When Men Were Men

And so, with the much-anticipated London derby with Spurs ending in a dour stalemate last week, Chelsea have left themselves with a huge European mountain to climb. It would appear now that the most probable route into the top tier of Europe next season ... is via Europe itself. 

Easy-peasy. We just have to win the Champions League itself. No sweat. We just have that teeny-weeny problem of oh, say, an out-of-this-planet Barcelona led by their out-of-this-universe, mercurial Lionel Messi who is so darn good that he may actually wipe the names Pele and Maradona off the historical slate of football clean?

The Star of Leo - obliterating teams at a football pitch near you 

Assuming that we do manage to overcome this wee Catalan roadbump (pun and fallacy of logic unintended), there's also the small matter of overcoming a super efficient galactic Real Madrid bursting with actual galacticos featuring this generation's Bionic Man himself Cristiano Ronaldo and led, in a twist of irony, by the prodigal son whom almost every Chelsea fan yearns for his return, the irrepressible Jose Mourinho. 

                               

"Cristiano! How many times must I remind you - NO more mazy dribbles across the entire defence followed up by a backheeled goal. Remember you already put 4 past them. The team coach needs to come out of this stadium alive!" 

So yeah, I'm sure you can appreciate the path, laden no less with good intentions, and extremely high hopes, that lies in front of our team should we desire to land the coveted European Cup come May. No sweat. 

But before that, there's a simple matter of overcoming the humble Benfica over a tricky 2-legged tie. 

This alone could potentially unravel our season if the Boys In Blue do not pull their socks up and treat every single European fixture like a death-match. It's easy to lose sight of an unfancied Benfica when Barca and Real loom slightly beyond the horizon, but what was it again about the people usually tripping from pebbles right before their noses?

The Drog must've been feeling that, for how else do you explain this video?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GNgnDuDTWKs

Apparently it courted so much controversy from fans and non-fans alike complaining of such 'unsportsman-like' conduct that David Luiz, a former Benfica player, had to step in with a hastily concocted 'cover' story. He was quoted by ESPN Soccernet as saying:

"If people watch the video closely, it's not directed at Benfica," 

"He was talking about Barcelona because Barcelona are a very, very big team. Chelsea know how Benfica reached this far. They're a strong team. Drogba's character wouldn't allow him to disrespect another team."

Yes David. Very convincing. Now go ahead and tell us that tooth fairies do exist.

Which brings me (finally) to the reason behind the topic of the day. What is society coming to when a little bit of play-mocking / taunting is frowned upon? This is a competitive sport, for cryin' out loud. Players, manager, club and even fans alike are expected to play mind-games, brag, taunt, mock, boo and generally do anything (within the confines of the law of course) to metaphorically 'kick the other team when they're down... or up... whichever is more convenient'.
All in the name of gaining that slight edge. Stakes are so high and so little room exists between a winner and a loser that any advantage, however slight, could be the difference between ecstatic tears of joy and the shivering sobs of the losing finalist. Or first loser. To-may-toe, to-mah-toe.

The point is, society is becoming too politically-correct. Too soft, too limp. I personally blame feminism, Twilight and a whole host of media-induced culture of 'sensitivity' which has essentially metaphorically castrated men of this generation. But I'll save that for a different post. Or different blog even. Back to planet football then.

Again, I ask, where has all the real men gone to? The 'hard men' of today would probably cringe at the thought of being transported back to the yesteryear of football where heading involved the head, a strong arm swing and lots of elbows, and where a tackle did not qualify as one unless there is an accompanying snap, crackle or pop. From your opponent getting tackled, preferably.

Whilst today's prima donna knows all about the balming effects of beeswax on cracked lips like the back of their conditioned hair-ed head, the olden day footballer probably gargled with rocks in the mornings and brushed his teeth with a stick on a barbed wire.

The flavour of the month in recent times seem to be the issue of 'racism'. The whole hoopla surrounding JT and Suarez, to me, smacks of soft bullshit. Fine, many of you may think I may not be the most neutral person to come to JT's defence, but for argument's sake, if any of Chelsea's black players were to be racially insulted by another player in the heat of the game, I'd be very disappointed if the said Chelsea player were to cry to the world about feeling insulted.

As mentioned earlier, all players seek to gain an advantage during a competitive game. Some players have quicker temper than others. Some players are more prone to throwing their rattles out of their expensive prams when pressured. Put all this in a heated melting pot of a highly physical contact sport, and you have 4th of July waiting to be lit.

But it should all happen and end within that game. Most of the time, players resort to racist insults because that's the quickest and lamest thing that their footballing brains can actually process in the heat of the moment. Most of the times, they don't mean it. A player who angrily calls a fellow player a "black cunt" is probably pissed off at something that the player did from a footballing context, e.g. a late tackle or a tug of the shirt, rather than because he hates blacks. It's as simple as that.

For argument's sake, if I put myself in a player's shoes, and I'm in the middle of a very high tension, bad tempered match. The field is muddy and my slightly late 2 footed tackle almost gives the opposing Caucasian  defender a free facial reconstruction op. The said Caucasian behemoth of a man squares up to me and barks in my face "watch that fuckin' tackle of yours, you fuckin' short-dicked, yellow Chingky parasite immigrant scum or I'll rip you a new ass as big as that fuckin' filthy 3rd world China"

My reaction? I'd probably smile and say "velli solly, red hair monkey. me no speaka Engrand." And when the ref ain't watching, "accidentally" step on his nuts when he's on the ground or elbow the brains out of his skull with my (non-existent) Wing Chun skills.

Moral of the story? Give it back as good as you get. On the pitch. When the whistle blows, you keep everything under the lid and walk away. Understand that what happens in a game stays in the game. Understand that a racist insult is still essentially an insult. Meant to throw you off your game. Meant to affect you psychologically. When you blow it out of proportion and turn it into a crusade to "defend your race" or "stand up to racism" outside the 4 corners of the pitch, you appear like a big crybaby and a sore loser.

Now, just to be clear, I am in no way condoning wilful racism. If you were walking along the street, minding your own business, and a total stranger walks up to you and for no apparent reason hurls racist statements at you, then that's a wilful racism. That should not be tolerated. We have laws for that.

But in the context of a competition? Between tense business competitiors? Between feuding footballers? Puh-lease.

If I was Anton or Evra, I'd be secretly happy. For there is probably nothing in my game that is capable of being insulted that the opposing player has to resort to a non-football insult like my race. It connotes an inferiority complex by the opposing player. I'd be smug if someone insulted me racially

So Anton Ferdinand, Patrice Evra and every other softie in the history of football who turns every racist taunt into an imaginary Klu Klux Klan membership drive, please take off your girlie knickers and put on some manly boxers.

I say bring on the insults, be it racist, sexist, country-ist, religious-ist or anything at all for that matter. Let's be less politically correct. Let's toughen ourselves. It's about time men of today grew some nuts and learn not to be so easily affected by shit like insults.

Footballers of before were concerned with things such as violent pitch invasions by hooligans, tackles from behind bordering on assault and common battery, and training on frozen pitches and lashing rain without the comforts of modern training facilities. It is thus indeed embarrassing, to contrast that with footballers of today whose main concerns involved being called a "negro" repeatedly.

Nando Scores

Finally ... after more than 25 hours of football ... our favourite Spaniard Fernando Torres has found the net. Twice!

Granted, it was against Leicester City. But the moment that scuffed shot crossed the line with a bit of fortune, one could literally feel the 50 million pound albatross being removed from his neck. And sometime later, when that perfect glancing header of his found the precise angle to beat Kasper Schmeichel, one could be forgiven for allowing one's mind to raise a tiny smidgen of hope ... could this be the return of El Nino?

Only time will tell. We just hope that it's not too long. 

Let's hope it doesn't take another couple of painful months, weeks or even days before Nando finds the back of the net again. An old Spanish seafaring saying goes "if you've plundered one city before, you've plundered them all". After the besieging of the City of Leicester, a tougher City of Manchester lies in wait. Fingers crossed Nando will prove his country's old proverb applicable in this day and age.

In other news, Fabio Capello has once more hit back at the FA over the Terry debacle, and his resignation which stemmed from that. 

"One is innocent until proven guilty" he was quoted as saying.  

Well said, Don Fab. Well said. Now if only he had applied such an attitude in 2010 during the Terry-Bridge-Vanessa Peroncel scandal, and backed his captain in the face of national blame-mongering, then perhaps things would have panned out a little differently for England at South Africa. 

Cmon Fabrice, The Final Whistle Ain't Blown Yet...

It has been said these days that Bolton are a team desperately fighting to avoid relegation. For one of their players, another more important fight is currently taking place ... one for his life.

For the uninitiated, Fabrice Muamba (above) has been one of Bolton's rare shining stars in a season where majority of their players have either underperformed or looked out of depth. 

Last night, in a FA Cup tie with Tottenham Hotspur, Fabrice suddenly collapsed on the pitch. Moments later, he had apparently stopped breathing and needed full attention from the medics at White Hart Lane while an entire stadium filled with stunned supporters looked on shell-shocked. Players from both teams were visibly distraught and the referee rightly called off the game at the 41st minute.

Today, reports are saying that Fabrice is facing a critical 24-hour period in a fight to save his life. Details of what exactly happened to him is still unconfirmed at this stage, though given what I could see on the screen, it  would have been most likely a heart problem, like a sudden cardiac arrest or something.

Whatever it is, all our thoughts and prayers go out to him. It was certainly heart-warming to see fans of both teams unite in showing genuine concern and grief when Fabrice collapsed. Incidences like this serve to put football, with all the big money and pressures involved, into the right perspective. 

Suddenly, a contest between between grown men trying to put a leather ball into a net more times than the other side seem like an embarrassingly trivial pursuit when compared to the plight facing Fabrice now. 

However, the (brighter) flip side of this all is witnessing the ability of this wee sport to unite millions around the globe, myself included, who have never personally met Fabrice but yet wishing he would fight the good fight, recover well and get back to doing what he does best - putting smiles on the faces of Bolton fans week in, week out.

Fabrice Muamba, if there was such a thing as the power of thoughts, take heart that this power is currently being emitted by millions around the globe in hopes that you pull through and get well.

God speed.

TIMEOUT : Birthday Shoutout to the Most Gorgeous 37 Year Old Ever

This blog would like to take a quick football time-out to wish its favourite babe a.k.a Vivian Hsu an early HAPPY 37th BIRTHDAY!! (her birthday's March 19 but she's so hot even birthday wishes to her come prematurely ;)

Truth be told, not many chicks below 30 can even look as good as this Taiwanese beauty can today. 

P.S.-The above are very recent  pictures of her. Bless.

Back From the Dead, And the European Dream Lives On

Few nights in the history of the knockout stages of the Champions League have we seen magnificent comebacks by teams who had lost the first leg by more than 2 goals.

Even fewer have those nights been witnessed in Stamford Bridge, and almost never before have such an occasion come at a time when Chelsea's season seemed to have been as gone, done and dusted as they are now. 

But such a night it was.

And such a night reminded us why the Champions League can sometimes bring out the best in teams even when faith has been lost on themselves.

A fast-growing and exciting Napoli, boasting one of the more feared Holy Trinity's in Europe in the form of the deadly Edinson Cavani-Marek Hamsik-Ezekiel Lavezzi combo, rolled into town with a comfortable 3-1 lead from the first leg.

They were facing a Chelsea side who have been a pale shadow of themselves a couple of years back, struggling domestically, managed by an interim caretaker manager and populated with an old guard whom everyone thinks ought to have been put out to pasture by now.

Conventional wisdom suggested a spirited 'go-down-fighting' performance at the Bridge a la Arsenal vs Milan, with Napoli edging through to the quarterfinals. 

Clearly Chelsea was not one to follow conventional wisdom.

I'm not going to ramble on with a detailed commentary on the game itself (there are loads of football sites out there where you can get that from), but suffice to say that the players, whose careers many had marked as supposedly 'over the hill', pulled us back from the dead and transformed into a maybe not-so-lean, very mean, Napoli-kicking machine. 

The irrepresible Drogba, Captain Marvel himself Terry and Chelsea's saviour for more than a decade Lampard powered Chelsea through in ways only they knew best (power header, glancing header from a corner kick and top-notch penalty kick, respectively) to pull the game into extra-time (Napoli's Gokhan Inler had pulled one back for the visitors in the 55th minute). 

When legs are tired, spirits are flagged and glucose levels in the body are running on empty, you sometimes need a little bit of pixie dust, magic, luck, whatever you want to call it ... to give you just the edge. Ivanovic has been the man to do that for Chelsea over the years in Europe and last night, he did it again with a powerful lash in after being beautifully set up by Drogba.

With that, Chelsea came through and are indeed through to the next round. Pure magic. A night to remember for all.

It's nights like this that stiffens the flagging faith in the Chelsea faithful. It's nights like this that brings back that glimmer of hope in a cloudy season. And it's nights like this that can sometimes be the catalyst for turning the corner and rallying the team into a late charge to salvage the season. 

Whether or not DiMatteo is the right man for the job, whether or not the older players should be shown the door, whether or not Jose returns ... these are all considerations for summer when the season is over. As I've said before time and again, you have to take what's in front of you and deal with it like a man. Now is what matters, not yesterday, not tomorrow. Chelsea's answer to their critics lie in forgetting all their woes, leaving the rebuilding and shake-up of the squad to after the season ends and just concentrating on standing up and being counted at every game, one at a time.

They did just that last night. They did just that with such gusto that one may be tempted to wonder whether the battling spirit of old may be slowly creeping back Happy days at the Bridge again, you wonder?

It's nights like this that makes you wanna put on Aerosmith's 'Dream On' and shout the chorus "dream on ... dream on ... dream on ... dream until your dreams turn BLUE"

I'll stop here before I start jinxing them. And end with just this question: Man City, are you watching? 

RESULTS PREDICTION: Gameweek 28

I have been summoned....

... By the King (Of this Corner) no less...

... To gaze into my mystic bowl of prediction ... and study the magical formation of the ganja leaves ... which, to the naked eye, is nothing more than residue from a pothead's session ... but which ... to a trained Oracle like myself ... are messages from the future ... capable of foretelling ... what has yet come to pass ...

... but until I get my hands on those essential equipment, let me just play 'ting-tong-tiang' and randomly guess EPL football scores for this weekend. Enjoy!

Bolton v QPR
A game between 2 struggling teams. Highly unpredictable. Potential bore-fest with game being slugged out in the middle.

Prediction: 0-0

Aston Villa v Fulham
The Villans have the worst defensive record from set-pieces and Darren Bent is out on a long injury lay-off. Fulham are having a surprisingly good run with their unfancied (and some of them mediocre) players playing high tempo, attacking football. If Dembele, Dempsey, Johnson and Pogrebnyak hit form, the Villans may have trouble on their hands

Prediction: 0-2

Chelsea v Stoke City
AVB-less Chelsea's first EPL match post his departure. Stoke have been quite sold recently in a season where they have been plagued by inconsistencies. Stoke has the physical edge and may well up the tempo of their hard-hitting long ball game to test a fresh-from-injury Captain Marvel - I mean, Captain JT, to the max. A likely draw.

Prediction: 1-1


Sunderland v Liverpool
Sunderland under Martin O'Neill have been solid of late, but Sessegnon's non-participation due to suspension may well rob them of a potent creative force in the last quarter of the field. All Mackem hopes rest on young McClean's abilities to tear down the wing to supply the crosses / shots. Liverpool need to convert their many chances if they are to take something credible out of this season. Suarez appears a paler shade of himself post-Handshakegate and Andy Carroll still lumbers around like a drunkard looking for the loo on Bigg Market. A Sunderland surprise win may be on the cards.

Prediction: 1-0


Wolves v Blackburn
Relegation dog-fight between 2 underperforming teams who could surprise neutrals on a good day. The Yak would certainly relish having a go at the flimsy defence at the wolves' den. Still, Wolves have a dangerous bite in the form of Doyle and Fletcher upfront. Potential high-scoring draw but I think this may be the game Wolves turn the corner...

Prediction: 3-2

Everton v Tottenham
A resurgent Toffees take on a Spurs team still licking their wounds from the recent hidings they received from the big boys. Tough game to call, but I expect 'Arry's boys to try and cement the 3rd CL spot with a hard-fought win over the Blues of Liverpool.

Prediction: 1-2


Man Utd v West Brom
Still buoyed by their giant-killing effort from last week, the Brummies' good patch may be halted by United. The Mancs will be hoping to begin their customary season run-in with a good string of results beginning with this one.

Prediction: 4-0

Swansea v Man City
While the Swans have been losing some of their early season swagger, they are still a very tough team to beat at home. City seem to have lost their ability to trash teams by 4 or 5 goals every other week but may have enough firepower to grab 3 points at the Liberty.

Prediction: 0-1

Norwich v Wigan
I can't see how a struggling Wigan can get past the solid Canaries who seem to be on song at the moment.

Prediction: 2-0

Arsenal v Newcastle
Potential cracker of a match. If the Gunners can snuff out the Magpies' supply line as well as Sunderland did last weekend, it could be yet another frustrating weekend for the Premier League's feared Senegal duo of Cisse-and-Ba. However, I expect the Gunners to be the ones attempting to dictate play and be on the offensive with the red-hot RVP leading the line. A close and high-scoring win for the Gunners, methinks.

Prediction: 3-2

Liverpool v Everton
The 2nd match in a week for both these teams may put a slight dampener on this game. However, the tempo will always be raised for this local derby. Expect lots of bookings, some injuries but not a lot of goals in this one.

Prediction: 1-1

There's Only One Man Left To Save Chelsea ...

When good players go bad, there's only one man who will not give up on them ...

With so much column inches these days being used to dissect and discuss who would be the perfect candidate to step into the Stamford Bridge hotseat come summer, I decided to jump in on the "let's play Russian gazillionaire playing Sim Manager" and throw in my choice of a candidate.

And since everyone's either going for the conventional choices such as Pep, Benitez, Jose, Capello or at wildest, Mick McCarthy ... I decided to free my mind from the shackles of conventional wisdom and go for a really wild gamble. A gamble which ... might ... just ... work. 

Enter Cesar Millan. 

[cue to the Dog Whisperer's whistling theme song in the background whilst a stocky, diminutive Mexican (who isn't Chicarito) walks into Stamford Bridge with calm, assertive energy.]

See, it dawned on me that Chelsea's problem was not that it didn't have enough good players. Rather, it had players who had conveniently forgotten that playing in a team within the confines of a team sport essentially means they belong to a pack. 

When you're in a pack, you have to move with the pack, attack other packs, defend the pack's territory, live, breathe and respect the pack as if your life depended on it. The pack is you and you are the pack. All great teams are essentially great packs comprised of players who all know that the pack as an entity is greater than any of them individually.

Who better to whip them into shape other than the man who makes a living out of (in his own words) "training humans to be better pack leaders and rehabilitating dogs to be calm, submissive pack followers"? 

Watching Chelsea this season is akin to watching a bunch of powerful, experienced and highly capable dogs all put together with no pack leader. Every week, the players take to the pitch like unruly dogs with no clear direction or job to do, ending up with each doing their own thing from chasing postmen to harrasing stray cats to humping fire hydrants (all metaphorically, of course).

Putting a Number 2 type leader like AVB (see previous post) in charge of them was like getting a mild-mannered geek to reason with a bunch of dogs why they should not be chasing cars or their own tails. AVB's inevitable sacking was the equivalent to a dog handler getting ripped a new asshole by a pitbull he clearly can't control. 

So there I was (probably just over an hour ago), watching yet another episode of Dog Whisperer come to its conclusion with yet another satisfied pet owner marveling at how Cesar managed to turn his teeth-barring, mouth-foaming, demonic 4-legged spawn of Satan into a cuddly, tail-wagging, docile Santa's little helper ... when it suddenly dawned on me that Cesar's ENTIRE philosophy is what those dogs in Blue really, really need today.

Picture this:

 ... John Terry decides to stroll into training 5 minutes late one day ... and starts ordering some young defender to lace his boots for him... Cesar walks up to him and reprimands him for his behaviour. John mockingly asks "Well, what are you gonna do about, homey?" ... the rest of his dawgs like Lamps, Drogba, Cech and Ashley Cole guffaw and go "ooooohhhh" like how them jocks in American teen movies do when the star quarterback picks on someone in the cafeteria ... without warning, Cesar corals a hissing Terry into the corner ... Terry snarls ... Cesar doesn't back down ... inching nearer ... and nearer ... all the while staring him down ... after about 20minutes of this 'dance' ... Terry is exhausted ... calms down a little ... Cesar calmly but authoritatively jabs Terry's ribs and simultaenously "mock-bites" Terry's neck with the other hand whilst emitting his trademark "tschh" ... Terry is stunned but subdued ... Cesar ends the move by laying the former England Captain sideways to the ground until he calms down... the other players start doing laps around the field without even being asked....

Ok, maybe the scene may play out a little differently in real life ... but you get the drift. 

In short, Chelsea players need a strong pack leader. Someone who has calm, assertive energy whom the players can trust and ultimately follow. 

Putting the jokey-ness of this post aside, the bottomline is that the players must follow a pack leader otherwise you have ... what is happening in Chelsea today. Just like dogs, players can sense an absence of a dominant pack leader. And just like dogs, players will instinctively "step up" to fill such a role uninvited. Players with alpha tendencies like Terry, Drogba, Cech, Lamps ... they will try to challenge the authority of any manager who walks into the club. Unless of course the manager layeth the smackdown from the word go. 

And just like Cesar with his pack at his Dog Rehabilitation Centre, the manager of Chelsea, whoever it will be, must from day one show the players who's the boss. He must give them training, discipline and affection - in that order. The training will keep them physically primed and prepared for the weekend's game, the discipline will instill a sense purpose and focus in their lives and the affection, given sparingly, will make them want to do well and feel part of the club. 

One needs to only cast a glance over at Old Trafford to see that all those dogs in Red respect, fear, love and want to fight for only one pack leader .... Sir Alex Ferguson. If he wasn't a football manager, he would probably have put Cesar, or any other form of Whisperer, out of a job already. Credit where credit is due. Despite my hatred for all things Red, there has been no one in the history of football management who has gotten it so right as much as him.  

Until and unless Chelsea gets a pack leader willing to rehabilitate its wayward sons, they will carry on tumbling their way down the ladder of greatness and respect. 

And so, even if Cesar Millan turns down the offer to rehabilitate the world's most expensively assembled pack of motley mongrels, his philosophy should rightly be remembered and instilled at this club.

All together now ... TSCHHHHHHHTTTTTTT.

Adeus, AVB: A Lesson In Top Management

So the hammer has fallen. 

And out goes AVB. Yet another Chelsea manager shown the door prematurely. 

Goodbye and thanks for ... nothing? Well, it's not the poor sod's fault, really. He just wasn't given enough time. Yes, when some billionaire plucks you out of your throne of success back in Portugal, where the locals have built you up as the greatest thing since flush toilets or Jose Mourinho, you would be forgiven to expect high expectations. When your transfer fee involves the roughly the entire GDP of small Carribbean nations, you would be sensible enough to realise that being "in transition" or "building the team slowly" are not phrases the big boss would readily accept. 

So yes, you could say AVB was parachuted into a pressure cooker from the word go. For him to have survived, he would've had to part the English Channel, turn water at Stamford Bridge into wine and then deliver the Champions League whilst give a blind man sight simultaneously.

No matter the circumstance, one must feel sorry for the old young man. He was never the right person for the job in the first place. I know hindsight often makes people seem like geniuses, but I've said it before and have been unfortunately proven right: that AVB is a great "Operations" guy, but a lousy "General". 

Great leaders are rarely Operations-type figures. No, the Operations guy usually makes a great Number 2 guy in any organisation; as the silent, trusty, hard-working, detail-oriented right-hand man who does all the (actual) dirty work, ensure orders are carried out and make the Number 1's look good.

AVB is not a natural-born leader. A natural General-type figure, i.e. a Number 1, would be someone who has laser-guided clarity of vision, lofty ambitions, ability to always see the big picture, is charismatic, risk-taking, able to appreciate talent, master delegator and have the bollocks to make the tough, critical and often high-pressured calls when it matters most. 

I realised that I had just been describing Jose Mourinho. Part of what made Jose such a legend was because he was the perfect Number 1 leader and had AVB as one of his crew of Number 2's back at Chelsea. That was why Mourinho's Chelsea was able to play beyond their collective abilities whilst AVB's of today (or technically, up to yesterday only) seem to be sickly pale and ironic reminders of what they really could be if they wanted to.

AVB's case should be a lesson not only to all football club owners out there but also anyone in the position to pick leaders for important, top-level management:

1. Do not thrust a Number 2 into the hot-seat no matter how great his track record, KPI, reputation or hairstyle may be. You should aim to have as many Number 2's as your second-tier leaders or field marshalls, as much as possible. They will ensure the ideals, visions and goals of the organisation gets carried down the ranks and implemented well. 

2. Instead, find your Number 1. And when you've separated a genuine Number 1 from the numerous Number 0.5's (those are delusional douchebags posing as Number 1's as they coast through life constantly changing employment, ordering people around and spewing bullshit to cover their inefficiencies, but that's for another post) out there, you get him and keep him. Yes, he may have an ego the size of a full-grown African elephant, he may be cocky and arrogant and he may even have the penchant for stealing your limelight and attention more often than not. However, he will mostly get the job done. He will deliver in the short term and build you an empire if given a long run to showcase his talents.

Based on the above, Abramovich has gotten it wrong on so many counts. Firstly, he had the numero uno Number 1, in Jose, but pulled the trigger when Mourinho's powerbase and popularity grew to levels he deemed unacceptable (as you would guess, Roman is a very strong Number 1 himself in a totally different field). As a result, Mourinho could only achieve the "deliver in the short term" part of his obligation but couldn't "build an empire" as he was not given the time nor chance to. 

Back in the present, Roman then hired a Number 2 in his misguided notion of wanting to build a Chelsea empire with a young manager. How that has backfired spectacularly in less than 1 full season.  

There are a plethora of rumours now. Rafa Benitez had been a favourite to replace AVB up until today, when the deal purportedly broke down (thank the Heavens for that). Now the current rumour (at the time of writing) is that Pep Guardiola could be lured from his Barcelona hotseat this summer. Is he a Number 1? 

The answer is YES. But importantly, is he the right Number 1 for Chelsea? Unfortunately, Pep comes from a place where that term would be called a Numero Uno. He is still an unproven variable in the pressure cooker of the English game.

If you asked my opinion, out of the limited Number 1's in the world out there, none would be a more ideal fit than the prodigal son who doesn't need an interpreter to tell him what Numero Um means in English. Heck, he won't even need anyone to tell him where the executive men's toilet is in Stamford Bridge.

Kampung Football

My love affair with the club started because King of The Corner had a dubious plan to cheat RM50 out of me. He wanted me to place a bet on Leicester City to win against Chelsea FC. Guess who was betting on Chelsea then? How was I to know EPL when I don’t even have Astro. This man tried to convince me that Leicester City was the best team in EPL. Fortunately there was Bulletin TV3 and Berita RTM – Segment Sukan Luar Negara. It saved me from losing RM50 to the con artist and it also brought me closer to Chelsea.

Honestly, I didn't know much of football when I was growing up. The only football I knew was the one in my Kampung Kastam. Football was freedom – I was only allowed to go out at 5pm and the first thing to do was to meet up with other kids from the kampong at our Padang.

Football in my Kampung, especially for kids, we were only allowed to play on the playground which was made up of a tiny space of grass to play on. We had to make do with what ever resources we had. The monkey bar was the goal post. The swings were our imaginary defenders because we used to swing it wildly at our opponents – Godspeed, if you still want to enter our turf. I swear to God, some kids actually lost couple of teeth. There were no referees, we made up our own rules. If you’ve broken a bone or more during the game, you’ll be considered hardcore and no kid will ever want to mess with you. That was football in my Kampung.

Nobody respects you if you go running home to tell your mom that other kids called you by your ethnicity like Suarez did. All I could remember was football as my green card to behave like a moron which was the  reason for me getting beaten up or vice versa.   

For the love of football, we need to learn to take some hits. Jabs and uppercuts, it should not stop us from coming back the next day. So forget about cuts and bruises, friends and foes .... We didn't care, then and now.

Cheers to In The Blue Corner.

3-4-3 the Answer?

In an ideal world, Chelsea would be flourishing at the top of the table, playing free-flowing, entertaining football and winning teams week in and week out by 3 or 4 goals. 

In an ideal world, Andre Villas Boas would be the Messiah, the young Portuguese champion who united the expensive egos in the locker room and made Chelsea play as a lean, mean, fighting machine.

In an ideal world, Torres would be banging in the goals with aplomb and plundering defences everywhere.

In an ideal world, David Luiz would know how to defend.

But we're not living in an ideal world. 

Sadly, we're living in the real world where Chelsea are currently struggling in a fight to finish 4th place, where the dressing room looks more like a war zone, where AVB is on the verge of tasting player mutiny, where Torres has not scored since the Beatles broke up, where a popular strategy opposing teams have adopted against Chelsea recently seems to be "let's pass the ball to David Luiz in his own half and collect the stray pass / failed dribble thereafter", where Sturridge doesn't realise that football is not a single player sport and where getting 3 points against Bolton is an occasion worthy of popping open the champagne bottle for. 

To say that it's been a bad season would be the understatement of the year. There is no doubt that major changes need to happen at the Bridge come summer. Fresh faces, a change of philosophy and a revamp of club structure, maybe. But that is still a couple of months away. At present, there's less than 15 matches more to play before the season draws to a close. So the only thing left on the agenda for Chelsea would be to salvage whatever's capable of being salvaged. 

There is still hope yet. It's not as if the Chelsea players all turned shite overnight. Their current predicament is more down to a combination of bad tactics, crap formation, wrong selection of players in wrong positions and AVB's inability to adapt to his players' strength and motivate them. 

So, on the assumption that AVB reads blogs, and on the further assumption that AVB actually were to stumble upon this humble one, and on the very unlikely and furhter assumption that he then decides to consider recommendations made in blogs, then AVB please listen up and listen good.

PLAY 3-4-3. 

An unconventional, flexible and fluid formation which would suit Chelsea's current personnel and collectively play to their respective strengths best.

Centrebacks

First, AVB has to line up 3 solid centrebacks. No problem. Terry (when fit), Cahill and Ivanovic would form the 3 Burly Musketeers needed to patrol Chelsea's box. Terry with his experience and reading of the game would provide a solid leadership from the back, marshalling the back line and keeping the shape of defence in a 'Marcell Dessaily-style' role. This would inevitably take some pressure off his weary legs and ageing body as he has both Cahill and Ivanovic playing the 'stopper' / man-marking roles. 

Flying Wingbacks

Next, we need 2 attacking wingbacks to provide cover and width to the team. Enter Ashley Cole on the left and David Luiz on the right. Cole as the left wingback would not be much different that what he already does week in, week out for Chelsea except that now with 3 centrebacks behind, he can be even more adventurous and overlap down the left flank even more. 

Perhaps a few eyebrows would be raised at the suggestion of Luiz as right wingback. Yes, this involves assigning a new position to an already unstable and positionally indisciplined player. However, if you think about it, Luiz's problems stem from his rash tackles, eagerness to gallop forward and penchant to make those jinking runs into the opposing half. Whilst such qualities are frowned upon for a centreback, these are essentially the traits needed for a rampaging wingback. As a wingback, Luiz could roam freely up the right channel and join attacks when necessary. Any mistakes made, possession lost or wrong footed tackles put in will not have such serious repercussions on the wings compared to if they were committed near the box or in them. 

Engine Room

With wingbacks providing thrust and drive along both channels, the midfield must be manned by 2 energetic box-to-box midfielders. Ramires would be an obvious starter in one of these slots given his lung-bursting performances and high energy game he favours. Partnering him would either be Essien / Lampard depending on the opponent they face. Essien should start if the midfield needs a stronger presence or if the opposing team packs the centre of the park with creative midfielders. Lampard would be the alternate option if attacking drive is needed (if the opposing team plays negatively and tries to choke Chelsea out of the game).

The 'One'

Now we move on to attack. The 3-4-3 which I propose has an inverted triangle for an attack. Instead of the version popularised by Mourinho where he employs a sole centre-forward flanked by 2 wide forwards on either wings, the Chelsea squad would do better with a deep-lying playmaker operating in the 'hole' behind 2 strikers. This was a role made popular by players such as Raul Gonzales, Alessandro Del Piero, Zinedine Zidane and even Roman Riquelme. Chelsea has a ready-made candidate in the form of Juan Mata. With his vast array of passing skills, nifty tricks, ball control and creativity, Mata would certainly relish the opportunity to be Chelsea's playmaker extraordinaire, playing a free-role in 'no man's land' where he could be given the license to wreak havoc on defences and feed the front 2. 

Twin Strikers

In this day and age, most teams play with a single centreforward. Gone are the days of the standard 4-4-2 where strike partnerships were the most critical component in any team-building. With the squad at his disposal, AVB could do no worse than to revert back to the twin striker system by playing Torres / Drogba and Sturridge. 

Everyone knows Sturridge is a skillful lad brimming with potential. However, when pushed to play on the flanks as he has been made to at Chelsea, he has shown frustration, selfishness in releasing players in goalscoring positions and a tendency to drift inwards towards goal. He clearly doesn't fancy himself a wide player and he wants a more central role. Playing him as a striker may just be the solution to his problem. 

As for Torres, where do I even begin? Total loss of confidence in his own abilities seem to be turning him into a pale shadow of his former self. Many times this season you could literally see him hesitate for a split second when put through on a half or even full chance on goal. The Torres of old would not have needed as much as a 2nd look to bury the ball into the corner of the net. However, El Nino is not even a mild breeze these days. Playing him alongside a strike partner may just do the trick. It will ease the pressure off him from being the sole goal poacher for Chelsea. Playing alongside a strike partner may even provide Torres an outlet should he feel too crowded out and at the same time a healthy rivalry to stoke him back into competitive spirit. 

SUMMARY

In short, a bit of flexibility, revolutionary thinking and a whole lot of balls of steel are needed to put this system into place. As I type this, Chelsea just suffered a 0-1 away loss to West Brom. Seeing Chelsea struggle in that ill-fitted formation which AVB insists on Chelsea playing, and seeing a team like WBA (no disrespects meant) steal a winner in such a fashion makes the need for a change of playing style and formation even more compelling. 

Perhaps events of tonight may have sealed AVB's fate. Perhaps and perhaps. But one thing's for sure, whoever replaces AVB (if he is indeed told to walk the plank after this game) would be inheriting a poisoned chalice. 

So the biggest perhaps, I would suppose, would be that AVB's successor would read this post ... and sensibly adopts a 3-4-3 to save Chelsea's season. 

All together now, 3-4-3!!!

Every Love Story Has a Beginning

The year was 1996. 

I was a wee Form 2 student making my way through the hallowed hallways of Penang Free School. 

As was the case with most Malaysian boys my age, football was the sport of choice. My long-term (and still going strong today) affair with football had just begun to blossom. 

The World Cup of '94 in USA had captured my 12-year old imagination like no other sport had done before. I was captivated by the beautiful game's alchemic ability to seamlessly fuse together entertainment, athletic prowess and the sheer depth of the human spirit into a rectangular pitch where 22 grown men chased after a leather ball for 90 minutes.

The proverbial football bug had bitten me. Like a radioactive spider to a high school student, the effects were life-changing. Soon after the World Cup ended, I was in need of another football fix. A longer lasting one, preferably. And not one which I had to wait every 4 years for.

Enter the English Premier League, still in its infancy in terms of coverage by Malaysian television stations. Those were the early days, way before the advent of ASTRO and the sea of money that the sport currently swims in thanks to TV rights and branding.

I had heard a bit about this ... English Premier League then. Vaguely. I had heard that it was this competition where 20 English teams duked it out home-and-away against each other from September to May, every year, and with a couple of Cup competitions thrown in between, for domestic glory and bragging rights. 

I had heard that it was a quite an old and prestigious competition. I had heard many older folks (of my dad's generation) reminisce, misty-eyed, about clubs such as this Manchester-whatever and that Liver-something. I had to find out what the big deal was. 

So I started watching Premier League games as and when I could. It does help your cause tremendously to have a footie-obsessed man as your father. Here was a quiet, responsible and well-mannered man whom I had always looked up to as an example of how a gentleman should behave. And yet, come certain Saturday or Sunday nights, he would be sat glued to the telly, a beer in hand, munching on Tong Garden salted cashew nuts, brows knotted and occasionally letting rip an ecstatic cheer, an irate scowl or a string of expletives whenever the occasion called for it. If football was religion, he  was definitely part of the congregation.

So, as I mentioned earlier, it was still early days for me. I had not found a team yet. I rooted for no particular club and I just watched every match for the sheer love of the game. 

I soon discovered that you can't fight human nature. And human nature dictates that men are hardwired to have tribalistic instincts. Put a random crowd of people together and soon they'd start to form mini "groups" based on certain shared traits. It could be based on the tone of their skin, their height, their spoken language or even colour of their t-shirts. All we need is some common cause or thing to rally behind, without reason nor logic. 

And so, it was time for me to draw battle lines with my peers and "support a team". No one likes a fence-sitter. You had to be "identified" with a particular club to "qualify" as a "real fan" of the game. Only women or young children can get away with the "I don't support any team in particular, hee hee" line. By default, a real bloke must support a club, understand the offside rule and hate referees. Don't look at me, I didn't make the rules.

All around me, friends were fans of either Liverpool or United. Quite understandably, as the former was a former giant whilst the latter was a monster of a Devil in the making.

I was never one to follow the crowd. It would've been so easy to go either way, either support the most successful club in England (at that time) or ride the bandwagon of the behemoth in the making under a relatively young (at that time) but highly promising Alex Ferguson. 

I chose neither. 

My search for a team to support took me far and wide. I briefly considered Spurs, then Aston Villa, then Boro and even Leeds United. Heck, I almost became a Wimbledon supporter too as I was particularly attracted to the antics of the Crazy Gang and their novel strategy of kicking lumps out of opponents to glory. 

But then I laid eyes on Chelsea. It was love on second sight.

I started noticing them because they wore blue (I am a huge fan of the colour blue). But what separated them from the tons of other clubs in blue was this rasta-looking Dutchman called Ruud Gullit. Here was a player who possessed immense technical abilities, who had bags full of confidence and who swaggered like a dreadlocked rock star. And he played for Chelsea.

I was sold. 

From Gullit, I was introduced to a couple more interesting players whom I grew to idolise shortly thereafter. The impish determination and sheer tenacity of that man-pitbull, Dennis Wise. The thunder-thighs of the Welsh striking legend Mark Hughes. And the lung-bursting overlapping runs of the Fox Mulder-lookalike Dan Petrescu. Throw in a young manager who was once hailed as the most skillful English midfielder apart from Gazza, i.e. Glenn Hoddle, and my metamorphosis from a partisan bystander to a celery-chucking member of the Blues Army was complete. 

The fact that they finished the 1995-1996 season 11th place in the league sat well with me. I had no respect for glory-hunting friends who supported Liverpool or United or whoever else was on top at the moment. Secretly, I enjoyed Chelsea's relative non-success. Thanks to their non-achievements then, not many I knew supported Chelsea. It gave me "street cred" to be a supporter of a club whom no one else supported. 

At the same time, Chelsea's stock was rising. Over the years, they became known as the club who attracted Continental-style-passing players to their ranks. Di Matteo, Le Boeuf, Dessaily, Deschamps, Gus Poyet, Petit, Stanic, Gronkjaer, Gudjohnsen, Vialli and Tore Andre Flo followed. And then you have the little magician from Sardinia, club legend and football's true gentleman, Gianfranco Zola. I hold him in such high regard that his name simply cannot be mentioned in the same breath as the aforementioned players. He was, and still is in my books, the greatest player to have ever graced the turf of Stamford Bridge. 

Chelsea started playing scintillating stuff. Free-flowing, beautiful, attractive football coupled with high octane drama made Chelsea one heck of an interesting club. Chelsea produced English football's 2 only player-managers (Gullit and Vialli) ever in their recent history (that I am aware of). Chelsea was the club who could slay giants such as United, Liverpool, Arsenal, with ease ... and yet crash to Charlton Athletic the following week. Following Chelsea's fortune was like being a stockbroker in Wall Street or riding a roller coaster at a theme park. It made football interesting. 

The "glory years" of my Chelsea love story were indeed at its best during the 1996-2002 era. Right before the Russian Army came marching into town. 

In 2003, in came Roman Abramovich with his limitless ruble, designer 6-o'clock shadow and hordes of bandwagon-jumping fans into Chelsea's annals of history. Success was soon ushered, but together with it, came contempt and the unavoidable derision from fans of other clubs who would not hesitate a second in reminding us that "there's no glory in buying your way to success". 

The Roman invasion left a bittersweet taste in my mouth. True, as a fan I was happy at the achievements won under the Russian billionaire owner. But having to now co-exist with millions of post-Roman, so-called fans and being given the "here's another glory-hunter" look when you answer "Chelsea" to the question of "which club do you support?" still pisses me off. Big time. 

If there was, however, a silver lining in the Blue cloud, it would have been known by only two words. Jose. Mourinho. 


Enter the Special One. If my love for Chelsea had somewhat been diminished by the Ruski Revolution and the crass commercialism it brought to the Bridge, it was Jose who pulled me right back. 


It was Jose with his larger-than-life personality, cockiness, charisma and the ability to make grown men believe in his cause and to bleed as a team for him, that made me realise that we were on the brink of greatness.


And great things he achieved. Jose was his name and ruthlessly winning was his game. He forged a team so solid that they steamrolled opponents with sheer tenacity, efficiency and professionalism. Chelsea soon morphed from a team of mere entertaining underachievers into a world-class powderkeg of a mean fighting machine that embodied the 'win-at-all-costs' mentality of their Machiavellian gaffer. 


At this point, it doesn't take a genius to figure out how I felt about his less-than-deserving departure the moment Roman felt the club wasn't big enough for his ego's and Mourinho's. When Jose was shown the proverbial door, millions of Chelsea faithful were gutted, me especially.


It has been 5 managers ever since, and the revolving door at the Bridge has yet to stop spinning, and still I wait with bated breath for the return of the prodigal son. None more has this yearning felt as strong as it does now, quite ironically, when Chelsea's fortune are currently held in the hands of Jose's one-time protege, the coiffed-haired but not-so-special Andre Villas Boas.


And so, with Chelsea floundering in what could best be described as their worst run of form since Jose left, and with morale and support by its supporters at its lowest ebb,  I thought it apt timing for this blog to be kicked off (pun unintended). 


For years I had felt the urge to put into words the various gamut of emotions felt following Chelsea's ups and downs. For years I had felt the need to articulate strategies, talked formations and pondered many 'what-if' scenarios of players who should and could be donning the Blue of Chelsea. For years I had felt the yearning to be an armchair pundit. 


And now, with the power of the keyboard in my hands, and amidst the warm glow of the monitor staring back at me ... I shall step up. From the blue corner. With proverbial fists flying.


And so it's time. The bell has rung. Let's keep the blue flag flying high.