Mourinho. That Evil Bastard
“What the hell is this ridiculous guy?”
The first half kicked off, and Drogba immediately barreled into our half. I was three centimeters taller and five kilos heavier, but when we clashed, you couldn't ignore the racial edge. Drogba strode forward with those long legs, slipping through our defense with cat-like agility.
Thud—!
I deliberately slammed into him, picking a fight. It felt like colliding with an elephant.
Swoosh—Drogba flashed his white teeth at me.
“Hello~ Hero~”
First taunt: failed.
If I couldn't shut down Drogba today, we had no chance.
While I was trading glares with Drogba, Chelsea methodically built their attack. Today, they were in Mourinho's infamous counterattacking 4-3-3—a formation typically aggressive, but he'd reinterpreted it with his signature rock-solid defense for devastating counters, conquering Europe with it.
“Don't let them in!”
Chelsea had Joe Cole and Duff on the wings. To counter their Cole–Drogba–Duff triangle, we switched to a back four: Rufus–Hero Na–Anton–Spencer. Compared to Chelsea's front three, we were outclassed in reputation, salary, and experience.
But soccer isn't played on paper.
Wham—!!
Tweet—!
“Argh!”
“Hahaha! Serves you right, you Judas!”
Our fullback Spencer had dumped Joe Cole on his ass in the third minute. As Cole clutched his ankle and screamed, West Ham fans rained down boos.
“That's not a foul in the Scottish League!”
“Then go back there. This is the Premier League.”
The ref ignored Spencer's protests.
Even the notoriously rough English leagues bowed to Scotland's brutality. Our cheap signing Spencer brought solid defending but occasionally committed dangerous fouls.
Tweet—!
Play resumed with Chelsea down a man as Cole was carted off. Mourinho jumped up and down on the sideline, venting at the ref.
“Filthy soccer they're playing.”
Smack—! Thud—!
Drogba muttered in his French-accented English, shoving my chest with his palm to show his disgust. I got it—losing a teammate early stung.
But.
“This ain't the time to be picky!”
Wham—!! Thud!
I went up for my first aerial duel with Drogba. I jumped first, but he subtly stuck out his hip, shoving me aside.
Boom—!! Bang—!
It happened in a blink. Duff lofted a high ball into our box; Drogba nodded it down, and Lampard, who'd ghosted into the penalty arc, volleyed it viciously.
“Aaaagh!”
“Anton! We've drilled this a hundred times! How do you let Lampard go right from the kickoff!?”
“...Sorry, Hero.”
I knew exactly how Chelsea planned to win the league that season: Drogba dragged the defense to the box, Lampard exploited the space with a penetrating run and finished. The season he'd earned his Midfield Liker nickname.
“Anton! The game's on you today! Focus!”
We'd prepped all week: me man-marking Drogba, Anton blocking Lampard's runs. Anton was solid one-on-one but weak at reading space. He blocked ball-holders well but struggled predicting off-ball movement. That took soccer IQ, spatial awareness, experience—and Anton lacked the latter.
No way was I putting our smaller Anton on Drogba.
“Boooo! Lampard, you bastard!”
“Frankie! How could you do this to us!? Ungrateful prick!”
West Ham alumni at Chelsea were catching heat from the start. Lampard especially—his dad was a Hammers legend, uncle a player-manager. The betrayal stung deep.
Losing star winger Joe Cole hurt, but our No. 1 keeper out was worse. Boos poured from the stands; even the away end saw scuffles.
Our Alex was a 31-year-old Czech vet: 201 cm tall, lanky, camel-eyed, octopus-armed.
Chelsea earned a corner amid the chaos. I stuck tight to Drogba. We scrapped near the post.
Boom—! Swoosh—The corner came in; Drogba hip-checked and leaped, as expected. I anticipated, lunging half a beat early, elbowing his shoulder down.
Even 0.2 seconds' hesitation was victory.
Thud—! Boom!!
“Urk!”
Drogba countered, swinging his elbow as he jumped. I clutched my chest, screamed, and went down.
Tweet—!
Another stoppage.
“Quit faking, little Asian kid.”
“Kung fu skills ain't bad? Academy in Africa?”
I kept needling Drogba. The game was a mess—no flair, just roughhouses, fouls, boos.
20th minute. We hadn't mounted a single proper attack.
“Gotta change the vibe.”
I peeled off Drogba at a safe distance, signaled the keeper for the ball. The stadium erupted at my gesture alone.
“Wooooah! Hero Na!”
Thud—I took the ball, turned; Lampard and Jérémy pounced.
Thump—! Pop!
Boom—!
I pierced the midfielders' trap with a forward pass. Low and whipping, it sliced through and stuck perfectly to Zola's left foot.
Kaboom—!!
Zola collided with a black shadow. Mourinho smirked from the sideline.
“Damn it.”
[We are not Man United.]
Mourinho's words rang true. Unlike Ferguson's 4-4-2 with two mids, Mourinho's 4-3-3 packed three mids in an inverted triangle. The linchpin: defensive mid legend Claude Makelele, guarding like a guard dog, choking our attacks.
Overlay our shapes, and Zola matched Makelele perfectly.
Makelele's insane workrate tied Zola's limbs. I skipped him with long balls to the front, but.
Passes kept failing. Gallas–Terry–Carvalho–Ferreira was the Wailing Wall. Behind them, Cech... who hadn't touched the ball once.
“Mourinho... that evil bastard...”
Even so, Chelsea didn't rush like United. Mourinho knew soccer's truth: score one more than them. No need to risk for two or three.
Boom—!
Whoosh—! Boom—!
Chelsea pinned Drogba in our box, forcing endless duels without committing.
“They're draining my stamina...”
Watch 90 minutes closely: the ball's airborne more than on the ground. Flashy dribbles, passes, shots stick in memory, but aerials dominate. They sap energy, risk injury. Veterans retire when headers scare them.
Boom—!!
Krraaang—!
Massive impact—my head rang. Mid-duel, our heads clashed.
“Uh...”
I landed staggering but forced myself upright. Dizzy, but endured. This was grit. Break the striker's spirit with sheer will.
Wiping sweat from my forehead... it wasn't sweat.
“This is...”