To be brutally honest, Chelsea are an accurate representation of a modern family; an uncompromisingly energetic arrangement of strange inexplicable elements that exhaust the logical mind with bemusing, confusing and occasionally impressive outcomes. The players are acquired and processed like young foster children for whom the default setting is uncertainty. In the days of Abramovich, the club pursued success and then domination without apology or compromise, nowadays they are simply a business that prioritises sustainable profit and hopes for 'on the grass' success based on potential. Football is an emotional game, fans want to be entertained and see total desire from their players. The people that run Chelsea want to operate a percentages game, rotating players, managing minutes and that for Maresca, who is an emotive man, proved to be the straw that broke the camel's back.
Enzo Maresca won two significant trophies last season, fans love a victory parade. Winning is a beautiful feeling, ask any Leicester City fan about winning the Premier League and the F.A. Cup recently, a Spurs fan about that night in Spain when they won the Europa Cup last summer. I believe Maresca felt, in the pit of his stomach, that he had the formula for success especially after defeating Barcelona and frightening Arsenal a few days later. Pochettino, in May 2024, had that same feeling, he could see a pathway to glory, he was so close he could touch it. Both men looked into the eyes of those Sporting Directors and the owners and realised that their understanding of the situation, in real time, was non-existent.
Social Media platforms are awash with opinionated individuals who feel entitled to lecture to the wider world how fabulously smart they are based on fresh air and very little meaningful substance. My head hurts everytime I consider how the FIVE Sporting Directors at Chelsea who, incidentally I had never heard of, can overrule and dictate to experienced hard-bitten football men how to manage players within the pressure cooker of a 90 minute match. Feel free to call me an old-fashioned relic. I want one of those Fab Five to step in front of the TV lights or a Talksport microphone and explain how a man who crosses that line of success becomes surplus to requirements. If the articulate but highly inexperienced young man called Liam Rosenior turns Chelsea into a winning machine, I will take it all back.
