Michael Emenalo and Me: My (imaginary) day with Chelsea’s technical director
Michael Emenalo is a bit of a mystery. Who is he? What does he do? How does he get a paycheck for that? The Pride of London’s André Carlisle recently spent a (imaginary) day with the enigmatic character holding the keys to Chelsea’s future to find out.
The first thing you notice about Michael Emenalo is a charming face and crisp jawline. But aside from that, his visage reveals little.
Not much is known about the Nigerian in charge of the comings and goings around Stamford Bridge. Other than bearing the negotiator’s gift – a pensive and stoic resting face – what else makes him the man for the job? What makes him tick? How and why does he operate?
I make a call the evening before to confirm the following day’s meeting. The emergent wail of an alarm clock interrupts our conversation at 6:15pm. “Apologies, that’s my reminder to get up in 12 hours.”
With me confused and our plans confirmed, I begin finalizing my questions.
Michael Emenalo arrives an hour and a half beyond our meeting time, visibly frustrated. “Sorry. I overslept.” I figured.
He reaches into the inside pocket of his blazer and puts on his glasses in a rush. “I’m running a bit late,” he says as he straightens his loosely dangling tie, “hope you don’t have a weak stomach.”
Emenalo then flashes a key fob with a Ferrari logo and nods toward the cobalt blue 458 in the driveway. I eagerly clutch my notepad to my chest. The only thing better than driving a car you can’t afford is being the passenger of someone who can. I all too eagerly round the hood and stand by the car door.
There’s a click. I try the handle but it remains locked. Instead the trunk lifts up and Emenalo carelessly yanks out a folding tandem bike, leaving a scratch on the bumper. As he hurriedly unfurls it, he gets a call from Roman Abramovich.
"Boss!…..yes yes….on my way.What’s that? …Mustafa? …Arsenal?The cartoon lion? No no, he dies pretty early in the movie.It’s alright, Simba eventually gets over it. Ok boss? Be there soon!"
He finishes setting up the bicycle and we set off. Without helmets, of course. I asked many questions along the route, but responses were unintelligible as he spoke softly and into an oncoming wind.
Eventually, feeling the pressures of my editors expecting a riveting exposé, I ask Emenalo to speak up. He lifted his head toward the clouds and started to expound. We darted across three lanes and flipped over a guardrail and into a ditch.
Spitting leaves from my mouth I checked on Michael. His right foot was bent inward like it was accusing the left of malfeasance. Perhaps recognizing the Nigerian, a nearby Good Samaritan rushed us to a local hospital.
Emenalo thanked the man with a 5-year contract and a season long loan to Vitesse.
Once at the hospital, Emenalo waves off a nurse with a wheelchair and drags his broken foot through the automated sliding doors. I follow him. Chelsea employees have top-notch health plans. All Emenalo has to do is show his credentials and he’ll be rushed into surgery straight away.
Michael, however, is unaccustomed to taking the easy route in life. After arriving at a spot as profound as Technical Director for a club top-5 in earnings, he mustn’t change. He must keep sharpened the skills that got him here.
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Though he has to frequently stop to grit through pangs, he offers £30 for the foot of the hospital’s youngest, most able nurse. The doctor emphatically refuses. “I cannot sell the body parts of people! You’re mad!”
Emenalo expected this, but – and as always – he was ready, “£40?”
The doctor depresses the plunger on the morphine until the effects are immediate.
Hours later, Michael Emenalo awakens. His foot is throbbing but it’s in a boot. He won’t know if his negotiations were successful or if it’s still his own for another 4-6 weeks – but he has a good feeling.
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As he limps out of his bed and toward the exit, he buys the hardest croissant from the hospital cafeteria. As we cross the street toward a nearby Starbucks, Emenalo hears the siren wails of an ambulance through crackling bites of his croissant. Tossing the pastry over his head almost theatrically, he limps back toward the hospital, making a bee-line toward the emergency vehicle.
Whoever is in it just might be able to play center-back, and there’s a bargain to be had.
I continue to the Starbucks to begin writing. I have enough.