A waft of Cole Palmer’s left foot; a clip from the right; a convincing victory that simultaneously made all the sense in the world and absolutely none. The biggest task Enzo Maresca faced in his first season at Chelsea had been, he suggested before this crowning moment, to convince his squad the Conference League mattered. As the entire playing staff streamed across the turf to hail Moisés Caicedo’s clincher, they offered up a convincing impression of a group that had firmly grasped the message.
Palmer did not quite dominate this final but he bent it in Chelsea’s direction, drifting this way and that until everything around him clicked. Before his delivery on to the primed head of Enzo Fernández, they had grasped for synthesis without threatening it. After he twisted a milky Jesús Rodríguez inside out and offered up an unorthodox finish for Nicolas Jackson’s collection they resembled giants against helpless waifs. For all the heated celebrations, which began in earnest once Jadon Sancho had scored their best goal, this was a title won in cold, dead-eyed Premier League blood.
This chilly, gusty night in Silesia dealt the illusion of romance before surrendering to stark reality. A fun, smart Real Betis side should have been more than a goal up by half-time: they were brisker, quicker, slicker, their penalty area seemingly protected by the wall of baying, singing, whistling green and white shirts positioned behind. There was a thrill in wondering how Betis’s massed support, who did not experience Chelsea’s problems in selling out their allocation, might respond to a first European trophy of their lives.
Perhaps they would have heralded it had Benoît Badiashile not managed to deflect Johnny Cardoso’s shot wide midway through that opening period. It would have put them 2-0 ahead and, at that point, Chelsea’s appetite would have been thoroughly tested. Betis were a joy to watch for spells, Isco pulling the ball down from the sky in one action and harrying back towards his own corner flag to chauffeur it for a goal kick in another.
His assist was an exhibition of vision nobody else on the pitch could have produced. The left winger and goalscorer Abde Ezzalzouli fizzed into the space behind Malo Gusto, beating him for skill when the pair faced off. There was a pureness to both Betis’s quality and their quest.
Then the billion-pound boys took charge against a team valued at little more than a tenth of that figure. Betis could not compensate for the early withdrawals of Ezzalzouli and the left-back Ricardo Rodriguez. Chelsea were able to lock them down from the bench by wielding their physical, clinical cutting edge. Sancho, their Manchester United outcast, added a crucial spark and could console an emotional Antony, his Betis equivalent, after the final whistle.
Chelsea scored 45 goals in their 15 Conference League games, conceding only 12. Until Betis’s short-lived bravura show, a minor scare against Servette in the playoff round was as dicey as things got. Nobody can, or should, contort themselves into producing reasons for Chelsea not to deserve winning the competition. Their dominance has been overwhelming. But it is also difficult to make a case that it brings any broader positives for a tournament designed to elevate the continent’s less heralded classes. They have been a cheat code en masse, barreling through an event that was never intended for them.
Those viewing that as a melodramatic take may point to the Cup Winners’ Cup, which served a similar function even if it was stocked through different means. In 1998 Chelsea won it for the second time, beating another handy Betis team in the last eight. The semi-final lineup was completed by Stuttgart, Vicenza and Lokomotiv Moscow; geopolitical caveats aside, it would hardly have looked out of place as a Conference League final four.
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The Premier League, though, had nothing resembling its present overwhelming financial advantage then. It was beginning to take root but, back then, nobody would have named its fourth-placed side runaway favourites against La Liga’s sixth. The expansion of Europe’s club competitions, which will be more bloated than ever by England’s teams and their riches next season, is in clear danger of stretching the rest of the continent too thinly. Perhaps only the top flight’s three relegated sides would not have fancied their chances of making it to Wroclaw this time.
None of that is to diminish Chelsea’s giddy satisfaction at a job well done; at a strange, sometimes sullen season hitting the two spots that really mattered within 76 hours of each other. Nor is it to speak ill of Palmer’s compelling quality, which is showing a habit of rearing up in major finals and surfaced at the right time here. That is what £40m brings you. Betis would depart the tilted playing field licking their wounds. “I do not seek fleeting glory, but rather that of your name,” their fans’ banner had read at kick-off. It is Chelsea whose letters are carved forever on to the trophy.
