Chapter 133: You Are My Favourite Players

"If you still think Villa are just a promoted side, then you are ready to lose this match." In the home dressing room at Stamford Bridge, Hallam looked coldly around at his stars.

Even when angry, the Chelsea manager stayed very controlled. But having been in charge for five seasons, the players knew exactly how furious he was, and how dissatisfied he was with their first half.

"Boss, we won’t treat Villa as an ordinary promoted side." As captain, Strickland was the first to speak up and give his answer.

It was not the answer Hallam wanted. Not an ordinary promoted side? They shouldn’t be treating them as promoted at all, he thought.

But Hallam said nothing. It was not that he wanted to speak and couldn’t, but that he knew when to be strict and when to loosen the reins. If he didn’t, he would not have been among the top managers in the country.

Although Hallam had coached Chelsea for almost five seasons, and had even led them to a league title after a long gap, his standing among the supporters was not as high as Strickland’s, and that situation had seriously affected the mood in the dressing room, and in the club as a whole.

If Hallam and Strickland were to fall out, Chelsea would be in a mess this season, and Hallam knew perfectly well that if it came to that, the one to leave Stamford Bridge last would not be Strickland.

Hallam was a proud man. Even if he left, it would not be as a man swept out. Strickland, of course, did not dare to make trouble for Hallam either, given the manager’s enormous standing in the club and in the country.

Compared with the slightly strained atmosphere in that room, the other dressing room was completely different. Every Villa player had been brought in by Saint, and even if they did well in future they would not outshine him. Saint would never let that happen.

But it was too early to think about such things. What Saint and his players needed to consider now was the second half, and how to protect the lead, or even extend it.

"Lads, I’m proud of what you did in the first half." When the players returned to the dressing room, Saint did not hesitate to praise them.

"Of course, I always knew you had this in you, because every one of you is a player I picked myself." Saint, naturally, did not forget to brag a little at this point.

But his bragging did not annoy the players. They knew very well that the reason they were at Villa, and even playing against one of the strongest teams in the league, was Saint.

"But the game isn’t over. We’re ahead, yes, but you’ve felt what the opposition can do." Saint began to wipe the smile from his face.

The players did not answer, but from their faces and the way they sat, it was clear that Chelsea had put a great deal of pressure on them in the first half, even on the veterans.

"Marcus, find a way to shut that genius down," Saint said to Teale.

"No problem," Teale nodded.

Football was about winning, whatever it took, as long as it stayed within the rules.

Rennick was undeniably gifted, but unfortunately his temper was proportional to his talent and not to his sense. In English football he was a rare case, and now he was looking like becoming the next great disappointment.

"But there’s one condition: you must look after yourself," Saint added.

Teale was far too important to Villa at the moment. Although the young talent at the back was excellent, talent was still just talent, and even the most dependable of them, Barzley, still needed time to grow.

That had been clear from Barzley’s first half. When he had seen Rennick retaliate against Teale, he had immediately gone in and clattered Rennick, and earned himself a yellow card.

Saint didn’t blame him. In fact, he was very pleased. Teale had taught the youngsters with everything he had, and the young players respected him in return.

But Barzley’s foul had been foolish all the same. Had he been more experienced, the yellow card could have been avoided.

"Marek, Antoine, I want to see more from you two in the second half." The flanks were Villa’s most important way of attacking.

"Marco, Ben, keep an eye on what is happening in the middle while you press." Strickland and Okafor were slow, but their impact was considerable.

That pair also had the ability to decide the result of a game, and although Saint did not rate them highly, he knew he had to take their quality seriously.

"Lads, forty-five minutes left. In forty-five minutes we’re going to surprise the whole country. We’re a promoted side, yes, but we are different from other promoted sides, because we are good enough to beat the best teams in this league."

"We are good enough!" The confidence had returned. Chelsea had put the Villa players under pressure in the first half, but at the same time their confidence had grown enormously, because they had ended the half in front.

"Marco, you don’t need to force the tempo," Saint told Reyes once more as they left the dressing room.

Reyes, being a Barcelona man, was a little too fond of possession, not just on the pitch, but in the coaching style he would one day develop.

Saint sometimes wondered whether having Reyes next to him would shape the way that man managed in future, and even daydreamed about what might become of him.

Without doubt, of all the veterans, Reyes had the brightest coaching future. Pryce was likely to be only an average manager. Teale, going by what Saint could see, quietly wanted a big job, and was already eyeing one in the future.

The fifteen-minute interval was necessary for both sides, especially for Chelsea, who had burned a great deal of energy in the first half.

For the fans, though, those fifteen minutes felt endless, especially for the home supporters. Proud Chelsea fans found the first-half score hard to accept, and wanted the game to start so their team could equalise and even go ahead.

Villa fans wanted time to pass quickly too, and wished they could skip the second half altogether. After all, Villa were in front, and if they won it would be three wins in a row, though that was probably wishful thinking.

So when the players of both sides walked out again behind the referee, the stands of Stamford Bridge were buzzing.

Saint came out last, with Cadman at his shoulder. He paused at the mouth of the tunnel and looked back at the empty dressing room, at the half-eaten orange segments and the water bottles strewn across the benches.

"Funny thing," he said. "I picked every one of them for a reason, and I still can’t believe they’re here."

"They’re here because of you, gaffer," Cadman said.

"They’re here because they were willing to listen," Saint said. "That’s the bit people forget."

As he stepped out into the light, he caught Hallam’s eye across the touchline. The Chelsea manager gave a slow, deliberate nod, the sort a man gives when he has decided to take an opponent seriously. Saint nodded back, and took his place in the technical area.