Defeat

Yesterday I tripped and fell during my run.

I tripped once before but didn't fall. I caught myself before tumbling head over ass on the concrete, leaning forward and flailing my arms like a Dodo. But this time I was midstride. My right shoe caught the tip of a jagged rock sticking above the surface of the earthen levee I run and I dropped. My right knee and palms scraped the rough dirt and I uttered a quiet “Shit.”

Earlier in the day I watched the Champions League Final between Manchester United and Chelsea FC. The European Cup is the most coveted prize in all of European club soccer, and the game is the most watched sporting event in the world every year — outside of World Cup years, that is. This edition was an all English affair for the first time ever — Manchester versus London — and it was especially significant for me: I’ve been a Chelsea fan for as long as I’ve followed the European leagues. In junior high and high school I had a crush on a girl named Chelsea and have been Blue ever since.

The last decade has been a good time for Chelsea fans. In 1999 they finished third in the English Premier League, won the 2000 FA Cup (the last final at the old Wembley Stadium), won the League Cup in 2005, were crowned EPL champions in ’05 and ’06, won another League Cup in 2007, and took the FA Cup again in 2007 (the first final at the new Wembley). They’ve risen to the top and are now members in the big four fraternity of clubs in England (Arsenal, Liverpool, and Man U being the others). Despite their brilliance domestically, European glory was just out of reach. Two-time champions of the now defunct Cup Winners Cup, and also winners of the less glamorous Super Cup, Chelsea reached the semi-finals of the Champions League in 2005 and 2007 but couldn’t break through to the final until this year.

Frankly, winning is great but it becomes boring. My interest in Chelsea has waned over the past several years. They’ve become a major contender and I’m more inclined to cheer for the little guys and underdogs. Chelsea used to be the outsider, used to be the underdog, but they’ve become a dominating force, steamrolling their competition. My loyalty has begun shifting to a kind of sister club of Chelsea’s, Queen’s Park Rangers. QPR is a team to cheer for. They win some but lose more; it’s much more exciting than win-win-win-win-draw-win. I’ve kept my eye on Chelsea, but I haven’t taken interest in their accomplishments for the last year or so.

That all changed yesterday when I tuned into the Champions League final on ESPN 360 (yes, I was at work). Though I wanted Chelsea to win, I wanted to watch the game as a neutral. The team has had their eyes on the European Cup for the past three years and I was hoping they could pull it off. But as the game progressed I became more and more tense, more and more engaged, more and more anxious about the outcome. The Blues fan in me was coming out again.

My hopes soared with every offensive push. I agonized over defensive lapses. With the score tied after regulation and two periods of extra time my nerves were on edge for the deciding penalty shootout. After each team made they’re first two shots Petr Čech blocked the attempt by Cristiano Ronaldo and Chelsea were ahead!

Holy shit! I thought. Just two more PK’s would seal it!

I couldn’t keep still. I bounced on my toes, drummed the desk with my fingers, and paced. Each team made their next shots and all Chelsea needed was John Terry, the team captain, to seal it. I was about to explode.

This is it! This is it!

Terry approached the spot and inadvertently slipped as he struck the ball. The keeper leaped the other way and was completely beaten, but the ball hit the post and was deflected harmlessly to the right.

I sat and knew it was over. The game was still undecided, but I knew it was done. All my excitement drained from me and my heart prepared itself to be broken. A minute later Nicolas Anelka’s attempt was stopped by United goalie Edwin van der Sar, clinching the cup for Man U.

So close. So close.

I closed the 360 window as the United players were celebrating and went for a walk.

Amid the scenes of celebration was a shot of Terry sitting on the pitch, his face buried in his knees, a trainer trying to console him. The image haunted me for the rest of the day. I thought about him and the game as I ran. He must have been the sickest man in the world.

After tripping I steadied myself and got up. Without examining myself I started running. My right knee hurt but I knew it was only skinned. I tried to peek at the wound as my legs pumped but I couldn’t get a good look. My legs and shoes were covered in the fine brown dust covering the levee, but I’d have to wait 15 more minutes before inspecting the damage. I wasn’t going to stop.