Chapter 132: Traditional Virtues

"A poke! Facing Pickford rushing out, Rocher slips it through his legs and into the net!"

A goal and a nutmeg all at once. Rocher’s shot had not only beaten Chelsea’s goal, it had beaten Pickford’s pride, which was an embarrassment for any goalkeeper.

But right then nobody cared about Pickford’s feelings, because the home crowd were in mourning and Villa’s players and supporters were in carnival.

"Ha ha ha! Look at him, he’s better than the players on the pitch!" When Rocher scored, Saint seemed to have springs in his boots.

He leapt along the touchline for ten yards or more and then jumped up, waving his arms in the air, and even after coming back down, he did not forget to rouse the supporters behind him.

The Chelsea crowd noticed, of course, and a deafening storm of booing broke out. The Stamford Bridge atmosphere on an afternoon like this was formidable.

Saint was an unwilling guest. You could tell that from how he had behaved with the media since taking the job, so as the Chelsea fans booed him wildly, a smirk crossed his face and he cupped a hand to his ear.

"Damn it, this fellow is actually provoking Chelsea!" For a moment the home commentator was filled with indignation.

"Ha ha ha, this lad has a nerve, doesn’t he?" Neutrals, naturally, were happy to watch the show.

"I don’t think Saint is being provocative. It’s just that the home crowd is so loud, so he’s making the gesture for the Villa fans," Pemberton said, and Casapa pulled a face.

Pemberton did not believe a word of what he was saying, and by then Saint, having made the gesture, had done a lap of the technical area.

"Get that man out of Stamford Bridge!" The move caused even more booing and abuse from the Chelsea supporters.

Saint could not hear a word, but he could guess how unpleasant the home fans found him, and as long as nobody said it to his face, he did not care at all. Besides, only the weak behaved like that.

As to who was weak, the score on the pitch did not need to say anything, and neither did the reaction of the fans in the stands, although the game had only passed thirty minutes.

Saint’s behaviour naturally did not escape the Chelsea players, whose eyes were full of venom as they looked at him, and even the fourth official had to come over and ask Saint to stop provoking the fans.

"Sir, I was raised in a chef’s family and taught humility, gentleness and good manners. With that many traditional virtues in me, it’s impossible I’d provoke supporters." That was what Saint said to the fourth official.

"Hmph." The fourth official was not going to say anything out loud, of course.

"Humble? Gentle? Polite? Everyone in the country knows what kind of man you are." He did not say it, but looking at Saint’s eyes, he did not need to.

Saint did not understand what the fourth official’s eyes were telling him. He genuinely believed he was a man of traditional virtues.

On the pitch, Villa’s celebrations had ended and the match had restarted. Chelsea wanted to hit back, but this time Hallam held them in check.

After all, the two sides had been fighting flat out for a long time. If Chelsea launched a frantic counterattack now it would likely just drag them down, so he signalled to his players to slow down.

The Chelsea players obeyed, but their attack still looked a little disjointed. They simply could not accept being behind to a promoted side.

They could bear being uncomfortable. Although Saint was a rookie manager, in some ways he was nothing like a rookie, and even a man like Hallam nodded to himself.

Soon Saint stood on the touchline, and he told the players on the pitch, through his stance alone, not to think they could be careless just because they were a goal ahead. The game was only a little over thirty minutes old, and they were still facing one of the strongest sides in the league.

"Is this fellow really only thirty-one?" Seeing Saint folding his arms and staring at the pitch with a serious face, Hallam could not help doubting.

Hallam did not reply to his assistant, because he had been saying the same thing since the start of the game.

On the pitch, the mentality of the Chelsea players, behind and frustrated by Villa’s stubborn defending, began to change. In attack and defence alike, the tempo slowly began to rise.

"Peep!" Forty minutes in, another collision broke out, between the two captains again, Strickland and Conlan.

This time the roles were reversed. Conlan took Reyes’s pass and ran into the Chelsea half, Strickland chased back and slid in, bringing Conlan down.

"A yellow card! Dawlish has shown two yellow cards!" It must be said that the punishment clearly favoured Chelsea.

Strickland’s tackle had not touched anyone at all, so his yellow card was beyond dispute, but the referee had also given one to Conlan, though in the exchange it was Conlan who had come off worse.

As the saying goes, a single hand cannot clap. If Conlan deserved a yellow for that, Strickland ought to have had a red for the tackle. Of course, on the pitch, the referee’s word was final.

"Sir, please remember the traditional virtues you were just telling me about." The fourth official actually used Saint’s own words against him.

"Is sliding in on people the virtue of your country, then?" Saint said, unabashed.

Luckily, Cadman had already come over with an assistant and pulled Saint away, or the fourth official would have called the referee.

It was often said that Saint was calm, but whenever he met unfair treatment, the so-called calm flew out of the window.

The booking did not cool anyone down. Over the next few minutes the fouls on both sides became more and more serious, and the referee took out three yellow cards in just five minutes.

Rennick retaliated and was booked for a late tackle on Teale, and then Barzley clattered Rennick and got a yellow of his own. Finally Dimitriou and Tomlin clashed elbows in a dispute, and fortunately nobody was hurt.

Seeing the players on both sides getting more and more heated, the referee, who should have added three minutes, blew for half-time after just one.

In the tunnel the temperature was higher than on the pitch. Players from both sides shoved their way down the narrow corridor, trading glares, and a pair of stewards stepped between Tomlin and Dimitriou before words could turn into something worse.

Teale, walking at the back with Reyes, shook his head at the scene. "They’re rattled," he said.

"Good," Reyes said. "Let them be."

Saint was waiting in the dressing room with the whiteboard already wiped clean. He waited until the last man had sat down, then looked slowly round the room.

"Forty-five minutes," he said. "We’re ahead. Don’t tell me it’s enough. Tell me what Hallam is going to do next."

Nobody answered. Conlan, red-faced and still breathing hard, simply looked back at him.

"Good," Saint said. "Then let’s find out together."