Cech's Left Foot
"Freakin' bastards."
After conceding one goal, Chelsea sat back deep. Even their wing forwards, Duff and Robben, dropped into midfield to focus purely on defense.
Mourinho's goal was simple: crush our spirits with despair.
"This won't do. We can't break through that no matter what."
If we lost like this to Chelsea once, we'd go into every future matchup intimidated. We'd be mentally defeated before the whistle even blew.
Jermain, trying a hasty charge, lost the ball to John Terry. Terry calmly switched play wide without a hint of rush. With midfield dominance, they had all the time in the world.
"Push up! Raise the line!"
The moment we pushed up, Chelsea hit us on the break like clockwork. Robben tore through the gap between center-back and full-back.
"We got caught."
Kwaaaang—!!
Robben stared at Alex in shock, and he fired back.
"What're you lookin' at!? You Dutch old fart! Thought you'd catch me out again? Dream on!!"
Alex taunted Robben and strode back to goal with swagger. Bold play and reckless play are separated by a fine line, they say. Guess if it all goes south, he can just retire and run a pub.
"Huff. Huff. Huff."
88th minute of the second half. My breathing was ragged, legs like lead. This level of fatigue was a first since arriving in England. Blame the endless aerial duels with Drogba and that blood I spilled earlier.
I glared at Mourinho on the sideline to refocus. "Losing like this screws us for every future game. We need at least a draw. Huff. Huff."
For West Ham to become a powerhouse, we needed a winning mentality that feared no opponent. We'd just tasted victory over United for the first time—now we had to ride that momentum until it rooted deep in the team.
Zola and I were on the same page. Gudjohnsen and Malone up top for long-ball bombardment. But I pushed it further.
"Tomas, push up front!"
"Me too?"
"Yeah. 2-0 or 1-0, losing's losing."
"Uwaaaah! United! United! We're proud East London Hammers! Show these West London saints some real men's football~!"
35,000 voices roared as we charged the impenetrable fortress. One shot at glory.
Midfield was all Chelsea. Our guys had emptied it, everyone forward. Tall lads win headers, others snag seconds and jam it in—pure English tactics.
But.
Thwoong—!
They geared for a lofted pass, all eyes skyward. Instinct kicked in—I drove on. Spears flew from everywhere: Duff, Lampard, Robben swarming me.
Thwoooong—!
I barely shifted my leg to conceal the angle till the end. As focus locked on the header...
Jermain slipped around the iron wall's shield and burst in. My low poke glued to his right foot. He dove into the backline's crack.
"Huh!?"
Kwaaaang—!!
Piiiik—!
Jermain rolled screaming, shin stomped. Mourinho stormed the pitch yelling no foul. He was right—Mackelele barely grazed, but Jermain twisted like an Oscar winner.
"Huff. Huff. Huff. Nice acting, mate."
I panted to the free kick spot: 27 meters, slightly left.
Jermain staggered up, whispering, "Miss this and you're dead."
We exchanged mischievous grins. Jermain, Carrick, Anton—their careers forever changed because of me. I owed them a brighter future. One they could brag about forever.
"Left foot, huh..."
Four paces back, eyes locked on Cech's left foot peeking through the wall. Nothing odd. Yet.
"..."
Could I trust that Alex guy? Not a bad dude, but not someone to lean on in the clutch. His Robben save was solid, but fully commit? Nah.
Piiiik—!
Lost in thought, ref whistled. I faced the ball dead-on. Cech centered the goalmouth.
Pre-injury Cech had demonic reflexes. Stepping in, eyes glued to his left foot. One, two—still no twitch.
Alex! You bastard!
Swipe—Third step, it shifted. Leftward.
I froze!
Thwooooong—!!
I switched steps, whipped my right instep. The shot knifed rightward viciously.
Thud—!
Confirmed the net ripple, bolted to Zola.
Lucky deflection. Even the soccer gods tired of Mourinho's smugness?
"Boss! We did it!"
"Yes! Brilliant, Yeong-ung!"
Teammates piled on for joy—then a giant shadow loomed.
"What'd I tell ya!? Watch Cech's left foot! Hahaha!"
Alex had sprinted post-clearance, bellowing. Chelsea staff gawked.
"Quiet down. Everyone hears you."
"Oh yeah? Haha, been too long since I played—got carried away. Nothing beats matchday."
We milked the home cheers till ref warnings. Sweeter than a winner—an equalizer.
Beep! Beep! Piiiik—!
We bunkered bodies to hold the draw. Mourinho skipped Zola's handshake, stormed off. Fans applauded like victors—damn tough match.
"Robbed by the ref. Shady calls everywhere, especially Jermain's Oscar act. Kid goes to Hollywood, outearns Will Smith. They draw us and celebrate like league champs. Congrats, Hammers. But at Stamford Bridge on the 19th? You'll cry."
Mourinho's venomous post-match left, hyping the December 19th return leg already.
August 29, 2004. Four days' rest before facing the Premier League kings, Arsenal.
"Damn bastards. Who schedules like this?"
"Right? Trying to kill us early."
Season opener: Big Three gauntlet—United, Chelsea, Arsenal. Brutal for newbies.
Arsenal topped it. Wenger's Invincibles: first unbeaten title last year, still perfect through four games. Terrorizing minnows with 3+ goals each.
"Boss, sit this one out."
"Crazy? Skip Arsenal? Treating me like washed-up?"
"Think league-wide. Four days' turnaround kills even kids like me."
"I only played half. Fine."
Zola demanded start. Chelsea draw was gold—but disaster too. Injuries piled up, but Zola was the issue. Mourinho broadcast how to stop him.
Wenger had his style, no Mourinho spies, but he'd note it.
"Problem's these two."
Attack hurt, but defense despaired. Arsenal's golden duo.