Won't You Come Play for Chelsea?
“Where to?!”
Whoosh—!!
I spun around and chased after Henry.
“Whoaaa!”
“You creepy bastard! You again!?”
Henry freaked out as I cut him off once more. Thanks to Anton wearing him down earlier, I could now match his pace. If this had been early in the game, I never would've caught up.
Thud—thwack—thud—
I didn't watch the ball—I watched Henry's eyes. In a one-on-one with a striker, I usually track thigh muscle twitches to read direction and timing on the fly. But Henry's feints were too slick for that.
The hint is in his eyes.
A signal would flash there the instant he tried a trick. That was my only way to stop him.
Thud—thwack—!
Henry's eyes sparkled, flashing a [shoot] sign. He angled left for a shot. As I blocked it, his eyes gleamed again.
Swoosh—!
Henry slipped a pass behind me to Bergkamp infiltrating the box. I stretched my leg back and heel-kicked the ball away. Bergkamp, who'd shaken Anton for a golden chance, stared blankly at the rebound.
“...”
Henry stared me down. I met his gaze without flinching. Our duel wasn't over yet.
“You... don't tell me... you baited that pass on purpose?”
Henry replayed our chase in his head and spotted the anomaly. I'd feigned obsession with the shot angle as a trap.
To his question, I replied:
“Woof! Woof!”
Payback for calling me a hunting dog. Henry burst into disbelieving laughter. That hollow chuckle shattered Arsenal's invincible unbeaten myth.
Wenger bowed his head on the sideline. The day had to come someday—but no one expected it today.
Beep! Beep! Beeeeeep—!
“Boooo! Get lost, you French pricks!”
“Serves you right! Crawl back to North London slums!”
Despite the thriller, jeers and insults drowned out any applause. West Ham fans were thrilled with the win but furious over Zola's injury; Arsenal fans raged at their unbeaten streak's end. This marked the birth of bad blood between London's clubs, once relatively peaceful.
“Was that heel-block on Henry's last pass intentional?”
As MOM, I faced a barrage of questions.
“Of course. No accidents in defense. I knew Henry was selfless unlike most strikers, so I opened that angle to bait the pass. My focus play helped too.”
“Ooooh...”
Their awe tickled my gag reflex.
“If it'd been Man Utd's Van Nistelrooy, I'd have shut down the shot without pass worries.”
“Puhahaha!”
The reporters doubled over. I wondered what Van Nistelrooy's face would look like tomorrow.
“Thoughts on Zola's injury?”
“That ends the interview. I need to check on him at the hospital. Front-page headlines tomorrow, right? I'm out.”
I bolted from the press room to the hospital.
Zola's condition was grim: fractured right ankle medial malleolus. Treatment and rehab would take at least six months. At his age, full recovery wasn't guaranteed. We might never see that beautiful play again. Season over, effectively.
[Zola's Return] ended its dazzling season on this empty note.
British media hyped West Ham, but the squad was somber. Zola was manager, player, ace. His absence left a gaping hole.
“Training feels flat without the gaffer.”
Zola was a legend who commanded respect without begging. Anyone who'd watched the Prem loved and admired him. Who wouldn't focus seeing him in our kit, playing alongside us?
He left drills, tactics, fitness tests to coaches, focusing on pitching in to boost team spirit. His sudden void left us aimless.
“This won't do. We need a fix.”
Zola's saga taught me: For a lasting powerhouse, never let power concentrate on one person. Balance among big influencers keeps you steady through crises.
The fear became reality. Feeble finishing led to a slog, then a late Spencer foul gifted a PK for a sour defeat.
Interim boss Michael Dunhill, Zola's assistant, looked haggard after two weeks. Some roles suit people better. The diligent coach seemed indecisive and inept as manager. Prep was solid, but he couldn't adapt mid-game.
As the club floundered, I moved for the team on my end.
“I've called ahead, so just bring him out quietly. Double-check for paparazzi.”
“Got it. No worries.”
I was parked in a Chelsea rehab hospital lot. Blacked-out Mercedes tucked in the corner, I'd sent my agent-manager James inside. Paul could've gone, but James fit better—no ex-West Ham staff loitering at Chelsea's club hospital.
Me hiding in back? The guy I was meeting couldn't be seen with me publicly.
England's paparazzi paradise. Footballers and porn stars are their fave prey. Always cautious.
“Here he comes.”
Soon, my contact emerged with James, scanning like 007s en route to the car.
Click—slam—
The back-seat passenger: Chelsea winger Joe Cole. Injured by Spencer vs. West Ham, still rehabbing. I'd called personally; he agreed eagerly.
“How've you been, senior?”
“Well, well. Hero Na~ Didn't know you ran spy ops like a pro.”
“Learned from the master.”
“Master?”
“Never mind. To business. No point dragging this out.”
Almost spilled my solo Ferguson meet.
“Right. What's up? Why meet me? Apology for Spencer?”
“I want you at West Ham, senior.”
“Huh? For real? I half-guessed, but you...”
“As you know, Zola's out. No more creative dribbler to shred defenses and feed Jermain or Gudjohnsen. We need that.”
“Me?”
“Yeah. West Ham roots mean no adjustment. Plus...”
I paused for provocation.
“You need minutes, right? Pushed out of Chelsea's starting XI...”
“Okay. Stop.”
Joe's tone sharpened. Chelsea's star-signing spree sidelined him, injuries compounding it.
“This is my agent, James Grant. If you're in, he'll quietly negotiate with West Ham's director. Once rolling, your agent takes over for the winter window...”
“Enough, Hero. Stop.”
“Pardon?”
“We're busy. Bottom line: I'm not going to West Ham.”
“...”
“Felt it playing Chelsea. Ah, so this is a big club. Totally different. Explains West Ham's struggles.”
Joe eyed me.
“Hero. Counter-offer. Won't you come play for Chelsea?”
“Me?”
“Yeah. Hundred times better than West Ham. Know how smart Mourinho is? With him, league title's baseline—Champs League, treble possible. Special One for real. You'll see teaming up. Man's got vision.”
“...He's elite, sure.”
“Compare defenses. Trash like Anton or injury-dealers vs. our Terry, Gallas, Carvalho, Pereira. Makelele shields you. Dream, right? Attack freer, goals explode. Value skyrockets.”
“...”
“And our owner? Roman'll drown you in cash. Irresistible to those Icelandic cheapskates. Instant riches, glory. Man Utd, Arsenal can't catch us. Modern football's money.”
Joe was spot-on.
“Tempting. Almost wanna fax Alfred the transfer request now.”
James flinched beside me.