London is Blue Dispatch #059

In an era bygone, pressure weighed heavy in the guts of opponents that dared step on the Stamford Bridge grass. It melted ice in veins, it boiled blood in tranquil heads. These days it hums like an angry electric fence threatening to jolt their own into a state of static nothingness. 

The signs were achingly obvious. Badiashile almost found himself at the end of another catastrophe, nearly scoring an own goal from close to the halfline past his sweeper keeper. Mudryk looked like his controller malfunctioned for most of the first 45. Guiu waltzed his way to an open goal and then caressed it back to the keeper, as if all his resolve was sapped by knowing that a miss would make his new family shift him to a foster home (this is a poetic metaphor for every young player who is sent on loan.)

Over 90 minutes, this looked like a side that had never played before and probably never will. One wonders why Maresca made 9 changes to a side that is still aching for familiarity after an interrupted preseason with a flood of activity. 

The second half began with Mudryk showing a glimpse of the promise that grows rarer by the day, slaloming past half the outfield before switching it to Neto. Nkunku, a concerned passenger before then, calmed frayed nerves by winning a penalty and expertly dispatching it. But that was followed by another long spell of reluctance, hesitance; one foot trembling over the accelerator and the other anxiously waiting to hit the brakes. On another day, Servette could have grabbed two, maybe more. Jorgensen made 6 saves on his competitive debut; his clean sheet down to equal parts skill and fortune.

Around the hour mark, something snapped. Back passes were booed. Renato Veiga went down in the attacking area with a knock. Caicedo's decision to go back to Jörgensen was booed too. Nervousness was being channelled into vocal displeasure; as if these people still carried the trauma of watching first-hand what happened when Chelsea sat on a goal lead for too long last season.

This isn't the match-going fan's fault. Trust me, they already have a lot on their plate. Nor is it the fault of a squad of 40 odd players who do not know what their standing is in the first team. After a week in which Maresca actively invited pressure – saying choosing Mudryk over Sterling was a technical decision, that he was training with 21 players and wasn't bothered about the other 15 – this was his chance to make a show of strength, to galvanize some faith from the Stamford Bridge faithful by showing what HIS team could do.

Instead, he chose to start with a lineup that made it 20 different players in his first two official games. For the second game running he benched Noni Madueke, one of preseason's top scorers with 3, over what felt like a half-fit Pedro Neto. With Noni linked to a move away, many wondered if this was an indication of him being placed in the infamous bomb squad. In a crucial fixture that guaranteed European football for the season, one that would boost a crucial UEFA coefficient that decided participation in the Club World Cup, his XI looked more like it was late-stage preseason. There were no patterns of play or sensible pass map; any attempts to trace one would resemble a doodle attempted after 8 shots of Jaegermiester. A win is a win, I hear some of you scream. We just conceded 22 shots at the Bridge to a team that finished 3rd in the Swiss League. For context, in the infamous 22/23 campaign when we finished 12th, only Brighton managed more in that entire season.

In a week where Chelsea are actively trying to sell the 19th and 20th record goal scorers in PL history, Maresca still doesn’t seem to realize his bomb squad could yet light the fuse that blows his work to kingdom come. The depth options he played today were poorer than the ones the club have actively pushed out or exiled. Those decisions may not be his fault, but when things go bad, as they always do, fingers will not be pointed at those the fans never hear from or see. They will pointed straight at the man who has to sit at a microphone every week pretending there is nowhere else he would rather be.