As Chelsea continue to march on and consolidate their status as title contenders, Steve offers a very personal word of warning.
Chelsea are now in a sequence of seven successive home wins. Resilience, flair, consistency, below par performances that still result in victories – all elements consistent with teams of championship potential.
Is all this good for us?
Can we really face up to the reality that it might go horribly wrong, even after we have been through so much?
How many of us look to our fathers for comfort, advice and guidance? Can you remember that moment, that very special moment, when you made Chelsea YOUR team?
You chose them and now they belonged to you. Exclusivity. Precious and unique - but who introduced you to them? Who made the introductions? Who or what changed your life forever?
Most of us look to our Dad’s to help us make such important decisions but these things are never as straightforward as they should be.
When the moment came for me to make that one crucial decision, my father, like yours, was there to help me shape my allegiance. His responsibility as a father, to his son, weighed heavily upon him. His thoughts, experiences and concerns were etched into his face as I carefully, slowly, expressed a liking and feeling for Chelsea Football Club.
As a beloved, caring father he offered me an impassioned and sincere plea:
“Stay the f*ck away from Chelsea son. They will only break your sodding heart”.
Such words never really quite leave you.
For the remainder of our years together his energies and thoughts towards my allegiance turned from pleading to pity, from sorrow to spitefulness, from hatred to humiliation. He never, ever, let me forget that Chelsea “would break your heart”.
His concerns were always sincere. His condemnation of my love for all things blue continuous.
So, twenty-five years later I am sitting here (talking to you) and I wonder - what did he know that I didn’t?
Chelsea won the FA Cup in May 1970 – five months before I was born. The following year the greats of Osgood et al followed up this with success in the European Cup Winners Cup (I was what, approximately 7/8 months old).
To my fathers delight I had to wait 27 years until I was able to consciously celebrate a Chelsea Cup Victory - (Robbie Di Matteo you’re the man!)
The years that preceded that glorious day in May 1997 were devoid of any contact with my beloved Blues. My love affair was always from afar as despite my persistent pleading and tears to my father, he never once took me to Stamford Bridge.
Don’t get me wrong my Dad was always there for me and we would spend countless hours with a football in the park or freeze by some bloody river, staring at some inanimate float long after the fish had pissed off home, but we never blessed the hallowed ground of Stamford Bridge together.
It is a regret that I still carry with me today.
So…..twenty five years after my father offered me his thoughts and condemnations with regards to all things Chelsea, Claudio’s Chelsea continues to make the Premiership sit up and take notice. I began these ramblings with
“……resilience, flair, consistency, below par performances resulting in victories – all elements consistent with teams of championship potential. Is all this good for us?…..”
Well……is this all good for us?
With each positive step that Chelsea take towards the “ultimate glory” my personal insecurities and gradual mental decline are beginning to manifest themselves.
I ask myself will Chelsea continue to make promises that I am not sure they can keep? Will they continue to progress and at the same time validate their credentials as title contenders?
With each convincing progression that Claudio’s Chelsea make, I begin to hear the faint murmurings of a past voice that will not silence…… “they will only break your heart son”………
For the sake of our health (mental and physical) and for the sake of our souls, I pray that this Chelsea can keep the promises it is beginning to make. I can only carry the doubting voice of my father for so long.
My father died on the 30th December 1997 – seven months after Chelsea won the FA Cup. At least he was able to see (and share) my joy on that warm sunny afternoon.
Four months after his death I visited Stamford Bridge for the very first time. Thursday 16th April 1998 – Chelsea V Vicenza in the European Cup Winners Cup Semi Final 2nd Leg.
I was standing yards from Mark Hughes as he rocketed in the winner, taking us into the final. As Stamford Bridge erupted with ecstasy I felt an energy and uncontrollable bliss that has been difficult to reproduce outside the hallowed grounds of The Bridge.
I knew I was home. This was where I was meant to be and of course it has been very difficult to keep me away since.
Despite my father’s concerns I continue to love and visit the place I really feel is home and if Chelsea fail to live up to this “new promise” then f*ck it, so what. Let’s enjoy it while we can. I know that Chelsea, one day, will fulfil all that they are capable of.
To end though I feel I must ask the question “what is it my father knew that I didn’t”? Why was he so adamant that Chelsea were so wrong for me?
Why had he spent so much time and energy attempting to disassociate me from my life’s passion? Why would he care either way, he never showed any affection or affiliation with any other club?
My Dad respected players and their individual abilities regardless of who they played for.
So why give me all the grief?
Two weeks ago I came across some of my Dad’s old papers and other items he had collected over the years as I cleared out the contents of my coal cellar.
Amongst the papers I came across a boys school football project that had been lovingly created with stories and cut-outs taken from the newspapers at that time.
As I delved through the pages of the school book I stared at page, after page, after page, of images and stories that concerned Chelsea Football Club and only Chelsea Football Club.
The year was approximately 1948/49 and proudly, in the middle of the book, centre spread, was a photograph of every player of the club sending the owner of the picture their Christmas greetings.
Next to the picture, in the boy’s neatest handwriting were the simple words “what a team!!”.
The loving schoolboy author? My Dad.