“All together, it can be done”

Fine, spare me the outcry for French grammatical imperfections, but damn does that sight and message give me the chills.

Out of favor Chelsea striker Didier Drogba is likely on the move this summer, and his old Marseillais fans want him back. Led by a chap named Matthieu Gomila, a coalition has been formed to try and raise the money necessary for the expected 28€ million transfer fee to bring Drogs back to Olympique de Marseille. Gomila has set up his website for supporters to pledge an amount up to 200€ that they’d be willing to donate to make this happen.

Despite only playing one season at Marseille, Drogba is one of the club’s all-time greats, as he went on to score the most goals in French football that year en route to a UEFA Cup final. He is a dynamic player whose face adorns a mural outside of the Stade Velodrome.

As of writing, Gomila has found just shy of 850,000€ in pledges, far from the anticipated transfer fee. However, such an expression of desire and determination has to at least raise an eyebrow with team owner Robert Louis-Dreyfus. Given Samir Nasri’s defection to Arsenal, reacquiring Drogba would not only save face and appease the fans, but keep you competitive for the near future.

Allez l’OM!

You’ve seen one French striker, you’ve seen them all. Moments ago, Nicolas Anelka, a reserve striker for Chelsea biffed the final penalty kick in the Champions League Final to hand over the top prize to Manchester United.

As soon as he stepped into the box, it looked like trouble, although the Frenchman was probably the most offensively gifted player left to take a shot. Eerily reminiscent of the World Cup Final where French striker David Trezeguet, one of the most qualified and dependable to score a goal, was the lone player to miss his mark as Italy beat France after the Zidane incident.

Sure, Didier Drogba got himself red carded out of the game for a bitchslap, but with Wayne Rooney out as well, that was pretty much a wash.

Yes, captain John Terry had his chance to end it, but can you really blame the guy all that much after he saved the game with his head late in extra time?

So once again, it makes sense to go back and place blame on the man who failed in the end. The man known as Le Sulk. For all his potential and talents, Anelka has never truly proved himself. Inversely, he has flat out looked disinterested. If you’re just looking for a paycheck, buddy, go record an instructional video or something. Otherwise, prepare for this world of hurt trying to live in the limelight.

It was to be a storybook ending, Roman Abramovich’s powerhouse taking home the greatest glory possible for a club team, and in his native land at that. Instead, Le Sulk puts up a goose egg.

Greetings fellow Tsarists. My name is Devin and I, like many of you, am a sports freak. Unlike you, however, I’ve been granted diplomatic immunity (and a 10-year student visa), paving the way for my inaugural post on Russian “web-soil”. What will come to follow over the next few months will be a marginally incoherent yet altogether enjoyable blast of obscure yet pertinent sports jabber. Pleasantries aside…

I count myself as a select member of the American population that gives a damn about ‘futbol’. Yes I said ‘futbol’ and not soccer. You can snicker all you want at me in the supermarket while I wheel my cart down Aisle 6, rocking a vintage Djibril Cisse kit (in the UK, they’re affectionately referred to as kits and not jerseys). You might have been subjected to a slurred yet impassioned defense of Major League Soccer when David Beckham opted to ply the twilight of his career in Los Angeles. It’s also plausible that you, like the majority of this fabled nation, give don’t two shits about anything not involving a wooden bat, LeBron James, or BCS shenanigans. All told, I’m not here to judge.

But for the few out there that care, May 21st can’t come soon enough. That day, my friends, will live in infamy. Allow me a brief side-bar…

I’ve supported one club my entire life. Since I was 13 and stumbled across the beautiful game, I’ve lived by the Chelsea Blues from Fulham London. The Pensioners, as they were once called, were a lovable band of misfits that never quite put it together for an entire season. Each year, the club would come out of the gates roaring, roll off some impressive streak of 9 or 10 wins, and then succumb to a dreaded injury here, or lack of motivation there. For us fans, and there weren’t many then, we became accustomed to the idea of never winning the big one. In our minds, a good year was not getting relegated (more on that in due course).

So just like the ugly chick that buys her own ticket to the prom, we kept our heads down and did our damn thing, until luck would have it we were bought by Roman Abramovich, a Russian oligarch with a penchant for waving at the crowd during home games like a delirious Caesar. Anyhow, he brought his billions with him and overnight, the club became a home to some of the biggest names in the sport. Roman would dole cash out left and right, picking up record transfer fees and securing the services of veritable Hall of Fame talent. It was like winning the lottery. We had the owner, the coach (Jose Mourinho), and the personnel to qualify for the biggest stage of them all, the Champions League.

The Champions League, in essence, is a tournament designed to take the best clubs from each European country and pit them in a elimination-style bracket until two are left standing. For three consecutive years, the boys in blue flamed out in the semi-finals. We were beginning to wonder if there was some sort of hex on us; as if we were destined to be second-best forever. But things have a funny way of working themselves out…

This season hasn’t been pretty. We fired out manager, survived a near-mutiny, replaced key personnel, and somehow, we’re fighting for first place in the league. On top of that, we’ve finally arrived at the mecca. The team itself has banded together behind inspirational skipper (not captain) John Terry, and sensational performances by Michael Essien, Michael Ballack, Frank Lampard, and Joe Cole. We, my friends, have at long last booked a place at the final round and a date with, of all clubs, our bitterest rival, Manchester United. I’ll spare you the venom now, but just know that if you pull for the Blues, you can, under no circumstance, support any and all things Reds.

The date is set for May 21st. The time is to be determined. The location is your local British pub. The offing? An opportunity to witness some of the most inventive, attacking futbol the world can surmise. My reason? Plain and simple joy. Being privy to history as it unfolds. Unrivaled competition, players fighting with everything in their bodies to push their clubs over the top. Two teams enter, one leaves victorious. 9 months of battling culminates in the ultimate orgy of futbol glory.

The love of the game, its everything. Always.