Right then. Day one of the World Cup. Brazil versus Croatia in São Paulo, the whole world watching, and I’ve settled into the sofa with a beer and the kind of anticipation that only a major tournament can generate. And then, within the space of about three hours, the referee makes a complete hash of things and Cesc Fàbregas signs for Chelsea. Not a good start. Not a good start at all.
The match: Brazil 3–1 Croatia (with caveats)
Let’s deal with the football first, because it’s supposed to be a World Cup diary and the football should probably come first. Brazil won 3–1, which sounds comfortable enough until you actually watch the match and realise that at least one of those goals was gifted to them by a referee who appeared to have confused “hosting a World Cup” with “being allowed to cheat”.
The penalty was, to use a technical term, an absolute joke. Fred went down as though he’d been hit by a sniper. The Croatian defender barely touched him. The referee, Yuichi Nishimura, pointed to the spot with the kind of certainty that suggested he’d made his mind up before the ball had even entered the box. Neymar converted, because of course he did, and Croatia — who had been the better side for long stretches — were left to wonder what they needed to do to get a fair shake in this tournament.
Oscar’s late goal was superb, admittedly. A curling effort that flew into the top corner with the confidence of a young man who knows he belongs on this stage. But the overall impression was of a Brazil side that looked nervous, disjointed, and rather fortunate. Tournament football, I suppose.
And then the Cesc news dropped
I was halfway through my second beer and composing a moderately witty tweet about the refereeing when my phone buzzed. Cesc Fàbregas has signed for Chelsea. I read it three times. Then I put the phone down, picked up my beer, and stared at the television for a while without really seeing anything.
Look. I understand the football reasons. I understand that Wenger felt he couldn’t accommodate Fàbregas in his current system, that Özil occupies the space Cesc would need, that Ramsey’s emergence has changed the midfield dynamic. I understand all of that, intellectually, rationally, like an adult who is capable of processing complex information without throwing things at the wall.
But emotionally? Emotionally, this is devastating. This is Cesc Fàbregas. Our captain. The boy who arrived at London Colney as a sixteen-year-old and became the most gifted midfielder of his generation. The player who made us believe that Arsenal’s way — developing young talent, playing beautiful football, trusting in the process — could work. And now he’s going to be playing for Jose Mourinho. In blue. At Stamford Bridge.
There is a particular kind of pain reserved for watching a player you love put on the shirt of a club you despise. It’s irrational, it’s childish, and it’s absolutely real. Cesc in blue. I genuinely feel a bit sick.
The questions that need asking
Why didn’t we sign him? We had first refusal, apparently. Barcelona were willing to sell. The price was reasonable. And yet Arsenal — our Arsenal, the club that spent the best years of Cesc’s career developing him, nurturing him, building the team around him — decided they didn’t want him back. Or rather, decided they didn’t need him. Which amounts to the same thing, and is arguably worse.
I’ve been defending Wenger’s contract and transfer decisions for years. I’ve argued that the stadium needed paying for, that the wage structure needed protecting, that patience would be rewarded. And the FA Cup win last month felt like vindication — finally, a trophy, finally, proof that the plan was working. But this? This feels like a betrayal. Not by Cesc — he wanted to come home, and we said no. By Arsenal.
Perhaps I’m being too emotional. It’s been a long day, and the combination of dodgy refereeing and transfer heartbreak has left me in a rather dark mood. Tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow there will be more football, more goals, more reasons to love this stupid, beautiful, infuriating sport. But tonight, I’m going to finish this beer, turn off my phone, and try very hard not to imagine Cesc Fàbregas providing assists for Diego Costa.
World Cup verdicts so far
Brazil: unconvincing. The referee: abysmal. The atmosphere: magnificent, obviously, because it’s Brazil and they do that sort of thing properly. Neymar: talented but needs to stop falling over. Oscar: the best player on the pitch, and yes, I’m aware of the irony of praising a Chelsea player on the same day I’m mourning Cesc’s move to Stamford Bridge.
Day one rating: 3/10. The football was passable. The refereeing was poor. And Cesc Fàbregas is a Chelsea player. In the grand tradition of World Cup diary entries, this one can only get better from here. It genuinely cannot get worse.
Unless Alexis Sanchez signs for Tottenham. In which case, someone please confiscate my laptop before I write something I’ll regret.
More on the summer transfer circus in our transfer window preview. And for a broader look at how we’ve arrived at this point, see the business of Arsenal Football Club piece from last summer.