Chelski and Capitalism

Greetings, gentle readers.
The Rafatollah of Anfield has a little daughter named Claudia, and in her own little-girl way, she politely asked her father why his team was always playing "that team in blue." The learned and sagely Señor Benitez smiled and embraced his daughter, but didn't really offer an answer. Liverpool's manager from the Iberian Peninsula couldn't explain that despite the claims from the Fleet Street hacks, regardless of whatever "big" number they design – "the Big Three", "the Big Four","the Big Π", "the Big √2" or any other mathematic absurdity posed – only two teams in England stand a chance in European competition. Truth be told, since José Mourinho took control of Chelsea a season ago, he has played 67 games in all competitions and only lost 6 of them. Not surprising, considering the enormous outlay of cash on the squad, but previous manager of Chelsea Claudio Ranieri won NOTHING with almost the same core squad of players. In the same period of time, he has played Liverpool six times, and we have grown stronger with every battle. True, they defeated us in the League Cup Final last year, but we trumped that by drawing them at Stamford Bridge in the first leg of the Champions' League Semi-Finals last year, before beating them and knocking them out of the competition when we played in front of the Kop.
Who else beat them? Barçalona did. And in all honesty, they have been demonstrating how ridiculously strong they are of late. Write off a team that can field Ronaldinho, Deco, and Eto'o as well as a manager like Frank Rijkaard at your peril.
Moral of the story: you don't beat Chelsea unless you do something magic to counteract the force of Mourinho's charisma off the field and the likes of Makelele, Terry, Lampard, Robben, Duff, et aliter on it. Or unless the referee is inexplicably myopic. Cut to today's match.
Liverpool are destined to play at least four matches against Chelsea in this coming season. Home and away in the Premiership, home and away in the group stages of the Champions' League. Theoretically, we could also play in the FA Cup, the League Cup, and in the knockout stages of the Champions' League. It's an awful lot of times to keep running into the same team.
The Champions of Europe are almost inexplicable underdogs when facing a Chelsea team that has not only remained unbeaten since Liverpool beat them on 3rd May, but then has also won every single game. Many neutral observers speak about Roman Abramovich's seemingly interminable billions and how that kind of economic inequality must have a corresponding effect on the competitive nature of the Premiership and on the Champions' League. Charlton Athletic, perhaps the best team to try and do a bargain-bin imitation of Chelsea has done remarkably well, losing only one game - erm... to Chelsea. The play of Jerome Thomas and Dennis Rommedahl down the wide flanks have opened up and exposed every other Premiership opponent that they have faced.
Are Charlton that good? Are the tactics that incisive?
The answer lies in the debate between innovation and refinement. Surely it's not that revolutionary to play with wingers. Sir Stanley Matthews would certainly tell someone so. It's not the system, nor even the players employed within that system whiach determines the success, but rather the ability of the opposing team to recognise exactly what it's facing.
For the second time, we try to fast-forward to the Liverpool v. Chelsea match...
Tactically, Liverpool play the game cagey. Didi Hamann, the stalwart Horatio on the bridge that thwarted the Tuscan assaults of AC Milan but a few scant months ago­, returns to his role of spoiling opposition attacks. His performance can leave none with anything to question. Much as the heroic soldier that defended Rome in archaic history... he can hold bridges until those behind him can burn them. And in so doing, he has time and again proved himself one of the most valiant warriors to wear the Red Shirt. Or should I say... tunic? I'm sure that Livy would have much to say about that.
Meanwhile, Djimi Traoré was restored to left-back ahead of Steve Warnock, Steve Finnan was preferred to Josemi on the right, and the familiar pair of Sami Hÿypia and Jamie Carragher started directly in front of 'keeper Pepe Reina. Xabi Alonso and skipper Stevie G provided the forward drive through central midfield, while Luis Garcia, Djibril Cissé, and Peter Crouch played in a very fluid attacking line, with Crouch in the centre as a fulcrum. Describe the tactical style any way you like, but in the old "Wibble/Wobble" lingo (With Ball / With-Out Ball), it's essentially a 4-3-3/4-5-1. As the game wore on, Traoré began to venture forward as a left-sided midfielder, turning a back 4 into a back 3, but... no disrespect to Djimi... he does that sort of thing unbidden anyway. He's like a human tactical anomaly. Sometimes welcome, sometimes not.
The game was tense and taut as a badminton net at first dawn. Both teams man-marked so tightly that no player could have more than a momentary flash of possession before being tackled. Movements and passing plays were fragmentary at best, and scoring chances were scarce and fleeting.
As the game wore on, Liverpool, edged onward by the screaming, cheering and singing of the Kop end, began to make the best of the difference between the two sides. In the first half, Sami Hÿypia found himself bursting down the middle of the 18-yard box, ball at his feet, with Petr Cech looking decidedly beaten. Ricardo Carvalho was flat-footed and out of the picture, and John Terry was a mysterious absentee from the scene. As the huge, tow-headed Finn lunged toward goal, and with Cech rooted to his line, who else but Chelsea striker Didier Drogba should appear? The Côte d'Ivoire striker has practically burst his lungs running back from his striker's position at the far end of the field to defend his own goal area, and by the time he got near the towering Scandanavian poised to strike a lethal first goal, he only had time and energy for one action.
As Sami passed the penalty spot, moving diagonally from his right to his left, and started to cue up his left foot for a shot, he suddenly felt a thumping great contact on his inner left thigh, and found himself on the turf. Drogba had decided to ignore the ball altogether, and fire a stinging roundhouse kick into the immediate vicinity of Sami's junk cellar from behind, clipping him fiercely between the legs, but thankfully, below the level of the reproductive organs.
The referee inexplicably waved for a goal kick as the ball... the FOOTball... rolled into touch. Luis Garcia was aghast at the decision, but shook his head and started running back to his own end.
Liverpool seemed to grow in confidence as the match continued, and by the beginning of the second half, had begun to dominate play.
The problem was Djimi. I suspect that an alien spacecraft hovered nearby and sent a beam into his brain, giving him delusions of being Roberto Carlos because at the slightest provocation, he would hare forward into central midfield (of all places) leaving his designated defensive area completely vulnerable. It was on one of these walkabouts that Drogba received the ball on the Liverpool left. Charging back from being completely out of position, Traore panicks and chops Drogba's legs out from under him inside the 18-yard box. Penalty. No argument. A stupid penalty - given - but a penalty nonetheless.
Lampard whacks the ball from the spot, and Reina jumps the right way only for the ball to wriggle between his elbow and ribcage as he descends. Considering the vast number of Chelski infringements against Liverpool for which they were not penalised, it seems grossly unfair that they should capitalise on the solitary opportunity they are given.
That being said, the powers of goodness and justice and virtue are not asleep. Badly bruised and beaten, surely, but not asleep. A moment's inspiration from one of Liverpool's innumerable crosses as they press provides the equaliser. The ball sails across the box from the left, and none other than the man himself meets it with a vicious right-footed strike that the huge and mighty Petr Cech can touch, but not stop. The ball stings the fingers of the mighty Czechbefore bending them out of the way and flying across the face of goal into the opposite corner. Anfield explodes. Another goal from the top drawer of Steven Gerrard, future Kop legend and leader of the most stupendously successful and simultaneously frustratingly inconsistent sides in Liverpool history.
That frustration manifests itself as Cheski help themselves to three more goals in the second half. Sami Hÿypia is lurching around like a listing Spanish galleon. Traore is never anywhere to be found. Liverpool is still winning the midfield battles, but Cheksea's counterattacks open up holes in the defence again and again. It is later revealed that Sami was puking his guts up from the flu, but wouldn't take himself off. No excuses. Generally good performance for a poor result.
Despite overwhelming possession and pressure on the Chelski net, the counter attacks of the "Royal" Blues made the scoreline, and the consequent storylines and headlines.
So another three points dropped, and once again, it looks like a scrap for Champions' League berths rather than a shot at the title of the Premiership Champions.
So on to a couple weeks of internationals, and in the meantime, I bid you all adieu.
Cheers,

-mARKUS
^+Justice for the 96+^