In my life there are many things I'll never get to do. I realise I will never be Prime Minister. I understand I'll never ride an F-14 into the danger zone like Tom Cruise did in the bruising, Cold War epic Top Gun. I'm resigned to the fact I'll never execute a perfect far post volley at Old Trafford, bringing the crowd to its feet in ecstatic union, like Mark Hughes used to before he became a right mardy git. I'll never get the chance to suggest to Scarlett Johansson that we blow off dessert and head back to mine for a game of Subuteo (apparently she's a big fan).
I used to mourn the fact that I'd never be a Premier League manager, but these gloriously unpredictable times of ours lead me to believe that some things, however apparently fantastical, may actually be within my mortal grasp. I've calculated that I'm currently 18,957,024 (no, wait... 18,957,023) in line to be Chelsea manager, which by my admittedly dodgy arithmetic means I should be set to take the Stamford Bridge reins in around twenty-three years. I appreciate it's a long-shot, but I'm clearing my diary for the 2034/35 season just in case.
As much as the demise of each passing incumbent brings my moment (and it will be but a moment) in the spotlight ever closer, I have thus far taken no glee in my would-be predecessor’s assorted sufferings. Indeed, my stock reaction to each new Abramovictim has been one of empathy, but just lately I’m starting to grow decidedly colder to their predicaments. I know that when I pitch up at Chelsea – suit freshly pressed, Championship Manager CV in hand, bestubbled but not too bestubbled – I'll be the envy of many and the friend of relatively few, and as such will expect no public outpourings of sympathy should I fail to make the grade (although with a double FA Cup success as Leyton Orient boss under my belt, that seems pretty unlikely).
For you see, every Chelsea manager of the recent past has known the metaphorical score when they've signed on the possibly-metaphorical dotted line, and for the most recent casualty this was no different. As Andres Villa-Boas’ early self-confidence melted into strained bravado, the bullishness of his demeanour perhaps belied a certain amount of inexperience, naivety even. But ignorance is something to which he cannot feasibly lay claim. As a member of Jose Mourinho's backroom staff he would have known a darn sight more about the inner workings of Chelsea than most, and when the guillotine fell following last Sunday's lacklustre defeat at West Brom it will have brought the man himself sadness but hardly much surprise, despite his claims to be part of a newly minted long-termist club philosophy. So I’ve decided: no more sorry, for the next permanent Chelsea manager should know exactly what he’s getting himself into. Age is hardening me – which, frankly, is something any man should be grateful for.
If I feel anything for AVB it is perhaps an understanding of his twisted belief that he could fundamentally alter a club – and, perhaps most pertinently, a playing staff – so set in their ways. I'll change him, thinks the woman whose heart is taken by the grizzled anti-hero. I'll make him the man I want him to be. But, alas, she won't. The sad legacy of Villa-Boas' all too brief tenure appears to consist of little more than a divided dressing room and an opportunity for berks like me to hijack his initials for humorous purposes. As far as the man himself is concerned, I'm sure an alternative vacancy beckons. For Chelsea, it's another venture buried.
Ahem. Anyway, Chelsea's immediate future is now in the hands of Roberto Di Matteo, a man not considered worthy of a Hawthorns relegation battle (perhaps rightly, if you're a fan of hindsight) but with the advantage of being something of a club legend. Before injury cut his playing days cruelly short, Di Matteo was part of the side that shifted Chelsea's status from league also-rans to real contenders, helping to plunder the glut of late '90s silverware which made many across the globe – wealthy Russians included – sit up and take notice of the west Londoner's burgeoning global potential. If AVB's dismissal has brought about anything at all, it's a vaguely pleasing sense of full-circularness.
The days when Di Matteo stood on the other side of the touchline were a time of dreaming for Blues fans, moving up the table as they did position-by-position, progressing increment by careful increment, all the while attracting players of increasingly notable calibre. True, many were heading towards the twilight of their careers, but the arrivals of Ruud Gullit and Gianluca Vialli nonetheless paved the way for Marcel Desailly and Didier Deschamps and, as Champion's League qualification became the norm, so Chelsea's attractiveness became undeniable. But even so, investment was needed to make the next leap, and with financial turmoil brewing behind the scenes, Ken Bates handed the club he'd once saved over to Abramovich. The rest is history.
The irony is that, beginning with Bates' purchase, through Glenn Hoddle's transformative managerial stint, via the late Matthew Harding's passionate association and the signings of Zola, Hasselbaink and others, Chelsea had actually been moving gradually towards the top of the English tree. After the title successes of Mourinho came at last a Champion's League final, and with it the moment of truth had arrived, the metamorphosis almost complete.
How small the margins of fate; how precarious and slippery the turf underfoot. A John Terry penalty placed six inches to the left and Chelsea would have been kings of Europe. Such a triumph may not have saved Avram Grant his job, but it would surely have assured Abramovich – so often a man of whim and fancy, discarding managers like society girls toss away posh frocks – that his investment had reaped the ultimate reward. It may have mellowed his anxiety just a little. A year ago Carlo Ancelotti, the previous victim of the Russian's itchy trigger finger, described Chelsea's quest to conquer Europe as “a dream”. He meant it in the positive sense of course, but their failure to turn fantasy into reality has left Abramovich with his head in the clouds, with little-to-no semblance of grounded thought. His apparent willingness to try a little long-term planning has been rapidly extinguished, his latest panic attack brought about by the water-to-the face dousing that missing out on Champion's League qualification would mean.
The underlying issue for all involved now is quite what Abramovich has up his sleeve come the summer. With AVB's scalp now joining the deer's head parade above the faux-rustic fireplace in Roman's penthouse suite – stuffed, preserved and mounted; a macabre exhibit for the personal pleasure of a cruel huntsman – it seems few managers are eager to be the next stag to wander in front of the crosshairs. Some have mentioned Barcelona’s Pep Guardiola as a possible long-term successor. As I write these words, Lionel Messi is calmly going about ripping Bayer Leverkusen a new one, guiding his team to yet another quarter final in a competition they have in recent years dominated with an almost sadistic lustre.
Guardiola arguable represents in microcosm everything Abramovich dreams of, and before my eyes his beguiling team are once more showing the watching world what can be achieved when planning, perseverance, talent and tolerance co-exist in blissful harmony. The Barcelona of today is a side that has grown and matured organically: a sporting and cultural enterprise built meticulously from the ground up, from the school kids to the superstars, arriving now at what must be some kind of modern footballing zenith. Chelsea, meanwhile, once again find themselves at the very beginning.
Quite whether Di Matteo's short-term appointment will provide the unifying catalyst needed to turn Chelsea's season around is little more than a guessing game at this juncture. But what I know for certain is that when I eventually get to add my own little personal touches to the manager's office at Cobham – a photo of Scarlett here, a novelty Stamford the Lion there – I'll be sure to cast a cautious glance towards the owners office, as the chances are I'll be summoned there before too long. I won't be able to miss it – it's the one just across the corridor, with the sign that reads: “You don't have to be mad to work here... just to own it.”
~ Matt
