Being so in touch with my emotional side, it is not hard for me (as a writer) to admit that I have sobbed, wept and whimpered because of the beautiful game. I have looked up at the sky, lamenting at an unfair, invisible deity. Again, all because of football. The world’s most popular sport gets the worst out of us as spectators, and surprisingly, at things which moments earlier did not seem to matter all that much. For example, take the defeat Chelsea suffered at the hands of Corinthians nine years ago in Yokohama at the FIFA Club World Cup. It was, for reasons beyond comprehension, a hard one to come to grips with and not just because it was a final.
The Blues return to the competition nine years on from that heartbreak to bury the ghosts of their failure. They are ready to move forward, but this writer still clings to the past. In a misguided attempt to get closure, I have decided to turn back the time and relive what happened all those years ago in the second largest city in Japan. As my younger self watched my Chelsea heroes come within touching distance of winning a piece of silverware that had hitherto evaded them, only to fall short at the final hurdle.
Let the catharsis of the tragic 1-0 defeat back in 2012 begin.
Semifinal versus Monterrey in Yokohama
Chelsea walks out on the pitch at the International Stadium Yokohama (now known simply as Nissan Stadium) in blue kits emblazoned with gold markings. The Blues kitted with a shirt deserving of being worn by the champions of Europe. Whether or not that was the original intention before Chelsea won the Champions League some months prior remains a mystery to this day. But even if it is a coincidence, it is a happy—and might I add, a magnificent—one.
The first individual that catches is the eye is the manager. Rafael Benitez—expressionless and calculating—watches on from the sidelines, managing a Chelsea side, evoking plenty of emotions. I think I speak for the collective when I say that joy wasn’t one of them. Benitez sends his team out lined up in a 4-2-3-1 formation with a young Cesar Azpilicueta on the right side of the defense; he is joined by Petr Cech in goal, along with Branislav Ivanovic, Gary Cahill and Ashley Cole in the back line. Benitez’s innovation has David Luiz playing as the freer of the two defensive midfielders with the reliable John Obi Mikel sitting back. Fernando Torres leads the line, supported by the trio of Juan Mata (oh, Juan!), Oscar and Eden Hazard.
The opponent, Monterrey, is unwavering if unremarkable. A young kid with No. 14 on his back stands out. Jesus Corona would go on to enjoy a successful career across the Atlantic, but despite the constant links, would never arrive at Chelsea.
It hasn’t been long since the match kicked off and Luiz is already showing his prowess in his new, unshackled role. The Brazilian flair is unmistakable as he glides past waves of Monterrey defenders in the opening minutes of the match with long, fluid and almost hypnotic strides before curling an effort at goal narrowly over. Shielding the ball from two opponents, he threads a ball through to Hazard just minutes later—from deep inside his own half, perfectly weighted—which the then-unrefined Belgian fails to guide inside the post. Luiz would win the Silver Ball at the tournament, which I’m entirely convinced was awarded to him based on those two minutes of play alone. Luiz is not the only one putting on a show either.
The combinations between Hazard, Mata and Oscar are beginning to click. Hazard is electric, Mata is creative and Oscar is relentless—this is the infamous MaZaCar our elders gushed about. Eventually, the goals arrive. Mata scores first—a touch to set up and a touch to finish—from the edge of the box. Torres finds the net via a deflection a minute past the interval, and, to add to Monterrey’s woes, Darwin Chavez puts one into his net to compound Chelsea’s lead to three goals. Aldo De Nigris pulls one back in stoppage time, a mere consolation.
The Blues stroll into the final.
Final versus Corinthians in Yokohama
The teams walk out onto the Yokohama pitch to the music of the official FIFA soundtrack. It is upbeat, hopeful, delightful, familiar and sparks a sense of inclusivity. It is all things FIFA wants you to think of when you think of FIFA.
In the dugouts, Benitez has wrung in the changes. Luiz drops back to defense, Ivanovic shifts to the right, Frank Lampard and Ramires come into midfield and Victor Moses—years away from his wingback renaissance—takes his place on the right of the attacking midfielder trio, in place of Oscar. In the adjacent technical area, Tite instructs his players. Paolo Guerrero—one of those who you could’ve sworn had played for Chelsea during the weird, late 2000s (a la Claudio Pizarro, Ricardo Quaresma, Andriy Shevchenko, etc.)—spearheads the Corinthians attack, supported by Paulinho.
And so it begins.
Corinthians custodian Cassio denies Cahill from point-blank range, it won’t be his last incredible save of the evening either. Minutes later, Paulinho picks up the ball 30 yards from the Chelsea goal and lets one fly. It’s headed for the stars and Cech stands and watches. A preview of what the future held for young Paulinho, who would go on to join Tottenham for a then club-record fee, never quite hitting the target. Luiz then tries to squeeze the ball under the wall from a free-kick, almost a decade before it would be popularized by the set-piece-hipsters, reminding me on my rewatch that nothing in football is new. It’s succeeded by a flurry of concerning defensive lapses from the Blues, unsettling they were then as they are now, for their hopes of winning the final.
Cassio’s second big save of the game is in the 39′. Moses, who started on the right but has since drifted to the left, picks up the ball in the left half-space—a term still two years away from entering the football vernacular at that point—and shoots. He is denied by a fingertip save from Cassio. The match ebbs and flows. Both sides attack and neither takes its chances until Guerrero happens in the 70′. The freeze-frame almost resembles an expensive artwork from a bygone era. Cech is off his line, Cahill is on the floor, three defenders have thrown themselves back to guard the net, the ball hangs in the air. Guerrero leaps and Guerrero scores. It is as it was nine years earlier, a stab through the heart. Painful, but not yet fatal.
The match takes on a familiar face, thereafter. Torres misses a sitter—expected. Cahill sees red—predictable. Torres then scores one but has it chalked off for offside—typical. Fifth minute of stoppage time, Chelsea finds itself chasing a goal with a man fewer. Mata chases down the ball in the opposition box. He stands tall, facing six Corinthians defenders eye-to-eye like a lone warrior. He shoots, he misses. The referee glances at his watch as the knife is being sharpened again.
Just about now, nine years earlier, tears are welling up beneath the eyes of this writer’s younger self. Losses are hard to take, even more so when you’re expected to win (see: FA Cups of 2021, ’20 and ’17). As the final seconds trickle down, I am reminded of this sport’s inherent cruelty once again, but also what makes it thrilling, gratifying and fair is what makes it soul-crushing, unpleasant and unfair. It’s unpredictable, it dispenses joy and misery in equal measure, regardless of status. The referee blows his whistle and he lands the fatal blow. Corinthians has beaten the Champions of Europe in the Club World Cup final. The end.
Why did I think this would be a good exercise anyway?