Chapter 125: Let The Whole League Hear Our Voice

"Good afternoon, and welcome to our live coverage of round four of the Premier League, Chelsea against Aston Villa, from Stamford Bridge." In the studio, Gary Pemberton, Alan Judd and Phil Granger sat in exactly the same seats as they had for the opening day.

It was the broadcaster’s top line-up, and it got the fans talking. Nobody could miss the fact that the network had once again picked Villa’s game.

In round one, Villa had faced the champions of Europe, United. Now, in round four, it was another of the traditional heavyweights. Chelsea had not had a good league season the year before, but one thing could not be denied: they were still a top side and still one of the biggest names in English football.

"Is the broadcaster out to get Saint?" supporters wondered.

No wonder they asked. The first live game had been against United. The two matches in between, against sides that weren’t strong, had both ended in Villa wins and had been left off the main channel. Now, with the match not even started, almost nobody thought Saint’s young side could do anything at Stamford Bridge.

Look at the players Chelsea had: Jamie Strickland, London’s golden boy; Jack Rennick, the gifted maverick; Neil Cartwright at the back; a Dutch captain who cost fifteen million pounds; and a bench that was worth more than most of Villa’s squad.

"The broadcaster must have a grudge against Saint," said the fans who tuned in, certain of it.

"Villa have been in good form lately, with two wins in a row since losing the opener," Pemberton said, for the benefit of viewers who had not been following closely.

"Phil, do you think Villa have a chance in this match?" Judd asked.

"Chance? A small one, but it’s there," Granger said.

"After three games the understanding between Villa’s players is clearly growing, and the veterans have been in superb form." Granger began analysing Villa’s situation in detail.

While the viewers at home watched the pre-match build-up, the Villa players, having finished their warm-up, were already back in the dressing room.

"Lads, are you nervous?" Saint asked once the players had changed into clean shirts.

"Not at all," Rocher answered.

"Antoine, what do you expect me to say to that?" Saint glanced at him.

"Ha ha ha!" The dressing room burst out laughing.

The whole squad knew Rocher was Saint’s most valued player. The press even called him Saint’s favourite son, although Saint had never said a word about it himself.

"Right, settle down." After the laughter, Saint gestured for quiet.

"I’ll tell you something. I’m nervous." Then his eyes hardened, and the joking expression vanished from his face.

Seeing him like that, the players gradually grew serious too, and looked at their manager.

"Because this is a proving match. It’s a game where we challenge the whole league."

Villa’s players exchanged glances, looking at their manager as if they could hardly believe what they’d heard.

Before the season began, Saint had talked about survival. Over time the players had begun to feel that surviving was the target for the season.

"Survival? That’s what I told outsiders to throw them off the scent. Now I’ll tell you. My target was never just survival. I won’t set a ceiling for you, because I know the potential you have, as long as you know your weaknesses and correct them. Work hard enough, and we can challenge any team and beat any team."

New-born calves have no fear of tigers. As Saint spoke, the stunned look on the young players’ faces slowly faded, replaced by excitement, passion and hunger for a fight.

"Chelsea are a strong side, one of the best in the league, and they’re the best test we could ask for."

At the same time, in the home dressing room at Stamford Bridge, Martin Hallam was making his own final preparations.

"Don’t underestimate this promoted side. They’re a lot stronger than you think." Hallam was famous for strict discipline. Against any opponent, there would be no complacency.

It was said that in his prime Hallam had been no one-nil merchant. Rather, he could switch his system as needed, whatever the line-up, whatever the tactics.

What did that mean? It meant Hallam was a genuine tactical master, in a different league from many of his rivals.

Hallam’s Chelsea had once been famous for attacking football, passionate and fast, quite different from the dour football around them.

Although the attack was not as sharp as it had been two years earlier, the core of their tactics had not changed, and in some ways they resembled Villa. Both relied on wing play, though this season Chelsea’s wings were not as strong as before, because the departure of a veteran full-back had hurt them badly.

Last season’s results had also dented Hallam’s authority in the dressing room, and as a result many of the players, including Strickland, were not really listening to him now.

Of course, they felt entitled to look down on Villa. They were Chelsea, a club who expected to fight for the title, not a team who had just come up and were fighting to avoid going back down.

Hallam understood his players’ mindset well, but he was helpless to change it, because the club no longer understood its own players, or even its own chairman.

For the past two years Chelsea had spent very little on transfers, because the chairman, Ivor Kessler, believed the squad was already strong enough.

That was why there had been so much news about Hallam leaving over the summer. He knew this Chelsea had lost its hunger after the title.

Worse still, the chairman’s behaviour had chilled him. Kessler had told an interviewer that Hallam could go at any time, so long as someone was willing to pay the compensation, and had even lined up a successor.

In the end Hallam did not leave. It was not that he couldn’t bear to go. A club chooses its manager, but a manager also chooses his club, and the reason he stayed was that he had no other offer he liked.

That would be proved a year later, when a major rival held out an olive branch, and the silver-haired tactician did not hesitate to leave the listless club behind.

Out in the tunnel, the two teams lined up side by side. Strickland rolled his neck and looked straight ahead, pretending not to notice the young men in claret and blue beside him. Cartwright whispered something to the man next to him, and a couple of Chelsea players laughed.

Conlan heard it. He kept his eyes forward and said nothing, though his jaw tightened.

"Let them talk," Teale murmured, standing just behind him. He had been in tunnels like this for twenty years, and nothing about it troubled him. "The noise stops at ten past three. After that, it’s just football."

Reyes, on the other side, nodded once. Neither veteran said anything more, and neither needed to.

From the far end of the tunnel the roar of the Stamford Bridge crowd rolled towards them, and the stewards stepped aside. Saint, watching from the technical area, took one long breath and clapped his hands together once.

"Right," he said quietly, to nobody in particular. "Let’s see how good we really are."