and if we need a forward off the bench, it’s going to be Didier anyways. I sign it and yell out the door, JT!

A moment later, the nearly shaven head of John Terry pokes into my office. I wave the card at him. Here it is.

He nods and crosses the room to pick it up. No surprises, then?

I shake my head. Off you go.

He heads out the door and down the hall to the small room marked Match Officials, where he’ll get berated by Kevin Stroud, shake hands with Wayne Rooney, and participate for the thousandth time in a meaningless ritual of the sport.

Time slows to a stop in the office as I wait for Daniele Tognaccini to knock, indicating it’s time for the final talk with the team. I know I should be thinking about what I’ll say, but nothing comes to mind so I end up staring mindlessly at my phone until I’m startled by the insistent rap of my assistant coach at the door.

I emerge into a quiet room: there is laughter from one end of the room, followed by a burst of French I can’t follow and another laugh. I hear Lillian Thuram’s voice quieting the group down as I raise a hand.

Look, I say, this is why you play, right? Today and Tuesday. It’s why, all your life, you’ve done what you needed to do to get where you are. I jerk my head towards where I think United’s dressing room is. And the same is true over there. This isn’t some David and Goliath thing. This is Chelsea and United in the FA Cup. This is what you dreamed about when you were running around the field as a kid. For some of you, that was a couple weeks ago. Some of you have been here before. At this point, there’s nothing else to say.

I walk over to the whiteboard, and grab an eraser, then stand back, considering the list of tactical concerns we had carefully written there. I erase the list, but hopefully slowly enough they still read it before I wipe it away. As I do so, I carry on a conversation with myself, my back still turned but my voice strong enough to carry.

Deny Rooney. Well, sure, of course. Press wide. Sure, it’s time to make the twins look as young as they are. Expose their centerbacks. How old is Ferdinand for ****’s sake? I wipe the last of the letters and take a moment to write before I turn around.

That’s the only thing to do out there. The only thing. I draw a box on the board around the four words I’ve written: WORK FOR EACH OTHER.

I’m pleased as we gather in the tunnel—it had something for the veterans, something for the kids, and it stressed the only way I could see us winning: with desire, with effort, by out-working and out-muscling Ancelotti’s side.

It doesn’t start too well. Welbeck is freed by well-placed pass from Anderson and only a smothering dive from Cech denies him from what looks like a clear goal. The ball trickles out of bounds for a United corner, which is sent spinning towards the far post where Darren Fletcher is able to rise and meet squarely. This time, there’s nothing Cech can do and in under five minutes, we’re down a goal and the sea of red that consumes the stadium comes to a boisterous, deafening boil.

It gets worse: not another five minutes go by and Anderson again proves our undoing, using his pace to burst past Yaya Touré’s challenge before sliding it inside Cech’s near post.

It looks like they might run away and hide, but a few minutes later Zhirkov gets free on the wing to send a cross into the box, where Torres is waiting. Fábio uses both hands to shove him from behind, and Keith Stroud’s card is out of his pocket before our Spanish striker hits the ground.

With Lampard out, Dzeko steps up to take the penalty and buries it in the far corner after Artur Boruc guesses incorrectly.

It’s a way back into the match, and I’m grateful for it, applauding the effort from the men in blue as we find some footing for the rest of the half. Five minutes before the interval, Vukcevic has to come off, grimacing as he grabs at his calf. There’s a moment of indecision: do we bring on Michael Larsen and try to dominate the midfield with strength and skill? Or Drogba, knowing we need to attack to equalize and hopefully take the lead?

We settle on a risky compromise, motioning young Gaël Kakuta off the bench. He won’t necessitate a change in formation, and his attacking skills still make it a positive move. But he’s twenty, and despite moments of technical brilliance, highly unpredictable, especially in this kind of game. I see Thuram speaking to him as he pulls on his shirt, Kakuta nodding in agreement.

I grab him as he heads over to the fourth official. Just play, Gaël. Just play. It’s the best I can think of, and it really is what we need from him: instinct, creativity, motion.

Friend’s whistle blows for halftime, and we’re back in the room staring at the words on the whiteboard before I know it.

Whatever Carlo said to them was better than what I came up with: they explode out of the gate in the second half, dominating play and keeping us pinned in our own end. While the post denies Fletcher on a curving drive from twenty yards, we can’t claim much surprise when, on the hour mark, Berbatov (on for a largely invisible Welbeck after the early chance) sends a header back across goal from another well-placed corner kick. Nemanja Vidic is waiting for it, and snaps it down and into the corner of the net before wheeling away in celebration.

We have some chances, the best of which is a horrendous miss from Torres, who is free on a break and sends Boruc the wrong way before scuffing the ground and sending the ball spinning wide of the now-open goal.

It’s the kind of chance you have to bury if you are going to win the FA Cup. We know because we did it last year. But this year, we’ll have to watch it unfold, ruefully thinking instead of what might have been.

FA Cup 5th Round Replay

Manchester United v Chelsea, Old Trafford

Man Utd 3 (Darren Fletcher 4, Anderson 10, Nemanja Vidic 61) – Chelsea 1(Edin Dzeko 18p)

MoM: Anderson (9.1) Chelsea’s Best: Dzeko (7.7)

Attendance: 72,631. Referee: Keith Stroud.

Link to post
Share on other sites

Its Immense Weight. March 6, 2012

Honestly, I’m nervous.

I’ve seen pictures of me when I’m nervous, and I know it doesn’t show. I mean, I can see it and Ruud can probably see it, but I doubt anyone else does. So I stand on the sidelines, listening to the crash of noise from the home faithful, my collar turned up against the rain, waiting for Andrea De Marco to blow his whistle.

Arjen Robben is hurt, but the Bayern attack remains impressive: Mario Gómez with Franck Ribéry, Toni Kroos, and Bastian Schweinsteiger in support behind him. Somehow, though, we need to contain them.

If we do, while Philipp Lahm is great on their left, the rest of their defense has holes and a narrow 1-0 victory will see us through, thanks to Dzeko’s goal near the end of the first leg.

I turn towards our bench and am again struck by the gulf it contains: Didier is there, but otherwise, they are all kids. Belfodil has proven himself, but the rest—Larsen, Golasa, Moldovan—are untested for a game like this. I pray for no injuries and most of all, to survive another day with Leigh on the bench and not in the game.

I glance up at the scoreboard and there she is, her hood up over her head, but those same dark eyes already focused intently on the game that is about to begin. I flash back to conversations over the past few days—nobody has spoken to her yet, but the wheels are in motion. The coach of the Houston Comets—I now know the name of the second best team in Houston, which I find vaguely annoying—has spoken to Jessica, Jessica has spoken to me, I have spoken to Gourlay, Gourlay has spoken to the Russian.

It is both seductive and infuriating, an opening into intrigue and coded communications and another way in which Leigh is all too clearly a puppet at the end of strings that she has little influence over. She could, of course, refuse to go, but the act of will that would require would be immense.

Still, it is her determination that leaves me speechless at times: I’ve seen great defenders come and go, and she may indeed be one. But none of them had to struggle through the tangle of that drags behind her, adding its immense weight to everything she does.

Part of me hopes she says no, just so I can watch the process unwind, watch all the gears disentangle, working to appear as if nothing had been planned in the first place.

De Marco’s whistle finally comes, and my attention narrows to moments, the flow of bodies and the path of the ball in front of me.

Bayern tries to push us off our game at the start, with both Gómez and Lahm picking up yellow cards within the first ten minutes. I allow myself a smile: I thought van Gaal might do something like this, with all the media focus on how young and inexperienced we are. While that’s true for the club, it’s not true for this lineup: Marc Muniesa is our only newcomer, the rest—Cech, Terry, Essien, Touré, De Rossi, the rest—all having, as the announcers tend to put it, “been here before.”

We absorb the early pressure well, and respond with a move of pure class when Dzeko finds Torres in space near midfield, allowing him to surge forward, drawing both Breno and Holger Badstuber to him before sliding the ball to a streaking Essien. Essien is able to swivel around Mickaël Landreau and touch the ball into the empty net, sending the crowd into a noisy, wet celebration.

We have our 1-0 lead and the challenge now is to hold it: if we do so, we’re through.

Instead, the lead lasts barely five minutes before Ribéry sends a great cross arcing across the box to where Toni Kroos has outjumped Zhirkov, heading it well past Cech’s reach.

It’s a massive goal as now we need two to move on.

We start to play increasingly offensively from that moment, sending more people forward, taking more risks at the back, but the only result is to allow Mario Gómez to show how dangerous he is: Cech denies him twice from close range, once after he easily picks the ball of JT in the box. He even scores with twelve minutes to go, but the goal is waved off—correctly, for what it’s worth—for offsides.

By the end, we have Belfodil, Drogba, and Torres all storming forward, but other than a nice turn and shot inside the box from Ishak, we’re unable to do anything and at the end, we’re left soaked through by the rain, watching our German guests celebrate on our home pitch.

I grimly shake van Gaal’s hand and trudge up the tunnel, an emptiness in my belly that feels like it will be a long time in filling.

Champions League 1st Knockout Round Leg 2

Chelsea v FC Bayern München, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 1 (Michael Essien 15) – Bayern 1 (Toni Kroos 21) [bayern wins 3-2 on aggregate]

MoM: Franck Ribéry (8.6) Chelsea’s Best: Essien (7.4)

Attendance: 41,638. Referee: Andrea De Marco.

Link to post
Share on other sites

Almost Breathless. March 8, 2010

I grunt as Ruud slides me a mug of coffee, the steam curling slowly above the dark mirror of liquid.

He smiles, but doesn’t say anything until I’ve blown on the surface and taken a small sip. My head is throbbing and I brace it in my hands, eyes closed.

Towel? I grunt again and moments later, I can feel the darkness recede slightly as he presses a cool, damp handtowel against the back of my neck. I sigh and slowly raise my head.

You’re good to me.

Yes, he says. Yes, I am. And you’re too old to drink like that.

Maybe.

He removes the towel, but I can feel its cool touch lingering like a barrier at the base of my neck, letting my head slowly clear. I drink some more coffee as he settles himself across from me.

Better?

I grimace. Getting there. More moments pass. What do we do now?

We? He grins. We go on vacation in two months.

I know. Not us, the club.

His grin fades a little, becomes harder and more practical. You do what you can. You try to catch United.

It’s not good enough. Not for the Russian. Nothing.

It’s not nothing. Second in the league? FA Cup final? It’s a damn good year.

Not for the Russian. Nowhere near good enough.

Then he’s an idiot.

I shrug. Perhaps. Doesn’t change anything.

You do what you can. He pauses and his grin disappears altogether. And if you get desperate, you give Leigh a game. I try not to react, but he catches something in my face. You were already planning that, weren’t you? A pause. Oh. You weren’t planning it at all. I slowly shake my head, trying not to look away.All year, you’ve had everyone thinking. You’ve had her thinking.

Stop. I’m not up to it. Look, it’s better this way. She’ll play for us when she’s ready to play for us, not because it’s some circus. I mean, it will be a circus, sure. But it won’t be forced, it won’t be on anybody else’s terms.

Anyone’s terms but yours.

I’m her coach. What do you want me to do?

He is taken aback by the force of my voice. I am too: it seems to echo around the kitchen for a moment, and I feel the fog rolling back behind my eyes.

His voice is quiet, resigned when he speaks again. How are you going to do it?

I’m suddenly weary, a fatigue that I feel in the depths of my bones, like my marrow has been emptied of life and is full of a thick, grey sludge that slows everything down. The same we have been. A reserve game here, a spot on the bench there. And then our summer will get filled up with tours and these useless bloody cup tournaments and she’ll play there and then next fall I don’t know. Maybe it’s time next fall.

Ruud is silent a long time.

Send her home.

What?

Send her home. Somehow get her to say yes to that club in Houston. Let her go home. Let her play there, let the hometown press fawn over her, let her go play role model to the younger sisters of the kids she grew up with. Their season ends, what December? November? I nod. Send her home, then give her a month of training. But, Danyil? I nod, almost breathless with gratitude that he is working with me, helping me. Pick a date. As soon as the schedule comes out, pick a game. Tell it to me, or to Jessica, or someone, or just write it down. But pick a game and tell her.

March 10, 2010

Premier League

Chelsea v Blackburn Rovers, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 2 (Didier Drogba 56 90) – Blackburn 0

MoM: Drogba (8.8)

Attendance: 41,435. Referee: Lee Mason.

March 14, 2010

Leigh scanned the names posted on the board inside the visitors’ dressing room at Uptown Park and sighed to herself. What do I need to do? she asked herself. This should be an easy game for the club: West Ham looked safe from relegation, but that was about it as the Hammers struggled just outside the bottom three in the league and even with the match being away from Stamford Bridge, she had hoped this would be the week.

Instead, she found Josh McEachran heading into the dressing room and congratulated him on the start. She could see he was excited and while she felt happy for him, she knew it was undercut by her jealousy. Still, McEachran was a couple years older than she was, and had been out on loan for much of the season. It wasn’t that he didn’t deserve it, it was just that Leigh was becoming more and more convinced that she did.

The question stayed in her head. What do I need to do?

She thought about asking Coach Thuram about it, or even Coach Oranje himself, but she couldn’t think of a way to do it that didn’t sound like she was whining. She thought about asking Jessica, but the last thing she wanted was to get playing time because Jessica pulled some strings.

So she did some light training with her teammates and took her seat behind the substitutes as the game got underway, smiling at Yaya Sanogo as he slid in next to her.

West Ham came out of the gate fast, with Zavon Hines trying a long range chip over Cech in the first minute that barely skimmed the top of the net, but soon Chelsea settled down and when they took the lead on the half-hour, Leigh was cheering and high-fiving with the rest of her teammates: Torres had been dispossessed by Hérita Ilunga, but recovered to touch the ball away from the Congolese veteran. He burst down the sideline and sent a cross into the box, where both Edin Dzeko and Michael Essien were waiting, but instead it was McEachran who snuck through the Hammers’ back line to neatly volley it into the back of the net for his first senior goal.

Yaya was laughing. He’s so small, the defenders just lost him.

Leigh smiled. See, I keep telling you you’re too tall, Hari. He shook his head in exasperation: Leigh had begun to call him Hari, short for haricot vert. She had actually called him Stringbean, but he had just been confused before she described the vegetable and he provided the translation.

The mood soured just before halftime as a poor pass from Mamadou Sakho was grabbed by Hines, who touched it to an open Martin Olsson who was able to sweep it into the net beyond Cech. West Ham deserved the goal, but it was still a bit of a shock to the Chelsea players to go into the dressing room with the match all square.

The second half was a war of wills largely conducted between the Chelsea attackers and Rob Green, who put forth a solid argument for his consideration for the England team, several good saves and one spectacular one on a free kick from forty yards from Michael Larsen that bucked and dove in the air but, at the last second, was tipped just around the post.

In the end, though, there was jubilation: with seconds left in regulation, Jon Obi Mikel—replacing Larsen who had pulled up lame with a foot injury—sent a fantastic ball angling through the box that Torres was able to volley home for the game winner, moving Chelsea into second place above Manchester City, but still well off the blistering pace set by United at the top of the table.

Premier League

West Ham United v Chelsea, Upton Park

West Ham 1 (Martin Olsson 45) – Chelsea 2 (Josh McEachran 31, Fernando Torres 90)

MoM: Torres (8.7)

Attendance: 34,980. Referee: Rob Clarke.

Link to post
Share on other sites

  • 2 weeks later...

March 18, 2012

Premier League

Bolton Wanderers v Chelsea, Reebok Stadium

Bolton 2 (Bjørn Helge Riise 22, Lorenzo Davids 40) – Chelsea 1 (Fernando Torres 43)

MoM: Davids (8.4) Chelsea’s Best: Torres (8.3)

Attendance: 24,813. Referee: Michael Langford.

Now What. March 21, 2012

Leigh watched the screen carefully as she increased the speed of the treadmill to a steady jog, the machine grunting softly with the regular fall of her stride.

She had to find time to talk with Coach Oranje.

But after the misery of the performance against Bolton, when the team was unable to overcome first half goals from Bjørn Helge Riise and Lorenzo Davids and lost to a Trotters side that was decidedly average, she desperately needed the club to win today against Wolves. A good win, she thought to herself, a good win and I can talk to him.

Just what she would say was another matter altogether. Leigh knew the team had better interior defenders right now. JT and Sakho and Bane, certainly; but Muniesa and Salinas as well. But she still thought she deserved some time. If she wasn’t going to play, why not just leave her in the Under 18s? And most of all, why not just tell her?

Leigh knew she was unhappy and she assumed the cause was her playing time. It was a natural enough inference: for a decade, Leigh’s life had ebbed and flowed in relation to what she did as a soccer player. Her family had tried to insist that school was important, but it became a bit of a farce at some point: she was smart, even bookish at times, but her schoolwork was always secondary, and the decision to allow her, as a fifteen year old, to pursue her GED instead of finishing high school with her friends, was a choice born of her desire to come to Chelsea and her willingness to work as hard as it took to get there.

That meant Leigh was used to either being alone or being on the field, working at the game or playing it. As such, her slow estrangement from Halo was a source of confusion more than anything else: Leigh didn’t understand what the tall blonde woman wanted from her, and it made her nervous: she had experienced all sorts of petty jealousies with teammates and some of the things said and done to her on the field crossed all lines of propriety. But she had always had a refuge, a place to retreat to where she could relax and let down her guard.

Here, that didn’t seem possible. Her room was clearly hers, the posters on the wall, the small, floppy stuffed animals on the bed, the variety of mementos arranged in careful rows on her dresser all echoed her room in Houston. But even though she called the small apartment home, it felt like anything but. She couldn’t remember the last time she had friends over, the last time she felt able to let her guard relax completely.

She glanced up and, not for the first time, admired Wolverhampton’s dark orange shirts trimmed with black and the sharp angles of their wolf’s head logo.

The game started promisingly, with Dzeko and Vukcevic combining several times to test Wayne Hennessey in the home goal. But nothing found its way inside the net, and when Leigh stepped off the machine at halftime to stretch and cool down, she felt an anxious knot form in her stomach. Please. Just a win.

The second half brought more of the same: chances from Dzeko, from Sturridge, from Essien. But each time the ball would spin just wide of the post or Hennessey would make yet another save whilst at full stretch.

When Michael Langford blew the whistle for full-time with the game still scoreless, the camera focused on Danyil Oranje’s handshake with Stanley Menzo, a brief affair. The Chelsea manager turned back towards the lens, his face set in a tight scowl, his eyes flashing with barely-contained anger.

Leigh had slowed to a walk in the final five minutes. She flipped off both the exercise machine and the TV and stood, her feet spread wide on either side of the treadmill, her head hanging between her arms. She watched drops of sweat fall from her forehead and chin, slowly filling in a Rorschach design the size of her head, dark drops combining in fungal patterns against the worn grey fabric.

Her eyes closed and she felt a shiver climb along her spine, a chill of anxious discomfort.

Now what? she asked herself. Now what?

Premier League

Wolverhampton Wanderers v Chelsea, Molineux

Wolves 0 – Chelsea 0

MoM: Wayne Hennessey (7.5) Chelsea’s Best: Marius Moldovan (7.3)

Attendance: 29,303. Referee: Michael Langford.

March 22, 2012

Danyil hadn’t been able to make up his mind. Eventually, he decided that he couldn’t bear to see his team after that performance, and gave himself the day off. He had warned them Friday would not be pleasant, and if they thought he would take it easy on them just because the most important game of the season to date—a home affair with Manchester City, who sat just above Chelsea in second place—loomed on Saturday, they were mistaken.

He told them they should spend today in fear of what’s to come, and that, if they had any damn sense at all, they would show up at Cobham today without him.

He had checked in with Tognaccini earlier in the day, and they had all shown up.

Good, Danyil had told his assistant. Give them to Winsper and Driscoll. Let them do whatever they want.

Tognaccini had laughed and agreed, and Danyil could only imagine what the two fitness coaches—who were usually complaining that Danyil made them coddle and baby the squad—were doing to them.

A thin smile crossed his face, which Ruud noticed immediately. A smile?

Danyil shook his head. Not really. Just thinking of them running until they throw up.

Ruud grimaced. How nice.

You saw the last two games. Do they deserve any better? Ruud shook his head.And now this ****. What is this?

What?

Danyil stared at his phone for a moment. The King George Club Championship.

You’re in that this year?

Yes. He glanced back down. With Cardiff, Portsmouth, and Swansea. What the hell is it?

It’s all American and English clubs. Well, sort of English. I mean, Cardiff. Spurs won it last year, you know.

Danyil stared at him. No. Of course I didn’t ****ing know. But why do we have to play in it?

Ruud shrugged. Probably because you were invited.

Danyil sighed. King George. And this ridiculous Imposters Cup.

Well, you know who won that.

Danyil couldn’t repress a smile—Chelsea had defeated Real Madrid each of the last two years in the final of the massive international competition. Ach. More time for the kids and the new players, I guess.

Link to post
Share on other sites

They Couldn't See Him. March 24, 2012.

Ruud slid onto the barstool and nodded to the large bald man behind the scarred wooden counter. He returned the greeting and wiped his hands on white apron that had seen better days, asking, Alright, yeah? What’ll it be?

Pint of that, Ruud answered, nodding towards the tap in front of him. He didn’t recognize the brand, but it was part of being invisible: asking for a particular brand or, even worse, the glass of cabernet he wished he could have, was asking to be noticed, remembered. The barman turned and grabbed a glass from the shelf and pulled the pint, pausing to let the head settle a moment.

Ruud glanced around: the pub was barely a third full. He had ridden quite a ways out of London’s center in search of exactly this kind of setting: a quiet place, out of the way, and unlikely to attract large crowds of fervent supporters for either side.

You get anything down on it? he asked, nodding towards the large flat-screen TV, which showed players in dark and light blue milling about the easily recognizable confines of Stamford Bridge.

A fiver on Chelsea, said Ruud. It wasn’t true.

Good man, said the barkeep, sliding him the pint.

Ruud smiled, happy to have answered correctly. He settled on the chair, staring at the screen. It was a huge game: Manchester City was one point ahead of Chelsea in second place in the league, and with the season entering the homestretch, today’s winner would have a clear advantage. Everyone had given up catching United: it was mathematically possible, but the Reds showed little sign of slowing down in their record-setting performance.

Ruud looked at Mark Hughes’ lineup and shrugged inwardly. He didn’t think he would ever really understand the thinking behind the Manchester club: they had let Kun Agüero go to AS Roma for a song over the summer, and the Carlos Tevez fiasco had ended with the supremely talented Argentinian signing with Valencia. That left City with a first choice strike force of Mario Balotelli and Vágner Love. Balotelli was gifted, perhaps the most gifted twenty-one year old on the planet. But he was, in the popular parlance, nutter and Love was little better.

The key to the team was the midfield where David Silva and Samir Nasri were capable of sublime play, and the challenge for Chelsea’s defense was going to be to maintain their focus and concentration for the full ninety minutes. Danyil had talked of starting young Marc Muniesa, but Ruud was glad he came to his senses: the back four would be Terry and Sakho in the middle, with Zhirkov and Essien on the wings.

A quarter hour in, the barkeep was cursing. City’s Paulo Ferrari sent a cross in from the wing and Nasri curled behind three Chelsea defenders to nod the ball in at the far post. For ****’s sake, he cried, snapping a towel across the bar with a hard, flat sound. He’s no bigger ‘n a twelve year old, and he wins the header?

Ruud laughed. That’s the problem. They couldn’t see him.

The barkeep’s grimace softened slightly. Right enough. Another?

Ruud nodded and nursed his second pint through the rest of the first half. Five minutes from time, Drogba headed the ball back to Michael Larsen near midfield. Larsen saw Frank Lampard making a run and sent the ball upfield with a single touch. Lampard, outside the box on the left hand side, drew Nasri, Micah Richards, and Kolo Touré all towards him and chipped the ball back to the middle where Torres was waiting and able to touch the ball beyond Joleon Lescott. He whirled and sent a low shot into the far corner, well outside the reach of Joe Hart.

It was glorious goal, and elicited a yell of support from the man behind the bar, followed by the bellowed six note refrain of Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea.

Just before halftime, Lampard again played the architect, heading the ball forward just at the edge of the box. Hart and Zhirkov both raced for it, but the Russian winger arrived first, sending his own header bounding towards the open goal. It bounced tantalizingly off the far post, and Gaël Clichy was able to clear the ball before a streaking Drogba could pounce on it.

Oh, for ****’s sake, moaned the barkeep. Did you see that? Ruud nodded and shrugged. That’s the problem with Zhirkov, the proprietor said. He looks great out there, but he can’t score, can’t finish.

Ruud sighed inwardly, but just nodded.

Felipe Caicedo came on at halftime for Ferrari, and shortly thereafter, James Milner for Love. Hughes was going for the win on the road and, ten minutes in, he almost got it when Kolo Touré, arriving late in the box at the end of an extended attack, unleashed an absolute rocket of a shot that Cech was only barely able to turn around the post. The more times the save was shown on television, the more spectacular it was: Cech was at his right post to protect against Caicedo’s header, but the Colombian forward instead sent the ball all the way across the face of the six yard box to where Touré was finishing his run. The shot was low and hard and destined to slide just within the post, but Cech was somehow able to get across his goal and down to turn it away.

Fifteen minutes later, the tie was finally broken when Yaya Touré intercepted a pass at midfield and touched it forward to Drogba, who laid it off towards the wings where Torres was able to touch it ahead and into space. He was one-on-one with Lescott, and the outcome was predictable, with Joe Hart again picking the ball out of his own net.

The game was tense from that point on, with City looking destined to tie the score time and time again with only a great string of saves by Petr Cech keeping them at bay. With two minutes left, Essien sent a pass forward towards the tall form of Ishak Belfodil, on for Drogba. Belfodil was through, leaving Richards and Lescott screaming at the assistant referee while he beat Hart with a well angled shot.

The final goal made the scoreline a little unfair to the Citizens, but neither Ruud nor the bartender cared as they drank a toast to the Blues, now second in the league.

Premier League

Chelsea v Manchester City, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 3 (Fernando Torres 41 70, Ishak Belfodil 89) – Man City 1 (Samir Nasri 14)

MoM: Peter Cech (9.1)

Attendance: 41,088. Referee: Steve Tanner.

Link to post
Share on other sites

  • 2 weeks later...

March 28, 2012

Premier League

Wigan Athletic v Chelsea, DW Stadium

Wigan 0 – Chelsea 1 (Yaya Touré 33)

MoM: Chris Kirkland (8.2) Chelsea’s Best: Touré (7.8)

Attendance: 21,701. Referee: Howard Webb.

Leigh didn’t even bother showering. She had sat on the bench for ninety minutes again, watching Chelsea trudge to victory on a windy day on the outskirts of Manchester and trying hard to ignore the increasingly aggressive voices that rained down on her from the stands. She was attentive throughout the game, anxious even: it was her birthday. Today, she was seventeen, and she thought somehow that today would be the day she finally stepped on the field for a game in the Premier League.

It all made sense at first: a birthday present, an unshakeable belief that she must finally have figured out what they were waiting for all these months.

Instead, when Howard Webb blew his whistle for full time, she couldn’t help but drop her head for a moment, her shoulders heavy with frustration. She blew out hard, watching the steam quickly evaporate on the wind, and hauled herself up to file down the tunnel. As the reserves merged with the players coming off the field, she felt a hand on her shoulder and turned, staring into the deep-set eyes of her coach.

Happy Birthday, Leigh, he said, smiling.

She forced one in return. Thanks.

We have a little something once we’re all changed. Same knock as usual, yeah?

Leigh nodded and hurried down the tunnel into the makeshift changing room Wigan had arranged. She just wanted to leave, to get back to her room and crawl under the covers. Instead, she stared at the shower, silently laughed at herself for checking if anyone was around before she quickly raised her arms and sniffed, and changed back into her travelling clothes. After that, there wasn’t much to do except sit on the bench and wait.

So, she did. She reread the birthday e-mail from her Mom, reveling in its banality: she missed Leigh, they hoped to come see her over the summer, everyone asked about her, her grandparents were showing signs of aging but were doing well enough. Leigh sighed and leaned back, her head knocking against the metal locker behind her with a dull sound like a coin rattling in an empty can. She closed her eyes and slowly did it again, not hard enough to hurt, just enough for it to feel solid, real, the slight give of the metal, the cushioned softness of her pony tail as it compressed each time her head arced back. She could hear the faint rattle of one of the hinges, a hypnotic coda of a thudding impact and a shaky echo that repeated again and again.

She almost lost her balance when the quick pattern of knocks shook the door, and when she scrambled to grab her kit and head out, she could feel the flush on her neck, as if she had been caught out.

There was a cake in the main locker room, buttercream icing with dark blue letters wishing her a Sweet Seventeen. She muttered something inaudible in thanks and busied herself cutting pieces and handing them out.

We give cake to the reserves now?

Leigh wasn’t sure who said it—the voice was English, and young, and it came from a group where the most likely culprit was Phil Jones, a gangly young player who couldn’t seem to decide if he was a defender or a midfielder. Jones was awkward, always trying a little too hard to belong with the established players. Replies flashed through Leigh’s head.

Really? You liked being on loan at Watford that much?

No, they give cake to players who will be regulars at some point.

Instead, she just smiled and held out a plate. It’s good. Want some?

No, but I’ll take a kiss.

A hush fell over the room almost immediately. Heads swiveled in her direction, and there were a couple half-swallowed mutters of protest.

Leigh just stared at him. Even at her full height, Jones was taller and broader than she was, but she drew herself up anyways and her eyes narrowed into the fierce mask that she wore so often.

**** you, Jones, she said.

There was a pause, broken by a cackle of laughter from Frank Lampard. That’s how we’ll tell them apart, all the ****ing Joneses we’re collecting, he said loudly, waving his fork around and sending chunks of cake flying with each movement.The little **** will be Johnny. He waved towards Leigh. Your roomie the blonde is, whatever, Halo. He paused as if considering the name and shook his head before continuing, shaking his fork at Phil. And you, we can’t call you Phil. No. You will be ****you Jones.

There was laughter, and shouts of ****you Jones, and Leigh busied herself with pouring a glass of punch, hiding a smile as she did so.

March 29, 2012

The next morning, Leigh stared at her phone, swiping back and forth as she read the four parts of the text from Jessica.

This is a business text, it began. And, it was: a team had approached Chelsea about taking Leigh on loan. An American team. From Houston.

Home.

Leigh put the phone on her nightstand and curled herself around a pillow, her eyes closed tight, a shiver running through her body. She thought of her room, of the sun streaming through the decals she had peeled onto her bedroom window: a winged fairy, her face squashed as if she flew headlong into the glass; a dark blue disk pierced by stars that let the light through in small pinpoints of light; a decal with an eye, a heart, and a soccer ball.

She thought of Saturday mornings when she would hear noises from downstairs and would wait in bed, staring at the window, until the deep bass of her Dad’s voice would float upstairs calling, Pancakes! She thought of Marti, her friend since fourth grade who she hadn’t spoken to in two years, of the way Marti’s mother would call her Florita Because, she would say, squeezing Leigh’s cheek, you are a flower, about to bloom.

Not Going Anywhere. March 31, 2012

Leigh collapsed on the dark blue couch in the TV room at Cobham, a towel draped over her face. She lay there for a few minutes, waiting for her breathing to slow. She exhaled hard, sending the towel fluttering in the air and laughed to herself, half-singing and half-humming Wannabe to herself for a few moments, reveling unabashedly in her weakness for songs that came out when she was an infant. She sat up, quickly running the towel through her hair before retying her ponytail and heading over to a side table where an assortment of fruits and snacks were arranged in orderly rows. She grabbed an apple and turned around, catching herself short as she saw she wasn’t alone.

In the back of the room, Branislav Ivanovic sat, a wry smile on his face.

Great, said Leigh, you’ve been here the whole time?

Ivanovic nodded, rising to his feet. Leigh closed her eyes and shook her head, feeling her throat grow warm. It’s ok, said the tall Serbian as he approached,your secret is safe with me.

She sighed and opened her eyes. Which one? The fact I can’t sing or the fact I was singing a stupid pop song?

There’s nothing wrong with stupid pop songs.

Leigh sat down heavily and bit into the apple. She glanced at the TV and patted the couch next to her. You staying to watch it?

Bane shook his head. No. We’ll see it, what, four times in the next few days? I hate watching when I don’t play.

Leigh didn’t know what to say: she was here to watch, so she couldn’t agree, could she? But she hated not playing, hated it more than anything else and in that moment, she desperately wanted an ally. She just nodded, hoping it was the right choice.

Ivanovic stood for a moment then reached out and touched Leigh on the shoulder. She looked up sharply, unsure. You’ll get your shot, Leigh. You will. He turned and headed out, letting the metal door swing shut behind him with a loud thump.

Leigh settled in to watch the game, a smile on her face that took a long time fading.

It was a slow first half, with little of note. Leigh realized, though, that she did enjoy watching. She would prefer to play, she would never watch a game again if she were given the choice, but she wasn’t. So the next best thing was to lose herself in the game, admiring how Belfodil and Drogba were working together; but getting frustrated with how Mikel, Lampard, and Larsen were all moving centrally behind them, letting Aston Villa guard three men with two players.

She watched the replays of Fabian Delph faking one way and skipping past JT only to hammer the ball off the post, looking for the moment Terry was beaten. She grabbed the remote and flipped forward and back a half-dozen times until she saw it clearly: with the ball at his feet, Delph dropped his left shoulder and lifted his knee and Terry’s weight followed. It wasn’t until Delph’s hip moved that Terry’s momentum shifted that way, but Delph was just gathering energy to push of back across his body, changing direction faster than Terry could react and allowing the young midfielder to burst through on goal, already planting his right foot and bringing his left back for the shot.

She watched Marc Muniesa block three shots, each time perfectly anticipating the attacking player, stretching his leg and deflecting the shot well wide. He’s not going anywhere, she thought to herself.

After halftime, the edge in quality began to seep through, but Diego Cavalieri—who has displaced Shay Given as Villa’s number one in goal—was up to the task each time, most notably turning away two curling shots from distance from Belfodil. At the hour mark, Leigh smiled: Aston Villa’s defense had looked susceptible to speed all day and now Coach Oranje was bringing on Studs for Drogba.

It paid dividends almost immediately, with both Carlos Cuéllar and Stephen Warnock struggling to keep up with Sturridge’s darting runs. Finally, taking a pass from Sturridge on the left side of the box, Belfodil was clattered by Warnock but instead of going down for what would probably have been a clear penalty, he shrugged off the contact and beat Cavalieri by going back across the goal and into the top of the net.

Villa fought to the very end, but when with two minutes to go, Sturridge chased down a long clearance and sent the ball sailing across the six yard box, Belfodil was there to head it in for his second of the game.

Leigh watched Belfodil celebrate with his teammates, mirrored screams of jubilation coming from him and Sturridge. The image caught her eye: the boyish roundness of Sturridge’s dark face, the angular sharpness of Belfodil’s, one black, one white, both tied tightly to Chelsea’s future.

She knew each of them, knew they were still prone to pouting, to moments of extreme selfishness, to making poor decisions on the field. But she had watched the club stick by them, pairing them with veterans and coaches, working with each of them in similar but subtly different ways. She clicked off the TV and sat in silence for a while.

That should be me, she thought. That will be me, she thought.

Premier League

Aston Villa v Chelsea, Villa Park

Aston Villa 0 – Chelsea 2 (Ishak Belfodil 64 89)

MoM: Belfodil (9.0)

Attendance: 42,640. Referee: Stuart Attwell.

Link to post
Share on other sites

  • 3 weeks later...

Any Of Us. April 8, 2012

Premier League

Chelsea v Everton, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 2 (Didier Drogba 5 21) – Everton 2 (Tim Cahill 7p 82p)

MoM: Cahill (8.8) Chelsea’s Best: Drogba (8.7)

Attendance: 39,836. Referee: Jamie Cole.

Leigh slid into the locker room as quietly as she could. She hadn’t been named to the match squad but, as was custom for home games, had watched from the seats behind the bench along with a half-dozen others. It had been a painful match: two marvelous goals from Didier Drogba had been overshadowed by two horrendous mistakes by John Terry: first, he had blatantly tripped James Vaughan inside the box minutes after Drogba’s initial score; then, with under ten minutes left in the game, he was whistled for a handball in the box. Tim Cahill converted both penalty shots, and Chelsea were forced to accept only a single point from a game in which they outplayed the visitors from end to end.

Terry sat, a towel draped over his head, a mountain of white cloth and pale flesh, his shorts and cleats still on. Leigh paused: she usually sat on the end of the bench by the Chelsea captain but today his limbs were spread wide and his sheer immobility seemed to cast an aura of dangerous tension that extended around him. She carefully sat down, then as the white towel jerked sharply upwards, she stood back up.

**** off, you ****ing ****, barked Terry.

Leigh's face froze, an instant wash of red blooming up her neck.

Hey! It was Frank Lampard's voice that cut through the silence.

Terry glared at him. **** off, I'd call any of you a ****.

Any of us but her, answered Lampard.

Terry stood, the towel falling to the bench. **** this, he said, shouldering heavily past Leigh. He paused and stared at her momentarily. And **** you, too. He left to a quiet room, the silence only broken by metallic crashes from the hallway as he took his anger out on an unlucky table that would need replacing.

Leigh stood still, pressing her back hard against the wall to keep herself from shaking, the unmoving pressure helping to keep her grounded. She heard someone's voice say, Leave him go. He'll break some **** and be back soon enough. before she heard the deeper tones of Coach Oranje pick up.

She couldn't remember a word of what he said: she just stood, trying not to meet the eyes of the players trying equally hard to catch hers. She stared at the floor and tried to control her breathing, tried to hold down the anger that she felt rolling around her stomach like a slow wave building on its way to the shore and as soon as Coach Oranje had finished, she ducked out the door and into the London night, ignoring the voices calling her name.

She walked quickly, burying her chin into the soft fabric of her windbreaker both to shield her face from the world and to protect against the chill of the air. Her phone was vibrating constantly, and she barely glanced at it as she turned it off entirely. She reached the parking lot outside the Chelsea World of Sport and stopped. She knew she couldn't just keep walking: the streets were still full of fans from both teams, and she was in no shape to meet the public at the moment. Just over the wall lay Brompton Park, a lovely enclosed green space where she had been a few times on training runs, but she wasn't sure how to get there. She could climb the wall, but she thought there were train tracks beyond.

She took a deep breath. I didn't do anything wrong, she kept saying to herself, but she wasn't sure she believed it: the sense of shame stuck to her, a thick liquid that seemed to trap her anger, forcing it back inside herself. She turned and made her way down the back of the stadium, nodding in greeting to the cleaning crews that were slowly emptying the stadium of the remains of the match. Posters lined the brick wall: Drogba with his arms out in celebration, Lampard lifting the Champion’s Cup, Sakho with his distinctive Mohawk and broad smile. She moved towards the driveway of the Millennium Hotel, where the doorman rose as at her approach.

Miss Leigh, he said, one finger moving to the brim of his hat. He had worked there four years ago, when Leigh and her family had stayed on premises during her first trip to London and had still been there two years later when, with much more fanfare, she had returned. He had been attentive and kind and although Leigh had never learned his name, she would often stop to chat for a minute or two on her way in or out of the stadium grounds.

Leigh forced a smile. Hi.

Can I help you with something?

A taxi, please. Can I just wait over here? She nodded towards a shielded corner between the brick columns and the glass facade of the building.

Of course, he said, smiling and turning towards the concierge desk to place a call.

Leigh leaned her back against the brick and slowly slid downwards, feeling its rough edge catching on her jacket and then her hair. She stared straight ahead, and when the taxi arrived, it took several attempts before she noticed them calling her name.

Link to post
Share on other sites

April 11, 2012

Premier League

Birmingham v Chelsea, St. Andrews

Birmingham 0 – Chelsea 2 (Edin Dzeko 24, Frank Lampard 45)

MoM: Petr Cech (8.5)

Attendace: 24,937. Referee: Michael Langford.

April 17, 2012

Premier League

Burnley v Chelsea, Turf Moor

Burnley 0 – Chelsea 2 (Didier Drogba 45, Frank Lampard 56)

MoM: Yury Zhirkov (8.4)

Attendance: 22,516. Referee: Martin Atkinson.

The Worst Part of the Day. April 21, 2012

Ruud whistled to himself as he busied himself in the kitchen at halftime. He glanced at the clock, thinking to himself, Forty-five minutes, then an hour, then another for him to be here. Three hours. He set the oven, listening for the soft whoosh as the gas jets came to life, and sprinkled a final dusting of dark red spice onto the rack of ribs resting gently above a tinfoil lined baker’s sheet, propped up by a series of carefully spaced steel prongs.

Two first half goals had put Chelsea comfortably ahead of Newcastle. Ruud smiled: he had liked the young Mexican defender Guillermo Salinas when they watched him in South Africa at the World Cup and had been pleased that Chelsea had signed him the previous year. Today, Salinas had showed another glimpse of his development, taking a pass outside of the box and dribbling past Tamás Kádár before sending the ball into the back of the net. The second goal involved more traditional actors, with a perfectly-weighted thirty yard pass from Simon Vukcevic setting Daniel Sturridge free at the edge of the six yard box for a simple tap-in.

The oven dinged softly and Ruud slid in the sheet in, pausing to wipe his hands and carefully fold the kitchen towel over the oven handle. He set the timer and headed back into the small living room, just in time to see the camera cut from Newcastle’s Chris Hughton to Danyil before Kevin Friend blew his whistle for the start of the second half.

Danyil looked good, confident and sure of himself, arms crossed as he stared across the field. Ruud thought he could see the slightest hint of a smile at the corners of his lips. Ruud took a magazine from a pile and flipped through the pages, not really seeing the glossy images of locally-grown vegetables smothered in brilliantly colored sauces.

Newcastle came out strong in the second half and when Jonás nods home a cross from the right win off the foot of Marco Marchionni, it couldn’t really be called a surprise. Chelsea’s lack of response, however, could, and there were more than a few cat-calls from the home support when, just past an hour, some quick footwork from Martin Paterson setup André-Pierre Gignac for a hard volley from fourteen yards out that beat Cech to his near post, tying the match at two.

Ruud slapped his palm on the sofa, sending the magazine tumbling to the ground, the flat sound echoing momentarily through the apartment. Damn, he thought. That is not going to help his mood. Indeed, when the camera swung over to the Chelsea coach, all traces of good humor had vanished from his face, and his posture was tight, his shoulders hunched into the wind. He had gathered Daniele De Rossi and Michael Larsen nearby and was speaking intensely, his hands drawing shapes in the air, the two midfielders listening intently between gulps from their squeeze bottles.

Whatever Danyil told them helped, but was not sufficient to swing the contest back to Chelsea’s favor, and as the game wore on, Ruud moved less and less until he was absolutely still, a brown skinned statue on the black couch, only his eyes trailing the motion as it flowed across the flatscreen.

Twenty minutes from time, Paterson capped a brilliant second half with a volley from twenty-five yards that curled around Cech’s dive, sending the visiting support into screams of joy and sending a wave of silence across the rest of Stamford Bridge. Ruud cursed to himself and slumped against the back of the couch, all of the earlier tension flowing dispiritedly out of his body and leaving him limp, a deep frown etched on his face.

Just after the fourth official held up the sign indicating three minutes of extra time, Frank Lampard chipped a ball out towards the edge of the box where Branislav Ivanovic was able to control it and then turn, sending a hard shot through Fraser Forster’s arms. Chelsea’s reactions were muted: salvaging a point from a game they should have won was not a cause for celebration as much as relief, and Ruud, after an initial clap of celebration at Ivanovic’s shot, stared mutely at the screen until the soft pinging of the timer on the oven snapped him out of his reverie.

He moved a little vaguely, as if in a daze, returning to the room after slopping another round of sauce onto the ribs and resetting the timer.

His mood soured further after he returned to the couch, pausing to smooth out the pages of the magazine and replace it on the side table: a first half goal from Mounir El Hamadaoui had given Bolton a shock 1-0 victory over Manchester United, meaning a win today would have closed the gap between Chelsea and the behemoth at the top of the league table. Ruud turned off the TV and watched his reflection ghosted on its pale surface. He sat in silence until the oven again demanded his attention in the kitchen, where he busied himself until he heard a heavy tread on the stairs and the metallic scratching of Danyil’s key in the lock.

Ruud felt the tension rise in his body. Danyil had surely seen the Bolton score by now and would be all too aware of what the slip against the Magpies had cost. He turned as Danyil entered the kitchen, composing his face into a small smile. Danyil shook his head. It’s just not our year. He crossed and leaned heavily on the island in the middle of the kitchen. Just not our year. Danyil inhaled and looked up curiously. What is that?

Ruud grinned and grabbing a pair of oven mitts from the counter, opened the door, filling the small kitchen with the tang and spice of the ribs. He placed the baking sheet on the counter with a flourish. Just for you.

Danyil’s smile was slow in coming, but the appreciation in his eyes was true. He reached out and pulled Ruud to him, placing a hand on each cheek. You amaze me. Their lips touched briefly before Ruud turned back to the oven, a smile on his face as he quickly created two plates.

You know what the worst part of the day was?

Ruud wiped his lips before asking, Not the game?

Danyil shook his head. That idiot Jones is back. The teenage *****. Jonathan. A few months on loan at Derby—Derby for ****’s sake—and he thinks he should waltz right into the starting lineup.

He does?

He said as much to me before the game.

Ruud arched an eyebrow. And?

And? I told you about Bane, right? Ruud nodded. If Ivanovic thinks you’re a little ****, the odds are you’re a little ****. Danyil waved his fork in the air emphatically. He’s gone.

Premier League

Chelsea v Newcastle United, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 3 (Guillermo Salinas 13, Daniel Sturridge 22, Branislav Ivanovic 90+1) – Newcastle 3 (Jonás 58, André Pierre-Gignac 65, Martin Paterson 85)

MoM: Jonás (8.3) Chelsea’s Best: Salinas (7.8)

Attendance: 52,387. Referee: Kevin Friend.

Link to post
Share on other sites

April 25, 2012

Premier League

Newcastle United v Chelsea, St. James’ Park

Newcastle 0 – Chelsea 3 (Mamadou Sakho 4, Fernando Torres 19, Ishak Belfodil 90+2)

MoM: Sakho (8.4)

Attendance: 39,470. Referee: Howard Webb.

April 28, 2012

Premier League

Chelsea v West Ham United, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 0 – West Ham 0

MoM: Mamadou Sakho (7.5)

Attendance: 41,671. Referee: Mike Jones.

The Only Option. April 29, 2012

I can feel myself getting more and more angry as the game goes on. The room feels too small, the light coming in through the blinds alternatingly to weak and too bright, Ruud both too close and not comforting enough.

First, Vágner Love sent an incredible strike from the corner of the box, then five minutes later Love stole the ball and found a streaking Felipe Caicedo who skipped past the lunging challenge of Rio Ferdinand before sliding the ball beyond the reach of a diving Artur Borat, putting Manchester City ahead of their crosstown rivals by two goals in under twenty minutes.

Ruud sat silently next to me as I grew more agitated, cursing under my breath.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t want United to win, as much as I prefer Ancelotti to Mark Hughes. But we had a chance. Yesterday. Had.

And we ****ed it up. Royally.

West Ham at home, and we couldn’t put the ball in the back of the net.

Dzeko, Torres, Belfodil. None of them. We showed up in front of our faithful with an outside chance—but still a chance—of catching United. Instead, we were dominated by Jonathan Spector and Martin Olsson—a defender who can’t even crack the American national team and, well, and Martin ****ing Olsson.

I sighed as the Manchester derby reached halftime.

Well, you’ve been quiet, I said, lifting myself heavily off the couch.

Sometimes, silence is the best option. His eyes cut my direction. Sometimes it’s the only option.

Sorry. It’s just. Well. I turned and trudged into the kitchen. You want something to drink?

There’s a bottle open.

I mean something other than wine.

There’s a pause before Ruud answers, I’ll stick with the wine. Bedankt.

I rummaged through the cupboard for a tumbler and a bottle of Aberlour, poured Ruud his glass of Cabernet, and returned.

Cheers, he said. I scowled in response. Oh, come on. It wasn’t good against the Hammers, I’ll give you that. But United, it’s their year. It’s just their year.

I took a deep sip of the amber liquid, feeling the sudden rush of warmth in my throat and chest before I answered. To hell with that. Noodlot? I just shook my head. We score yesterday, we’re three points back with two to play and a game in hand. We score yesterday, we win out, and we’ve just buggered their year.

He considered a response and thought better of it, settling against the back of the couch, his eyes fixed on the screen.

Love adds a second before the game descends into farce: Rafael is sent off for a second booking with twenty minutes to go and then, in the final five minutes, Rodrigo Possebon scores for each team, sandwiched around a nice shot from Patrice Evra.

After the game, Ruud finally spoke. I made the reservations today.

You did?

I did. We leave on the eighth. Back the twentieth. Twelve days. He smiled, almost shyly, and my heart, warmed by the whiskey and calmed by gradual resignation, melted a little.

Goed.

Ja. It will be good. Sun. Sand. Blue water. You in spandex.

I can’t help but laugh. That was good a decade ago, I said, patting my stomach.

Still …

The twentieth? Did you get tickets?

I did.

Fantastich. The Champions League final would be held on May nineteenth in Germany in what would be essentially a home game for Bayern as they hosted Barcelona. The German side had made light work of Liverpool, but Barcelona had struggled somewhat with Manchester City, needing a late strike from Lionel Messi to win by a single goal on aggregate.

Yes, he said resting a head on my shoulder, yes, I am.

Link to post
Share on other sites

Not Now. May 4, 2012

Óscar Fradera blows his whistle and I lean over for a moment, my hands resting on my knees. I can feel the weight of my pony-tail on my back, the sweat dripping down my neck. I stand up and exhale hard. All I want to do is reach up and adjust my boobs. I can feel a pool of sweat beneath them, and my sports bra has rolled up, pinching the skin when I move. I feel the thick pat of a gloved hand on my shoulder and look up to see Halo’s face.

Hard one, yeah? she asks.

I just nod, and not for the first time, am jealous of her lithe and small-breasted figure. Even after three hours, she’s strikingly pretty: high cheekbones, hair that somehow is still spiked, the smudge of dirt on her cheek only enhancing her face. Me, I’m pretty sure I look like ****. There’s blood on my leg from a hard collision with Moldovan, and I know my neck and face are a mottled pattern of wine colored flush and pale skin.

A wave of players in their black and orange jerseys are heading towards the sidelines and I join them. As I head off the field, I spot Coach Oranje standing apart from the others. As good a time as any, I think, taking a deep breath to steel myself.

Coach, I say as I draw nearer.

He turns and smiles. Leigh. His eyes linger on my leg. You okay?

I shrug it off. Just caught a stud. I’ll let Eva worry over it in a bit. You got a minute?

He nods and takes a few steps away from the growing group behind us. Following him, I try to figure out how to begin. So, like, one more game? He looks at me, and I feel like an idiot, but I keep going. Yeah, um, so. Another deep breath. It’s not going to happen, is it?

Something flashes across his face, but I can’t tell what it is.

Finally, No, he says. Look, I could tell you something about, I don’t know, finishing the season with the players who worked together all year, some nonsense like that. But it never was going to happen. Not this year.

I knew as much, so the answer doesn’t throw me, although it still hurts to hear him say it. Why not? I ask.

He looks away and sticks his hands deep in the pockets of his windbreaker.Anorak, I think. They call them anoraks here.

Three reasons, he says, turning back to me and pulling out his hands and holding them between us, three digits extended. He counts them off a finger at a time. One. You’re still not good enough. You’re eighteen, Leigh. Nobody is good enough at eighteen. You’ve done fantastic this year, and you will be good enough. Not now. Two. Everyone needs to get used to you. It’s not fair and it’s not right, but everyone does. And the more they see you, the more your face is behind the bench, the more you jog and stretch on the sidelines, the more they do. And three. Here he paused again, squinting at me. I just tried to keep my face still.Three, when you do, when you do play. He shakes his head. That’s it. Once you play, you’ll be there every game. Every week. That’s what you need. No wondering, no questions, just the games.

I had to work to breathe. He was right: that’s what was missing for me: certainty. Knowing. Not wondering if each thing I did was the thing that would get me on the field or keep me off it.

I nodded. OK. OK. Thanks.

That’s it?

I shrug. What else is there?

He laughs and for a moment I feel a sudden wave of anxiety until the warmth in his eyes help it recede. You amaze me, Leigh. I honestly don’t think I’ve ever had a young player take direct criticism as well as you do.

I’m confused, and I guess it shows on my face. Does that surprise you, he asks?

No, no, not surprise. It’s just, like, I don’t know. It’s true, right? I mean we play Hull to close it out, right? He nods. Maybe I’m as good as McShane. Maybe. And if I can’t start for Hull, I shouldn’t start here. Look, I say, my voice speeding up as I lose control of what I say. This happens sometimes: my words build up a momentum of their own and they start to careen off each other, just out of my control. It’s usually not a good thing.

Look, you’re honest with me. Straight. It’s all I’ve ever asked from my coaches. Just tell me the truth. I can’t, I don’t know, I can’t work with anything else. The rest, the reporters and the pictures and the changing rooms and the rumors.

He puts a hand on my shoulder and I stop, abruptly.

It gets easier. It will.

I know my eyes are watering because his face is blurry when I look at him.How do I know it will be any better at home?

At home? His voice is puzzled. Oh.

I take a step to put him between myself and the huddle of the team behind us and wipe quickly at my eyes before answering, I want to be home. But I want to play here. And I’m pretty sure I can’t do both.

They haven’t officially asked, you know.

I shrug. They will, though, right?

Leigh, all I can say is that, when they do, it will be your choice. Yours. Not mine, not your folks, not Jessica’s. Yours. That’s all I can do.

I take a deep breath. I guess I’ll have to figure it out then.

May 6, 2012

Premier League

Hull City v Chelsea, The Circle

Hull 0 – Chelsea 1 (Michael Essien 71)

MoM: Mamadou Sakho (7.8)

Attendance: 25,404. Referee: Andre Marriner.

The only surprise of the final game of the season was Danyil Oranje using his prolific Spanish forward, Fernando Torres, behind his two strikers, looking to play in Daniel Sturridge and Ishak Belfodil as much as he looked to score himself. Whether a hint of what’s to come for Chelsea or a move made in anticipation of offseason transfers, the experiment, while showing hints of promise, was largely unsuccessful and it took a late strike from Michael Essien from the corner of the box for Chelsea to eke out a 1-0 victory in an otherwise uninteresting game.

Even with the three points, United’s 1-0 win over Aston Villa ensured that the league championship would go to the Red Devils this year, with Oranje’s men finishing second, a position that would thrill most of the league but is unlikely to bring a smile to the face of Roman Abromovich.

There was quite a gap between Chelsea and Everton and Manchester City in third and fourth in the Premier League, where the surprises were probably the fifth place finish from Stoke and the difficulties faced during the season by Liverpool (9th), Arsenal (11th) and Fulham (16th). Wigan joined Ipswich and Hull in relegation, with Burnley remaining in England’s top flight by a single point.

Link to post
Share on other sites

Until She Decides. May 9, 2012

The beach was a pale white, the color of un-dyed homespun and it stretched in a taut curve around a point in the distance, a pale finger pointing towards the bone-colored birds that danced above the blue surface of the waves. There were beach chairs arranged like scattered dominos, wooden frames with strips of fabric stretched between them that have faded to a sun-soaked grey. All of the chairs were empty but two, where the pair of men were reclined, their bodies streaked with small streams of sweat. They were still, occasionally reaching down and sipping from large Styrofoam cups but otherwise surrendered to the heat and to the constant drone of the surf.

A noise cracked through the air, shattering the quiet. At first it sounded like a woman screaming, but faded quickly into the prolonged bray of a donkey. The older man sat up, looking around for the source. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that.

Next to him, Ruud laughed. Last night I thought you were going to jump through the roof.

Last night, I thought someone was being tortured.

Ruud had been worried when they saw their room: it was smaller than it looked on the website, and the bed and chair both were marked with rough repairs: duct tape wrapped around a leg, scraps of mismatched wood forming a patchwork of light and dark. But Danyil took it in stride, smiling as he ran a finger across the top of the small desk. He held it up for Ruud’s inspection: there was no dust. Clean.

Ruud busied himself unpacking their bags into the chest of drawers, pausing to admire the spray of pale white flowers arranged in a small glass bowl. He pointed them out to Danyil. Een vleugje elegantie.

The next morning, when they returned from the small continental breakfast served on the rooftop verandah, the flowers had been replaced by a single red rose, its buds still clenched tightly around each other like young lovers.

A noise brought Ruud back to the present. He looked up to see Danyil fumbling in a small pouch, thumbing at his phone for a moment. Are you going to do that the whole time we’re here?

Danyil looked up with a guilty expression. He hadn’t really been aware of checking his phone, it was a habit, something that he did as part of a natural rhythm of doing nothing: stretch, scratch, sip a drink, check the phone, marvel at the impossibly blue water, watch a distant seabird hover in the distance, cradled gently in the arms of an onrushing wind. Sorry. No. Sorry.

Ruud shook his head. No, it’s alright. I know you need to. Just not all the time?

Smiling gratefully, Danyil glanced back at the small screen. Oh.

What?

Houston. It’s an e-mail from their coach. Danyil chuckled. He’s trying very hard. He must think it’s my choice.

It’s not?

Danyil shook his head. I promised it would be hers. Ruud arched an eyebrow at him. Really. Hers.

Ruud had to work to keep his voice from tumbling over the line into condescension. And your opinion isn’t going to sway her?

You haven’t met her. I don’t know that anything can sway her once she decides.

Sure, yes. But until she decides?

Until? We’re here. She’ll decide long before we get back to London. Danyil quickly thumbed through a few more e-mails and then flipped his phone off. Ruud had already returned his attention to a magazine.

He lowered it and looked over at Danyil, at the salt and pepper curls of his hair, at the softness that was showing at his hips. Did you decide who would run the team against Swansea?

Now who is bringing up work.

I didn’t say we couldn’t talk about it. It’s just the phone. It seems wrong here. Ruud looked behind them, where a row of green thorn bushes taller than either of them separated the beach from the road, and back at the ocean. Het is een paradijs.

Link to post
Share on other sites

May 10, 2012

Hi, Mom.

Leigh! Sweetie! How are you?

I’m fine Mom, fine. Is Dad there, too?

He’s coming. Her mother’s voice faded as she turned away from the phone.Honey! It’s Leigh!

Leigh could hear her father’s voice grow louder as he approached. I know, I know. I’m here.

OK, her mother continued, we’re both here.

Leigh took a breath. So, um, have you heard anything?

About what, dear?

OK, good. So, um, the Comets have asked for me on loan.

Loan? Leigh rolled her eyes. Sometimes she believed her mother’s ignorance of the game was willful, an intentional ignorance that she feigned just to make Leigh explain things to her.

Yeah, Mom. Loan. I’d still play for Chelsea, I’d just, like, be with the Comets for a few months, maybe through January.

How would that work? Wouldn’t that be a lot of flying?

Mom. No. I wouldn’t be in London. I’d be there.

Oh.

There was a pause before her father said, I don’t think she knows who the Comets are.

Houston, Mom. They play at Rice.

When her mother spoke next, her voice was choked, and Leigh knew she had begun to cry. You’d be here? In Houston?

Leigh felt her stomach tighten, long worn patterns once again opening up before her, a sudden sense of anxious nostalgia making her feel a little unsteady. We’d be, like, on the road a lot. But, yeah. Houston.

You’d be home?

Yeah, I guess. Like. Yeah.

Leigh? The bass of her father’s voice carried the relief of diversion.

Yeah, Dad?

Is this something you want to do?

Leigh paused. I don’t know. I mean, I don’t know, like, I’d play there, you know? I mean, I’ve been told that. That I’d play there. And, you know. It’s been hard being on the bench, right? I just, like, want to play. And their coach, he’s, I don’t know, there’s all this real buzz about him. And, I mean, you know, it’s Houston. I mean, of course I miss you guys and all.

Her father’s voice was measured and slow in reply. That’s nice. We miss you, too. But that’s not really what’s important.

Honey! Her mother’s voice had a shrill edge that Leigh knew all too well. Of course it’s important.

Mom, stop. You know I love you. That’s not what Dad’s saying.

Leigh, her father continued, you know how proud we are of you. How we’ve always trusted you to decide. When we first went to England, even before that, back when we went to New York to meet with FIFA.

CONCACAF, interjected her mother.

There was a moment of silence, and Leigh almost smiled envisioning the withering stare she was sure her father had fixed on her mother. FIFA, he continued. Through all of it, we’ve supported you.

Leigh sighed. I know.

And, she did. But it didn’t make it any easier. Once in a while, she wanted someone else to decide, someone else to just point her in a direction and let her go, not to have the burden of double-guessing herself, of always wondering what the right choice really was.

Her father cleared his throat. And?

I don’t know. I just, I wanted to be the one to tell you. I didn’t want, whatever, you to read about it first.

Good Enough. May 15, 2012

Liberty Stadium was full, and it was impossible for Leigh to pretend she wasn’t part of the reason.

Sure, Chelsea would always be a draw but there was little excitement in England about the King George Cup—indeed, most of the competitions sponsored by the North American leagues were looked down upon, even if they usually involved top competition by the later rounds. The group stages, though, were viewed largely as money making exercises for the smaller clubs, and this was no exception: Swansea, Portsmouth, and Cardiff would all benefit greatly from Chelsea’s visits to their home grounds, even if proceeding out of the initial stage of the competition would be quite a shock for any of the three clubs.

But the composition of the crowd told all: there were hundreds of girls, entire families dressed in Chelsea blue with the number 28 on the back, and the screams that welcomed her when after warming up she wandered over to the railings were higher pitched than the usual clamoring of fans. She had a hard time with the Welsh accent and in all the confusion got by with grins and nods as she signed jerseys and programs. There were signs just for her: Leigh 4everand We Love You and even one misguided attempt of Remember the Alamo! Don’t go back to Texas, Leigh!

She played most of the game, but it was obvious to her teammates that something was wrong: she was caught a step out of position on more than one occasion, and at one point had both Mamadou Sakho and Michael Essien talking to her.

Come on, girl. Get your head on, was all the Chelsea captain said to her before trotting back towards midfield.

Sakho clapped her on the shoulder. C’est vrai. You’re not right today. You feeling ok?

Leigh nodded, pulling her pony tail tighter. I’m good, Mammy. I’m good.

But she knew she really wasn’t. She was good enough for Swansea, and even after Jordi López stole the ball from her in the box, she was able to recover in time to tip his shot wide. But she wasn’t as good as she needed to be, and when she saw her number twenty-eight in red lights with Guillermo Salinas ready to take her place, she wasn’t surprised.

She jogged off to loud applause and she gave a quick wave towards Chelsea’s travelling support before falling heavily into her seat. Moments later, Ross Hunter slid into the empty seat next to her. Hunter was one of the team’s youth coaches, and Leigh had worked with him off and on for two years. She respected him: he knew what it took to play defense at this level, and he ran a tight ship.

Well, that’s one.

What?

One. You do get one, you know?

Leigh stared at him blankly. One what?

One day like this.

Leigh shook her head, her top teeth digging into her lip. I don’t.

Hunter grabbed her shoulder, forcing Leigh to look at him. Leigh. You know I don’t mess around, right? She nodded. I mean it. You get one. You don’t get two, you don’t get more. You get one. This was it. He stood up and walked back, holding up a single finger. One.

Leigh watched the rest of the game without seeing much of anything: she raised out of her seat along with the rest when first Yaya Touré and then Frank Lampard found the side netting with shots from the wing, but she couldn’t tell you how the plays developed.

When Kevin Friend blew his whistle for full-time, the cheers were for the fight shown by the home team, and especially for Jamie Ashdown’s work in their goal. Leigh stood for a moment, watching the waves of humanity stand and slowly file out of the stadium, a few moving towards her yelling her name. Teammates clapped her on the shoulder, and as they headed down the tunnel, the disappointment of a poor performance gave way to the usual chatter of where people were going that night, and who with.

Leigh turned away into the small changing room arranged for her and sat for a long while, Hunter’s words ringing in her ears. She was good enough today, no more, but no less. Good enough left her feeling empty. Good enough left her feeling guilty for all she had done, like she was carrying weights balanced on either end of a long pole. She felt slowed by the burden, and like it took all of her concentration not to tip over from being off balance.

She knew good enough was never going to be enough.

The King George Cup, Group C

Swansea City v Chelsea, The Liberty Stadium

Swansea 0 – Chelsea 0

MoM: Jamie Ashdown (7.6) Chelsea’s Best: Jaakko Rantala (7.3)

Attendance: 20,104. Referee: Kevin Friend.

Link to post
Share on other sites

May 17,2012

Danyil was at the airport when the call came. He and Ruud had found seats in a small alcove to the side of their gate, and it was a good thing: the rest of the area was a chaotic blur of noise and color. A flight had been cancelled and a large group of people in brightly colored cloths and sequin infested tracksuits were clamoring around a single airline agent, voicing their displeasure. Their small area was calm, however. There was a window and beyond it a young man slumped against the side of a large crate, a faded baseball cap pulled over his eyes with the silhouette of a spread-eagled Michael Jordan hovering in mid-air above its brim.

He looked at his screen and glanced at Ruud. It’s her, he said, before standing and moving as far into the alcove as he could. Hello?

The voice on the other end was nervous and halting. Coach? Hey, it’s Leigh.

Hello, Leigh.

Hi. So, um, I’m sorry to, like, I don’t know, call on your vacation and all.

Danyil smiled: he and Ruud had spent most of the morning pretending they weren’t anxiously waiting for his phone to ring. That’s alright.

OK, thanks. So. Um. I’ve talked to, I don’t know, like, everybody. She laughed quickly and nervously. Yeah.

How’d that go?

What?

The talking to everybody.

Oh. Yeah, well. You know. Jessica was great, but she always is. Ross wants me to stay. Leigh paused, her talk with Halo flashing through her mind. She had no idea if her roommate cared if she stayed or went: the icy indifference with which the tall blonde carried herself seemed impassable, and the distance between them had reduced their interactions to grunts over freshly-brewed coffee and half-ignored waves as Halo, yet again, headed out into the London night. Leigh wondered where she went, pretty sure that wherever it was, being there as a seventeen year old was either illegal or an example of poor judgment. I don’t know. My family, you know, they want me to go.

Danyil tried to infuse his voice with enough warmth to overwhelm his sudden concern. I’m sure they do. And you?

He heard her exhale a long breath. I. Well, wait, first. You know I want to play, right?

Danyil answered cautiously. I do.

And, like, we both know that I’m not going to be first choice for league games. I mean, you know, not for a while, right?

Not for a while, no.

OK. So, I’ve been looking at the schedules and all. There’s the Imposters Cup, the Immigrant thing, the, um, the King George Cup? Her voice lilted up, turning the last into a question.

Danyil smiled. I think that’s what it is, yes.

OK, so there’s all that. And, I don’t know, like, there’s the Olympics and the games for the World Cup.

Have you heard?

No, not really. I mean John, um, Coach Hackworth, he seemed to, like, think I’d be there. I mean, you know, I’m just looking at things. So that’s a lot. And that takes us through, I don’t know, through the fall. And through when I’d be away on loan. So … yeah.

There was a pause until Danyil realized she was waiting for him to say something. Not knowing what, he just asked, And?

So, all that stuff, I mean, not the USA stuff, I know you don’t do have anything to do with that, but the rest, the Cups and whatever. If I stay, can I. She paused, and her voice was calmer when she began again. If I stay, I want to play in all of those. Every game I can.

Are you asking me?

Leigh laughed again. I guess. I guess I am.

Danyil’s mind had been scrambling since she began to list the competitions, trying to remember their schedules, trying to sort out which players he knew would be unavailable and what the travel routine would be. He knew there were games in America for the Imposter’s Cup, that the King George Cup was just Portsmouth and two of the Welsh teams. Cardiff, maybe Swansea? The Immigrant’s Cup was a crapshoot: they could get some third level side from a former Soviet, they could get Barcelona. So, all in all that was maybe a dozen games against teams that were nowhere near Chelsea’s level.

OK, he said. I can do that. Long as you’re healthy, as long as you’re not at the Olympics, you can have those games.

OK. OK, Really? Great, um. OK. So, I’m here then. I’m staying. I’ll stay.

Danyil smiled. You sure, Leigh?

Yes, yes I am. I am. That’s great.

Alright, then. I’ll let Mr. Gourlay know and I’m sure he, or Jessica, or someone will get back with you, OK? Danyil looked up to see Ruud sliding a magazine into his shoulder bag while glancing meaningfully at him—a queue was forming up at their gate.

Yeah, I’ll be here all day.

OK. Leigh, I’ve got to go, our flight to Germany is about to board. But one more thing.

Yes, coach?

Call your parents. Make sure they hear this from you.

Leigh’s voice was weary when she answered, OK, yeah. I need to do that.

Alright, good. You watching the game on Saturday? Ruud was standing, gesturing impatiently. Danyil held up a finger and nodded.

Yes. We’re going to Cobham for it.

Good. Who you think takes it?

Leigh’s voice was clean, free of the weight it had just carried. Barcelona. Easy.

Danyil wasn’t so sure, but he knew there wasn’t time to argue. OK. I’ll see you back in London next week, OK?

OK, great. And, Coach?

Yes? Ruud had already begun to walk away towards the line of people.

Thank you. Really. I … just thanks.

That’s OK, Leigh. We’ll talk more next week, OK?

Linger A Moment. May 19, 2012

Allianz-Arena was full, and Danyil was convinced forty of the fifty-five thousand were rooting for Bayern, Ruud among them. Danyil glanced over to where, a row below and four seats over, Ruud sat, dressed proudly in a red shirt with the name Augenthaler above the number 5. Occasionally, their eyes would meet and linger a moment longer than usual.

Bayern’s coach, Louis van Gaal, had surprised some people with his selection, leaving Mario Gomez out of the side entirely while preferring to start the young Israeli Mohammed Gadir at forward in front of an attacking trio of Florent Malouda, Toni Kroos, and Arjen Robben.

The press had a field day with it of course: a Jew starting for Bayern in the biggest game in European soccer. Gadir’s role at the Munich club had been hailed as proof that the country had shed the baggage of anti-semitism with many claiming that alone was enough to secure their victory. Still, there were voices that insisted the championship was more important than symbolism, voices who would have preferred the imposing figure of Gomez troubling the Barcelona defense. For the most part, though, those people were more concerned with Malouda, who had joined the team from Chelsea two years ago. He was only starting due to Franck Ribéry’s broker ribs, and while the French international had been an adequate replacement, Bayern was clearly at their best with Ribéry marauding down one flank while Robben patrolled the other.

On the other side of the ball, the story was simply Lionel Messi, who produced twenty-three goals and, even more impressively, twenty-seven assists on the season. David Villa, the recipient of many of those assists, led Barcelona’s attack up front, along with Chilean sensation Alexis Sánchez. Andrés Iniesta found himself on Pep Guardiola’s bench, recovering from a pulled hamstring, but this was Barcelona and Javier Mascherano was a quality player to slide in alongside Xavi and Cesc Fàbregas. If the team had a weakness, it was in goal where Brazilian Muriel was filling in for the injured Victor Valdés, but the twenty-five year old who had joined Barcelona from Brazilian side Goiás the year before had kept a clean sheet in roughly a third of his thirty-odd appearances.

The pundits were all stumping for the Spaniards, and there was little argument: they were the better side on paper. But as they say, games aren’t played on paper, and when Andres Marriner blew his whistle, the roar from the home crowd was enough to convince the world that this could be an uphill climb for the visiting team.

Just seconds into the match, Gadir had a shot at history when a good tackle from Bastian Schweinsteiger had set free Robben who slalomed through midfield before finding the young Israeli in stride, but his shot swerved well off target. Minutes later, Barcelona had an opportunity of their own with a quick break sending the ball from Messi to Villa square to Sánchez, but his shot trickled just outside Mickaël Landreau’s post. The veteran French goalkeeper was forced to make the first significant save of the game as well, turning away a well-placed header from Messi from just inside the six yard box.

Xavi was forced to leave the field under twenty minutes after the contest began, clutching the back of his leg after pulling up on a run down the left channel. He was replaced not by Iniesta, but by the Brazilian veteran Naldo.

The first half settled into a regular rhythm: Bayern would control the ball, but struggle to break down the Barcelona defense while the Spanish side would force a series of fantastic saves from Landreau, most from rockets off Villa’s powerful right foot or from silky smooth runs from their Argentinian talisman.

Muriel’s first test of the evening came with only a few minutes until the interval, when Toni Kroos lined up a free kick from thirty-two yards away. The ball swerved around the wall and was dipping towards the inside of the post before the Brazilian was able to tip it away with an acrobatic leap.

Coming out of halftime, the Germans seemed to attack more ferociously, with Kroos, Robben, and Schweinsteiger all forcing saves from Muriel from well outside the box, but once the onslaught faded around the hour mark, the game looked destined for extra time and the inevitable penalties. With Gadir clearly tiring, van Gaal turned to his teenage prodigy, Romelu Lukaku. The Belgian man-child had begun to show his value during the season, finishing with a half-dozen goals in the campaign while being eased into the rotation, but here he was unable to make an impact.

At the same time, in a final effort to find the back of the net, Guardiola replaced Danny Alves with Iniesta, leaving Barcelona weaker on the wings, but with yet another playmaker in the attacking third.

Neither move was particularly successful, and the sideline referee had just raised his sign declaring three minutes of extra time when Muriel lined up a free kick a dozen yards inside his half. Villa, who had been brilliant on the day and unlucky not to be working on a hat-trick, snuck behind Brazilian veteran Breno to take the ball out of the air in front of Landreau. His first touch sent the ball wide to the right, but Villa beat everyone else to it and slotted it home, the ball touching the back of the net just as the game clocked flipped to a full ninety minutes.

The crowd was stunned, and the three minutes of extra time passed without note: Barcelona were European champions!

As the stadium slowly emptied, the gloom punctuated by the chants ofCampeones! and the noisy fans clad in red and blue that had surged into the stands around midfield. Ruud slumped in his seat, his head cradled in his hands. Danyil stared at him, unable to move, unable to give comfort. He turned and shuffled out of the stadium, making his way back to the hotel, anger sitting in the back of his stomach like a gargoyle carved into the high ledge of a building, ever vigilant.

European Champions League Final

FC Bayern v Barcelona, Allianz-Arena

Bayern 0 – Barcelona 1 (David Villa 90)

MoM: Villa (8.4) Bayern’s Best: Philipp Lahm (7.1)

Attendance: 56,132. Referee: Andre Marriner.

Link to post
Share on other sites

  • 2 weeks later...

A Blanket. May 29, 2012

Leigh was glad to see Coach Oranje after their phone call, although she couldn’t shake a sense of anxiety around him. The feeling was familiar: it was the same feeling when she first met Bob Bradley, the same feeling when she first played with the under sixteen boys national team, the same feeling when she was the first girl at her club in Houston to play three years above of her age group.

The feeling was oddly comforting: it ate at her in small nibbles, sharp teeth that pricked at her guts from time to time. But it also was a constant reminder of who she was, of what she had done and what she knew she could do. It was a blanket. A roughspun, scratchy blanket that had more than a few nails embedded in its fabric, but still a blanket.

She felt it as the bus rode rough and loud into Cardiff; she felt it as she wrapped and re-wrapped her left ankle, the one that sometimes gave her trouble; and she felt it as she carefully taped her socks above her calves, redoing them until they were perfectly even. She wrapped it around herself for warmth and for protection, and moved slowly, her eyes already focusing deep into the anticipated rhythm of the game.

She and Marc Muniesa worked together effortlessly during the ninety minutes, combining to allow Jay Bothroyd and Ross McCormack a single shot on goal each which Guillermo Ochoa was able to handle with ease. Afterwards, sweaty but happy, gathered in a small circle of blue at midfield, Leigh watched the reporters scramble to talk with Patrick van Aanholt, who had provided fantastic offensive support from the wings, and with the attacking trio of Jaakko Rantala, Simon Marshall, and Ishak Belfodil, each of whom had scored, as they ambled off the field. She and Muniesa held back: she knew as soon as she approached, the cameras and microphones would move almost magnetically in her direction.

Leigh. Muniesa had turned towards her, his accent thick with the southern Spanish coast. Good game. He nodded in agreement with himself. Is true. Good game.

She grinned, reached up and tightened her pony tail, and began the walk towards the media already swinging their cameras in her direction.

King George Cup, Group C

Cardiff City v Chelsea, Cardiff City Stadium

Cardiff 0 – Chelsea 3 (Ishak Belfodil 2, Jaakko Rantala 30, Simon Marshall 64)

MoM: Patrick van Aanholt (8.3)

Attendance: 26,109. Referee: Michael Langford.

Link to post
Share on other sites

  • 5 weeks later...

June 7, 2012

Imposter’s Cup Group J

New York Liberty v Chelsea, Metropolitan Oval

NY Liberty 1 (Thierry Tazemeta 89) – Chelsea 4 (Gaël Kakuta 4, Jaakko Rantala 29 70, Ishak Belfodil 71)

MoM: Rantala (9.4)

Attendance: 4544. Referee: Chris Foy.

Going Out. June 8, 2012

Halo tossed the remote against the wall hard enough that the battery compartment clattered open, sending the small cylinders skittering across the floor and under the couch. She swore as she bent down, fishing them out and tossing them onto the small table. The television was already turned off, so she left the parts in a haphazard pattern, the batteries still rolling in small arcs as she stormed out of the room.

The images were still replaying in her mind. Leigh had left three days ago to join the American under-twenty team, and their afternoon match today against Aruba—Aruba!—was deemed worthy of live coverage. Halo didn’t think any of her games for Tanzania—she had two caps in goal for the national team, and had been in the squad on a half dozen other occasions—had been televised.

But this was Leigh.

And it had been a good goal: Bayern’s young midfielder Jonathan Evans took the corner for the Americans and sent it low and hard, curving slightly towards the back post. Boyd Okwuonu had deflected it slightly and Leigh adjusted in mid-air, one arm flying out to maintain her balance as she stretched the other way, sending the ball spinning into the back of the net with her head. Leigh had barely reacted: a smile, a few high-fives, a brief hug with Andrea Jones, Evans, and Mark Rudge, and a slow jog back towards the defensive end of the field, her hands behind her head, fiddling with her hair.

She can’t keep her ****ing hands off that ponytail.

Halo had stormed into her room, ripping off her sweatpants and shirt. She angled herself in the mirror, running a hand through her spikes of blonde hair, her lips pursed slightly as her eyes traced the smooth lines of her stomach, the slightly angular dent of her hips. **** it, she said to herself. I’m going out.

Her anger had burned off into a tight determination that coiled along her spine like a finely tuned spring. On the tube she sat legs crossed, one ankle vibrating incessantly against her leg. She kept her eyes down, staring at her fingernails, at the long lines of her legs that ended with the slick, black leather of her boots folded around her calf like petals. She wore brilliant white shorts and a dark top that fell off her shoulder, everything designed to show off her length, turning her body into a series of elongated geometric forms.

It would look amazing in the flashing strobe of a club, her body pulsing like a neon sign on the dance floor.

The train shuddered to a stop and the doors opened with a tired wheeze. Halo stood up, arranging her linen scarf as she did, and made her way into the London summer night. Small groups of women sized her up, adjusting their own clothes in comparison as they passed and roving bands of young men turned to watch her, their eyes devouring her with early-evening hunger. She moved down the line of people outside Club Metropole, sliding up to the bouncer. He glanced at her momentarily and nodded, unhooking the dark blue rope to let her pass.

Halo slid onto the dance floor, her head swaying side to side with the deep bass rhythm. She lost herself quickly, joining in with the throbbing community that flashed in and out of the colored lights, glimpses of faces and bodies moving past her in a stuttering staccato. The songs flowed into and out of each other, an endless loop of bass and drums and shimmering cymbals. She caught a few eyes and avoided a few others, twisting and turning and burying herself in the emergent organism that occupied the center of the cavernous space.

She made her way to the bar after a while, asking for a glass of water, and within moments was approached by a thin young man whose curled hair topped his head in a receding wave. Hey. Halo nodded. Buy you a drink? Halo raised her glass and shook her head. He glanced behind him at a group of four or five people nestled in a corner of the club. Join us?

Halo hesitated and then thinking to herself, **** it, picked up her drink and followed him. She forgot the names as soon as she heard them: they were all young and stylish, with carefully arranged hair that either floated in calculated arcs around the women’s faces or edged the men’s heads in precise lines. She nodded in greeting and sat in the space made for her, laughing when the men told jokes and mumbling something about studying at a university as an exchange student when asked what she did.

They were in a small alcove: all she could see of the club was the bar, and the array of flatscreen televisions hung above it. She glanced across the table, where one of the men had emptied a small amount of white powder onto a flat dark surface, carefully sculpting it into a series of parallel lines. He took a straw from a drink and deftly cut the top three inches with a small silver knife of some sort. He looked up and caught her eye and grinned a lopsided grin, raising his thick eyebrows slightly.

Halo looked away, back towards the bar, where she again saw Leigh jogging up the field, followed by her headshot positioned to the right of the empty smile of the talking head. When she glanced back, the women next to her, a small boned songbird of a woman so thin Halo was afraid to brush against her, took the straw and pressed it to one side of her nose, holding the other shut with a long finger made skeletal in the dim light. She bent suddenly towards the dark surface, running the straw up and down in quick succession. Looking up, she made a gesture of offering to Halo, her nostrils widening with a final inhale.

**** it. Halo took the straw in one hand and the surface—which she now recognized as a cigarette holder made of some darkly shining metal—in the other, feeling its weight, the small band of lighter wood that ran across its underside. She heard a voice somewhere in her head telling her to stop, but before she could listen, she tucked the straw inside her nose and bent over, inhaling quickly.

As the cocaine ran down the back of her throat, leaving a burning sensation that slowly faded into a numb streak, she thought to herself, What the hell did I just do?

Link to post
Share on other sites

@gavrenwick, so glad you're still along for the ride! @EvilDave, that scene has been in my mind for two years. It is one of those things where the gods of the game intervened, and it took quite a different turn than I expected. We'll see ...

June 10, 2012

Each time Danyil spoke into the phone his voice ended abruptly, his words cut sharply into a clipped silence, and with every answer he slumped a little further back in his chair, rounding into himself like a resigned and defeated Buddha. And you’re sure it was her?

OK.

No. Thank you. It’s why we work with you.

I know. Nothing will.

Right, then.

He flicked off the phone and crossed his arms, closing his eyes as a deep fatigue flowed throughout his body making his limbs so heavy he doubted he would ever move. He cursed silently in Dutch before his phone buzzed loudly. He lifted it to his ear. Ja?

Yes, he just called me.

I know.

You’re sure? You know what the Sun would pay for this crap?

OK. That soon?

No, it’s for the best. I agree.

Yes, she will.

Stubbs? No, not really. No, I don’t think she needs one.

OK, I’ll talk with Jessica. Tomorrow, yes?

Bye.

He dropped the phone on his desk with an angry clatter and rubbed at the spot between his eyebrows, trying to stave off the headache he knew was well on its way.

One on Each Side. June 13, 2012

They sure kept you a long time.

Leigh looked at her mother, feeling the comfortable exasperation rise in her chest. Before she could reply, the light in the room changed and her mother’s face was framed by the window over the sink in their kitchen, her grey hair illuminated by the final gentle touch of evening sun. She had aged since Leigh was home last, a thin network of wrinkles now edged around her lips and her eyes looked tired with care.

Leigh replied, as gently as she could, There were a lot of girls. A lot of kids.

I saw. Looked like some boys, too.

Yeah, a few.

Any of them any good? Her Dad’s voice startled her: Leigh hadn’t seen him take up his familiar post, leaning against the archway that opened into the dining room, his arms crossed, a bottle of beer dangling beneath one elbow like a ripe brown fruit.

Hey, Dad. Didn’t see the boys play.

How about the girls?

A few. Leigh thought of what she had seen on her old practice fields. Her old coach, Goran, had been there, his gruff expression melting into a smile as soon as he saw her. The girls had clearly been instructed in how to handle Leigh’s visit, and they kept working industriously at their drills, the soft thwack of boots meeting balls only interrupted by occasional glances tossed cautiously in her direction. Goran blew his whistle and they quickly stopped and ran over to where he and Leigh were standing.

Goran made a fuss of introducing her, but Leigh brushed it off as quickly as she could, instead asking the two dozen girls if they were ready to play. Their replies were uncertain and a little nervous, but the teams were soon divided with Leigh’s team donning dark blue pinnies. Chelsea blue, she had said as they put them on, grinning at Goran.

Just for you was his reply as he turned to jog off and organize the other group.

Alright, she said, caught for a moment as always by the open trust on the expectant faces surrounding her. What should we call ourselves? she asked.

Chelsea! answered a young blonde with short hair and powerful stocky build that already showed emerging teenage strength in her legs and trunk.

Leigh shook her head, Nah, he expects that. She turned to a tall girl with dark hair and deep, joyful eyes. What’s your favorite animal?

The girl paused for a moment, as if thumbing through a stack of index cards. Otters, she said.

Otters? The girl nodded and began to say something, then just grinned. Otters it is, said Leigh, kneeling to address the group. Alright, otters, who wants to play where? She looked to a tall Asian girl wearing a long-sleeved lime green jersey and thick white gloves. You’re in goal, right? The girl nodded and Leigh turned back to the rest of the group. OK, I’ll play in back, a sweeper, right? So I need three defenders in front of me.

Soon the positions were arranged, and Goran yelled over, You’re the superstar, so we get the ball. Leigh just waved. Hands in, everyone. As the hands piled on top of each other and Leigh heard some giggles from the group, she smiled.Otters on three, right? Loud as you can, one, two, three, OTTERS! The girls screamed and laughed and dispersed to their positions, Leigh and the tall Asian girl jogging towards the endline. What’s your name?

Angie.

OK, Angie, it’s you and me back here, right? We’ll look for each other, but if they flood me, find someone else or just boot it long, right? Angie nodded, unable to suppress a grin. Leigh clapped her hands together and pulled her ponytail tight, yelling in her best captain’s voice, Here we go, Otters. Win the ball, move the ball, look for each other, let’s go!

Leigh played at half speed, only gaining intensity twice to deftly get past her old coach, leaving him lunging the wrong way and laughing. She called over her shoulder, Getting old, coach, getting old as she sent a diagonal pass downfield.

She turned, prepared to call her other central defender up, only to find her already there, holding the line even with Leigh. Leigh gave her a thumb’s up and shifted to her right, following the flow of the ball at the far end.

Her team scored twice, and with Leigh at the back, the other girls only troubled Angie in goal on two breakaways, one when Leigh was still upfield on a corner kick and one on a nice switch of play from a quick African-American girl whose long dreadlocks were held in place by a large red bow. Leigh laughed at the sight, energized by these twenty girls perched in the precarious space between child and adult. She lost herself in their sounds, in the occasional laughter, the cries of Wide! or You’ve got me back! There were few grunts and no cursing and Leigh felt relief at the lack of confrontation, the ease with which the scrimmage unfolded.

Still, something was missing and she had to remind herself of the gap between her and the rest of the girls, moving to intercept passes before there would be a need to make a tackle, encouraging her midfielders to take risks further up the field knowing that she was behind them.

When Goran blew his whistle to close practice, Leigh was surprised to see a crowd had formed around the field—parents, players across the age groups, a tight cluster of coaches at the far end. She had been unaware of their arrival and took a moment, pulling her hair tight, before jogging to catch up with her old coach. You coming to the game? she asked.

Of course.

The team was a few yards ahead of them, gathered in an expectant semi-circle. Leigh nodded towards them. Are they?

Goran shrugged and clapped his hands. Alright, girls. Good job out there. Can we give Leigh a round of applause? Laughter and clapping ensued above the rising murmur of their voices. And, a thank you? On the count of three, one, two, three, thank you Leigh, OK? One, two, three.

Leigh felt herself blush and shook her head, thinking Even here? Even with thirteen year olds? There were hands to shake and a string of encouragements to give out. She tried to say something to every one of them, a pass, a tackle, a moment where they did well.

You’re name’s Viv, right?

The girl who had named the team shook her head. No, they call me that. But it’s not my name. It’s Tessa.

Well, Tessa, you did great out there. You were in the right place every time—every time I looked for you. You’re good out there.

Tessa blushed, unable to contain a wide grin. Thanks.

Unsure if she should say more, Leigh held her glance for a few moments. It passed and both women, one on each side of adolescence, moved on.

At some unknown signal, the crowd made their way around to their sideline, and it was a long series of handshakes and half-remembered faces before Leigh was able to leave. She had dozens of tickets to give away, and was unable to do more than wave goodbye to Goran as he headed off to his next team. Finally alone, she stopped as she turned at the edge of the chain link fence, looking back over the fields, the once-familiar pockets of brightness from the tall spotlights standing starkly against the cloudless night.

Without thinking, she turned to her right, and saw her mother’s car in the same place as always: a corner spot, the shadow of a dumpster to one side, her mother’s face illuminated by the internal light. Little has changed: she is reading on an iPad now, but she is still reading, her interest held more deeply by whatever is current in Oprah’s book club than what just happened on the fields. At least, Leigh thinks, she’s here. Leigh tried to count the number of times she made this short walk: at one point she was practicing six days a week, showing up for any team older than she was, bothering the coaches until they just accepted it, working her into their routines with only the occasional comment.

Leigh? Her father’s voice shook the memories away, returning her to the small kitchen table, the scratched table.

Sorry. Just thinking about last night. Being, I don’t know, being back.

He nodded. Well, it’s always nice to have you.

Thinking That’s not the point, she turned suddenly to her mom. What were you reading?

Her mom made a dismissive motion with her hands. Oh, nothing. Just whatever. You know me.

Leigh wanted to say, I don’t know that I do. She wanted to say, I need to go. She wanted to be with her team, alone, anywhere but at this table, in this house, constantly being caught on the rough edges between her memories and the awkward present.

Link to post
Share on other sites

  • 3 weeks later...

June 5, 2012

Under 20 International

USA Under 20s v Aruba Under 20s, Rice Track and Soccer Stadium

USA 5 (Leigh Musicek 19, Chris Lee 23, Jack Beckerman 32, Jonathan Evans 45+2, Willie Roberts 83) – Aruba 0

MoM: Lee (8.8)

Attendance: 2638. Referee: Ángel Odelín.

The Chelsea Women. June 25, 2012

Leigh was jet-lagged and confused, and her stomach was sending small ripples of cramp through her abdomen every few minutes. She leaned over, her head in her hands, taking deep breaths, trying to create a still space in the middle of a tumultuous locker room. It was a loud day, a hard day: Leigh knew that some of the players she first took the field with in Chelsea blue were being told they didn’t have a place here anymore. For some of them—John Keen, George Barnett—Chelsea was the only football home they had ever known. Leigh had already shared a tearful farewell with Gavin O’Brien, whose natural optimism barely concealed his disappointment and anger. You’ll be alright, Leigh said.

He had grinned at her, but not as wide as usual. Sure, I will. Just have to come back and kick your arse.

Leigh could feel her eyes brimming. You do that.

They hugged awkwardly, and Leigh had given him a half wave as he headed down the hallway.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up to see the soft eyes of Chelsea’s physio, Eva Carneiro.

You okay?

Leigh forced a smile. The two women had become friendly, if not close, over the previous few months. At first, they had avoided each other, not really intentionally, but more out of an instinctive resistance on both sides to being lumped together as the Chelsea women. As Leigh’s tenure grew, they warmed to each other, a little shyly at first, as if both weren’t sure what to say about the initial coolness. They found themselves on the bench together more and more often, and would share small reactions to the more ridiculous comments yelled from the stands, taking care not to be too demonstrative: both had been plastered on the back pages of the tabloids caught with an awkward expression on their face. The marriage proposals were easily laughed off with small smiles, the shouts of Go **** yourselves you ****ing **** less so.

Usually, that would make Ginger Pete—the tall, stocky security officer assigned to the Chelsea bench for all matches where Leigh was concerned—stand up, cruel disapproval written on his face. Half the time, the fans around the loudmouth—usually drunk, often shirtless, his face a deep scarlet splash of spilled wine—would identify him, sometimes with a point, sometimes just by a subtle separation of bodies, isolating the boor in open space that stank of guilt. Sometimes, when Ginger Pete would roughly escort him out of his seat, there would be a small ovation. But other times, all the imposing Scotsman could do was stare impassively, judgmental, trusting his presence to discourage any further misbehavior.

Yeah. That time, you know.

Eva shook her head and answered softly, We’ve got a whole chemist’s down the hall. Pretty sure there’s some naprox. At least some Midol.

Leigh began to shake her head and her stomach rippled as if in protest. Yeah, thanks, she grimaced.

Eva glanced around the room for a moment. I’ll head down after, come in a bit.

Leigh nodded, watching Eva move on to ask Michael Larsen about his ankle and to help Marius Moldovan apply some dark blue tape to the back of his shoulder. As Leigh’s eyes followed her, she reviewed the match that would kick off in a few hours.

It was a group game in the King George’s Cup, and even if Portsmouth were a good club, it was the kind of match Chelsea were expected to win handily. Still, only Ivanovic, Yaya Touré, and Ishak Belfodil could be considered first team regulars. The rest—Larsen, Moldovan, Eyal Golasa, Josh McEachran—were in a similar position as Leigh: playing in games like this, destined to spend most of the season working with the reserves or being sent out on loan to a team, well, a team like Portsmouth.

Leigh considered for a moment. Pompey would start Tal Ben-Haim and Marc Wilson in the middle. Was she better than they were? Ben-Haim certainly had more experience, and Wilson was probably a more complete player. But Leigh was pretty sure she could hold her own with them. She leaned back and adjusted her hair, a small smile on her face.

She waited fifteen minutes after Eva slid out of the locker room to get up and, unobtrusively as she could, make her way down to the small office where the physios could usually be found. Rick Carter saw her at the door and glanced at Eva before he rose out of his seat, clapping her on the shoulder as he passed.Give em hell, Leigh.

We will, was her answer. Leigh barely glanced at the two tablets that Eva handed her along with a light green plastic cup of water: small ovals, white, each stamped with the number ninety-three. She tossed them into her mouth and emptied the cup. Thanks.

You need anything else?

Leigh shook her head. Just to get playing. I used to do, like, heating pads and stuff. But it just, I don’t know, goes away once the game starts.

Eva smiled. What we have to deal with, yah?

King George Cup Group C

Portsmouth v Chelsea, Fratton Park

Portsmouth 0 – Chelsea 1 (Ishak Belfodil 18)

MoM: Belfodil (8.4)

Attendance: 20,627. Referee: Phil Dowd.

Link to post
Share on other sites

Spreading the News. June 27, 2012

Danyil glanced up to see his face next to his name in large block letters on the back page of the paper Ruud was reading. It still startled him, like catching a glimpse in the mirror of someone you only suspect to be yourself. You see that?

Ruud lowered the paper. Wat?

There. No, sorry, the other side. The back. By the time Ruud had flipped over the sheets of newsprint, Danyil had moved around to his side of the kitchen island.

Ruud let out a soft exhalation of air. Oh. There was Danyil’s face, scowling, to the side of the headline Oranje’s Moving Day?

Danyil laughed. They mean me or them?

You. Look. City or Arsenal, evidently. Both Mark Hughes and Arsène Wenger had been fired the week before. Wenger was obvious: an eleventh place finish would never satisfy, and with rumors of discontent in the locker room, it was only a matter of time before the Gunners made a move. Hughes was more of a surprise. City had finished in fourth place, but on a team that made Chelsea’s spending policy look frugal, that was obviously far from good enough.

Not Liverpool? The Reds were also in search of a new coach after a tumultuous season.

No, not here. Ruud glanced sideways. Would you?

Liverpool?

Any of them.

Danyil paused a moment before shaking his head. I don’t think so. Even if United sacked Carlo, it’s just … His voice trailed off. More. When Roman gets tired of me, I want to. Danyil stopped suddenly and put an arm around Ruud. I want to make it up to you. All the time, all the missed vacations. All of it.

Ruud’s voice caught slightly. It was an unusual testament from Danyil, and it hung in the air for a few minutes, adding a soft warmth to the morning air. No football at all?

Danyil couldn’t suppress a smile. Maybe take an international team.

You would get bored. And then?

Danyil shrugged. Start somewhere else. He grinned and moved away, holding an imaginary microphone in front of him. Start spreading the news …

Ruud was surprised. America?

Waarom niet? They’re getting better. And we’ll be old. It’s easy to be old and well-off in America.

Ruud laughed. God, I hope not. You know Barton went to New York?

Barton?

Yeah, he’s a Red Bull.

Joey Barton, de rood Stier. The little ****. All the talent in the world, but you think there’s a bigger **** in the game?

Cole?

OK. Another? Ruud laughed again and shook his head, his eyes sparkling.

Danyil was silent a moment. We’ll see. Nothing lasts forever, not even this. If Wenger can go, we all can, right? He sighed. That’s why stupid things like today matter at all.

Ruud folded the paper away, sliding it neatly atop the pile of recycling. Well then, he said, you best be going. Time to conquer the King George Cup. He glanced down a final time. Why do they always have to make you look so mean?

King George Cup Group C

Chelsea v Portsmouth, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 1 (Asmir Begovic 18og) – Portsmouth 1 (Gauthier Mahoto 84)

MoM: Begovic (8.8) Chelsea’s Best: Marc Muniesa (8.4)

Attendance: 41,473. Referee: Kevin Friend.

June 29, 2012

Today there was virtually no attention paid to Swansea. None to their capture of Chris Smalling, none to the great form from their veterans Leon Britton, Michael Higdon, and Simon Gillett. It wasn’t particularly surprising, as the game was in many ways an extended tribute to the avalanche of players leaving Chelsea.

The biggest names on the field were Didier Drogba and Simon Vukcevic, both of whom would start for the Blues, and Daniele De Rossi, who was on the bench. Drogba would be returning home to France to finish his career with Toulouse, while Vukcevic and De Rossi would be facing Chelsea from the other side of the field, with Bolton and Everton respectively.

There was a small deviation from the pregame routine, as those three, along with five other starters and a handful of players not part of the match squad (Yury Zhirkov, Edin Dzeko, Chris Brunt, and Salomon Kalou) were thanked for their years of service with an extended ovation from an appreciative crowd.

In the end, Chelsea dominated with contributions from the old and the new: Gaël Kakuta and young Keith Fitzgerald both scored as they looked to extend their careers at Stamford Bridge, as did Italian defender Hernán Coccia (his first and only strike for the senior side) and, to thunderous applause, Simon Vukcevic in the final minute.

Vukcevic had become a fan favorite, and for good reason: thirty-two goals and thirty-five assists in three years had made him an integral part of the club’s attack. But Roman Abromovich had been on a mission all summer that culminated in him signing young Juan Manuel Mata from Valencia. Between Mata and the emergence of Kakuta along with continued development of Jaakko Rantala and Martín Galván, Vukcevic was considered surplus to the club’s requirements.

His departure was overshadowed by De Rossi’s, whose signing from AS Roma had been decried as extravagant four years ago. The stalwart Italian midfielder had quickly taken to Danyil Oranje’s system, providing the hard spine needed in support of the waves of attack. De Rossi’s statistics were never eye-popping—but they hadn’t been at Roma either. His performances were consistently spectacular, and at a team that fell in love with Claude Makélélé, there were open arms from day one for the Italian captain. His move to Everton had been met with shock and despair from the Chelsea faithful including perhaps the loudest calls questioning Danyil Oranje’s wisdom since his arrival in London.

De Rossi’s final touch for Chelsea was the final action of the game: he took a pass from Conor Clifford nearly forty yards from goal, touched the ball slightly to his right and launched it towards Jamie Ashdown’s far corner. The elation of the crowd was barely muted when the ball caromed off the woodwork, and they chanted De Rossi’s name well past the final whistle, when Drogba accompanied him on a victory lap around the edges of the stadium.

King George Cup, Group C

Chelsea v Swansea City, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 4 (Gaël Kakuta 16, Hernán Coccia 26, Keith Fitzgerald 54, Simon Vukcevic 89) – Swansea 0

MoM: Vukcevic (9.0)

Attendance: 41,051. Referee: Chris Foy.

Link to post
Share on other sites

  • 2 weeks later...

June 29, 2012

Jozef. Thanks for coming by.

Our big bear of a goalkeeping coach, Jozef Mlynarczyk settles into the chair across from me. My nerves are on edge immediately: he is fiddling with a thread that hangs from the sleeve of his warm-up jacket, and his eyes, usually bright with energy and enthusiasm, are tight, shielded. He does not look me in the eyes.

He has a deep voice that reminds me of coal and chocolate. Ja. No problem. I have something for you, too.

I smile. You first.

He freezes for a moment and takes a large breath, his cheeks exhaling like twin balloons. Did I see the squad list for tomorrow right?

He is stalling, but in a way so am I. Yeah, you did.

That’s. Well, that’s a lot of teenagers.

We’ve qualified. If it weren’t Chris and Edin’s last day, I’d start more of your kids. I mean it as a complement: Jozef has done a remarkable job since taking over the guidance of our youth sides in addition to his work with the goalkeepers, but his eyes flash in response, and I suddenly have an inkling of what is coming. But you had something?

He straightens and wipes his hands carefully on his pants. You know they’re going to go with Aguirre. City.

I don’t, but I nod. That is interesting. I don’t know how Javier Aguirre does it, but despite mediocre results, he had moved from Liverpool to Manchester City with barely a moment’s rest. He’s a nice enough man but there are so many better coaches out there that deserve a shot. At least Arsenal were taking a bit of a chance: the Gunners had tabbed Paul Ince to replace Wenger.

Well, he continues, Javy has asked me to join him. As his assistant.

There it is.

I force another smile. Well. Good for you. That’s a big step. And Lord knows he’ll need you.

Jozef’s eyes narrow momentarily. Oh! He had anticipated a counter-offer. I couldn’t see it. Tognaccini was, if anything, getting better and better over time. No, we’d miss him most as a goalkeeping coach, as someone who was fantastic working with the youngsters. But that wasn’t enough to compete with City on wages. You’ve done everything we’ve asked for here, Jozef. It’s a great chance for you.

He nods, and again his voice is hesitant. It’s, well. You know how these things go. They should be announcing Javy today. My mind is already trying to remember the name of Portsmouth’s current goalkeeping coach. I have it in a file somewhere, and I have to concentrate hard to resist turning around and digging it out while Mlynarczyk is still in the office. Whatever his name, he was, when I reviewed things earlier in the year, my choice to replace Jozef. Not that I had thought he was leaving. But it’s part of being prepared.

Yes, of course. Have you told Miranda? He shakes his head. Alright, once we’re done here, we’ll go upstairs. She’ll get the rest sorted. I assume sometime next week?

If possible, yes.

We’ll make it happen, Jozef. Don’t worry. This is a big change for you. We’ll be fine, take care of what you need to. It is a big moment for him: assistant coach at City could lead a lot of places. I grin, this time for real: we have a nineteen year old goalkeeper on loan with City, so in one sense the barrel-chested Pole would still be helping us out. Aréola is there for a bit longer. Take care of him for us, yeah? I don’t want it to seem an insult, so I add a reference to City’s current goalkeeping coach, Kevin Hitchcock. Or, I guess, make sure Kevin does. Assistant Coach!

He looks relieved, and his shoulders drop noticeably. Thanks, Danyil. Just … thanks. It’s, you know, it’s not always this easy. He folds his hands in front of him, his fingers forming an angular bridge beneath his chin. Now, what can I do for you?

This is trickier now. I realize, suddenly, that I would need to take care of it myself. My mood sours immediately.

No, no, it’s fine. I push myself out of my seat and motion towards the door.Let’s go find Miranda.

June 30, 2012

King George Cup Group C

Chelsea v Cardiff City, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 1 (Simon Marshall 24) – Cardiff 0

MoM: Edin Dzeko (8.2)

Attendance: 39,481. Referee: Phil Dowd.

Halo, a word?

She looks at me, her brow furrowed beneath the spikes of blonde hair. I haven’t spoken to her much in her year with the club, and I’m struck by the pale blue of her eyes. They remind me of pictures of ice, of pale and endless depths that are layered on top of each other like carefully folded sheets of glass. But there’s something lurking beneath the surface, something both threatening and inviting.

I make up my mind at that moment.

Sure, she says warily, adjusting her kit bag on her shoulder. We head into my office, and I close the door, waiting until I hear her settle in the chair to move around to the other side of the desk. The pause seems to work: she is less at ease.

I open a drawer and pull out a manila folder. Do you, I ask, sliding a picture across to her, recognize him?

I am watching her intently the moment she drops her eyes to the photograph. She barely flinches. Barely.

No. Should I?

I shrug noncommittally. No. Probably not. I mean, I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t. But I’m pretty sure you do.

Halo’s eyes narrow as if reconsidering the picture. No. No, I don’t think I do. I wait a moment. She taps the picture and then sends it spinning back across the desk to me. I stop it with a finger. She looks at me, and says, Sorry.

I hold her eyes for a moment. So am I, Halo. So am I.

Stuff. July 3, 2012

Halo was still rubbing a towel through her hair as she walked up to the bulletin board where Coach Oranje had just posted the team sheet for the day. There had been a bit of a buzz around Cobham for a few days: with the flood of players who had left, with most of the senior side away on a brief summer holiday, and with the club’s general disdain for the visitors from North Dakota, players who had never sniffed the first team field were in line to make appearances.

She ran a finger down the list. The attack would actually have some experience: Daniel Sturridge was better than anyone on the team from Fargo, and seventeen year old Miguel Codina was already turning heads. But behind them, four sixteen year olds. And Shaun Hinds, Danny Green, Jake Cattermole, and Joe Jennings may all be household names someday, but right now they’re no more familiar to fans of English football than Steve Howes, Zach Kirby, Kieran Hatzke, and Michael Soto—each of whom would take the field in the red and gold of Fargo 1871.

But, by the letters GK, Halo saw the names Matej Delac and … George Moody.

She dropped the towel on the ground, fished her sunglasses out of her bag, and stormed out of the training ground. On the train back towards London, she brought out her iPhone.

U going tonight?

Y U?

Halo sighed. Nothing else 2 do She waited a moment and added. U got stuff?

A slightly longer pause. Course. C u there.

Imposters Cup Group J

Chelsea v Fargo Sporting Committee of 1871, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 0 – Fargo 1871 0

MoM: Shaun Hinds (7.4)

Attendance: 39,736. Referee: Keith Stroud.

Link to post
Share on other sites

  • 1 year later...
This continues the journey of Leigh Musicek. Originally seen as the first female player in the 5m1w world, various events have conspired to make her merely the brightest star among them. When the world relaunched, most teams reverted to “reality,” so if you were paying close enough attention to know that Luiz had gone to Arsenal, for example, you get a no-prize, and you’ll need to just suspend your disbelief as we build the universe back up.

The summary of the story so far runs like this: Chelsea is managed by Danyil Oranje, a somewhat gruff and manipulative Dutchman. Danyil has a softer side, but it is visible mostly to his lover, Ruud, with him he lives in secrecy. Among his challenges is the 18 year old starlet, Leigh, who is precocious and smart and strong and still very much a teenage girl struggling with her place in history. Her Premier League debut is anticipated early in the upcoming season, an event which is being partially orchestrated by forces beyond her or Danyil’s control.

Writing in this story will be less frequent than before and, if I am successful in what I want to do, focus more off the field than on it, although always with events at Chelsea as a strong part of the set and setting.

The August sun beat relentlessly on Leigh's back, and when she drew her hands away from tightening her ponytail, they were damp with sweat. She pulled at the bright orange pinnie, feeling it separate from her practice shirt, and shook her head. Coach Oranje was working them himself today, which was rare, and he was working them hard. It was preseason, but still.

They had been running in the merciless heat for almost two hours. Leigh grimaced and urged herself on. Come on, girl. This ain’t nothing. You did two-a-days in Houston in August. Lots of them.

Again, came the yell from the midfield line, and she saw Coach Oranje’s leg move in an unhurried arc, the ball flying out towards Eden Hazard, who gathered it at the right touchline and moved towards them.

Leigh glanced over at David Luiz, who was already moving to his left to track the attack. She didn’t know what to make of the Brazilian. He possessed an exuberance on and off the pitch that troubled her, a tendency to attempt the impossible that was only balanced by the fact he occasionally pulled it off.

She found herself suspicious of people who acted that … happy. And he had come to Chelsea at a difficult time for her. For all of their fights, she missed Halo and her withering cynicism. Leigh had heard rumors of the young goalkeeper being forced out of the squad after testing positive for cocaine, but as far as she knew--as far as she wanted to know--they were just rumors.

Still, something had certainly been up at the end. Before a tearful farewell when Halo was piling the last of her things into the cavernous boot of a taxi for her flight to Italy (she had been sold to Juventus for a pittance), Leigh couldn’t remember the last time they exchanged more than a passing grunt in the hallway, and since then her texts had gone unanswered, so Leigh had stopped sending them.

But the apartment was empty without Halo around, and Leigh found herself feeling anxious at the way sound echoed in the place. She began spending longer and longer hours at Cobham, delaying the trip home as late as possible, until Dermot Drummy had chided her one evening, and in her embarrassment she had rushed into the dark without her house keys, and had to flag down a taxi to drive her all the way back.

And then Yaya left, too. Arsenal had swept in, and the gangly French striker was off to the crosstown rival. Leigh hadn’t realized how much she had depended on his smile, his gentle teasing. They still spoke; or rather, texted, but it wasn’t the same.

Hey
Hey Haricot
only u call me that
I kno
Good day?
I guess Hot. JT was grumpy
ALWAYS
lol u?
Y. Lots of fwds here
Scared ill win bet?
NEVER

Most of their conversations were about the bet: whichever played a full game in the Premier League first during the season owed the other one dinner. Playing was winning: a dinner full of gloating would make the final bill irrelevant.

Leigh shook the memory away and dropped a few steps. Luiz was forcing Hazard to the inside--which was, of course, right where he wanted to go, and she had to choose between helping him and covering Jaakko Rantala, the impish teenager from Finland who was pushing for a spot in the first team.

Ori! You’re help! She called, and Romeu moved towards Hazard while Leigh faded to her right to track Rantala. He pulled up, and Leigh looked back to see Luiz helping Hazard off the ground, the ball settling to rest a few feet away. The two patted each other on the back, and the young Belgian star trotted back towards midfield.

Luiz looked at her and grinned, giving her a thumbs up. Leigh nodded, and reached back to tighten her ponytail as she jogged the few steps back to their starting position. She glanced towards midfield, and shook her head. I’m playing defense against Juan Mata and Fernando Torres. Sometimes it still seemed impossible.

Better, came the yell from midfield. Again!

This time the ball only stayed on Luiz’ side for a moment before it arced across the field. Leigh saw Torres accelerate towards it and started to sprint. She could get there first, or at least poke it away before he had control.

And then a searing pain exploded in the back of her right leg. As she reached back to grab it and felt herself fall, she looked back, certain someone had kicked her. Her eyes closed with pain, and she heard voices, all in unfamiliar accents.

Eva!

She’s down!

She didn’t remember much of what happened, other than a single thought that stayed with her as they carted her into the exam room. Yaya has the edge now, for sure.

Link to post
Share on other sites

  • 4 months later...
@gav. Slowly, slowly. I did recreate the game in FM13. However, I abandoned the intense North American structure--it was just too much, and there were too many things that threatened to break the Editor. This post marks a restart to posting of sorts, so more coming on that soon, I hope.

December 8, 2013

That’s it, then.

Leigh looked at Eva in disbelief. You’re serious? I’m good? I don’t have to wear that thing? She nodded towards a large knee brace that squatted on the chair by the door, a black insect that obscured the ubiquitous Chelsea logo.

Eva patted Leigh’s leg and kept her face stern. You’re four, five weeks from good. But yeah, you’re done with it. Not like you’ve been wearing it all the time anyhow.

Leigh ignored the last comment and, her voice voice hopeful, asked, So, does that mean …

Yes. You can run again.The young physio caught herself quickly. Jog. You can jog.

You said run.

Jog.

Leigh’s face broke into a wide smile. Alright, alright. Jog. How far?

Just come back tomorrow morning, we’ll see how you are. Dror will want to take a look.Leigh scowled at the thought of the gruff Israeli. Oh, come on, he’s not that bad.

You can say that. He doesn’t try to make you puke.

Has he?

Made me puke?

No, tried.

No.

Well, then.

But that’s just because you’ve kept me cooped up in here for three months. Leigh tapped her forehead. I hear things.

Eva stood and made some notations on a chart. You can’t believe everything you hear, you know.

Leigh stared at the back of Eva’s neck, where her short hair curled above her collar. Eva?

Eva turned, one eyebrow raised and Leigh looked away. Just, thanks. For all this. Even when you did that thing with the roller and I called you names. You know I didn’t mean it, right?

Eva nodded and Leigh continued, It’s just that, well, since Halo left, I mean I know we weren’t exactly friends, but, being alone and this hamstring thing. It’s been hard, and you’ve been great. Really.

Eva shrugged, but couldn’t suppress a smile herself. It’s nothing. Let’s get you down to hydro, then come back and I’ll get you wrapped up.

Minutes later, as Leigh eased her leg gingerly into the ice-cold water, she grimaced as much from her memory of the conversation with Eva as from the slick chill of the ice cubes as they slid along the bottom of her thighs. It’s nothing. ****. Socially awkward should be my middle ****ing name. She probably thought I was about to ask her out on a date.

Leigh perched on the edge of the seat in the hydro tub, one leg bent at an awkward angle to keep it out of the water. Goddamn, that’s cold!

She didn’t need to submerge herself, but there was something she enjoyed in the total immersion, in the initial shock to her system and the frigid numbness that then set in. Eva made her promise to set a timer so she couldn’t stay in very long, but she found it surprisingly peaceful, a place where her thoughts would fade into an empty quiet of chill air. Maybe I should ask her for a date. Nobody else seems interested.

She placed a rolled up towel behind her head and closed her eyes. No. Becoming a lesbian won’t solve anything. Don’t even know if it works that way. Memories from Houston flashed in front of her eyes, of the drama as her youth teams went through coming out moment after coming out moment, as Leigh saw teammates pair off in intense relationships while she herself never seemed to find time for anything but another hundred keep-ups, another five laps, another dozen lifts.

Her thoughts were jarred away by the metallic buzz of the timer, and after dripping for a moment on the floor while her nerves sprang back to life, painfully chiding her for what she had just done to them, she limped carefully back towards Eva’s office.

She opened the door without knocking and froze as Eva turned to her in surprise, holding open a manila folder. There was someone else sitting on the exam table, a tall, lithe figure with dark eyes crowned with thickly unruly eyebrows shaded by the brim of cream colored cowboy hat. And, standing to his left, his arms crossed in a royal blue Chelsea tracksuit, the imposing shape of Dermot Drummy.

The three of them stared at her in surprise, and she could feel the heat rising in her neck.

Oh. Oh, I’m sorry. I thought. I didn’t know.

Drummy laughed and waved her in. No matter, Leigh. Come on in. Leigh, this is Boyd Parham. Boyd, this is Leigh Musicek. We just brought Boyd in from Mexico, have big plans for him.

Parham smiled, one side of his mouth rising higher than the other and he lifted a finger to the brim of his hat. Nice to meet you.

Leigh just stared, her thoughts careening quickly through her head. He didn’t just do that, did he? What is he, from the 1920s? And then, But that smile. And, finally, out loud, Hey. Um. Welcome, I guess. You know, to Chelsea.

The lopsided smile returned. Thank you. He glanced at Drummy quickly. Glad to be here.

Eva closed the folder and handed it back to Drummy. We’re good for now. Dror will want to put him through his paces, but everything’s fine here. She made a shooing motion with her hands and Parham scooted off the table, moving with a slow grace towards the door. Leigh huddled closer to the wall, allowing both him and Drummy to move by.

Again, Parham’s finger went to the brim of his cap and the corners of his mouth turned up slightly. This is how we do it in Texas. He nodded politely to Eva. Ma’am. He glanced at Leigh. But you’re used to that, I bet.

Leigh’s mind raced, but her mouth refused to cooperate. I haven’t. Haven’t been home in a long time.

Once a Texan, always a Texan.

He and Drummy vanished into the hallway, the door closing softly behind them.

Leigh. Eva’s voice held more than a hint of amusement. Leigh. They’re gone. You can sit down now.

Link to post
Share on other sites

  • 4 months later...
@RicardoW, Thanks! Feels great to be back in the proverbial saddle.
January 1, 2013
Chelsea enters 2013 struggling a bit uncharacteristically: they sit with a few games in hand, but decidedly mid-table, eighteen points of league-leading Tottenham. For the first time in several years, Danyil Oranje is feeling some pressure, and the Spring looks to hold its usual difficulties as many of his players will be called off to the international teams participating in the OOSL.

It looks to be a slow transfer window, with only Leighton Baines seeming poised to join the crew at Stamford Bridge, other than the usual noise of players being released and some decent youth prospects coming in.

Our story picks up with Leigh still recovering from her injury, and yet to make her Premier League debut–which was anticipated to happen in the fall, but the torn muscle put those plans, as well as Leigh herself, on ice.

Far Beyond His Reach

Hi, Dad.

Hi, Sweetie! Happy New Year! Is it … wait … no, it’s one AM there, right?

Leigh smiled in spite of herself, her cheeks wet with tears. She swallowed hard before answering.

Yes. I waited.

You OK? Her father interrupted, his voice suddenly full of concern.

I’m fine, I … Leigh’s voice broke, an image passing before her eyes of her father, his brows slightly furrowed as he looked at her as if he was trying to puzzle her together and wasn’t quite able to do so. He was silent as she sobbed, a series of wet snuffling noises finding their way through the phone.

I’m fine. I am. Just let me blow my nose. Leigh dropped her cell phone on the couch and hunted through her apartment for a box of tissues.

Sorry. Back. Sorry.

What’s going on, hon?

Nothing. It’s good, I’m fine. There was silence on the line. Her father knew better than to push her about the obvious. It’s just. It’s just hard. I mean, my arm was easy. Whatever. I could still run, I could still train, it was just, you know, a cast. This is just hard. It just sucks.

He wanted to ask, I thought you were running again? He wanted to say, I know it’s hard, I do, but you can do it. He wanted to say nothing, to hold her, her head a strong weight against his shoulder, his hand nestled below her ever-present ponytail. Instead, he just said, I’m so sorry.

When she was seven, he could fix most anything. But even then, watching her outrun and outwork all of the boys on her team, he could see her accelerating towards an orbit that would take her far beyond his reach. He saw in her a will, something stern and hard that needed firing and so he stepped away, slowly disentangling himself so he just stood on the sidelines, arms crossed, wincing slightly as he watched her crash into boys twenty pounds heavier than she was as a tween.

Each time, she would get up, brush off her shorts, reach out a hand to help the other player up, and then look away, her hands going to her hair and her chest rising with a deep breath followed by a strong exhalation.

I’m so sorry.

I know. He heard the breath again, with a slight catch. It’s fine. It’ll be fine. I’m just so tired of running laps, of the treadmill, of not being able to play.

I know.

Leigh laughed. Well. Happy New Year. Is Mom around?

Not yet. She should be home soon.

Got anything planned?

The usual. We’re going over to the Hutchinson’s later.

Janice still not drinking?

Far as I know. You do anything tonight?

No, not really. Just stayed here.

Alone?

Yeah, it was good. I just didn’t much feel like going out with the boys.

What about Eva?

Oh, you know. She asked, but she wanted to go with her friends. I’d just have been baggage. Baggage with a brace, not drinking. Not a lot of fun.

Leigh, you need some friends. It’s important.

I know, Dad, I know.

Tell Mom Happy New Year, OK? I’m going to go to bed.

I will. We love you, Leigh. And I’m sorry it’s hard right now. You’ll be back soon.

Thanks, I know. It’s good. Bye.

Leigh dropped her phone again, ignoring the alert that she had texts and tweets demanding her attention. Later, she was in her bed, listening to the blare of revelry pouring in from the street below, each note proving an aggravation against sleep, a reminder of her being alone.

She got up and grabbed a long rubber strap from a pile of discarded clothes and sat on the floor, her left leg extended. She looped the strap around her ankle and began to pull, slowly working through a set of stretches, grimacing as she felt her healing muscles protest.

Forty minutes later, drenched with sweat, she was finally able to fall into a dark, dreamless slumber.

Her phone buzzed on the couch throughout the evening.

Eva: Leigh?

Eva: U there?

Eva: Happy New Year! U should cm out with us!!!

Eva: Leigh?

Link to post
Share on other sites

  • 2 weeks later...

January 1, 2013

Norwich City @ Chelsea, EPL

Chelsea 1 (Frank Lampard 46) – Norwich 1 (Elliott Bennett 87)

Blues’ Best: Guillermo Salinas

January 3, 2013

Chelsea @ Bristol City, FA Cup

Chelsea 4 (Eden Hazard 10, 53; Demba Ba 61; Emanuele Bisceglia 66) – Bristol City 0

Blues’ Best: Eden Hazard

January 5, 2013

Chelsea @ Queens Park Rangers, EPL

QPR 1 (Löic Rémy 33) – Chelsea 1 (Eden Hazard 45+2)

Blues’ Best: Guillermo Salinas

January 9, 2013

Newcastle @ Chelsea, EPL

Chelsea 2 (Eden Hazard 31, 56p) – Newcastle 2 (Yoan Gouffran 39; Moussa Sissoko 81)

Blues’ Best: Eden Hazard

January 12, 2013

Chelsea @ Southampton, EPL

Chelsea 1 (Frank Lampard 17) – Southampton 0

Blues’ Best: Frank Lampard

January 15, 2013

Chelsea @ Sunderland, EPL

Chelsea 3 (Eden Hazard 17, Romelu Lukaku 48, Jaakko Rantala 90+3) – Sunderland 1 (Stéphane Sèssegnon 72)

Blues’ Best: Juan Mata

January 20, 2013

West Bromwich Albion @ Chelsea, EPL

West Brom 1 (Shane Long 45) – Chelsea 1 (Romelu Lukaku 43)

Blues’ Best: John Terry

January 23, 2013

Chelsea @ Everton, EPL

Chelsea 3 (Eden Hazard 11, 44p, 83p) – Everton 1 (Marouane Fellaini 50)

Blues’ Best: Eden Hazard

January 26, 2013

Chelsea @ Stoke City, EPL

Chelsea 2 (Romelu Lukaku 18, 66) – Stoke 0

Blues’ Best: Romelu Lukaku

Dead Chuffed. January 28, 2013

Leigh sat a moment, her head in her hands, trying to slow her breathing.

She leaned back against the brick wall, hearing her uniform catch briefly against its rough surface. She wasn’t sure what this room used to be, but it clearly was never intended to function as a dressing room. Still, she had been in worse.

She looked down at her hands and shook her head: the dark blue oval of the Captain’s armband was wound around her wrist. She had protested when Dermot Drummy had given it to her, but he had waved her off. You’re it, Leigh. It’s your game, and your back line.

And that was before she saw the teamsheet: there were players here who belonged on Chelsea’s front lines. Torres up front, the Italian kid Bisceglia by him. She had played a lot with José Rodríguez and Javíer Ochoa over the past two years, but even they had logged more first-team minutes than she had. Certainly one of those four should have the armband.

She sighed and slid the band up her arm. It was loose, but if she bunched it over her sleeve, it would hold.

She knew what Drummy meant. Both sides of it: this was a game that would usually draw a few hundred spectators and today there would be a few thousand to see her first competitive action since last summer. And the defense was going to be a challenge. Alex Davey, Archange Nkumu, and Kevin Wright were all older than she was, but none of them were likely to last at Chelsea. They lacked discipline and focus, and while she liked Davey well enough, she knew she would have to carry the weight in front of Sam Walker’s goal.

And, she did: from the opening whistle when Yossi Benayoun sent the ball back to her to start the attack, Leigh was comfortable and, as so often the case, shockingly commanding along the back line, constantly barking out encouragement and instructions to her teammates.

At the end, moments after young Benedikt Berg’s mishit cross found the far corner of the net for a narrow Chelsea victory, Leigh collapsed onto the ground. Utterly exhausted, she felt like a towel that had been wrung free of all moisture. She heard a voice and squinted her eyes open.

Hey, there. Good game.

It was Tom Eaves, Bolton’s young striker. They had battled all game and Leigh knew that the soreness in her lower back was at least partially a result of his elbows. She had even gotten the only card of the game when he had turned away from her quicker than she anticipated and her tackle was late, catching him high on his ankle.

But later, when she was pretty sure her tank was empty, she had caught up to him on a break, sliding to nudge the ball cleanly away and out of bounds. She got up from that encounter with a small smile on her face: when she took off in pursuit, she didn’t think of her hamstring, she just reacted and ran.

Leigh reached out her hand and accepted his help in getting back to her feet.

Thanks. You too. Thought you had me on that corner. Leigh had been slow to react on a pick, and Eaves had flashed open momentarily at the near post, but the kick had sailed towards the far, falling harmlessly beyond the goal and rolling out of bounds.

Yeah, me too. They began to make their way towards the sidelines. You OK?

Not really. First game back. Knackered. Leigh flashed him a small smile. I said that right, yeah? Knackered.

Eaves nodded and Leigh began to turn away, towards the tight knot of fans yelling for her attention, some still waving the signs that followed her to all of her games–a variation of a heart or the Chelsea crest or a map of England with the words Our Leigh written across it.

Eaves touched her arm and Leigh paused. Can I ask you something? My girl, she’s just crazy about you. She’s going to yell at me about pushing you, I know she will. But, thing is, she’d just be dead chuffed if we could, you know, do the shirt thing. He had reached up behind his neck, but stopped as Leigh laughed.What?

No, nothing. Nothing. It’s good, sure, yeah. Just, yeah, just wait around a bit, OK? Let me go talk to them and get in and changed and I’ll send it over to you. You can send yours back then, yeah?

Tom just nodded, still a bit baffled.

Leigh shook her head as she made her way to the sidelines, reaching out for the first pen and shirt she was offered. Jessica had talked about that very thing with her the previous week. Remember, she had said, no trading shirts on the field.

But I always wanted to be Brandi Chastain, Leigh had replied, laughing. She had missed Jessica, and was happy they were speaking more as her rehab wore down.

Yeah, well, too bad. And your boobs are too big anyhow.

Leigh signed her name, and reached out her hand for the next pen. And what’s your name?

January 30, 2013

Aston Villa @ Chelsea, EPL

Chelsea 2 (Romelu Lukaku 57, 68) – Villa 0

Blues’ Best: Romelu Lukaku

# # #

League Position: 5th of 20, 12 points behind Tottenham with 1 game in hand (tied with Manchester City, behind Everton and Liverpool).

League Goals: Eden Hazard (9); Assists: Leighton Baines (7); Rating: Hazard (7.74)

Overall Goals: Hazard (18); Assists: Hazard (15); Rating: Hazard (7.96)

Link to post
Share on other sites

  • 2 weeks later...
@mw, Thanks! This is probably my favorite of the stories. I'm really happy to have found a way to continue with these characters.

February 1, 2013

Leigh sat on her couch, one hand absently tracing the ridged edge of the cushion. She edged the volume up on her remote.

... to repeat, we are going to have a ceremonial kickoff here, and then a restart for a new ball, and we’ll be getting going with the rest of the game in just a moment.

This is a historic day not only for German football, but for football all over the world, as Aline Stöckli will make her first team debut for Borussia-Dortmund becoming the first female player to take the field in a top league. Some have accused Dortmund’s new coach of pulling a publicity stunt, but I’ve had the pleasure of watching this young woman play before, and she’s the real deal, with some even going as far as insisting that, as a midfielder and as the first, she deserves more recognition than Chelsea’s young Leigh Musicek, who was assumed to take this honor until she injured herself last fall.

Musicek looks to take the field for Chelsea in a matter of weeks, but today is Aline Stöckli’s day. You can see her there, standing by the ball next to fellow Dortmund midfielder Nuri Sahin, who has evidently said something to make her laugh.

You can only guess at what is going through this young woman’s head right now. And there on the bench is her teammate, Lina Magull. Dortmund’s coach has hinted that she may see action today as well, although most believe Stöckli is the stronger of the two players.

And there’s Knut Kircher’s first whistle. Stöckli touches the ball and he blows again. She hands him the ball, and it is sent out of play for posterity. I wonder who ends up with that particular historic souvenir? Kircher has a replacement, checks it, seems to be satisfied with it.

And we’re off on a historic night here at Signal Iduna Park in Dortmund, with Hoffenheim looking to spoil Stöckli’s debut, but just listen to that crowd every time she touches the ball!

Leigh fingered the mute button and took a deep breath. She ran a hand along the back of her thigh, digging, probing for any discomfort, any remaining soreness.

She watched the game absent-mindedly, empty of emotion. Thoughts swirled in her mind, thoughts of Good for her and It should have been me and Wow, Dante has some outrageous hair. Not as much as Luiz, but still, but nothing took root. She felt absent, and she was barely aware of her surroundings, just an overwhelming fatigue that edged towards sadness.

She was surprised when she looked down to see a faint redness on her fingertips. What? She stood up, twisting herself to look at the back of her leg, where she had scratched the skin raw, a pink sheen beginning to ooze towards the surface.

Link to post
Share on other sites

February 5, 2013

Danyil sat in silence for a long time before he spoke. Ruud waited patiently, sipping from his glass and savoring the light wash of the pale chardonnay against his palate. Finally, Danyil rubbed a hand through his pale hair and sighed. She wasn’t great.

Ruud recognized the note of resignation in his voice. I thought you said it wasn’t about how she played. Fitness and all that.

Danyil grimaced. You pay too much attention to what I say.

Ruud lifted his glass of wine in salute and smiled. Een drankje aan mijn oren.

Ze zijn mooi oren. Verfijnd. But, asked Danyil, a hand reaching out to the other man's neck, is that some grey creeping in?

Ruud lightly slapped his hand away. Nee! Remember, you're the old one. He picked up the bottle of wine and moved into the small kitchen, calling over his shoulder as he went. And, you're avoiding the question.

There was silence, and when he returned, steam rising from two bowls of dark stew riddled with chunks of orange vegetables and slowly braised beef, Danyil avoided his eyes, tearing two thick chunks off the end of a loaf of bread, handing it to Ruud, and passing a small plate of butter as well. Ruud accepted these with a softly murmured Thanks. Danyil nodded, dipping his piece into his bowl and sighing contentedly.

It's good. It's very good. You take very good care of me.

Ruud smiled, pleased. Yes, I do. They ate in silence for a few minutes.

OK. OK. Ruud looked up, his eyebrows arched. You were right when you said it before, you're right now. March sixteenth. I'll call Jessica tomorrow. The sixteenth. That’s a month for her to get into shape. He rubbed the stubble on his chin and frowned. A month for the madness, the press, the … Verdomd! The sixteenth, against West Ham.

Link to post
Share on other sites

Archived

This topic is now archived and is closed to further replies.

  • Recently Browsing   0 members

    • No registered users viewing this page.
×
×
  • Create New...