Eriksen the Revenant sweeps Chelsea

Direct

Crowds of Chelsea fans gathered at their stadium, eager to see how the team playing at home for the first time since the Premier League expelled club owner Roman Abramovich would react, because there is little doubt that he once did favors. to Vladimir Putin.

The procession of fans marched to sing to helplessness and orphanhood, at the end of a 19-year era that culminated in a pandemic, a war, a Champions League title and a 1-4 win against Brentford, the team led by Christian Eriksen, who plays with a defibrillator in case his heart stops.

CHEchelsea

1

Edouard Mendy, Marcos Alonso (Reece James, min. 54), Thiago Silva, Rüdiger, Azpilicueta, Loftus-Cheek, Mason Mount, Kante (Lukaku, min. 64), Hakim Ziyech, Timo Werner (Kovacic, min. 63) and Kai Havertz

BRE Brentford

4

David Raya, Ethan Pinnock, Vassbakk, Jansson, Rico Henry (Sergi Canos, min. 87), Mads Roerslev, Vitaly Janelt (Mathias Jensen, min. 81), Christian Nørgaard, Eriksen, Bryan Mbeumo (Yoane Wissa, min. 84) and Ivan Tony

Goals

1-0 min.

47: Rudiger.

1-1 min.

49: Vitaly Janelt.

1-2 minutes

53: Eriksen.

1-3 min.

59: Vitaly Janelt.

1-4 min.

86: Yoane Wissa.

Referee

Andy Madley

Fans came to rebuild community ties around the team.

What they discovered was anything but a gloomy ritual: Christian Eriksen risking his life at 1-2.

“Born is the King”, read the banner at the top of the ring that crowned Mendy's goal.

The King is born.

A premonitory message, considering the passionate hug that all the teammates gave to Eriksen, the same one who in the summer of 2021 remained clinically dead for ten minutes after suffering a cardiac arrest while playing football in the European Championship.

This Saturday he scored his first goal in the Premier since Inter fired him for considering him medically incapable.

Giant screens in the stadium advertised the trading opportunities offered by Forex.

The public address chained

,

and the sweet

.

The ladies entered wearing Prada sneakers.

The cloudy sky opened and the thermometer rose from 0 to 15. It was spring in west London and the grass of Stamford Bridge reflected the light of a sun worthy of Malaga when the two teams entered the field.

Inflation?

What inflation?

Chelsea and Brentford were playing.

The current European champion, the club intervened by the British Government to take it away from the Russian oligarch, received the team from the town that was formerly five kilometers upriver, and which is now a suburb of the big city.

After a couple of riots, the fans got government officials to let them in.

For having, there was even resale.

In the visiting stands not a pin entered.

The prime minister, Boris Johnson, as always, was benevolent with those who claim that the show must go on.

With pandemic the same as with war.

The first thing they see is bleak: Jorginho on the bench and Ruben Loftus-Cheek in the center directing operations.

Tomas Tuchel, the coach, has once again made a recurring decision that only he finds stimulating.

"I chose the best team," he said, when someone asked him if the line-up was due to the preparation for the visit of Madrid, which comes next Wednesday to play the first leg of the Champions League quarter-finals.

"Absolutely.

I didn't think about dosing them for Madrid".

Slow, heavy, charged with the impossible duty of moving his percheron bulk with a mind of processes as dilatory as his turns, Loftus-Cheek almost never reaches the cut, or the support, or the anticipation.

Around the midfielder, Chelsea begins to get stuck.

The game is predictable.

There is no more glimmer of life than that projected by the vertical passes of Alonso and Azpilicueta down their flanks, to see if Mount, Ziyech or Werner come up with something.

But they do not invent anything.

On the contrary, they seem dejected.

Morally and physically inferior to the self-sacrificing visitors from Brentford, the tall Ajer, the blond Roerslev, the mighty Toney and the bearded Mbeuma, led by the reborn Eriksen.

Chelsea goes into the break with a revealing 0-0.

The team only manages to stabilize when Brentford does not press it.

If they are squeezed in their field, central defenders don't know what to do with the ball and Loftus Cheek sums up the general attitude: nobody offers solutions.

When I return from break, nothing changes.

Jorginho, the fittest pivot in the world along with Busquets, remains seated.

Antionio Rüdiger scores an unusual goal.

A flat shot from 30 meters that sticks to the stick of the Brentford goalkeeper.

Something that should definitely change the meaning of a match at Stamford Bridge, but that only serves to open the containers of reality.

Two minutes later, in the midst of the revelry of the local crowd, there was a sharp silence.

Bryan Mbeumo feints in the area, Azpilicueta allows himself to be fooled, and Janelt finishes off his pass.

"Abnormal Events"

"It was a succession of abnormal events," said Tuchel, head down and without removing his cap.

"We were not aware of the danger."

No one at Chelsea seemed to notice the danger posed by Mbaumo's gallop down the left flank, with Eriksen company in the center lane, recipient of the late pass and scorer of an onrushing goal: 1-2.

A high-risk touch on Mendy's cumbersome exit, a subtle blow to overcome the goalkeeper from above and sing his first goal with Brentford in the Premier.

"We examined his whole body," Thomas Frank, the manager of Brentford, Eriksen's countryman, said after the game.

“And we knew it was okay.

What we did not imagine is how amazingly fast it would reach this level.

Janelt and Wissa scored 1-3 and 1-4 respectively.

The 1-3 was a carbon copy of everything Tuchel had tried to do with his central defenders and with Werner and Havertz.

Long ball, prolongation of the

, left and counterleft.

Toney combs her hair, Mbeumo leaves her, and Janelt tucks her in.

Small team game well executed by Brentford, and poorly digested by Chelsea.

Before the final whistle the procession of overwhelmed fans began to leave Stamford Bridge the way they came, without saying this is my mouth, trying the impossible, to forget Roman Abramovich, the man who turned a neighborhood club into a global power, the man of Putin, the man from the Kremlin, the man who could not see the 1-4 live, persecuted by the Government and longed for by the fans who fired their players as befits self-respecting Englishmen.

With a bit of irony and a sense of humor, they laughed at the drama of football singing a cappella

.

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