‘He is out of control’ Enzo Maresca says as Jose Mourinho throws objects at Chelsea players taking the corners during the benfica UCL match in Stamford bridge
The roar at Stamford Bridge was a nervous, twitchy thing. A 1-0 lead against a slick, dangerous Benfica wasn’t a cushion; it was a tightrope. And every Benfica corner was a gust of wind threatening to blow Chelsea right off it.
Enzo Maresca watched, his knuckles white as he gripped the top of the dugout. “Hold the line,” he muttered, a useless prayer against the Portuguese onslaught. “Just hold.”
Then he saw it. Out of the corner of his eye, a flash of movement. Manager Jose Mourinho, a volcano in a tailored suit, was on his feet. He wasn’t shouting instructions. He was reaching for ammunition.
The first was a water bottle. As a Benfica player began his corner run-up, Mourinho hurled it. It wasn’t aimed at the player, but at the patch of grass just in front of the ball, skidding and spraying water like a warning shot. The cross was poor, and Chelsea cleared it.
Maresca felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. “Jose, what are you doing?” he hissed, stepping closer. “The cameras are everywhere!”
Mourinho ignored him, his eyes burning with a familiar, terrifying fire. “They are not marking! They are statues! I will make them move!”
The next corner came two minutes later. The pressure was immense. Benfica players flooded the six-yard box. This time, as the kick was about to be taken, Mourinho grabbed the nearest object—a medical spray, a small blue canister. With a guttural shout, he launched it. It spun through the air, a bizarre, glittering projectile, and bounced directly between the legs of Chelsea’s captain, who flinched in shock and missed his header. The ball pinballed around the box before being desperately hacked clear.
That’s when Maresca snapped. He grabbed Mourinho’s arm, pulling him back into the shadows of the dugout, his face a mask of panic and fury.
“He is out of control!” Maresca barked, not to anyone in particular, but to the universe, to the watching world, to the shell-shocked substitutes on the bench. “He’s throwing objects at our own players! During a Champions League match!”
The fourth official was already on his way, face like thunder. Mourinho shook off Maresca’s grip, but the damage was done. The spectacle wasn’t on the pitch anymore; it was in the dugout. The Special One wasn’t just fighting Benfica; he was waging war on his own team’s composure, and his own assistant had just declared a mutiny. The Bridge wasn’t roaring anymore; it was holding its breath.
