Mad Max Mourinho: Weary Road
Jose Mourinho’s bus had been on cruise control over the open highway of last season. No others vehicles ever in sight. But this year all the other drivers had upgraded their vehicles. Some drivers preferred to have local English nitrous oxide while some others preferred to import a German engine. The silverware of last year didn’t matter. He may have had a new contract and the board’s assurance. But survival was not the solution. It was trophies.
Today was the clash of the two shades of Blue; the lighter wanted to see the light after its pitfalls last season. The darker wanted to don a stronger tone. There were still several problems for Mourinho. The doctor, the transfer market, Arsene Wenger, the perennial Costa issues and the Questions.
Just as Mourinho pondered, almost like a quick day dream, his mind slithered into the Questions.
“Where were you? Why didn’t you defend us against the reporters?” Asked the teams
“Have you read what they have written about me?” Asked the Doctor
“Excuses again?” The sexagenarian club managers shared a chuckle.
Mourinho snapped out of it. For years he played mind games. Now the mind was playing games with him. He thought he had left the scars back in Spain, but they had followed him back to England, albeit two years hence.
He calmed himself. All would still go as per plan.
Three former Atletico strikers had been absorbed within the blue oval. Each trying their best to show their form in the hint of the yesteryear Red. Out of the two on the pitch, just as the needles of the clock eased themselves from the half hour mark, one of them showed the colours with his feet, the other showed it with his face. Aguero had waltzed alongside Cahill and Terry and slipped the ball coolly evading Nemanja Matic’s long legs.
Suddenly Begovic appeared: “ Where were you? Am I as good as Courtois. Can you tell that to the reporters?”
Miniature Terry and Cahill pulled his blue tie. “ It wasn’t our fault. Can you tell the reporters? Please.”
“Shut up!“ muttered Mourinho. An hour to go. 60 minutes to go. Lot of time. A lot of time for the plan to take off.
Everyone thought the other striker, Diego ‘Furiosa’ Costa, would break someone in half at half time. The bandage dressing by the new doctor duo was loosening by itself. The beast had only two switches, break his shackles or his own hamstrings. Today the needle was firmly pointing towards the former. This was it. The redemption would begin in the second half. All would go as per plan.
Cut to the second half, and Terry sits along with Mikel watching his prodigy take the centre stage. The man who was the best defender last season was already subbed in his second match itself. Yes, but all was still as per plan. This was needed to counter Aguero’s pace; everyone nodded around him.
“Am I too old? You have never done this to me. Am I NEXT? The media will mock me Jose”
Fabregas brushed his perfectly groomed hair again,checking for the magic hat. It was there. Any moment now. Last season’s top assist maker. Ivanovic, the new captain sent a beautiful cross only a tad fast for Costa to get a touch. Of course, there was a comeback.
But Ivanovic, the Serbian Tank, today had harpoons pierced around him,drastically slowing him down; Sterling and Navas swinging and hovering above him; and finally overtaking him. But Zouma had the centre swiftly covered, cutting each harpoon as he saw it.
“ Am I a liability after today and the Swansea Game? Is it Baba Rahman and Azpi on either flanks hereafter? Don’t tell the Reporters” Ivanovic growled.
Cuadrado was coming on for Ramires. A 7/10 performance again, but clearly overshadowed by the Ramires v2.0, Fernandinho. Just like the Shakhtar Donesk game years back.
Willian, another goalscorer for the Shakhtar game that night was fortunately playing for Chelsea. The evergreen legs would match Cuadrado pace to pace. There was still time left in the plan.
“ Will I be sold back to Florentina? Was I not worth the money? What will you tell them? ”
“Why did you sell Schurrle?”
With all of Zouma’s efforts, one harpoon on the Serbian tank had remained. As the tank lost steam, the opposition captain, Kompany took advantage and pierced home a header.
2-0.But still time for a comeback. The game changers were still on the pitch. Hazard would dance. Willian would run. Falcao has now entered with a point to prove, and maybe to steal a point. Mourinho altered the plan to salvage a draw.
“How would you judge Falcao in the past two games? Was it your ego which signed him up?”
“Were you serious about Hazard being better than Ronaldo,” The reporters and pundits smirked.
Stop it! Mourinho screamed inside his head. All the cameras wanted a reaction. Just a small fit of rage. Something. Anything.
“Worst defeat in recent history for you? Your thoughts”
“How can this impact the title race?”
“Will you be on a panic buying spree in the next two weeks?
At full time, Mourinho sternly picked up his Aqua Cola and marched into the dressing room. There were no goals. No green place. There was no plan.
It would be a long ride in the desert for the boys tonight. Tonight, It was... ah, Mediocre.
Disclaimer: This is a fictitious work that is only meant to be for humour. It has been written as a satire, and should be taken in that spirit.