Chelsea win the Champions League and City just can't respond.

 Chelsea win the Champions League and City just can't respond. 

When it came to the final hurdle Manchester City stumbled, staggered and then collapsed as if their punishing season and schedule couldn't hold it all together for them. It was as if they'd seen the finishing post and winced in the blinding lights, startled as a rabbit that suddenly sees the car at the last possible moment. At one point that almost physically impossible haul of four trophies in one season became like some elusive star prize or some irritating clue in a crossword puzzle that you simply can't get. 

But after another season of pure magnificence in the Premier League with another Premier League title  under their belt, City simply couldn't handle another 90 minutes. The Champions League for City just withered on the vine for Pep Guardiola's flashy and flamboyantly expressive team, a side of artists and exhibitionists, vastly gifted performers and specialists in the art of the simple and straightforward. 

At times City have reminded you of all of Guardiola's Barcelona and Bayern Munich teams of recent vintage. City have been models of spontaneity and touch, free spirits and independent thinkers, a cohesive attacking unit, working for each other almost constantly, reading each other's mind almost instinctively, pressing tightly, closing down their opponents and then carving out gaps in the Chelsea defence as if it had all been choreographed a thousand times before. But a Champions League trophy was beyond their reach and Chelsea have been this way although they weren't about to be intimidated by City's gilded reputation. 

Chelsea, since the arrival of Tomas Tuchel after the departure of favourite son Frank Lampard, have been a side dramatically revitalised and refreshed to such an extent that on a Saturday night at the end of May and effectively the last game in Europe this season, they brought an embarrassed blush to Pep Guardiola's face who must have been longing to knock back a huge quantity of sangria once the game had ended. 

On Saturday evening in the sweltering heat of a Porto evening, Chelsea planted the most impassable fortress in front of the City light blue infantry and pinned them against a wall they could never escape from. By the end of the evening City were so transfixed and dispirited that the Premier League title they'd won only the week before must have looked like some Roman artefact dug from the charred ruins of a once mighty empire. 

And yet for both Manchester City and Chelsea this season must have been like an even distribution of power where the balance of probabilities worked out for the best. City had won the Premier League at a steady canter barely troubled by the rest of the heavyweights behind them. Then their opponents Chelsea had gone back to Wembley for another go at the FA Cup Final confident in the knowledge that sooner or later those Foxes of Leicester would disappear back into a dark forest never to haunt anybody's corridors again. 

But in an evenly contested Cup Final both sides indulged in that familiar series of mind games and intriguing psychology, refusing to budge one way or the other. Once N'Golo Kante had stopped nipping, darting, sneaking around defenders and wedging open a good Leicester side, Chelsea began to run out of puff. When Juri Tielmans fired a thunderous 25 yard rocket into the net and way beyond Kepa Arrizabalanga's desparing reach, Chelsea may well have forgiven for just giving up all hope. But there was a Champions League trophy to hunt down and how they rose to the occasion on the big night. 

For a change the Champions League Final had lived up to the lofty expectations that we may have come to expect of this blue riband competition. Two years Spurs and Liverpool served up a grotesque caricature of a football match where nobody seemed to win any points for either artistic or technical merit. It was a messy hotchpotch of a game, a match that was much more compost and manure rather than some blooming bouquet of flowers growing from the ground. 

Now though we had one of the most pulsating of European Cup Finals or Champions League Finals where both Chelsea and Manchester City played football that resembled American basketball. This had game had fluidity, flowing, freewheeling one touch football of the classiest kind. Both teams committed themselves whole heartedly to attack, flicking the ball almost affectionately to each other, telepathically almost, nudging the ball around corners effortlessly and then nudging the ball into wide open expanses of space.

Over the years football has had to live with comparisons to chess when both teams are so familiar with each other's style of play. Admittedly the bishops and queens did live dangerously at times but then castles were taken and nobody knew what to expect. The queen and king did look vulnerable while Chelsea manager looked in no mood for either cheque mate or humble submission and defeat. 

But for roughly an hour or so Chelsea spent most of the time successfully nullifying the City threat, bunching up their defenders tightly together and just spreading a dark blue blanket across the 18 yard box. At times it looked like a highly dangerous minefield, an invisible screen where no City attacking player dared to tread. City shifted the ball easily between themselves and beautifully at times but then Chelsea's Cesar Azpilicueta threw his body in the way and City were beginning to think this was a wasted journey. 

After a tight first half with no holds barred and poker eyes on the faces of both teams, Chelsea slowly but surely built their platform, pinching the ball off City audaciously and then weaving passes together as if they'd been doing this for ages. They reminded you of a group of old colleagues who had known each other for a lifetime. Their football was neat, tidy, composed, a radical force for good, pure as the driven snow, engineered with the finest tools, fashioned and designed with the silkiest material. 

While the likes of Ilkay Gundogan, the often immaculate Riyad Mahrez, the splendidly cultured Bernardo Silva, the quietly conscientious Oleksander Zinchenko and the effervescent Phil Foden had occasionally skipped their way around the Chelsea back four quite niftily and intelligently, the Premier League's winners cutting edge had deserted them and this was a match too far for them. 

For Chelsea this was a royal command performance, a performance that took you back to their posh, bohemian past when their football was once witnessed by film stars and celebrities from every echelon of the industry. But now there is a Chelsea village and harbour, a palatial infrastructure rather than the scrap of metal which was once the laughing stock of the game. Now under the astute chairmanship of Russian oligarch Roman Abramovich, Chelsea are swish, stylish, go ahead and progressive, cosmopolitan, bold, fearless, a team of cavaliers rather than roundheads. They are going one way and that is definitely in the right direction. 

Tomas Tuchel is no Tommy Docherty, nor is he quite certainly a Dave Sexton, or even an Eddie Mcreadie since there are no flared trousers, kipper ties or extremely loud jackets to be seen. Tuchel has, in all fairness, no desire to be seen in the company of Sir Michael Caine and even if he has seen Ken Bates on his travels the German has his own very forward thinking plans on his mind. 

Once again though the energetic and tireless Reece James breezed his way past City players, rumbling forward ferociously into the City half without any prompting. Antonio Rudiger was a giant at the back for Chelsea, literally throwing himself in front of a City forward to cut out a certain City goal. Jorginho was all subtlety, delicacy, poise and security for Chelsea, a peacock flaunting his plumage proudly. And then there was N'Golo Kante, perpetual motion in a blue Chelsea shirt, always looking for that devastating ball that leaves defences gasping for air. 

And so it was that Chelsea scored the game's only and winningly decisive goal. After easing their way through the game's opening stages, Chelsea won the ball deep in their half. Ben Chilwell, surging forward out of his own full back position, clipped the ball to Mason Mount and Mount obliged with the game's one moment of genius and perception sliding his through ball to his striker.  Spotting  Kai Havertz, timing his run brilliantly, Harvetz galloped away from trailing City legs, headed for goal on his own, keeping his cool and then rounding the keeper. He then slotted the ball into the net with a cigar in his mouth. Chelsea must have convinced themselves that this was always going to be their afternoon. 

When the referee blew the final whistle confirming Chelsea's well earned victory, you thought of what might have been for a Manchester City team who have won the hearts of the entire football community.  It almost seemed to be in the stars for City to claim their European recognition. But sadly there were no Blue Moons to light up the City firmament and Chelsea found themselves as City's party poopers. You suspect that we may not have seen the last of these two and next season could prove to be one of the most eventful and enlightening ever seen in the Premier League. The impartial observers are rubbing their hands in anticipation. But for now Chelsea are now lords of the manor and Stamford Bridge will now enjoy its moments in the sun. Chelsea, Chelsea indeed.