Before Wrocław, before the storm of headlines and final preparations, there had been the long, winding road of the Conference League itself. It was a road few in England respected, but one Chelsea had no choice but to walk. And in truth, it had shaped them far more than they realized.
It began in September of the previous year. A chilly night in West London, the air heavy with resignation rather than excitement. The Conference League opener against Maccabi Haifa drew less than a full Stamford Bridge crowd. Some season ticket holders didn't even bother to show.
"What are we doing here?" muttered a fan in the Matthew Harding Stand as the players lined up. "This isn't Chelsea. This is beneath us."
But for the players, it was their reality. And the opponents didn't care for Chelsea's pride. Haifa pressed them relentlessly, and only a late Palmer strike saved the Blues from embarrassment.
That night, in the dressing room, Palmer looked around at his teammates, chest heaving. "You see what I mean?" he said. "Nobody is going to give us an easy night. Not here, not anywhere. If we think we can walk this, we'll drown."
From there, the group stage became a grind. Long flights to Eastern Europe. Training sessions in half‑lit stadiums. Hostile crowds roaring with every Chelsea mistake. Against Slavia Prague, Reece James limped off injured, and for weeks the captaincy was shared between Silva and Gallagher. The defense looked shaky.
"Third‑tier tournament," the pundits scoffed after a 2–2 draw away to Slavia. "And Chelsea can't even dominate it."
But within the squad, something was shifting.
Sancho began to find his rhythm again, cutting inside with confidence, linking up with Palmer in ways that made defenders panic. Jackson, though wasteful at times, discovered how to bully center‑backs with raw pace and persistence. And Fernández, often accused of being too cautious, started threading passes with daring angles.
By December, they topped their group, not spectacularly, but convincingly enough. They traveled into the knockouts with a mix of weariness and defiance.
The Round of 16 brought Galatasaray—a brutal tie, more fight than football. In Istanbul, the air reeked of smoke bombs, the noise deafening. Jackson scored in the 80th minute, silencing the stadium for a heartbeat before flares reignited the chaos. Back in London, a 1–0 Palmer penalty secured their passage.
"Ugly wins," Maresca told them afterward, "are still wins. You think history will write how beautiful you played? No. It will only write that you advanced."
The quarterfinals delivered Roma, a giant in name, if not in recent form. José Mourinho's shadow still lingered there, and Chelsea's players felt the irony—once he had brought them glory, now his club tried to deny theirs. The first leg in Italy ended 1–1, a cagey stalemate. The return at Stamford Bridge was fierce, decided by a thunderous strike from Fernández. As the ball hit the net, the Bridge shook, a reminder that the fans still craved nights of triumph, no matter the stage.
By April, whispers grew louder. Maybe Chelsea could win this thing. Maybe it wasn't a humiliation, but a chance to reset, to prove themselves anew.
Then came the semifinal. Villarreal. Spanish opposition with quick feet and sharper tactics. In Spain, Chelsea stumbled, losing 2–1. Critics circled like vultures. "Another collapse?" they asked.
Maresca gathered them in the hotel that night. His voice was quiet, but firm. "You are not tourists here. You are Chelsea. And Stamford Bridge is not a stadium—it is a fortress. When they come to London, you show them."
And they did.
That night in May, Stamford Bridge roared like it hadn't in years. Palmer dazzled, scoring twice, Sancho adding another. Jackson missed two sitters, but redeemed himself with a late finish that sealed a 4–0 victory. The aggregate turned 5–2, and suddenly Chelsea were in the final.
The dressing room after Villarreal was chaos. Music blaring, shirts flying, laughter echoing. Jackson was hoisted on shoulders, Sancho grinned like a boy freed of burdens, Palmer sat quietly in the corner with a towel around his neck, smiling to himself.
But even in joy, shadows lingered. Thiago Silva, the veteran defender, embraced Reece James quietly in the hallway. "I don't know how many more finals I have left," he admitted. "But this one—this one feels important."
James clapped him on the back. "Then we'll win it for you."
That road—the airports, the jeers, the bruises, the goals, the ugly wins—had brought them to the threshold of Wrocław. And while the pundits mocked, inside the squad, a new belief was born. They had been tested in strange places, far from glory's spotlight, and they had endured.
Now, the road led to Poland. One last hurdle. One final chance to turn the "third‑tier trophy" into the cornerstone of Chelsea's redemption.
As the team boarded the flight to Wrocław, Palmer gazed out the window at the setting sun. He thought of every jeer, every headline, every whisper of failure. He thought of the long road that had brought them here.
And he whispered, just loud enough for himself to hear: "Now we finish it."