No Mercy on the Pitch
"On the pitch, there's no mercy."
"No way. Why the hell am I benched?"
Zola exploded in frustration.
"Scared of getting booed by Chelsea fans?"
"What are you talking about? I'm not afraid. It's just... going back there stirs up weird feelings..."
"You wouldn't be thinking of throwing the game for Chelsea fans, would you?"
"Na Yeong-ung! You little shit! There's a line even for jokes!"
"Hahaha. Was that the plan, boss?"
As Zola flustered, the veteran players piled on from behind, teasing him relentlessly. The once-quiet bus erupted into chaos.
Fueled by the players' energy, Zola bellowed, "Today, let's teach that arrogant Portuguese prick who calls himself Special One a lesson!"
"Woooaaah!!"
We were primed for battle.
[Hello, football fans around the world! We're at Stamford Bridge, Chelsea's home ground, where Chelsea faces off against West Ham. The 42,000 seats sold out early for this clash of London rivals.]
[Hold on a second. We've got an urgent announcement from the organizers. Kickoff is delayed by 30 minutes. West Ham United's bus hasn't arrived at the stadium yet due to traffic issues.]
As Stamford Bridge drew near, ominous events began unfolding.
Chelsea fans en route to the stadium swarmed into the road, surrounding our club bus.
"Zola! You traitorous bastard! Get off the bus right now!"
"Zola! You don't deserve to set foot in Stamford Bridge! Go back to Italy, you lying prick!"
Chelsea fans drove daggers into Zola's heart.
Hoooonk! Hoooonk! Hoooonk!
The furious driver blared the horn, igniting total pandemonium.
"Oh yeah? You fucking East London scum! Honking in our neighborhood!?"
"Let's give 'em a taste!!"
Onlooker Chelsea fans surged into a rage, pouring onto the road to encircle and rock the bus from both sides.
It was a crisis that could turn deadly any second.
Thud! Thud! Thud! Craaack!
A skinhead with wild eyes latched onto the bus, headbutting the window repeatedly. His forehead split open, blood streaming down, but he wouldn't stop.
Enraged Chelsea hooligans followed by hurling beer bottles at the bus.
Thanks to the bulletproof glass, the windows held, but our players recoiled in shock behind them.
And it didn't end there.
"Damn it! They shouldn't be doing that."
West Ham fans approaching from afar spotted the commotion and charged in fury.
West Ham flags fluttered as the Hammers hooligans stormed like an invincible Roman legion, clashing with the Chelsea thugs in a brutal brawl.
As the maniacs from both sides endangered innocent fans and kids, Zola shot to his feet.
"Open the door. I'll handle it."
"What the hell? If you go out there now, boss, it's over! People could die!"
"Stop him, guys!"
"Why do they have to go this far!? Those psychos!"
The players restrained Zola.
Thankfully, riot police and mounted officers arrived soon after to quell the chaos.
The road finally cleared, but the hooligans weren't done.
Thwack! Thwack! Bang! Bang!
Under police escort, our bus wormed through the zombie horde of hooligans like a sluggish caterpillar toward Stamford Bridge.
"Fuck! Should've taken the tube!"
We finally arrived at kickoff time and stumbled off the bus, utterly drained—like we'd already played the match.
No time for warm-ups. We changed into kits in the locker room and rushed prep, which still took 30 minutes.
"That damn Portuguese twat's probably laughing his ass off."
The players grumbled.
Mourinho couldn't have orchestrated this, but human nature made us hate him even more.
"Booooooo!!"
[Boos rain down from the start! The crowd's pissed about the delay, and both teams' players are fuming too. The stadium's seething with rage.]
My first time at Stamford Bridge—it was a stunning stadium. The blue-and-white combo screamed class and luxury. Pure West London vibe.
But...
"What a filthy start. Humans..."
The fans' fury turned the beautiful ground into a hellish fight pit.
Zola standing at the away touchline flipped the Chelsea fans' rage switch.
Mourinho beside him amplified it like a conductor waving his arms wildly.
Annoying bastard.
"Snap out of it! Don't get swept up in this atmosphere!"
West Ham players were already deflated before kickoff.
This rage felt different from Old Trafford or Anfield. United and Liverpool didn't see us as true rivals—just worthy of disdain at best.
But Chelsea fans harbored raw hatred—we'd stolen their legendary player. Add betrayal over Zola, and it was personal.
"Booooooo!!! Get out to the council estates! East London beggars!"
Today birthed a new East-West London derby.
Tweeeeeet!!
[West Ham kicks off the first half. As always, they play out from the back through Na Yeong-ung to build attacks. Whoa! What the—!?]
Mourinho, with Russian emperor Roman Abramovich watching, immediately revealed his trump card—the exact counter he'd boasted about in interviews.
Thwish-thwish-thwish!
"What!? Watch out!"
As I received the ball at the heart of our five-back, Drogba, Robben, and Duff pressed from three angles.
Thwaaaang!
[Na Yeong-ung! He hoofs it long under intense pressure! That was close!]
"That fucker..."
I glared at Mourinho on the touchline.
His counter was clear from the off.
[Lampard cuts Na Yeong-ung's pass in midfield! Chelsea counters!]
Mourinho ordered his front three to press ferociously—not the half-hearted stuff, but kill-or-be-killed intensity.
[Chelsea's front three swarm Na Yeong-ung again! Another long kick!]
Drogba's physicality and speed, paired with Robben and Duff, weighed heavy even on me.
Mourinho forced long balls, then had his mids pre-positioned to intercept.
He'd analyzed my passing lanes perfectly.
[Na Yeong-ung's passes keep getting cut off today. Chelsea's defenders are pushing high to intercept aggressively.]
My back passes lost quality, dragging down West Ham's attacks.
Mourinho had pierced our weakness.
[Chelsea counters! Robben drives down the flank! Cross!]
Anton and I leaped together against Drogba in the air duel.
Thwaaaang!
Sploooosh!
[Drogba's header! Gooooal! It bulges the West Ham net~~! Chelsea strikes first at the 16-minute mark!]
Attacks stalled, minds wandered, bleeding into defense. A lapse in focus jumping with Anton.
Drogba, league's top striker, exploited it ruthlessly.
[Chelsea keeps the elite press even after scoring!]
Duff–Drogba–Robben, hyped from the goal, hounded me harder—swinging elbows, stamping feet, shoulder barges, no holds barred.
They aimed to crush my attacking will.
Thwaaang!
I ditched long passes for short ones to Tomas and Anton.
But their quality couldn't thread midfield.
With West Ham attacks crumbling at the root, Carrick dropped deep.
"Captain! Push up! This is exactly what Mourinho wants."
"We're barely holding possession. Don't overdo it—pass to me. I'll handle ball progression from now."
"..."
Armbanded Carrick couldn't refuse.
From then, I fed balls to Carrick in the holding role for build-up.
But...
[Now Chelsea's midfield trio presses Carrick! Mourinho's brought a masterplan! No space to turn—they swarm relentlessly!]
We fell into Mourinho's double press trap.
Lampard–Tiago–Makelele encircled Carrick, pressing rough and raw.
Tweeeeeet!
[Lampard! Charging foul! He helps Carrick up. Both West Ham academy products, friends off-pitch. But on the pitch, no mercy.]
Chelsea's trio fouled deliberately whenever Carrick escaped press.
Fearsome team.
In real history, this Chelsea set the Premier League record for fewest goals conceded: 15. Mourinho's side was a nightmare of shock and awe through defense.
Tweet! Tweet! Tweeeeeet!!
[Halftime ends 1-0. West Ham managed zero shots in the first half.]
The away locker room at halftime was a graveyard.
Drained from the pre-match bus hell, everything fell apart.
"Boss, I've got a counter."
"What is it? Speak."
"Mourinho's double press has a fatal flaw. We exploit it in the second half."
I laid out the second-half plan to Zola and the team. They nodded in agreement.
In this mess, it was our only hope.
Tweeeeeet!!
[Second half underway! Stamford Bridge has quieted a bit. Probably due to the one-sided dominance?]
[Yeah. Even Chelsea fans might pity Zola now. It's that lopsided.]
No reason to wait. Back pass came; Drogba–Duff–Robben lunged again.
Creepy fucks.
I angled open and rifled a left-footed progressive pass.
Thwaaaang!
[Na Yeong-ung lofts a long ball to the flank! Ah! Brilliant—that's the move!]
Mourinho's double press funneled six players centrally—our attacks funneled vertically through me and frontman Carrick.
So I switched play wide.
Spencer overlapped into Chelsea's vacated flank space.
[Chelsea! Flank's wide open! Spencer races into the counter!]
KABOOOM!!
Chelsea fullback Gallas sprinted up and obliterated Spencer—like a bully robbing a kid.
The level gap was massive.
[Chelsea counters the counter! Gallas bombs forward into West Ham territory for a cross!]
Thwaaaang!