The billboards dotted around New York had it right: Cole Palmer really is scary good. He sat at the Top of the Rock on Saturday, peering over Manhattan as part of a promotional shot with Paris Saint-Germain’s Ousmane Dembélé, and he was on top of the world on Sunday. He mooched around the pitch at a gobsmacked MetLife Stadium, playing as if he was having a kickabout with his mates, and he destroyed PSG. We’re playing the European champions, are we? And they beat Real Madrid 4-0 the other day? Fine. I’ll just score two identical goals midway through the first half. Then I’ll come up with an outrageous assist to put us 3-0 up just before half-time. Will that do?
This was a jaw-dropping performance from Chelsea’s No 10. This was Palmer launching himself into global superstardom with an almost casual destruction of PSG. He has starred in finals before but this was on another level. Palmer bent the first final of Fifa’s expanded Club World Cup to his will, shattering any concern over whether the Premier League’s fourth best being crowned world champions diminishes the tournament, and has ended any debate over whether he is up there with the best in the world.
PSG were stunned. They are the team of the moment, up there with the most accomplished since Pep Guardiola’s Barcelona, but Chelsea believed this was their time. “Who said that?” Enzo Maresca had asked when it was suggested his players would have to survive long spells without the ball? In the event, though, Chelsea’s head coach was bluffing a little. His young side stuck to their promise to play, not to park the bus, but they were not gung ho and knew exactly how to target PSG’s weak points.
Minute one: Robert Sánchez goes long. Chelsea were ready to be direct and bypass the ferocious PSG press. They have been more vertical in recent months, Maresca’s approach more flexible, and their tactics rattled PSG, who were smothered and unable to deal with being turned around time and again.
This was a triumph for Maresca, who will go into next season confident that Chelsea are ready for their Champions League return. He added ballast in midfield by putting Reece James in with Enzo Fernández and Moisés Caicedo. João Pedro, scorer of three in three matches since joining just before the quarter-finals, was an effective foil as a No 9. Pedro Neto tracked Achraf Hakimi’s raids. But Chelsea also moved the ball quickly when they won it and their setup liberated Palmer, stationed in an inside-right role and busy discombobulating Nuno Mendes.
And so to the 22nd minute. There was another precise long kick from Sánchez, who kept aiming for the right, where Mendes was struggling. Malo Gusto, offering boundless energy from right-back, got the better of the PSG left-back. Gusto had a shot blocked. Better, he thought, to find Palmer. The 23-year-old had already whipped one effort narrowly wide; this time he took a touch, used Marquinhos as a shield and feathered a low shot past Gianluigi Donnarumma with his left foot.
PSG were on 60% possession at that stage. Not once were they comfortable, though. They were strangely unfocused, summed up by the moment when Désiré Doué passed up an easy chance to shoot at 0-0. Dembélé was the Barça Dembélé. Fabián Ruiz, Vitinha and João Neves were outplayed by Caicedo – how amazing to think his participation was in doubt because of an ankle injury.
PSG’s discipline disappeared as full time approached, Neves sent off for pulling Marc Cucurella’s hair. Chelsea played as a collective. The scoffing about their youth-driven project feels dated now. Chelsea will not allow themselves to think it is job done, even after putting a gold badge on the shirt for the next four years and almost £100m in the bank during their month in the US, but they will take immense confidence from suffocating PSG.
Everybody contributed. Sánchez made saves. Trevoh Chalobah roared after one perfect tackle on Khvicha Kvaratskhelia. There was more outrageousness from Palmer in the 29th minute, a little shimmy, a sway of the hips, time standing still. Gusto, with a decoy run, took PSG’s centre-backs out of the equation. The movement was synchronised but it still took individual quality to make it work. Palmer obliged, clinically rolling another shot past Donnarumma.
It was all so insouciant, so smooth. Palmer is stronger than he looks, his wiry frame holding off defenders, his feet so quick. Hard work goes with the nutmegs, brilliant feints and subtle passes. Palmer earns the right to play. He drifted inside again on 42 minutes, weighed up the opposition and slipped João Pedro through to dink Donnarumma, the final over before it had started. Cole Palmer FC, the term used to imply Chelsea were a one‑man team, is not the insult it once was.
