Didier Drogba’s first sentence was disingenuous. “I am not master of my fate,” said the Chelsea striker, fresh from his brutal bulldozing of Napoli’s quivering defence. Quite, quite ludicrous: even in his twilight years, at 34, the Ivorian is an elemental, untamable force of nature.
Whatever glistening embers now pass for Paolo Cannavaro’s selfconfidence would bear witness to that. His second sentence was instructive. “I am happy here,” he added, responding to a request from French television for an update on the contract impasse that has overshadowed his season at Stamford Bridge. “I am happy to experience moments like this, and I hope there will be many others.”
All too often in an age desperate to placate the insatiable demands of a 24-hour news cycle, a misplaced significance is infused into the banal utterances of footballers. Not, though, on this occasion. That is what Drogba is: he used to be a sensation, lingering, enduring. Now he is simply a succession of moments, isolated, unrelated.
That sounds a harsh assessment in the heady afterglow of his performance against Napoli, full of power and panache and unrelenting energy. Chelsea’s totem scored after 29 minutes, a quicksilver dart on to Ramires’s cross, every sinew of his neck stiffened to propel the ball past Morgan De Sanctis and trigger a night that will live long in Stamford Bridge’s memory.
He might have had a second in the 123rd minute, rasping a shot wide from Florent Malouda’s cross. It was that sort of display. It was Drogba, the total war machine, unstinting, unstoppable. It stands in the canon of his proudest days and greatest nights, alongside the evisceration of Sami Hyypia at Anfield in 2005, the 2007 FA Cup Final, his blitz of Arsenal in November 2009 and, most recently, his single-handed demolition of Valencia, his two goals guaranteeing Chelsea’s advance to the Champions League round of 16, ensuring their date, his date, with Napoli and with destiny.
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Despite the sadly predictable and somewhat distasteful play-acting, amid the feigned shock and the holier-than-thou expressions of outrage, the tributes poured in. Branislav Ivanovic described him as an “animal”. Frank Lampard, John Terry, Roberto Di Matteo: all were quick to acknowledge that, as the mercury rose, it was Drogba who stood tall.
If this was how he always played, then Roman Abramovich, marching towards the dressing room with a huge grin on his face and Andriy Shevchenko, a guest of Ivanovic, on his arm, would have handed the Ivorian the two-year contract extension he so craves months ago. There would be no reason for the striker to assert that his future is not in his hands. Nicolas Anelka, Drogba’s friend and erstwhile sidekick, would not be issuing provocative comments suggesting that the striker was about to join him at Shanghai Shenhua.
“I speak with him on a regular basis,” Anelka said last week. “I expect him to come here. When I left Chelsea, I said we would play together soon.”
His prospective employer, Zhu Jun, is convinced: “Drogba said he would prefer the No 11 shirt, so we have reserved it for him.”
This, though, is not how Drogba always plays. Age has not diminished his powers, but it has served to decrease the frequency with which he might deploy them. Napoli was the first game, in truth, since Valencia when he has looked anything but an elegant shadow of what he once was.
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There is a reason for Chelsea’s uncertainty about whether Drogba warrants a contract that would carry him, earning about £130,000 a week, into his 37th year: he is no longer a £130,000-a-week striker. Not every week, anyway.
In that sense, he is no different from the rest of Chelsea’s old guard, lacerated and lauded in equal measure this season, depending on results. After a victory, especially such a rousing one, Terry and Lampard and Ashley Cole and the rest can do no wrong.
But that is the point: that experience allows a team to produce one-off displays, soul-leavening sojourns down memory lane. They become a succession of gilded moments, all the more precious for their rarity. They are no longer masters of their own fate. It is inevitable, unavoidable, no matter how furiously they rage against the dying of the light.