Chapter 135: Fighting With Hallam

"No! Chelsea have a chance! Strickland! The Chelsea captain bursts in!"

"Teale is racing back as well!"

"He shoots!"

"GOAL! It’s in! Chelsea have equalised!"

"An empty-net finish, Strickland! Vacek can only watch with his eyes open, and Teale can only watch with his eyes open!" Little by little, step by step, Strickland won out on both technique and strength, and the strength represented his fitness.

One of them was a thirty-six-year-old veteran and the other a man of twenty-seven, and the outcome was obvious.

"Captain Jamie Strickland! When the team needed someone to stand up more than ever, the pride of London used a goal to tell everyone he was that man!"

"Damn it!" On the touchline Saint could not help cursing.

On the other side, even a man as composed as Hallam could not stop himself from rushing out to celebrate.

In fact the match had begun to tilt towards Villa. Especially after Cartwright picked up Chelsea’s fourth yellow card of the afternoon, Hallam had even been preparing to substitute him.

"What is Strickland doing? He’s telling Villa, this is Stamford Bridge!" On the pitch Strickland ran to the home supporters, cupped his hands to his ears, and copied exactly what Saint had done earlier. It was identical.

But although the gesture was the same, the meaning behind it was completely different. Saint had been provoking the Chelsea fans, and however loudly they booed, it couldn’t change anything. Strickland, on the other hand, was telling Villa this was Chelsea’s ground, Chelsea’s home.

"Pfft. All you did was equalise," Rocher said. Master and apprentice, indeed. The Frenchman pursed his lips and looked at Strickland with open scorn, and on the touchline Saint was doing exactly the same thing.

Saint could be mature, even wise, in some respects, but at times like this he seemed like a child.

Whatever emotions Saint showed, they made no difference to the Chelsea celebrations, though the proud Londoners seemed to have forgotten that all they had done was draw level.

Actually, they had not forgotten. The reason they were celebrating so madly was to rattle Villa. The effect was not obvious, but you could tell from the fact that they did not waste time getting the game restarted.

"That should put some pressure on these lads." When play resumed, the Villa substitutes on the bench were all up and warming up at Saint’s order.

"It looks as if neither manager is happy with the score." Hallam, as usual, was one step ahead of Saint.

The players on the pitch understood what that meant. Neither of them wanted to come off.

So as soon as the game restarted Villa launched an attack. Reyes played the ball straight to Pryce, who drove it into the heart of the Chelsea half.

Chelsea retreated completely. Although Hallam’s side played attacking football, defence was his speciality, and the players got back very quickly.

Pryce, seeing a wall of defenders ahead of him, laid the ball back, and it returned to Reyes.

You had to say that the veterans were really important at times like this. A young player might have struggled, but Pryce passed it back to Reyes and tried to draw Chelsea’s shape out.

This was a tactic Reyes knew better than anyone, and straight away Villa’s players began to use it to tempt Chelsea out, as they had done in the first half.

Unfortunately for them, the Chelsea players would not be fooled. Hallam was glaring at them from the touchline, and no one dared to pull the tiger’s whiskers. After all, nobody wanted to be substituted at that moment.

Suddenly the match fell into a strange stalemate. Villa were pushing back, and Chelsea were actually shrinking into their own half.

"Wonderful! This is really wonderful!" Granger could not help shouting in the studio.

"Phil? What do you mean, wonderful?" Judd asked, playing along.

In fact, many viewers were already cursing in their hearts, because the stadium was like a stagnant pool, with Villa passing it back and Chelsea unwilling to come out.

"A football match isn’t just about the skills of the players on the pitch, it’s also about the tactics of the two managers, and the mental battle between them," Granger said.

"And in this game, the two managers have been at it from the beginning, no, you could say that after the third round of the season, the contest between Saint and Hallam really got going."

"For anybody who’s interested, you can go back and look for yourselves. Right from the start, Saint had designed a long-range plan for Conlan, and once Villa had scored, Hallam’s reply was to counter-attack." Hearing Granger’s words, the fans could not help recalling the early minutes. Long shots do take some luck, but it was not hard to see that Conlan’s effort had been planned, and Hallam’s counter afterwards was even more impressive. Villa had worked as one, from the manager down to the players.

"Also, did you notice what the two managers looked like after each goal?" Granger asked.

"Hallam looked furious. Saint seemed to be saying something to his assistant, but what struck me most was that he was still smiling, and he looked as if he did not care about the goal at all."

"Saint isn’t indifferent. He’s telling his players not to worry about that goal, because even if the opponents score, the two sides have gone back to the starting line at most."

"As for Hallam’s anger, that was dissatisfaction with his players, a spur, because Chelsea are a strong team and their players are long-established stars. If Villa’s young players need encouragement, Chelsea’s players need a spur."

"Chelsea are away! A quick attack from Chelsea!" Before Granger could continue, the situation on the pitch had changed again.

Chelsea launched a sudden counter. After Conlan’s long shot was saved by Pickford, the keeper threw the ball straight to Okafor.

Okafor took it in his stride and hit a long pass forward to find Gaunt at the top of the move. Gaunt was not tall, but he could still take up a favourable position by judging the landing point accurately, and Barzley, who was carrying a yellow card, did not dare to challenge too hard.

"A chance! A chance for Chelsea again!" Gaunt played the ball across to Rennick.

Down on the Villa bench, Salerno and Osei had stopped stretching. Both were on their feet, watching the move develop, and Salerno muttered something in Spanish under his breath.

"Easy," Cadman told them, though his own hands were clasped tight in front of him. "The gaffer will make the call."

Saint had already made it, though he had not said a word. His eyes had gone to Teale, then to Barzley, then back to the clock. Eleven minutes had gone since the equaliser, and with every one of them, the Chelsea attack looked a little more dangerous.

He rubbed his jaw once and took a short breath.

"Be ready," he said quietly, without turning his head. "Both of you."

On the pitch, Rennick took the pass in his stride and glanced up, and the whole of Stamford Bridge rose with him.

Fifty yards away, in the directors’ box, Kessler had stopped pretending to look calm. He was gripping the arm of his seat with one hand, and with the other he waved off an adviser who had leaned in to say something.

At that moment nobody in the ground cared about anything but the ball.