North London, Stamford Bridge: Chelsea vs Burnley
"One touch!" the Burnley striker shouted as he darted into space behind Chelsea's defense, anticipating a first-time pass from his midfielder.
The midfielder didn't hesitate. As soon as the ball came to him, he played it in one touch toward the striker, who was already poised to take his shot. With a slight adjustment to his posture and his standing foot aligned with the ball, he lifted his shooting leg, held it in the air for a moment, then slammed it down, striking the ball with full force. A bit of grass and soil lifted in its wake.
SLAM!
The ball flew swiftly, deflecting off the far post to the striker's right. Saved by the woodwork.
The goalie didn't even move, his legs firmly rooted to the ground. He could only sigh in relief as he saw the ball bounce out toward the defenders.
"Forward play!" One of the defenders collected the ball and launched it forward, sending it high. It was a contest between the Chelsea attackers, who had dropped back to defend, and the Burnley defenders, positioned high up the pitch to support the attack.
The battle was won by a tall Irish Chelsea striker, who headed the ball down to an Asian midfielder. The midfielder moved into open space, scanning for teammates to pass to.
The crowd's energy was electric.
The score was 2-1, with Burnley holding a slim lead in the game's final minutes. Burnley fans, who had been cheering loudly moments earlier, now watched in tense silence, hoping Chelsea wouldn't equalize. Chelsea fans, on the other hand, were shouting frantically.
"Go! Move! Move!"
"Move forward!"
"Towards the goal!"
"Play the pass!"
All kinds of instructions rang out from the stands. They could do nothing but cheer, urging their team to push forward and find a last-minute goal.
High above in the commentary box, the announcers analyzed the game.
"Anderson, what do you think about this so far?"
"What can I say, Jim? I mean, we've seen this scenario before—Chelsea's been so unlucky. Beautiful football from Burnley to come back after Chelsea's early goal in the first half. Not only that, but they added another from a set piece. Chelsea had multiple chances to put this game beyond Burnley's reach, but they've lacked that final touch, that crucial forward to capitalize on opportunities. Time and again, they've wasted chances in front of goal, and it's been the same story all season."
"Well said, Anderson. This isn't the first time this season that they've struggled like this. This game could sum up their season. Losses: 1-0 to Brentford, 3-1 to Newcastle, 2-0 to Everton. Tonight's match looks set to be yet another defeat for the Blues—unless they can pull off a goal now. Otherwise, it may be their eighth consecutive loss."
On the pitch, the Chelsea midfielder played a quick one-two with a teammate, who squeezed the ball through a tight angle to the right winger. The winger looked up and spotted a player slipping through Burnley's defense—a lean, athletic figure with smooth brown hair and a controlled, confident gait. Around 6'1" to 6'3", he was tall but not too towering.
The right winger, deep on the flank, saw him sneak past the defenders.
Using the outside of his right foot, the winger played a perfect "Travella" pass toward the striker.
Mark Twain, the striker, timed his run flawlessly. Positioned between the two Burnley defenders when the pass came, he quickly outpaced them, reaching the ball first and pushing it forward toward Burnley's goal.
But he wasn't alone. A Burnley defender chased him down, forcing him to angle his run toward the left flank. His eyes remained fixed on the goal.
As he reached Burnley's penalty box, he slowed down, giving the defender time to confront him. Now, deep in the box, the defender couldn't risk a heavy tackle without the chance of giving away a foul.
Just then, he heard a teammate's voice.
"I'm open, pass!" It was the tall Irish player, running swiftly into the box. He was clear on goal, with the nearest defender a few meters away.
Mark knew if he could find a way to pass to him, it would be a golden chance to score.
However, Mark Twain had other ideas. With a couple of stepovers, a body feint, and a quick shift toward the edge of the box, he crossed the ball back, instantly confusing the defender and giving himself just enough space. Mark quickly exploited this opening, positioning himself toward the near post.
At this point, he could have passed to the Irish player, who would have had an easy chance to slot it in. But Mark didn't. He steadied himself, nudging the ball slightly for precision, and lined up his shot. In that moment, time seemed to stop. Everyone in the stadium held their breath—commentators, players, fans, coaches—all eyes were locked on him.
The goalie's instincts kicked in, and he moved forward to close the angle. But before he could react fully, Mark unleashed a powerful right-footed strike.
The ball sailed past the goalkeeper, heading for the far post. The goalie stretched out his arm in a last-ditch attempt, but there was little hope of reaching it.
"It's a goal," Mark thought.
But fate had other plans. The ball struck the woodwork and came flying back into play.
Mark's heart sank. "No… but it's still in play," he quickly reminded himself, regaining his focus in a split second.
The ball rebounded off the post, heading straight toward the Irish player. It struck his knee, catching everyone by surprise. Before he could react, the goalkeeper seized the opportunity, diving forward to smother the ball. The chance was gone—the keeper had firmly secured it in his hands. Any attempt to wrestle it away would be a foul.
The Chelsea players could only watch in despair as their last hope slipped into the goalkeeper's grasp.
Taking his time, the goalie held onto the ball while the Chelsea players reluctantly returned to their positions. As Mark began retreating, he caught a glimpse of the Irish player's furious expression, his eyes blazing with frustration and disappointment.
Around him, he could hear the muffled jeers and curses of Chelsea fans echoing through the stadium. But as a professional, he had long learned to tune out the crowd.
Finally, the goalkeeper rose after a few seconds, bouncing the ball and taking a small walk around the box. He pushed his luck, nearly risking a yellow card for time-wasting, before launching the ball high into Chelsea's half.
The Chelsea players prepared to contest the ball, hoping to regain possession and launch one final attack.
But then came the whistle.
Po, poo, pooo—the referee blew the final whistle.
The Burnley players erupted in celebration, while the Chelsea players looked crushed. This was just another Premier League game in mid-December, but the win meant Burnley would head into the Christmas break on a high note.
The Burnley fans who had traveled far to support their team were ecstatic; the ride home would be a joyous one.
This was the Premier League. Moments like this were not rare; in fact, they were part of the routine. Win or lose, teams carried on, facing whatever came next. It was the nature of the game.
Chelsea, once league leaders five years ago, had been on a steady decline. Now they were at the lowest of lows, fighting relegation. They would go into the Christmas break sitting in the bottom three.
If a Chelsea fan who had been in a coma during their glory days woke up now and heard their current position, they would likely call you a liar.
But this was football. In this game, nothing was predictable.