I QUIT CHELSEA

*SHORT STORY*

I QUIT CHELSEA
PART 1
If a prophet had said I would one day play down my passion for  football, I would have told him to go straight to hell, even if he had prophesied by the heavens, because I would have thought him a fake. Like a drunk, I reeked of football; played and watched like my life depended on it. I was an ardent follower of the blues (up Chelsea!) since I became aware of d soccer-driven world around me.
I repped the club to a fault. I would almost not dress without a touch of blue; if ever it was not seen on the outward, my boxer was certain to be color blue. I had the club's Jersey, boot, lapel pin, head-warmer, muffler, wristband, sticker,  and even its membership card. Being a loyal member of the ‘True blue original'; the topmost of the club’s 7 tiers of membership, I was fortunate to get a priority ticket when I once applied to watch one of its home matches at the club’s stadium; Stamford bridge in London. Hmmn, what a magnificent arena. It was the best period of my life. Also, I often invested in sports dailies to keep tracks of scores and latest happenings. Though a Christian, if I wouldn’t miss Sunday service, it had better not clash with football match. My wife knew to avoid me when a match was on, especially when Chelsea was playing. because then, she comes in second place. I was so much of a fan that I named our baby boy after the club’s coach, Jose Mourinho; the special one. Yeah, I was that passionate.
One fateful Saturday, during a particular premier league season, match was fixed for 4pm between Chelsea and Arsenal. Few hours before the game, my wife who dealt in textile received a call that the clothing she had ordered for were ready, so she left the house to the factory to go sort her goods, leaving our child in my care. I had always known mothers bore a lot in bringing up children, that day, I appreciated them the more. 8months old Mourinho was a handful, it was as if he was all out to deal with me. First, he soiled his diaper. I managed to clean him up the best I could, then laid him on a fresh one which I had spread on the couch. I had seen my wife apply powder to his buttocks, so I tried to do likewise. While at it, Mourinho gave a loud, vibratory pooouuuuu! Sound. The naughty boy had farted the air, so I thought; until the feel of a hot, watery substance on my hand made me realize better. Ewww! I said with disgust that contorted my face. Perhaps Mourinho read my expression to mean play time, he just gurgled on. I repeated the process of cleaning him up and dressed him afterwards.
Being an infant that Mourinho was, the only way he knew to make his demands was by crying. True to that, he soon started this high pitch, tearless shriek that was capable of causing neighbors to assemble in a rush. It seemed he was hungry. In a haste, I went for his feeding bottle that contained expressed breast milk. As soon as I laid its tip to his mouth, true to my guess, there was complete silence as he sucked. As though Mourinho was competing, in no time, he had downed the long feeding bottle. From the look of things, he has only had appetizer, as his facial expression was as though he was calling for a main course; one straight from the source, seeing the way he stared pointedly at the upper part of my flabby abs. “Hey son, no mistaking my chest for your mothers'.” I muttered in amusement. As I lifted him off my laps, he raised a ear-piercing cry.  Right away, I strapped him to my back and started pacing round the house. In the bid to get him to sleep, I stepped to what seemed to be highlife beat, graduated to reggae tune and slowed down to soft rhythm. Gradually, Mourinho's eyes were starting to go drowsy.  I reached a nearby couch to rest my arching legs, little did I know I would be making a terrible mistake. I had almost not sat when Mourinho raised his voice louder than before. Hiehnnn! Hiehnnnn! He whined unceasing. And back I was to square one, stepping around and dancing again like a puppet. I hated the situation I found myself, felt like landing a heavy knock on my head for not enduring longer till I was sure he had fallen into deep sleep. Few minutes to the premier league match, Mourinho was still kicking behind me with eyes wide open like that of a watchman. It seemed to me the kiddie was bent on keeping me on my feet for as long as he wanted.
Left with no choice I  carried him along to the backyard to switch on the generator. Knowing Power Holding
Company of Nigeria (PHCN) can decide to withhold power at critical times like
that, it was my usual practice to have a standby 'I  better  pass my neighbor' (small
generator) in place for  such eventualities.
  
Soon, neighbors began coming around. I always leave my door open to neighbors at such period. Asides counting the act as my little humanitarian contribution to the community, I enjoyed watching football in a setting like viewing center; where one would be in company of other fans chipping in hilarious comments that livens up the air and raising arguments and commentaries after the match; based on its outcome. First to arrive was Baba Risi; the next building neighbor, flanked by two other men I was meeting for the first time.
Baba Risi was a fellow Chelsea fan, he was so fond of my boy for the name he bear. “Mourinho, the special one!” he hailed ecstatically as he stepped into the body of the living-room. How I loved to hear him say that again and again…….
As though following in the footsteps of Baba Risi, four guys whom I only greet passing by along the street, came in almost immediately after. Two of them, wore Arsenal Jersey, indicating they belonged to the other team.
“We would whip you Arsenal fans' asses so hard today you would end up ripping off your Jerseys and sending it to blazes,” I teased.
“Never!” replied one of the guys with confidence, “come what may, I remain a loyal fan. Gunners for life!” he psyched up himself in high spirit and took one end of my three-sitter couch.
“Oga, if you are so sure of yourself, put your money where your mouth is,” growled the other guy, “five-five thousand,” he said, tucked his hand into his pocket and out came some rumpled Naira notes. He straightened and laid them on the Center Table. They looked so worn and dirty from afar one would wonder how many hands they had passed through.
Five-five thousand! I could be five thousand Naira richer, I considered the prospect, but was put off at once by the guy’s looks.
Asides his croaked, hoarse voice that sounded like a conductor's trying to get passengers into his bus, he wore rough dreadlocks and had a pronounced, jagged, fresh cut on his thick biceps. Should he land me a heavy blow with that sleeve-busting, ridge-like muscle in the course of a disagreement, that would be a sure highway to an early grave.
Seeing one or two guys already showing interest in the bet, I quickly played it down, so they don’t turn my abode into a Mini Casino.
The long anticipated match soon started. As players of both teams filed into the field, their fans hailed in the house. I doubted if Mourinho would be able to get some sleep in the midst of the din. But to my surprise, he soon began snoring. I took gentle steps into the bedroom and laid him in his crib. Rid of his troubles at last, I joined other spectators. All available seats had been occupied, so I had to sit on a stool.
13 minutes into the match, there was a moment roar of goaaaallll! Kurt Zouma of Chelsea nodded the ball past Petr Cech; Arsenal’s goalkeeper. From the reactions and looks of crowd in the room, it was easy to pick the supporters of the team that just conceded a goal as it took on gloomy expressions. Commentaries dropped from different corners of the room as the match went on. Interjections in disappointment at missed goal opportunities and bubbling excitement at good passes and dribbles filled the air at interval. Football is one game that unites people from all walks of life. At a time, I took a quick glance around and realised I had hosted more fans than expected. Crowds of people had taken over my living-room, many of whom I was unfamiliar with. My wife had always frowned at this act which I only considered good neighborliness in the spirit of sportsmanship. She would really get mad at me if she returned to see what I had turned our home into this time around. In hush tone, I  prayed she wouldn’t get back till the match was over and everyone had dispersed. Till the end of the first half, the score remained unchanged. During the break, fans analyzed the match and many predicted its outcome. From the look of things, if both team maintained their style of play, I doubted any other goal would be scored till the end, so I predicted 1-0. The second half had barely commenced when Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain of Arsenal left-kicked into the top corner of Chelsea’s goal post. The swift, net- breaking shot was as though it had passed through the TV screen and had pierced like an  arrow through my marrow.
Arsenal supporters felt hopeful since they were now playing a tie.
Tension heightened as match time ticked on. All eyes watched with rapt attention, not willing to miss the faintest detail.
The match was almost coming to an end with everyone looking forward to a spillover into extra time when a shot struck a post at the dying minute. Eden Hazard of Chelsea had made the difference. I gave a loud shout of excitement alongside other supporters. Fans in blue poured on to the field in jubilation. In the midst of the mixed feelings, some of my guests took their leave while the others stayed back to analyze the just concluded match. I always look forward to this, especially when I am on the win side.
The football had been entertaining enough, I never envisaged another match of its kind would follow almost immediately. This one has no coach,  no referee, no rules, instead of red card; blood was to be expected and it was to hold live, right under my roof. TO BE CONTINUED……..