The Road To Munich Is Paved With Blue Intentions

In every person’s life, there will come a time where fate will force him to choose between 2 paths. A wrong choice, or inaction to move, often results in that moment being seared permanently into his memory, occasionally rewinding and replaying itself as a haunting reminder of what could have been. Many, many years later and there he would be, lying on his deathbed, wishing so hard for that one chance, that one opportunity to go back in time to that precise moment, to take the other path, and wonder how different things would have panned out.

If you are a Chelsea fan, and you failed to watch the semi-final showdown between Barcelona and Chelsea in the wee hours of this morning, this match would have been THAT ‘moment’ I was referring to.  

 

To call it a mere ‘football match’ would be an insult to the blood, sweat and tears that were shed by the Blue Army who walked into the Nou Camp as men but came out as warriors. To label this morning’s clash as anything other than ‘pure epic’ would be an understatement of seismic proportions.

When an embattled Chelsea held on to a shock 1-0 home win at Stamford Bridge last week, the footballing world held its breath. Silently, and almost in a whisper, they wondered whether a chink in the previously thought of to be impenetrable armor had been found. Suddenly, the notion of an underdog being able to halt the previously unstoppable march of an all-conquering Barcelona began to take root in some minds.

Still, there were the doubters; the so-called football experts, the purists, the anti-English football brigade, etc. Many were still cynical of Chelsea’s chances, wondering if the victory at the Bridge may have been a fluke. Here was a club who was, up until recently, in turmoil. Having sacked their bright young manager, and then being managed by a caretaker-manager on an interim basis, with the older players coming under increasing criticisms for their decreased athletic prowess and the younger, newer ones being criticized for not being able to gel as a team yet, no one had expected Chelsea to reach this far.  

So it was safe for many to have assumed that the attacking might and prowess of the colossal Barcelona, being reigning World Club Cup champions, being reigning La Liga champions and being reigning UEFA Champions League champions, would effortlessly sweep aside any plucky resistance by that long-ball team from London who could only “park the bus”.  But surely they couldn’t do that for a full 90 minutes, could they?

And so it was a bloodbath to be. The stage was set. The electrifying atmosphere of the Nou Camp was comprised of a rambunctious bunch of proud Catalans out for a good night where their team was expected to run rings around the hapless Englishmen and teach those barbarians how to play ‘real’ football.

If the build-up to this game had already been so nerve-wrecking, it got amplified by a couple hundred times more when the kick-off whistle blew and Barca got into their tiki-taka groove. Wave after wave of Catalan attack, led by Messi, lapped at the compact and tight Blue shore.

Before Chelsea had time to settle into the rhythm of the match, misfortune hit them hard in the face: the solid Gary Cahill pulled up his hamstring and could not continue. With David Luiz out injured, there was no replacement centreback. Ivanovic was drafted into that position from the right whilst Bosingwa was called into action to replace his right back slot.

The makeshift defence finally cracked after the 200^th million Barcelona attack when a cutback by Cuenca wrong-footed the entire Chelsea defence, leaving an unmarked Sergio Busquets to tap in from close range. The dam, as was feared, was broken. Barcelona had drawn level on aggregate goals. 1 more and Chelsea would have been knocked out.

And then, out of nowhere, the inevitable happened. A straight red was shown to captain John Terry for an off-the-ball incident with Alexis Sanchez. Admittedly, Terry raised his knee into Sanchez’s back from behind, but Sanchez fell faster than a sack of bricks into the river. Pandemonium amongst the players almost ensued as an enraged Terry refused to leave the pitch. Another Barca-Chelsea game, another scandal, another red card. Chelsea appeared to be conforming to some warped tradition.

It was then that the leaders amongst men emerged. Petr Cech took calm control of the situation, and John Terry’s shoulders, and reasoned with his Captain to walk out of the pitch quietly. The older heads of Drogba, Lamps and Cole kept the level of discipline in check and made sure the game continued. JT may be the overtly alpha male amongst the players, but we witnessed the natural quiet leadership of the other older players emerge. As they say, the true test of a man’s character lies in times of distress.

Barca was like a hungry shark who just smelt the blood of a wounded sea creature. It pounced for the kill and got a deserved 2^nd goal when an exquisitely timed through pass from Messi found the feet of Iniesta who calmly slid the ball past a hapless Cech.

As the scores stood, it was essentially game over. With a man down, being your Captain at that too, with no natural centrebacks and chasing a 1 goal from the world’s best team at their fortress of a home ground, there was no way in Hell that Chelsea would be able to pull off a great escape. It was probably written in the stars to have been a Barcelona victory, but someone forgot to read the script to the Chelsea players.

Even if someone did, the Chelsea players defiantly tore up the script and started writing their own story into the fast unfolding drama when, against the run of play, a quick counter-attack saw Lampard releasing Ramires down the left side of the Barca box. A coolly taken chip over the on-rushing Valdes later saw Ramires doing a mini celebratory samba dance by the touchline moments later. Chelsea had amazingly pulled a goal back!

Unbelievable stuff. It was merely moments before halftime. From out of nowhere, the hardworking Brazillian had pulled a Houdini-like move to switch the tides around so that the handcuffs were now on Barca’s wrists. Suddenly, it dawned upon all that Chelsea would be going through on away goals if they can keep the score the same for just another 45 minutes. All hope was not lost.

But then again, 45 minutes is a long time. Against any other normal team with 10 men against 11, 45 minutes may already feel like a decade. Against a rampant Barcelona team desperate to get to the Finals, it must’ve felt like 45 millenniums.

Second half rolled around and it was as jittery as you can get on an old roller-coaster without the safety bar on. The way Barcelona attacked suggested that something was about to give way. And give way it did only 2 minutes into the 2^nd half. Drogba clumsily tackled Fabregas in the box and the ex-Gunner cheat gave his best impression of an Ashley Young to earn Barca a penalty! Up stepped player of the year, and according to Pele the greatest of all time, Lionel Messi to take the spotkick. Surely this must be the thrust of a matador’s sword into the bull’s head. My balls were in my throat at that exact moment.

In what would be the turning point of the game, Messi contrived to crash his powerful shot against the crossbar! Chelsea was spared. Suddenly, they had renewed hope that perhaps, and just maybe, they were meant to be in the Finals. Diametrically opposite to Chelsea’s growing confidence was the growing sense of deflation and frustration amongst Barcelona players as they buzzed about the Chelsea box trying to find a way to unlock the Blue door that remained as tight as a virgin.

 Chelsea kept the shape, chased after space and closed down every Barca attack channel in such typical Italian catenaccio fashion that its pioneers must be smiling and giving the thumbs up from within their door-bolted-dead-shut coffins.

They say heroes are born when times are at its worst. In the 2^nd half, the collective motley crew of Cech, Cole, Bosingwa, Ivanovic, Meireles, Drogba, Mikel, Lampard, Ramires and Kalou emerged as heroes of might and valour. They played as one and defended as if the lives of their unborn grandchildren depended on it. Drogba even impressed in his makeshift role as a leftback as he launched many counter-attacks from the leftback position.

As the minutes grew, so did the hopes of Chelsea and the fear of the Catalans at being knocked out. When your best player can’t score from the penalty spot and you can’t break down a team with one man down and no natural centrebacks, you sometimes wonder whether it is just not your day after all.

With the clock striking at 80^th minute, Di Matteo threw the ultimate curveball gamble. Earlier, he had replaced Mata with Kalou, which given the circumstances was a natural choice as he needed fresh legs from a fast and strong player to replace a technically gifted but not so physical one. However, his final substitution was akin to flipping a coin and betting on it landing on its neither sides. Drogba was replaced by Fernando Torres.

When you are a man down, with 10 minutes to go, and desperately clinging on to a lead, logic dictates that you should throw in a defensive minded player to at least offer some extra protection to your tired players. Di Matteo did the complete opposite by throwing on an out-and-out striker who is struggling for form to even score, at left back. At that exact moment, Di Matteo was either a complete idiot or a goddamn genius.

10 minutes later, in the dying embers of the game, Di Matteo proved to be the latter. A hopeless stray clearance into the Barca half, amongst the millions Chelsea had launched aimlessly the whole night, somehow found an unmarked Torres. In a blink of an eye, the Spaniard had galloped until he was 1-on-1 with Barca’s Victor Valdes. Some fleet-footed moves and a hop over Valdes later, Torres slotted the ball into Barca’s goal to make it 2-2. Their most vilified and taunted ‘flop’ had repaid the undying faith of a sprinkling few (yours truly included) by killing off the game when it mattered most.

 

Cue to slightly pre-mature but wildly ecstatic celebrations as Chelsea knew they had pulled off the ultimate heist. As the final whistle blew, Barca players hung their heads in disbelief while John Terry probably got down on his knees (no pun intended) and prayed in relief. Tears flowed freely (amongst both Barca and Chelsea camps but for very different emotions) and the sight of the bruised, battered and exhausted Chelsea warriors leaving the pitch was almost accompanied by an imaginary Armageddon-theme song playing in the background.  

Chelsea showed the world that Barcelona, in all their tiki-taka glory, could be beaten. Chelsea showed the world that this was possible even with your Captain getting sent off, conceding a penalty and playing with no natural centre-backs for much of the game. Chelsea taught us that having hope when all hope is lost, believing when all signs show otherwise and going down fighting with that last gasp of air may … on very rare occasions … invoke, perhaps, the slightest shred of sympathy from the Gods or forces of the Universe or aliens or whatever’s that watching over us … to compel them to give us just a slight nudge of fortune. Just that little bit to get you over the line and renew your faith in miracles.

Maybe, just maybe, there is more than just a passing truth to that old saying “you make your own breaks”. Whatever happens in the Champions League finals, whether Chelsea ends up as 1^st runner-up once again, will be another story for another day.

As far as today is concerned, the heroes in Blue deserve all the plaudits they are getting, all the praises that are heaped on them and more importantly, all the rest they can get.

Rest well, Blues Army. And may you recover well to give either Bayern or Real Madrid another hell of a fight at Munich.  

p.s. - On a slightly non-footballing point of view, I must say that Chelsea undoubtedly ranks NUMBER 1 in the world if it came to a competition of who has the HOTTEST PHYSIO ON THEIR BENCH.

I'll let the pics speak for themselves: