Leicester City vs. Chelsea : 23 November 2024
With the latest International Break behind us, real football was back on the agenda.
Leicester City would host Chelsea at the King Power Stadium, with an early kick-off at 12.30pm.
I collected the three amigos – PD, Glenn, Parky – by 7.30am as Storm Bert, don’t laugh, hovered in the background and threatened to upset the weekend. The drive north up the Fosse Way was, for once, a mundane affair, with dull grey skies overhead, pounding rain at times, and the glorious Cotswolds were only able to be glimpsed occasionally. Usually, it’s a grand trip up to Leicester, one of the joys of the football season, but this one was only memorable for the laughs that the four of us generated en route. We had stopped to pick up some rations at Melksham just after collecting Parky, and we had these “on the hoof” to save time. My focus was reaching the away pub, “The Counting House”, as soon as possible. I was hoping to be parked outside it just after 10pm.
Soon into the trip, I learned that Frome Town’s home game against Wimborne was off due to the weather. My focus, this weekend, was to just be on us.
I hit a little traffic nearing the final destination but, unlike the last time that I parked right outside the pub in 2022/23, my Sat Nav sent me right past the King Power Stadium. It felt a little odd to be driving so close to it, past the away entrance too.
I was parked up at 10.15am.
As we approached the boozer – it had opened at 9am and a fair few Chelsea were already inside – we spotted some familiar faces waving to us. Their smiles were wide.
Tom from New Jersey was in town. We last saw him at the very last game before Covid struck; Everton at Stamford Bridge in March 2020, a pre-match in the Eight Bells. He was next to Jimmy and Ian, recently mentioned in recent episodes, and they appeared to be sat at the same table. I wondered if they had been chatting and had realised that they had mutual friends that were soon to arrive. As it happened, it was just by chance that they were sitting close to each other. Pints were acquired and we perched together around a high-top table. It was soon difficult to hear conversations as the pub grew loud with the chants and songs of the – mainly young – pre-match Chelsea crowd.
Thoughts were positive in our little group. I think we all fancied a Chelsea win. I had to remind myself that Enzo Maresca was recently in charge at Leicester. Out of sight – in the Championship – means out of mind, I guess.
There was a little question that Ian – and his son Bobby – and Jimmy asked us, and it involved our two greatest, we thought, right backs; Branislav Ivanovic and Cesar Azpilicueta.
“Who was the best?”
Ian and I went with Ivanovic, the others with Dave.
There had been discussions about this on the way up in their car.
It was lovely to reflect on some of the great players that have worn our colours. I guess Steve Clarke, Dan Petrescu and Ron Harris would be in the next bracket.
Ah, talking of history, let’s quickly catch-up.
…to continue the 1984/85 season.
Wednesday 21 November 1984.
There would still be no mid-week game for me at Stamford Bridge. On this Wednesday evening, while I was in my college town of Stoke-on-Trent, Chelsea were playing against one of the previous season’s adversaries Manchester City in a League Cup tie down in SW6. We soundly won this game 4-1 in front of a very pleasing gate of 26,364 – let me emphasise how good this was, I was thrilled by it – with a hat-trick from Kerry Dixon and yet another goal from Keith Jones. This match, however, gained immediate notoriety as it featured one of the game’s all-time shocking penalty misses. During the previous twelve months, Chelsea’s lack of prowess from the penalty spot was well known, but it reached a nadir with Pat Nevin’s terrible “pass back in the mud” to City’s young ‘keeper Alex Williams. If you haven’t seen it, track it down, you will be shocked.
I was keen to get inside the stadium and get the inevitably tense “camera / bag / security check” out of the way. Thankfully, I calmly assured the steward who spotted my SLR that “don’t worry, I won’t take any photos” and I was allowed inside.
The concourse at Leicester would soon fill up, and I quickly chose to join Alan, John and Gary inside, down by the corner flag. PD would watch the game a couple of rows behind me, but Glenn and PD were elsewhere in the throng, I knew not where exactly.
Lecester City have grandiose plans to slap an extra tier on the stand that runs along the touchline to our left, but I wonder if they have the fan base to support it. The capacity would, if constructed, reach 40,000.
Our team?
A few surprises.
Sanchez
Fofana – Badiashile – Colwill – Cucarella
Caicedo – Enzo
Madueke – Palmer – Joao Felix
Jackson
Gary and I ran through the ever-rowing number of players that have, recently, played for Leicester and then us.
Ngolo Kante
Danny Drinkwater
Ben Chilwell
Wesley Fofana
Kiernan Dewsbury-Hall
Of course, I remember Dennis Rofe.
The far side of the stadium was decorated with mosaics celebrating the one-hundred and forty years of the home club.
“Fosse to City. 140 Years of History”.
I soon spotted my Foxes mate Sally who sits in the far corner at all home games.
We always seem to have a good sing-song at Leicester these days, and as the game began, this was no exception. It was a very decent start in fact. Chelsea, in all white, and attacking that far end, absolutely hogged the ball as the first few moments and then minutes passed. The home team did not cause a threat offensively.
At all.
I was happy with our start, as were the noisemakers around me. The contrast between the away quadrant and the home fans close by was stark.
“The Leicester lot are quiet for a change, Gal.”
The former Tottenham player Harry Winks – nicely booed by us at the start, good work – was substituted early on after a knock.
I had already decided that the Leicester City defender Wout Faes was a lesser Fabricio Coloccini, and a much-lesser David Luiz.
We absolutely dominated.
After a couple of attacks, I found myself jotting a few notes on my phone. I looked up at just the right time, and saw a long clearance being chased by Nicolas Jackson but with Faes in proximity. However, the defender seemed to be chasing shadows, or maybe even the wrong ball and the wrong striker. As play developed, Jackson’s perseverance was rewarded.
He was un-Faesed.
After a fortuitous bobble, and with a deft flick of the boot, Jackson fought of a late challenge from Caleb Oko and skilfully lifted the ball past the home ‘keeper Mads Hermansen and into the goal.
Get in.
The away end roared, and I stabbed a quick fist-pump into the air.
“Great goal, Gal.”
I thought Leicester were awful, and their passing especially so. They defended deep, but simply could not muster together any coherent passes if they ever regained the ball. The home crowd were still so quiet.
A wild tackle on Cole Palmer warranted only a yellow card.
Palmer, involved at times but often quiet thus far, often has the appearance of a stray dog. It is a fine quality of his to wander into spaces, away from the pack, unconfined, unperturbed, free from others, and then suddenly become involved at the merest hint of a chance to exploit space.
I invented my own little nickname for him at Leicester.
“Go on the stray dog.”
He is, after all, a long way from Manchester now.
A succession of awful tackles riled the away support further and the atmosphere was stirred. The noise increased.
Madueke sent a curler goalwards, and then had a goal chalked off for offside, which was soon confirmed via VAR.
I spotted that Enzo, so often the subject of dismay at best and derision at worst, was enjoying a very fine game, breaking up play, pressing well, passing well.
“Leicester really are shite, Gal.”
Joao Felix lit up the play with a couple of lovely touches but struggled at times to integrate.
Another stray dog, but without the bite, perhaps.
A couple of passes from Palmer allowed in others, but our shooting was off. Just as it looked like the home team would go the entire half without a single effort of note, with Jamie Vardy looking so quiet, a couple of late chances stirred the home team. Kasey McAteer, whoever he is, mis-fired heroically and how we laughed.
Chelsea missed a fine chance after a delayed corner, a strong leap, but a header that flew wide.
Then, a fine break, Jackson to Madueke, but a fine block from the ‘keeper.
Ugh.
At half-time, I spotted of all the variously coloured flags that are oddly draped on support struts at the back of the stands at Leicester. They appear all the way around the circumference of the stadium, par the away end, just under the roof. They reminded me of the multi-coloured pennants that coach drivers in the ‘seventies used to buy and use to adorn the inside of their vehicles.
Llandudno. Penzance. Weymouth. Blackpool. Tenby. Great Yarmouth. Whitby.
It’s a very odd feature. Unique. Not so sure I understand it though, because all of the flags are bunched up, unable to be properly read.
The second-half started and there was, very soon, a quick break down the middle. Joao Felix set up Jackson, but the ‘keeper saved. The follow-up ran to Palmer whose shot struck Madueke on its way to the target, with Noni’s soft-shoe-shuffle unable to stop the ball hitting him. The ball spun out for a goal-kick.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but I admired the honest smile, maybe even a grin, that swept over Palmer’s face. It’s just so refreshing to see a lad enjoy his football in the way that he does.
We still dominated the entire game. Over on the far side, the Leicester manager Steve Cooper looked perplexed. It ate away at me, however, that a single chance could so easily be gifted to the home team and our domination could count for nought.
We ploughed on as the dull skies darkened.
On many occasions, the away corner was able to witness the burgeoning relationship between Palmer and Madueke. I remember, with pleasure, a “no look” pass back from Noni to Jackson. An Enzo shot from outside the box fizzed wide.
With fifteen minutes to go, a cross from the energetic and industrious Marc Cucarella – loved at Chelsea now – found the head of Jackson, but Hermansen foiled him. Luckily for us, the ball rebounded nicely for Enzo to nod home.
The Chelsea end exploded again.
Enzo’s slide towards the corner flag was joyous, but it could have been so much better had he done it in front of us and not in front of Kevin and Sally from Hinckley, Paul and Steve from Loughborough, Aggy from Ashby-de-la-Zouch and Nobby from Narborough.
“Safe now, Gal.”
The away support ran through a few familiar songs of faith and devotion.
“We all follow the Chelsea…”
“Palmer again.”
“Until you’ve taken my Chelsea away.”
Some changes on eighty-one minutes.
Christopher Nkunku for Joao Felix.
Romeo Lavia for Caicedo.
It surprised me that Caicedo was taken off, but it was perhaps a sign of how well Enzo, the player, was faring.
More changes.
Jadon Sancho for Madueke.
Kiernan Dewsbury-Hall for Jackson.
Just as it was looking a plain-sailing 2-0 win, an easy one, Romeo Lavia was adjudged to have clipped the heel of Bobby De Cordova-Reid as he ventured inside our box. After some confusion, VAR confirmed a penalty and Jordan Ayew steered the spot-kick home.
A late late scare?
Not really.
We held on for the last couple of minutes of the five added minutes.
Lovely stuff.
We were mired in slow-moving traffic as we attempted our getaway. For the first time, I drove right past Welford Road, the home of the famous Leicester Tigers, and it felt odd to be driving past that stadium too. As I edged out, I spotted at a large brick wall that was decorated by a huge sprayed-on image of three foxes grappling with the FA Cup, a reminder of a recent game in the combined histories of our two clubs.
On a slow-moving stretch of the main road out to the ring road, in the space of a few minutes, we spotted Rich from Swindon, stopped by the side of the road and attempting to repair a puncture…we then spotted an Ellison’s coach, windows blackened, that almost certainly contained the Chelsea team en route back to London…and as we were stopped in traffic behind a BMW, we watched as a bloke got out of the rear passenger seats and opened-up the boot to retrieve something…it was none other than Joe Cole.
It made our day.
It was a long old trip home. I battled the inclement weather, Storm Bert et al, and while the others slept, I played some soothing music and prayed that the rain would stop.
I was back in Frome at just after 7pm.
It had been a good day.