Dave’s Ramblings – Atalanta – Tha Game!

Anyway, where to begin?

 

On a lighter note (and I use that word generously), we were sternly informed that we were not allowed to make our own way to the stadium. No, no, no, there was a mandatory bus, and failing to board it apparently came with consequences ranging somewhere between a firm telling off and losing a finger or three.  Naturally, like the responsible adults we are, we immediately got a taxi instead and walked the last few hundred yards.

 

This stroll involved casually weaving our way through police armed with riot shields and batons, because nothing quite says ‘Welcome to our beautiful country!’ like being greeted by officers who look like they’re auditioning for the next Mad Max movie.

 

Next came the gauntlet of passport and ticket checks, and I do mean gauntlet. I’ve entered airports, banks, and one very hostile IKEA with less scrutiny. By the third checkpoint I was half expecting to be asked for a blood sample, a family tree, and the name of my childhood dentist.

 

At this point I wasn’t sure if we were going to a football match or auditioning for a new reality show called ‘Border control: The musical.’

 

I can only assume the purpose of all this was to make absolutely certain we didn’t sneak into the ground illegally and immediately claim asylum. Though after checkpoint number 472, the thought did cross my mind. I was nearly ready to clutch the nearest steward’s sleeve and whisper, “Take me in, I can’t live like this.”

 

Their stadium was… fine. Perfectly acceptable. Functional, even. I will say this though, the leg room was spectacular. As a tall bloke, I’m used to spending 90 minutes folded up like a human deckchair, so being able to sit without my  chin resting on my knees was a rare treat.

 

But beyond that? It was small. Very small. A capacity of around 23,000 which is adorable really. Like a stadium you might buy for a child’s birthday, complete with optional miniature fans.

 

And yet, somehow, there were still empty seats in their section. How you have a stadium the size of a moderately ambitious garden shed and still can’t fill it is beyond me. Maybe they were stuck at one of those checkpoint queues I barely survived.

 

Alright then… the game.

(Brace yourself. I certainly had to.)

 

For long stretches in the first half, there wasn’t much between the two teams, it was like watching two evenly matched toddlers fighting over the same toy. Enthusiastic, determined, and not entirely sure what was happening.

 

Then, finally, we took the lead. Joao Pedro tucked away a lovely cross from Reece, prompting celebrations, hope, and at least three people around me declaring that they always believed, which was an outrageous lie.

 

Of course, the linesman, clearly desperate to justify his gym membership by raising his flag at every opportunity, immediately called it offside. I won’t say that he was keen, but I’ve seen guard dogs with less eagerness to pounce.

 

Thankfully, after a longish review and possibly a gentle reminder of the rules, the goal was awarded. Suddenly everything in the garden was rosy, the birds were singing, the sun was shining, and for a brief, beautiful moment, we dared to dream.

 

But Atalanta always looked dangerous going forward, worryingly so, in fact. Every time they attacked, our section of the ground inhaled sharply like we were watching someone trying to juggle chainsaws.

 

The main threat was Lookman, once of Everton, who was now apparently on a mission to personally ruin my evening. Thanks for nothing!

 

Reece could and should have put us 2–0 up, which would’ve wrapped things up nicely and allowed us all to relax. But no. Not today. Reece didn’t score… so naturally, in true dramatic fashion they scored two.  And, just like that, a must not lose game transformed itself into a defeat faster than you can say why do I put myself through this every week?

 

There was still time for us to stand there collectively scratching our heads and wonder why, in a game we absolutely needed to win, that Estêvão was left kicking his heels on the touchline like a bored kid waiting for his mum to finish talking to a neighbour.

 

But then again, this is Maresca’s Chelsea. Trying to understand why he doesn’t make the obvious substitution, or why he does make the least obvious one, is like trying to solve a Rubik’s Cube blindfolded, underwater, while being chased by a goose. I’ve stopped pretending I have a clue. I don’t think he knows half the time.

 

At this point, I just nod, smile, and accept that whatever happens is part of ‘the plan’, even if that plan frequently resembles modern art. Confusing, slightly alarming, and open to interpretation.

 

My takeaways from the game…

 

Another five changes tonight, following the six at Bournemouth and the five at Leeds. At this point, I’m convinced Maresca is selecting the team using a bingo machine. Or perhaps a blindfold and a dartboard. Maybe both.

 

Look, I’m no footballing genius. I don’t have badges, licences, certificates, or laminated tactical diagrams. But even I know it’s hard for players to form a solid unit when half the team is dropped after every match!

 

How are the players supposed to understand each other when, every week, they’re meeting entirely new colleagues? They must be introducing themselves in the tunnel. “Hi, I’m starting next to you today. I play… um… somewhere.” “Pleasure to meet you. I’ll probably be dropped on Saturday.”

 

I know Maresca will pop up and insist he’s resting players, or offer some other wonderfully imaginative excuse from his ever expanding collection. Maybe the moon was in the wrong phase, or someone sneezed in training. But please… when is he going to realise that constantly changing the team is never ever going to give us the consistency we need?

 

You can’t build rhythm when half the side is changed. You can’t get chemistry when the players look at each other like, do I pass to you? At this rate, the only thing consistent about Chelsea is our inconsistency.

 

I could obviously go on forever but for the sake of our combined sanity (and my blood pressure), I’ll end with this:

 

When will the coach accept that things simply have to change? The slow, predictable football… the endless sideways and backwards passing… the complete absence of invention or creativity… and a defence that look like they’ve met each other for the first time in the car park.

 

I’m not saying Maresca should get the sack. I’m just saying it currently feels like he’s drafting the longest, most elaborately worded suicide note ever.

 

Between now and the New Year, we’ve got a run of fixtures that we could just as easily lose as win. Thats a poetic way of saying I have absolutely no idea what version of Chelsea is going to turn up, and neither do they.

 

So please, Maresca… give us something. Anything. A spark. A plan. A hint. A suggestion that you understand the urgency of the situation. Show us some fight, some passion, some vision, ideally all three, but at this point I’ll take one and a half.

 

Because honestly, we could all use a little hope… preferably before kick-off on Saturday.

 

And with that, I’m off for a lie down in a dark room to emotionally prepare myself for whatever madness Chelsea serve up next. UTC 💙