17 January 2052 – Hark and tremble, for Chelsea have flogged their golden calf. Matty Roberts, the buccaneering English winger with thighs like oak trunks and a left boot kissed by Apollo himself, has been carted off to Borussia Dortmund for the kingly sum of £130 million. Thirty pieces of silver never glistened so bright, and yet the Bridge groans under the weight of betrayal.
Roberts, still but 25 summers, was no journeyman mercenary. He was Stamford Bridge incarnate, forged in the fires of Forest Green and Middlesbrough, hardened at Marseille, and returned to London to dazzle with the dribble of Hermes and the finish of Mars. Two hundred and sixteen appearances, sixty-one goals, countless defenders left clutching at shadows – and now, gone. For lucre. For the ledger books.
The board, those bean-counting augurs, croon of profit and prudence, whispering that this tithe to Mammon keeps Chelsea safe from financial damnation. Yet the terraces spit venom. The faithful wanted Roberts not sold but sanctified, a cornerstone upon which the next dynasty might rise. Now, forums foam with fury, likening the sale to Nero fiddling as Rome burned, or worse: to selling Drogba for a bag of crisps.
Over in Germany, the yellow horde of Dortmund sharpen their teeth. They welcome Roberts as Siegfried reborn, a winger of pace, guile and thunder, destined to carve through Bundesliga backlines like Wotan’s spear through mortal shields. For Roberts, it is exile and opportunity entwined, a chance to etch his saga upon foreign soil.
But in London? The wound festers. Will Chelsea’s coffers buy salvation or damnation? Can Dimario conjure replacements worthy of Roberts’ Olympian gifts? The dice are cast, and Fortuna laughs. Dortmund rejoice, while Chelsea stand upon the precipice, pockets heavy, hearts hollow.
– Brendan