As the transfer window closes and we look at the hand Chelsea have dealt themselves, it makes me think about the players who have come and gone without the chance to write their name into our club’s folklore.
It’s sad when a player leaves and as fans we just shrug our shoulders and move on without looking back; a player leaving without a trace is surely a sign of a broken promise.
This is not the case with Trevoh Chalobah. The club has weighed who it is, what it is and what it has to offer against the cells of a spreadsheet in a raw compromise between value and price.
And so: Chalobah leaves Chelsea for Crystal Palace. A loan, yes, but perhaps never returned. But unlike some of those who never got further than the revolving door of Cobham, he has undoubtedly written his name into our history – and, for me, he is a thread in the tapestry of my history with Chelsea .
14th August 2021. The first day of the season at Stamford Bridge. A warm and happy day as the – pinch me again – European champions begin their championship season. Romelu Lukaku had signed but had not yet arrived; N’Golo Kante was injured, but we were sure he would return. Nonetheless, it was a solid team against a Palace team that was looking a little short for the season ahead.
It was the first proper championship match at the Bridge, on the other side of COVID restrictions, brought home during a well-observed period of silence before the match. Community calm emphasizing that, in one way or another, we had all lost someone.
Where I was, in the pre-Westview neighborhood, the curtsy was interrupted only by a late arrival loudly recounting his way to his seat. Loud exaltations to shut her up were met with a broad “Don’t shut me up, mate” – yes, we were most certainly back at football.
The first half saw Chelsea easily dominate a poor and undercooked Palace. A free kick from Marcos Alonso and a goal from Christian Pulisic took us into the break with a comfortable lead. But the second half, well…
I had to look it up; it was 58 minutes. Chalobah advances with the ball from the right center back position. The Palace players took on a form more akin to a guard of honor than a resolute defense, so he continued.
Forty thousand people realized that this was opening up for him. “Go ahead, son,” we collectively thought, mumbled, and hoped.
Trev hit a right-footed shot from about 25 yards out. You probably remember it. He headed towards Vicente Guaita’s bottom corner.
Chalobah instantly fell to his knees; hands on his face, what: joy? Incredulity? Emotion, for sure. His teammates – in a spontaneous display of affection and enthusiasm beyond the norm – mobbed him and shared his moment.
In the stands. I stood up and clapped. And applauded. I’m not usually one to get emotional about football. A quick fist bump and a round of applause. Come on. But there are certain moments that push even the old, nerdy, cerebral self into a moment of uncontrolled release.
So: I continued to applaud.
For Trev, of course. A successful Cobham boy. An unlikely case, perhaps: good but unspectacular loans at provincial clubs here and in France without the kind of burgeoning star power of Reece James at Wigan or Tammy Abraham at Swansea City and Aston Villa.
What a pleasure to see him leave his mark, and for the moment to make such a mark. Fall to your knees, defeated. It meant a lot to everyone on the field. He had more power than a thousand players walking away with a sarcastic hand to their ear or telling the crowd to shut up. Don’t shut me up, buddy.
I continue to encourage the club, the crowd. A shared moment of pure joy. Let’s go back less than 18 months and who can say they hadn’t wondered – in those moments when the pandemic had cast such a long shadow over every aspect of normal daily life – if we would ever return to THAT. Find a shared moment of joy and abandonment.
And there we were.
All around me, men, women and children were participating in the same action; to jump, hug, scream and just have fun.
And I still applauded. For my son. He was next to me, you see. A young man who, as a child, simply had no choice in becoming Chelsea. He also applauded; surprised, perhaps, by his old man’s exuberance. But what a moment of sharing. Me and him, him and me. When we watch a football game together, we say the same things at exactly the same time; we ooh and ahh and laugh and swear in a strange synchronicity. We feel the same way and it was another precious moment shared and never forgotten.
And I encouraged myself.
I felt, in that moment, a sense of affirmation that, yes, life was going to return to normal and that masks, hand gel, and nose sticks were truly a thing of the past. And it was only then, as I stood up with my arms raised, just letting myself clap and shout a prolonged “YES”, that I realized how much I needed it; how embarrassed I still was by the fear we all felt.
So, I gave up. I let it out and felt so much better for it.
Thank you Trevoh Chalobah.
Thank you for this moment of personal, family, community and Chelsea joy. Thank you because this means so much to you. Thanks for taking the opportunity to try.
We all share the Chelsea story. The dates, times, goals, triumphs and disappointments. We can view many of them online and remember them, while enjoying these special moments again. Trev’s lens will make the rounds each August; it’s a special goal.
Thanks, Trevoh 💙
🎥 | @ChelseaFC #CFCSocial | #CFC pic.twitter.com/bHIdAshomv
– The Chelsea Social (@TheChelsSocial) August 31, 2024
We also curate our own stories, with deeper meaning. And in mine, Chalobah’s goal alone was the one that mattered most to me at that moment.
The one who marked a before and after in my life.
The one I remember again and again, and when I do, it manifests an echo of the original feeling and will do so for as long as I have my faculties.
Thank you Trevoh Chalobah. Chelsea hero. Your name is written large in Chelsea history.
It’s indelible in my Chelsea story.
Written by: Steve Borley (@PimlicoTiger)
Edited by: Harrison Burridge (@hburridge2)
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