We at the Frank-Lampard Appreciation Society knew that releasing his diary, the uncut version a, would ruffle some feathers. Nevertheless, we remain firmly committed to shedding light on the player’s life, thoughts, and ruminations during this darkest of winters at the twilight of his career. This historical document will continue to be released, unedited, for the sake of the world’s heritage.
SEPTEMBER 29, 2011
Yesterday was bittersweet. I smiled. I cried. I was exhausted. The manager told me the morning of the game that I was going to start against Valencia (no relation to David), and I was excited. I put on one of my classic performances where I control the game with as little leg movement as possible – a metronome if you will- and I scored my first goal of the season from open play!
However, then the manager got fickle. He subbed me out with seven minutes left. As if I couldn’t have walked another seven minutes! Did he not hear the traveling fans’ applause for my goal? Now, I realize I don’t gallop with the ball like I used to, but class and pedigree are eternal in a thorough-bred. And the worst part is that Kalou, the little runt with the big mouth who came on for me, struck the ball with his hand like a volleyball. Valencia scored on the penalty kick. And we only got a draw.
COMMENT ADDED BY FRANK ON OCTOBER 1, 2011
I must admit I thought of you while I was in Spain. The joy, the sadness, the anger – it all got pent up. I do ever enjoy so much writing in you. You really are my dearest friend. I shall make sure you come with me on my next travels, so that we shan’t be apart for so long.
OCTOBER 15, 2011
Another one of those days. Today I started, played the full 90 minutes, and really feel that the manager is starting to trust me. I make mistakes. He makes mistakes. We all make mistakes. I can forgive him for not starting me in the past so long as he keeps starting me in the present and also the future (which is important). I think he’s finally began to realize that my exceptional leadership qualities continue to shine even when my legs tire. Nobody on this team, not Mikel, not Ramires, not Mata, not Droba, can point to a teammate and tell them to run like me. With my years of experience and the lessons my footballer father taught me, I know where my mates should run before they even know, and I’m not afraid to let them know. So, I didn’t score today, but we won. And my finger pointing played a big part I’d like to think.
COMMENT ADDED BY FRANK ON OCTOBER 20, 2011
I know I said that I wouldn’t ever trust that blabber Kalou again, but I mistakenly mentioned you to him. And, of course, within days, Terry and Drogba were making fun of me. Terry brought a pink and heart shaped diary into the locker room and asked me to sign it after training. I tried to fight back the tears, but when he threw it at my face and then Drogba pulled down my shorts, and then every body laughed, I just wanted to curl up in a ball and cry and cry.
OCTOBER 29, 2011
Yesterday was another bittersweet day. It’s an odd thing. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve started thinking more about my legacy, but also my younger years. When I was a lad, I used to love to go to museums and stare at statues. I idolized them. I wanted to be them. I’d stare and stare and always promised myself – someday I”ll stand around, hardly move, be looked at, and be really really heavy. Here I am, close to the pinnacle of my childhood dream, yet now my legacy worries me. We lost to Arsenal.
Of course, I scored a goal. But as the game wore on, my mates really stopped listening to my instructions. I pointed at Cole at least five times and told him not to get dribbled around by Walcott. And what did he do? He got dribbled around. I pointed at Terry and told him not to trip when trying to receive a hospital ball, and what did he do? Yep. I don’t know if they couldn’t hear me because of the noise at the Bridge, but I clearly pointed at them. I was also standing center circle, so they couldn’t have missed me.
As I sit in my study at my loft, I’d like to think that I can pen the last chapter of my career as simply as I write these very words. Yet a tear runs down my cheek. I’ve never much cared for twist endings, especially when my ex-wife made me see The Notebook and it turned out that old ugly hag was crazy the whole time. I hope my time at Chelsea doesn’t end like that.