Chapter 62: Chapter 61: Chelsea Vs Atalanta [II]
"They’re overloading the flanks," Moretti observed quietly.
"That’s the plan," Demien replied. "Stretch us wide, then exploit the middle."
Atalanta tried to play out from the back, but Chelsea’s press was suffocating. Every time Carnesecchi passed to one of the center-backs, two Chelsea players closed down immediately—Havertz pressing from the front, Mount dropping back to mark de Roon, Sterling cutting inside to block Zappacosta.
At the 3rd minute, Tolói received under pressure from Havertz. The Italian defender tried to turn, but Havertz’s positioning forced him backward. Tolói played it square to Scalvini, but Mount was already sprinting toward the young defender.
Scalvini’s clearance went straight up into the air and fell to Jorginho twenty yards out. The Italian midfielder controlled it on his chest, let it drop, and played it wide to Alonso, who had acres of space on the left.
Alonso crossed first time into the box. Zapata won the header, but it went straight to Koulibaly, who cleared calmly.
"They’re not giving us any time on the ball," Malinovskiy said from two seats down. The Ukrainian was watching intently, his tactical mind clearly working. "Every pass is rushed."
Demien nodded. That’s Chelsea at home. That’s Champions League level pressing. We’re reacting, not playing.
The 5th minute brought another Chelsea attack. Silva played a long diagonal from the back, switching play from right to left in one pass. Sterling controlled it on his chest, let it drop to his feet, and immediately turned inside away from Zappacosta.
The English winger drove toward the penalty area with the ball at his feet, and Atalanta’s defense scrambled to recover. Moretti stepped out to close him down, but Sterling played it square to Mount, who had found space between the lines again.
Mount’s first-time shot went high over the bar, but the intent was clear. Chelsea were finding dangerous positions, and Atalanta were defending desperately.
The crowd roared with every Chelsea touch, the home support sensing blood.
By the 7th minute, Demien had counted five Chelsea attacks to Atalanta’s zero. The statistics would show possession somewhere near 70-30 in Chelsea’s favor, and Gasperini was already on his feet, gesturing frantically for his team to push higher, to stop dropping so deep.
"This is tough," Moretti said.
"Yeah," Demien agreed. "But it’s only been seven minutes. Long way to go."
Then the 8th minute arrived.
Carnesecchi rolled the ball to Tolói, looking to build from the back like Gasperini had instructed. Tolói took a touch to control, but Havertz was already pressing hard, closing down the passing angles with intelligent positioning.
The German forward angled his run to force Tolói toward his left side, away from de Roon’s supporting position. Mount read it perfectly and sprinted toward the space where Tolói would have to pass.
Tolói saw Zappacosta wide on the right and tried to play it to the wingback, but the pass was underhit—soft and slow because Havertz’s press had rushed him.
Kanté pounced.
The Frenchman’s tackle was perfectly timed, snapping in to win the ball cleanly without fouling. One touch to control, one to steady himself, and suddenly Chelsea had possession in Atalanta’s half with numbers pushing forward.
Demien leaned forward, elbows on knees, watching the transition unfold.
Kanté played it simple, square to Jorginho ten yards away. The Italian midfielder’s first touch was flawless, killing the ball dead, and his second was a perfectly weighted pass forward into the space between Atalanta’s midfield and defense.
Mount had dropped deep again, exactly where Gasperini had warned he would operate. The English midfielder received the ball facing forward, and Pessina was too far away to close him down.
Mount turned smoothly—one touch with the outside of his right foot to spin away from the pressure that wasn’t there yet—and suddenly he had space to operate.
He looked up once, saw James making an overlapping run on the right, and played it wide with his left foot. The pass was weighted perfectly, arriving at James’s feet just as the wingback hit full stride.
Atalanta’s defense scrambled. Scalvini had pushed up to press James, but that left space behind him. Mæhle was sprinting back, trying to cover, but he was ten yards away and James was already at the byline.
The cross came in low and hard, drilled across the six-yard box at shin height.
Sterling had made his run late—so late that nobody tracked him. He’d started wide on the left, then drifted toward the back post as the play developed on the opposite flank. Scalvini had stepped forward. Moretti was marking Havertz. Nobody saw Sterling until it was too late.
The English winger arrived exactly when the ball did, his timing perfect. His right foot made contact, side-footing it into the empty net from four yards out.
The net rippled.
Stamford Bridge erupted.
Chelsea 1-0 Atalanta (8’)
Demien sat back slowly, processing what he’d just seen. That’s world-class movement. Sterling waited for the exact moment. Scalvini got caught ball-watching, stepped up when he should have stayed home, and Sterling punished it.
On the pitch, Atalanta’s players looked at each other, frustration visible in their body language. Gasperini was screaming from the touchline, gesturing for them to stay focused, to reset.
"They made that look easy," Moretti said quietly.
"That’s what good teams do," Demien replied. "One mistake, and they score."
At the 18th minute, Atalanta responded.
Chelsea tried to build again from the back, but this time Atalanta’s press was higher, more aggressive. Zapata closed down Silva, forcing the Brazilian defender to play it square to Alonso on the left.
The Spanish fullback received under pressure from Pašalić, who had sprinted across to press. Alonso tried to clear it first time, but Pašalić’s positioning forced him to rush, and the clearance went straight up into the air.
The ball fell perfectly for Pašalić twenty yards from goal. The Croatian midfielder controlled it on his chest, letting it drop while scanning forward.
Zapata had already started his run.
The Colombian striker saw the space behind Chelsea’s high defensive line and accelerated, his powerful stride eating up the ground quickly. Koulibaly realized the danger too late and tried to recover, but Zapata had a yard on him already.
Pašalić’s through ball was weighted perfectly, played into the space behind the defense with just enough pace that Mendy couldn’t come out to claim it but Zapata could reach it first.
The ball rolled into the penalty area. Koulibaly was sprinting back, trying to catch up. Silva was sliding across to cover, his experience telling him to get between Zapata and the goal.
Zapata reached the ball first, taking one touch with his right foot to set himself. Silva lunged in with a tackle, but Zapata used his strength—all six feet of him, powerful and balanced—to hold off the challenge without falling.
One more touch to create the shooting angle, and he unleashed a powerful strike across his body.
Mendy dove, his right hand extended, but the ball was already past him. It struck the inside of the far post with a metallic clang and ricocheted into the net.
Chelsea 1-1 Atalanta (18’)
The away section behind Atalanta’s goal exploded with noise. Forty-one thousand Chelsea supporters fell silent while a few hundred Atalanta fans screamed themselves hoarse.
Demien stood with the rest of the substitutes, clapping hard, a grin spreading across his face. That’s what Zapata does. Experience and strength. Pure Serie A quality—hold off the defender, take the touch, finish across the keeper.
Zapata wheeled away toward the corner flag, his teammates chasing him. Pašalić reached him first, jumping on his back while the others piled on.
On the bench, Malinovskiy was nodding with approval. "See that? Strength, balance, composure. That’s a proper striker’s finish."
Gasperini clapped once from the touchline, but he was already shouting at his players to reset, to stay focused, to not get comfortable. A draw at Stamford Bridge would be a good result, but the game had seventy minutes left.
Chelsea kicked off again, and the pattern resumed—possession, probing, pressing.
Then the 28th minute came.
Chelsea built patiently from the back, and this time Atalanta’s press didn’t come high. Gasperini had adjusted, dropping his team deeper to avoid being caught by the through balls.
Silva received the ball from Mendy and had time—too much time. He stood at the edge of his own box with the ball at his feet, surveying the field like a quarterback reading a defense.
Koulibaly and Azpilicueta moved wide on either side, creating a three-man line. Jorginho dropped between them, showing for the ball in the space where Atalanta’s forwards should have been pressing.
Silva played it to Jorginho with a diagonal pass, thirty yards, perfectly weighted. Jorginho controlled it with his first touch, his body already turned toward the Chelsea goal, and his second touch was a pass forward into Mount.
Mount had dropped into the pocket again—that space between Atalanta’s midfield and defense where he lived. Pessina was five yards away, too far to close him down immediately. De Roon was marking Kanté. The gap existed, and Mount found it.
He received the ball facing forward, and the moment it touched his foot, he turned.
One touch with the outside of his right boot, rolling away from Pessina’s incoming press. The Italian midfielder lunged, but Mount was already past him, the ball moving smoothly as if it were tied to his foot with string.
Suddenly Mount had space. Twenty-five yards from goal, no immediate pressure, time to look up and assess.
Demien watched from the bench as Mount took three quick steps forward, carrying the ball into shooting range. Scalvini stepped out to close him down, but too late, too slow.