Date: 20th May 2018 at 8:47am
Written by:

Mine was, well let me explain!

Before the kick-off I was reasonably calm, my heartbeat was under control and I was determined to enjoy the occasion.

But that all changed as the teams emerged from the tunnel, suddenly my pulse had started to quicken, and my hands were getting a little clammy, Chelsea fever had struck.

The first few minutes of the game, I think I coped quite well. Chelsea had started the better of the two teams and it looked as if several of the Manchester United players had their boots on the wrong feet.

Twenty minutes are gone, a first-time ball from Fabregas releases Hazard, he’s in the box, I’m on my feet, a penalty I scream, and a penalty is given.

Still on my feet, ‘score, score, score’ I’m muttering under my breath and then a huge roar reverberates around the room, Hazard had won the penalty, took the penalty and scored the penalty.

The heartbeat was now starting to climb, an adrenalin rush had kicked in, but so long to go, over two-thirds of the game.

Half-time came, the teams left the pitch, I opted to take a walk around the garden, so much more preferable than listening to the likes of Lineker, Shearer and Wright regurgitating the same dozen or so words.

The second half started, United were getting on top, it was getting harder to watch, involuntary muscle reactions were seeing me kick and head every ball, I was getting strange looks from those around me.

Suddenly the ball was in the Chelsea net, a feeling of doom descended, my head fell into my arms and then a wide smile lit my face up, Sanchez was offside.

But time was standing still, every second seemed like a minute, every minute seemed like an hour.

Suddenly Kante was through, a ball slipped to Alonso and the Spaniard must score but De Gea gets a block in, then Young’s handball goes unpunished, were those bad omens?

My pulse is now racing even faster, there are beads of nervous sweat trickling down my forehead, my mouth is dry and the words don’t seem to be falling into the correct order as I try to string together a sentence urging Chelsea to stay tight, get behind the ball and hang on for dear life.

Eighty-nine minutes gone, the board goes up, five minutes of stoppage time to be played, ‘how long’ I scream, waking the cat up from his afternoon nap.

I’m counting the seconds down, seconds that still seem like minutes, we’re getting closer, I’m all fidgety, walking around the front room in a random almost lunatic fashion, then a shrill blast of the whistle and we’ve done it, hugs all around and smiles all round.

I always swear it’ll not be the same next time, but it is, it’s ingrained in my DNA, my blood is blue, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Up the Chels!

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