 |
| © Simon Poulter 2016 |
I am, obviously, totally biased when I say that the game of the weekend was yesterday's encounter at Stamford Bridge between Chelsea and Manchester, but for different reasons going into it than coming out.
Until 4pm yesterday I was the uneasy mess I often am before big games. It's an irrational neurosis, of course, but games between Chelsea and exalted opposition, or even just important cup ties, have me wound up tighter than a drum. It is - and here comes the first dig at those who think we're all arriviste glory-hunters at the Bridge - the result of years of underachievement, failure and humiliating defeats. Manchester United inflicted a particularly painful one on us at Wembley in 1994, and I've struggled - actually, failed - to let go of it ever since. Caught up in that is the lingering envy stemming from a period when United won everything and had the spending power, it seemed, to buy whomever they wanted. Looking back in cold hindsight, they were simply the best football club in the land with the best manager. It doesn't matter what their finances were like, it's simply what they were. But that period of United's imperiousness cast a long shadow over my relationship with the club as a Chelsea fan. Even when United haven't, actually, been that good (basically, since SAF retired), I have still approached games with them with queasy dread.
Yesterday's game had the added spice of the return of José Mourinho, coupled with a United that had spent generously in the summer, with all pundits, at the start of the season at least, pitting the 2016-17 Premier League season as, essentially, a face-off between the two Manchesters and their coaches. In fact, the return of Mourinho genuinely mattered least for me. Yes, it was like awkwardly encountering an ex-girlfriend with her new beau (which reminds me, I need to rewatch High Fidelity), but like adults you hopefully can move on from that.
The way Mourinho crashed and burned at Chelsea last season, almost taking the club with him through the trapdoor, fumigated any lingering affection for him. Don't get me wrong: I don't wish to sound ungrateful for what he did for Chelsea - truly, he brought about success on a scale I'd previously thought impossible in my lifetime - but last season exposed the toxicity of his personality, the vindictiveness that, when unleashed, undermines the brilliance of his successful football ethos.
Because - and I'll get on to yesterday's game in a moment - all the good, the pride and excitement that Mourinho had built up with Chelsea's Premier League title win in 2014-15, was unravelled in those first four months of last season, when negativity bred further negativity, when players' heads dropped when they should have been lifted by the coach, when the poisonous air around the club over the treatment of Eva Carneiro lingered long after Mourinho and Chelsea parted company again.
This time last year Chelsea were 15th in the league, had lost five, drawn two and won three, had been dumped out of the League Cup (a title they were defending) with Mourinho suspended for allegedly telling referee John Moss: "Wenger was right. You are fucking soft" at West Ham. In the same week, Carneiro served papers on the club for constructive dismissal. In the space of three months, Chelsea had gone from English champions to laughing stock. Halloween has often been the starting point of a nightmare period for Chelsea, usually culminating in a managerial sacking, but by this point last year, the horror had already become unbearable. And Mourinho could be blamed for much, if not all of it.
So, then, yesterday. That Chelsea demolished Manchester United 4-0, providing some, admittedly petty respite for that 1994 embarassment, has nothing to do with Mourinho, revenge or any other misdirected emotion. In fact the real emotion of yesterday's game was more to do with commemorating Matthew Harding, the man whose investment pre-dated that of Roman Abramovich, and whose infectious fandom and largesse saw a club struggling with survival actually stay afloat. You could argue that Harding's money brought renewal to Chelsea that made it more attractive to Abramovich.
Yesterday's win was for Harding. But also for Antonio Conte. Like his compatriot Carlo Ancelotti, Conte has brought a dignified presence to the managership of Chelsea. Yes, it's a little alarming to see him windmilling so frantically on the touchline, but then in his post-match interviews and press conferences you see a gracious, charming and funny man, completely unbound by the neuroses that gnaw so visibly away at Mourinho. Even yesterday he had to drag the spotlight away from his team's moribund display by creating an argument with Conte about nothing (apparently the Portuguese was upset that his rival was trying to get the crowd going when the score was already 4-0 - this from a man who complained that Stamford Bridge was TOO quiet...!).
Removing Mourinho and even Manchester United from the equation, yesterday's game was delightful entertainment for a Chelsea fan. Every player - even David Luiz - did their jobs, and did them well. The wingback/three-man-central-defence system worked a treat, N'Golo Kante is looking terrific in his distribution, tackling and posession, and even Pedro scored. Pedro. After 28 seconds of the opening whistle. Happy days.
Only one special one being remembered in the Matthew Harding Upper yesterday. I got calls asking me about how Jose was greeted and I have to say, I wasn't even aware when he entered the dug out. The only chant for him was an ironic one at 3 or 4 nil. He reminds me of that situation where someone has a really hot but hateful partner they can't quite believe they're with and so make excuses for their crankiness and edge. Then one day after that partner has slated everyone else, it's there turn, and they realise (s)he really was a nut job all along. Matthew Harding's Blue and White Army, most certainly rose to the occasion on the pitch, and in the stands yesterday.
ReplyDelete