My (imaginary) interview with Chelsea’s Marina Granovskaia: Part 2
In the second part of an exclusive/completely made-up interview with Chelsea mystery woman Marina Granovskaia, matters get bizarre quicky.
I look in the mirror and lean on the sink for a few minutes. There’s no way that vodka was really vodka. I wash the excess salt out of the glass I nicked from the kitchen to induce myself into what I assume was lifesaving vomit and put some water on my face.
After collecting myself I leave the bathroom only to see Reginald standing before me with a towel, an unopened Fiji water bottle and a glass on a silver tray.
“I’m fine, thank you,” I say to him before entering the room to continue my conversation with Ms. Granovskaia.
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“I have never seen a man leap for both a glass and a salt shaker so quickly before Mr. Rouen. I hope that our conversation has not made you, shall we say, ill?”
“No more than Michael Emenalo’s employment I assure you.”
Marina throws her head back in a deep arc. The brown locks of hair that surround her face flowing back and accentuating her laughter.
“Oh Michael, whatever shall we do with him?” she says.
Now having found for perhaps the very first time in this conversation some common ground, I decide that the interview should move forward. It is an interesting time being a Chelsea supporter. I, for instance, grew to love a club far different than the one many of the newer generation did.
Though I like that Chelsea are now constantly competing for titles and star players I always remind myself to be grateful because there was a time when the club was competing for far less. Even at times to stay out of arbitration. Things are totally different now. Ms. Granovskaia is very aware of this.
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“How do you see Chelsea moving forward in the next couple of years?”
She responds like the diligent executive and masterful operator that she has always been, “It is important to see where Chelsea have come from. The new stadium is a priority because it will expand our financial portfolio beyond the realm of Mr. Abramovich’s pocketbook. Financial Fair Play has changed things greatly for clubs exactly like us.”
Her answer is absolutely fair. I think back to some of my colleagues who seem to think that money is no issue in modern football.
“If only we could send some members of UEFA on holiday for a long, long time,” I say aloud jokingly while I finish noting down what she said.
“How did you know about Nyon?” she responds quickly. The look on her face leaks a sign of betrayal and yet I sit before her confused.
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Before I can even think of a response to this, Reginald is in the room and the doors have closed. A light falls from the ceiling and Reginald has already thrown a cord around my chest and fastened me to the chair. I’m grateful at least for the cushioned back. Sometimes in a situation like this I can get lower back pain.
Ms. Granovskaia removes her jacket and rolls up her sleeves. I am shocked by the tattoos. Sleeves of them up both wrists.
“How did you know about Nyon?” she asks again.
“Excuse me?”
“Nyon!” she yells, leaning over me and pressing the light into my eyes.
“I was just making a joke about Financial Fair Play. We all know Platini created it specifically to stop clubs like Chelsea. But now, as I sense the mood has changed ma’am. Why don’t you tell me about Nyon?”
As I say this I raise both hands from behind my back and slip out from the restraints Reginald has carelessly bound me with. The look on Ms. Granovskaia’s face could perhaps best be described as alarmed.
“Good try, dear Reginald, but it would appear you’re not the only one with a few tricks up his sleeve.” In saying this I show them both the pocketknife that saved me in the Superior National Forest as a boy and that I had not forgotten its tricks here in Belgravia as a man.
“Now, shall we discuss Nyon over a glass of wine? These past few minutes have left me thirsty to say the least.”
Ms. Granovskaia doesn’t know what to say but she nods and leads me toward the hall again. Reginald begins to follow.
“Ah, ah, not this time my good man. Why don’t you secure the ground floor for us?” I say patting Reginald on the shoulder.
The ’82 Chateau Petrus is perhaps one of those things that like Didier Drogba, 4-4-2 and Bayern Munich is always excellent regardless of circumstance. As I pour the second glass for myself I again ask Ms. Granovskaia about Nyon. Her mood has in no false terms, lightened, since twenty minutes before.
“Why don’t we say that the relaxing of FFP was a good human calculation by Roman and leave it at that?” says Marina now staring out the window. It has begun to rain.
I concur and we look out the window at the London streets now shiny with water beneath the glowing halos of their streetlights. In my mind Ms. Granovskaia should be the Technical Director at Chelsea. To my knowledge no female has held the position before in world football and it could be both politically and professionally a good move for both her and the club. I suggest this to her, citing her roles in the transfers of Diego Costa, Fernando Torres and Willian as well as driving meetings at both Cobham and Stamford Bridge.
“Only time will tell Mr. Rouen. Perhaps another drink?” she says.
“So long as it isn’t vodka.”
She laughs again, “No, no more vodka.”