Chelsea v Liverpool

World Soccer News: “No player is better than his team.” Kenny Dalglish, Manager, Liverpool FC

Chelsea versus Liverpool

I’m not a box checker. I don’t have a secret list squirreled away somewhere that has 10 things I want to do before I get too old to enjoy them. No abandoning a perfectly good aircraft at 5,000 meters with a (hopefully) properly packed parachute.  No pilgrimage to Machu Pichu to see stuff that was built thousands of years ago by people who made beer by chewing up forest greenery and expectorating into a bowl. No human fly imitations on Cerro Torre or Half Dome for me. 

BUT IF I WERE A BOX-CHECKER . . . on that list would be seeing, no, witnessing the absolute spectacle of an English Premiership Soccer Match. I just returned from London, and the Chelsea Liverpool match, and thought I would take this opportunity to tell you of the experience.  I’ve never had as much fun in my life, ever. This isn’t checking a box.  This is something one could easily get hooked on doing. 

Dr. Rob Webb working as a Referee

I know people who just pick up, and trot off to London or Paris for a long weekend. But this wasn’t just a spur of the moment thing. The whole junket started innocuously enough a couple of months back with a simple suggestion from my best mate and soccer buddy: ‘Let’s go to the UK and take in a soccer game’.

Honestly, I had no idea what I was signing up for, although even knowing could not have prepared me for the experience. Because, as it turns out, there are soccer games, then there are soccer matches. Then there is The Premiership.  

Wednesday LAX to London Heathrow, over to a fairly hoity toity hotel at Chelsea Harbour . . . yeah, some of you are seeing where this is going. Two days of fighting off particularly nasty jet lag with extended walks through Fulham, scoping out excellent local pubs (such as the Hand and Flower), cab rides to the Blue Elephant, and a late night excursion to find a ‘chippie’, a place for fish-and-chips (turned out to be a Turkish hamburger stand for lamb skewers). And of course, the passe-temps préferé: LAGER.  I probably drank more lager in three days than I had in the past three years.  Then meeting a bloke and his wife at Harrod’s in downtown London on Saturday to pick up tickets to the Tottenham-Bolton match to be played at Tottenham. Taking in the Tottenham match was a blast, more than what I expected, but apparently nothing unusual at all. Tottenham scores the winning goal, the fans go crazy, the match finishes 2-1, and the stadium empties in a rather orderly fashion. And then over to the Bell and Hare literally right across the street, to a stream of boisterous, singing Tottenham supporters drowning themselves in lager. It seems Arsenal, ‘the Gunners’, have blown a 4-0 lead to tie Newcastle United, which for some mathematical reason seems to matter greatly to Tottenham.  So, in celebration or consternation, not sure which, the Tottenham supporters loudly sing ‘Four Nil, you mucked it up, Four Nil, you mucked it up’. And I thought there wasn’t much slack in the bar I occasionally hang out in. (Mucked is not my real word!)

Tottenham Bolton was fun, and it was good soccer.  However, Sunday, February 6th, it’s Liverpool versus Chelsea. The Reds are in town, and they are fired up. The pre-game atmosphere is thick.  What’s sticking in the Liverpool craw collective, is that the day of the deadline for transferring clubs, it seems a Liverpool player, Fernando Torres, at the last minute was bought by Chelsea for £50 million, stunning Liverpool fans. That’s right.  50 million pounds Sterling. Don’t bother with the calculator, that’s $80 million US. Unless he, too, arranges to get caught fighting pit bulls, he goes down as one of the most expensive athletes in history. For the games remaining in the season, he’s to be paid £69,444 per minute to play soccer plus or minus £1,000 to account for stoppage time added at the end of the game.  

"Dr. Rob, with Santiago Slayton, getting set to assist Center Referee Kia Depaneh (in the pouring rain).  To his left is Cuauhtémoc Blanco."

So my buddy and I walk to the Fulham and Broadway Underground, to the Starbucks, to pick up tickets that his Liverpool supporter buddy has holding for him (Chelsea is not actually in Chelsea, it’s in Fulham). We’re 3 hours early, and looking for a pub to hang out in.  The one right across the street is the Butcher’s Hook, the original pub for Chelsea supporters. The pub is packed with Chelsea supporters: a sign on the door reads “Local Supporters Only”. See, this search for a pub is complicated by the fact that my buddy is a Liverpool supporter, as a player having previously been invited to try out for that side, and so not feeling that adventurous, we go to the next pub, The Pelican, about 2 streets over, again with the same sign, but a very civilized looking establishment, this one. The man at the front door takes us aside and quietly asks ‘Are you Chelsea supporters?’ Nods of agreement from both of us get us a welcome wave.  OK, so we lied, but we were thirsty.  At first the pub is basically empty, then as expected, at about an hour before match time, it swells with very gentrified-looking Chelsea fans, all speaking in modest tones, and quaffing lager. We grab our coats and head for the stadium, wanting to take in the team’s warm-up. As it turns out, our seats are in the Shed End, a small corner of which is reserved for away supporters.  While one must submit to a pat down, and the Shed End section is ringed by police, who are both in the stands, and on the field, everything looks very normal. Both teams are busily warming up in a highly regimented fashion. The referees are lightly jogging laps around the field, all three in unison. They then retire to the far corner to stretch and do light sprints. They are as much a part of the warm up and thus, the match as are the two teams.  

Both teams then retire to the locker room so as to prepare for the grand entrance at kick off.  And then Liverpool re-enters. There are cheers at a decibel level beyond imagination. Then as if upon cue, a chant begins “Dalglish, Dalglish”. Kenny Dalglish, the ‘acting’ Liverpool manager is clearly something of a god to the Liverpool fans.  Following this, Chelsea enters, and the Liverpool section erupts in boos, jeering and taunts, finally culminating in the arrival on the field of Torres. The Liverpool section goes berserk with chants of ‘Chelski rent boy, Chelski rent boy’, ‘Chelsea, Chelsea FC, you ain’t got no history’, and others that cannot, because of their content, be printed here.

At soccer matches in England, the stadiums do have signs stating “Watch The Language”. No foul or abusive language.  Right. But what’s interesting is that there is nothing racist, the F bomb is dropped occasionally, as are references made to female anatomy applied to the opposing male players, the traditional hand signals are used, but it all seems perfectly normal and accepted. It’s not personal, and for some reason, everyone is generally behaving himself, but also blowing off steam, and it’s good fun. I toggled between watching incredibly skilled soccer and laughing hysterically.

Regarding hand signals, I say signals ‘plural’, because it seems the English know all too well the traditional signal consisting of the middle finger protruding conspicuously from a clenched fist, but also a signal that we in America might not readily recognize, that of the index and adjacent third digit held back of the hand side forward, much the way of the ‘60’s ‘peace’ sign. This salute is considered highly insulting, but, according to wordiQ, its use has declined in favor of the single finger salute, apparently due to American influence. Seems this is one of several things that we do that the British have adapted for their own use, like turning right on a red light. And actually of course, since it’s in Britain, that’s turning ‘left’ on a red light.

So the match begins, and nothing can prepare you for the noise, the shouting, and especially the pace of the match. Or the Fun. These guys are professionals. The passes are crisp, on target, and purposeful. 80-yard balls arrive on time and on target.  It includes a ridiculously large TV screen, perhaps the largest in the world, where not only can you see the match, but if for some reason being right on top of the play isn’t enough, you can see replays. The intimacy of the whole experience, being right on top of the pitch, seeing the players from no more than 20 yards away must be witnessed to be believed.  The result is something that is just plain, old fashioned, good fun.  And the singing.  It continues unabated regardless, unless there is a counter-attack. I was listening carefully and had to often ask what was being said.  It turns out there was not a bit of bad language. The songs range from the traditional to the silly. Then there is a chorus of cheers (‘Gone Reds!’) crescendo leading up to a play, and if no goal is scored, the fans applaud every time in appreciation, which is pretty cool, actually. But then, if a goal is scored, it’s pandemonium. You see it on TV, but that doesn’t even come close to the real life experience.

Dr. Rob Webb cleans up well.

As the match progresses, play is somewhat cautious and conservative, and it proves to be what everyone thought it would be, very strong defense from both sides. None of the Liverpool fans ever take their seats the entire match.  The Liverpool fans’ taunting of Torres continues. They play to a nil-nil draw at halftime.  At which point, there is a mad rush to the loo to drop off ‘rented lager’.  There must have been 100 guys in a space for 30, in a bunker, pressing forward to the trough for a ‘mic’, the air from guys smoking is like Beijing on a June afternoon, and everyone is singing Neil Diamond’s ‘Sweet Caroline’. Then over to the beer line, where they only serve one beer: Singha on draft.

Seriously, how can you make this kind of stuff up?

The second half commences, and once again it’s a defensive game. At the 66th minute, Torres is substituted out, having recorded only 29 touches on the ball, and because it’s clear that he’s not having much effect, probably because in all fairness, this is his first game with his Chelsea teammates.  One could also not help but notice that the two players, Suarez and Carroll that Liverpool had acquired using the 50 million quid Torres money, are not playing.  Carroll was injured, and while I’m guessing, it occurred to me that Dalglish was trying to make a point: I can win this game without using million-dollar players.  Hence his comment: No player is better than his team. Just after that, in the 69th minute, Raul Meireles chases down a ball into the box from Steven Gerrard, whom it turns out was playing injured, and buries it in the back of the net, at which point the Liverpool section literally goes berserk. It was all I could do to remain standing, as the supporters were jumping all over each other. The Chelsea supporters, almost the entire stadium filled with them, sat in stunned silence. I think Torre’s ignominious exit, Suarez NOT being substituted in for Liverpool, and that one goal sealed the match. It was an emotional stage set for a Liverpool victory, and even in the last nail-biting 4 minute stoppage time, Chelsea could not find the back of the net.  At the final whistle, the Liverpool fans once again erupted likePinatubo, and looking around, it seems a large number of Chelsea fans had already exited the stadium.  So it was down the stairs with the mad throng singing, and out into the exit lines divided very clearly by police on horseback, and those on foot with their truncheons in hand. Again, everybody was behaving himself.  There was to be no altercation this evening.

To say that it was a fun weekend would be greatly understating the case. You don’t have to be a serious fan of soccer to enjoy the experience. Anyone with some semblance of a pulse would have found this experience exciting. Let’s face it.  London is a fun place to be. We’re already talking about a return, twice, once to see Liverpool versus Manchester United in Liverpool (or a rematch of Liverpool versus Chelsea), and perhaps a return to London to see Man U versus Chelsea.  Either way, I’m very seriously hooked, probably much to the detriment of my bank account. Maybe I can bum some free tickets from some business friends of mine, and perhaps we can flop on my friend George’s couch (he lives in Kensington close to Parson’s Green where there’s a marvelous pub, the White Horse).

So if you’re a box checker, get out a pad and a crayon, and draw a box and visualize a check mark, you’re going to see an English Premiership Football Match.  Nothing can prepare you for the controlled pandemonium, the camaraderie, the excitement, the intimacy, and the just plain fun that the stadium setting and the pitch can provide.  And even if you are not a box checker, plan to visit at least once.  Skip lunch for a month if you have to in order to afford it, but once you do, you can have the experience I did.  It gave me a much greater appreciation for the game we all know and love.