London is Blue Dispatch #062

A little over 12 years ago, I stumbled upon illustrations the club released of what they envisioned the new stadium would look like. Battersea Power Station. That name had a ring to it, I’ll give you that. The sketches were compelling too – a stadium nestled inside a heritage site, its four iconic chimneys rising like Roman obelisks from each corner, lending a sense of regal grandeur that the newly-crowned European Champions deserved.

As an easily-impressionable 19-year-old back then, the prospect of moving to a spanking new 60,000 seater felt like a no-brainer to me. I had dreamt of walking into Stamford Bridge for years. However, only months earlier, after a two-year battle with cancer, I’d lost my mother. My father was working to sustain us in a different city, my sister was just finishing school and needed me around for the most crucial months of her life. That dream had to wait, I knew. But I had a few years at least, after which I promised I’d make my way back to the new stadium.

A decade or so later, I would never have imagined my club would be where it is now. Bizarrely, I’ve seen Chelsea in the flesh twice now, in two different continents. December might be the third, when I make my way to Kazakhstan to watch us against Astana. But for one reason or the other, Stamford Bridge has eluded me. Personal responsibilities, family, Brexit, being broke – you name it, I’ve felt it.

A decade of covering the club closest to my heart has lent me the kind of perspective that teenaged me did not have, one I see reflected online whenever talk of a new stadium is resuscitated from the dead. Like in any family, the prospect of moving home creates a divide. One half reluctant, even fearful, of trading homely comfort & familiarity for change. The other half starry-eyed, head full of dreams and possibilities of something bigger, better, and logically, more fulfilling. When two perspectives sit on opposite ends the spectrum, friction is inevitable. Good people, who want the best for everyone, usually suffer.

Extremists on both sides provoke the other. To the devout, match-going fan who has spent their whole life dedicated to a pilgrimage this usually comes in the form of ignorance. Why would you want us to be left behind Arsenal and Spurs, whose stadiums overshadow ours? Why are these yer das stuck in the past? There is little regard or respect for the rigors of their routine, the investing of hard-earned money and invaluable time in traveling up and down the country for 90 minutes of what could very well be utter disappointment. These fans make journeys their parents and grandparents used to make decades ago – a pristine, glistening vein of loyalty, culture and tradition that is the beating heart of this glorious club.

To the international fan, criticism is, at best, dismissive (how hard can it be to watch from your couch, yank?) and at worst outright xenophobic (you’re not a real fan, tourist.) The natural consequence of this mud-slinging is that unwilling neutrals are forced to choose the extreme option, only widening the divide.

Which is quite amusing to this 31-year-old international fan. Most of us have nothing but the utmost respect for the match-going faithful. The love and respect has always been mutual in my experience, and I will not let a minority convince me otherwise. It is important to recognize the multitude of reasons why staying at the Bridge matters to certain fans.

It is the simple things – the thrashing of limbs beating against metal from the Matthew Harding Upper accompanying every game-breaking goal, the Liquidator lifting the most weary of spirits and the a crowd of 40,000 that could put a 60,000 seater to shame on big European nights. When they say the Bridge has soul, they mean that nights like Napoli and Barcelona in 11/12 are impossible without something more than just human effort. The grass at the Bridge is alive with the essence of Peter Osgood, the King of Stamford Bridge himself, whose ashes are buried under the penalty spot. Peter Bonetti’s are laid to rest behind the goal at the Shed End. One does not simply leave behind 119 years of heritage. This is what the much-maligned but the incredibly important Chelsea Pitch Owners PLC (CPO) are trying to preserve, because its value outweighs any added revenue by a significant amount. This is what we should not lose at any cost.

An all out culture war has ensued after the end of the Roman era. Co-owner fighting co-owner, match-going faithful against the international pilgrim, and the age old British conundrum of stay vs leave. Perhaps our collective, opposing energies are best served united, focused in a single direction. Every week there is bitter disappointment of dedicated fans stuck in VWR and then missing out on tickets, only to find them being sold on some 3^rd party website at 2x the cost. The bus subsidies, ticket prices during a cost-of-living crisis crippling all of us – that is what we should be looking to change first, for everyone’s betterment. The big decision of if and where to move will be made much, much later. And whether you’re from home shores or abroad, you cannot beat the final say of the CPO. So if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em – buy your share, own your vote and for heaven’s sake, we’re all on the same side.