Chapter 127: My Name Is Ben Conlan

"A tackle! Conlan has brought down Strickland, a direct conversation between the two captains, and the game is barely a minute old."

"Oh, and the two captains are up!" Strickland, who had been sent flying, jumped to his feet at once and pushed his forehead against Conlan’s.

"The referee is on it, and Mike Dawlish rushes over to separate them!" Dawlish had been standing right beside the pair, so he was able to get in between them in time.

"If you two don’t want to go off, you’d better calm down," the referee warned.

Under the referee’s warning, the players who had started to rush over had no choice but to stop, though the two captains kept glaring at each other.

In the stands the Chelsea fans were booing the referee and shouting abuse at Conlan, even though Conlan’s father was one of the great names in the club’s history.

In the eyes of the home supporters the tackle was worth a card. Although Conlan had got a foot to the ball first, to the Chelsea fans it looked like a foul.

But the jeers could not reach Conlan. If anything, they only stoked something in him that did not want to back down.

The reason Conlan had left Chelsea in the first place was that he did not want to live in his father’s shadow. Frank Conlan was one of the greatest players the club had ever had. His reputation at Stamford Bridge was enormous, and from the day Ben had walked through the door of the academy he had heard nothing but stories about how good his father had been. It had been a source of great confusion and pressure for the young man.

That, however, was not the main reason he left. The real reason was the club’s contempt.

Chelsea had decided that Ben Conlan’s talent was nowhere near his father’s, and had even concluded that he would never make it, that at best he would drift around the lower leagues.

When people look down on you, something sets in. Conlan decided to leave, but his father refused to accept the decision. In the end the argument tore the two of them apart, and Conlan had insisted on going anyway and had finally ended up at Villa.

In his years at Villa, Conlan had come to understand something. Even if he wasn’t as good as his father, he was himself. He was Ben Conlan, not Frank Conlan.

He could forgive himself for being less than his father, but he could not forgive Chelsea for how they had treated him, and that was why he was so fired up today.

He had something to prove. He had to show Chelsea that although Ben Conlan might not be as gifted as his father, he could still be an excellent footballer.

In the stands, looking at his son charging around the pitch, the old man’s eyes flickered with something complicated, part regret and part comfort.

It was a pity that his son was standing on the opposite side to Chelsea tonight. Yet he was relieved to see how much the boy had improved lately, so much that he looked like a different player.

The two of them were still estranged, but his son’s form reminded Frank of himself at that age. He had felt for years that his son might never improve, yet recently he had seen something change, and he wondered what had done it.

That curiosity turned to the man on the Villa touchline, because Frank knew that the change had come after Villa changed their manager.

Saint, of course, did not know he was being watched by the captain’s father. Even if he had, he would not have cared. There were plenty of people watching him in England, and in any case his attention was entirely on the pitch.

The referee gave Chelsea the free kick, and then Chelsea had the first shot of the game. It posed no threat at all.

"Barzley! With a good piece of defending, Gaunt’s shot is blocked." Seeing the way Barzley and Teale covered for each other, Hallam frowned on the Chelsea bench.

He had noticed a change in Villa’s back line. Barzley hung back a little, while Teale stepped up to intercept.

"What a difficult young man," Hallam said quietly, about Saint, and it was the greatest compliment he could pay.

Saint couldn’t hear it, of course. At that moment his attention was on the pitch, because Villa were launching an attack.

When the ball reached Reyes, Brisley stepped up decisively to close him down. With Okafor behind him, Brisley felt safe enough to be aggressive.

That charge, though, made Hallam frown again. Before the game he had told Brisley not to rush in early, but to feel out his opponent first.

Seeing Brisley bearing down on him, Reyes was not afraid. Since joining Villa his body had felt much better, the medical checks had been very good, and training and matches had confirmed it.

That was why Reyes was so calm. He did not pass the ball at once, and let Brisley come in close.

But Reyes was not showing off. Saint had shown him respect by trusting him, and Reyes was only trying to give his team a better chance.

Once he had drawn Brisley in tight, he released the ball, a pass out to the left, to Rocher.

"Rocher has it! Cartwright, one of England’s best right-backs, steps up to meet him." The moment Rocher got the ball, Cartwright was on him. At the same time, Brewer slid across to the left in support.

"Rocher doesn’t hesitate, one step, two steps, three steps." Everyone was watching as the Frenchman ran straight at Cartwright.

"No, he hasn’t broken through! He’s just playing with Cartwright. No, he’s done it on purpose, to draw Brewer over."

"A cross-field ball, right in front of Cartwright, Rocher knocks it inside to Pryce!"

"Pryce! This is a chance for Pryce, no, Okafor, the Chelsea midfielder seems to have seen all of this coming."

"He passes it! Pryce doesn’t shoot, he lays it off again!"

"Who is that? There’s nobody there, no, it’s number five, the Villa captain, Ben Conlan! He’s charged up from deep and he’s running onto the ball!"

"There’s no one near Conlan! Dimitriou has been dragged away by Tomlin, Brewer’s been pulled left by Rocher, and on the other side Jurek is at the edge of the box and has taken Verhagen with him!"

"He shoots!"

"GOAL! It’s in! Villa have scored!"

For a moment the whole of Stamford Bridge fell silent, apart from the small pocket of claret and blue behind the goal, which exploded.

Conlan did not celebrate wildly. He ran to the corner flag, turned, and stood with his arms spread wide as his teammates piled on top of him, shouting his name. Only then did he lift his head and look up towards the stands, picking out one face among thousands.

Frank Conlan had not moved from his seat. His hands gripped the rail in front of him, and his eyes were wet. He gave a single, slow nod, almost too small for anyone to notice.

On the touchline Saint clenched his fist and allowed himself one second of satisfaction. Next to him, Cadman had already thrown both arms in the air.

"Eight minutes," Saint said. "Eight minutes, and they haven’t touched the ball since."

On the Chelsea bench, Hallam had stopped frowning. His face was blank, and that, Saint knew, was far more dangerous.