Interesting piece in The Times this morning comparing Nunez's impact on the game compared to Sancho but he maintains the Captain Chaos character:
It was hard not to be struck by the contrast between Núñez and Sancho: between a player who hasn’t yet had the full benefit of his manager’s trust but made a compelling case for more involvement and one who gave his coach reason to lower his estimation of him; between a forward who plays an unpredictable, unruly game that elevates and energises those around him, and one whose palette of neatness and technical finesse seemed here to suck some of the life out of his team’s attack.
For Jadon Sancho, this was perhaps the first time in years that he had entered a really big game with a contrail of recent form behind him. He had assisted three goals in his previous four Premier League starts — that on the back of an intermittently excellent end to last season with Borussia Dortmund — and carved out a consistent starting berth on the left of Enzo Maresca’s 4-2-3-1. Two seasons ago he scored against Liverpool, a fine goal at the high point of his Manchester United career.
Up against a full back in Trent Alexander-Arnold, who can be vulnerable in one-v-one situations, this was Sancho’s moment to deliver. From the start of the first half it was clear that much of the game would flow through him, with Chelsea having plenty of possession, looking to spread the play quickly to the undermanned side and pushing Malo Gusto up high in the left half-space in support.
Plenty of times Sancho received the ball on the touchline, his body canted diagonally towards the goal, Alexander-Arnold there to be run at. There was one moment where he could feel genuinely hard done by: when Alexander-Arnold accidentally stood on his foot as he cut the ball back, he should have earned his team a penalty. But that was the exception in an otherwise muted performance in which Sancho offered the cage player’s street-mime of unpredictability — that moment, mid-dribble, where he jockeys the ball from foot to foot — without the threat of the real thing.
Too often, at almost every occasion it seemed, Sancho’s real, undisguised intent was to pass the ball back inside, usually to Gusto. This has been his fundamental flaw as a Premier League player: he is an excellent passer, at his best amid the triangles of combination play, but he has neither the explosive burst nor the unbalancing trickery to beat his full back on the outside. He is a player who loves to circulate but cannot circumnavigate, and eventually the defender realises it. Alexander-Arnold knew deep down that he didn’t have to watch his outside shoulder, that the inevitable gravity of Sancho’s instinct would eventually usher him back inside.
It wasn’t just that Sancho’s forays ended in blind alleys or backward passes, slowing Chelsea in moments when they sought an injection of tempo and intensity; there were times when his ineffectiveness actually rebounded on his team. It was Sancho’s losses of possession that led to the Liverpool transition in which Tosin Adarabioyo was lucky not to be sent off for hauling down Diogo Jota, and the one in which Cody Gakpo set up a great chance for Dominik Szoboszlai.
There is a fundamental and inescapable irony to Sancho’s career. Ever since he left the Manchester City academy to carve his own path in the Bundesliga, the reputation has attached itself to him, unfairly, of someone dangerously in thrall to his own urges, a bit of a troublemaker. Erik ten Hag and Gareth Southgate seemed to treat him as if he were made of nitroglycerine. And yet, on the pitch, Sancho is the furthest thing from this wild enfant terrible. He is predictable, placid, almost polite in the technical excellence of his mannerisms. So placed, so clean, so rhythmical are his movements — up, back, to the side, outside-of-the-foot pass — he has something of the quality of the dressage horse about him.
Núñez, by contrast, is the wild stallion. You sense that, while Sancho is too aware of what he is ultimately going to try when he picks up the ball, Núñez doesn’t quite know himself. After he replaced Jota with half an hour gone, his first touch was a brilliant jumping side-foot flick behind him, into the path of Mohamed Salah. He nearly got to the return ball ahead of Robert Sánchez and then geed up the Kop with a huge, rousing gesture.
While Sancho won none of his three duels, Núñez won nine, more than anyone else on the pitch. He was everywhere, dropping back into midfield to link play and win balls, leading the press with ferocity and intelligence, taking up residence in Benoît Badiashile’s head. It was a performance, for all its rough edges, to underline his value to Slot. Sancho, meanwhile, ends the week where Núñez began it: up in the air.