Chapter 136: Words And Deeds

"Strickland! Strickland! I have never seen Strickland run so fast!" Whoever said that was clearly no supporter of Villa or Chelsea.

But it was true, because at that moment Strickland was running flat out at Villa’s goal.

"Rennick has passed it!" On the touchline, Saint let out a groan of disappointment. Rennick, famous for being selfish, had actually given up the chance to be the hero and passed the ball to Strickland.

To be fair, it was not really Rennick’s fault. Teale had been breathing down his neck, giving him no room to turn, and in that situation the genius could only get rid of the ball.

"He’s one on one! Strickland! This is Chelsea’s best chance of the game!"

"Vacek! The keeper is very decisive!"

"GOAL! It’s in! Chelsea’s third goal of the game, and Strickland’s second!"

"Vacek couldn’t stop it! The Chelsea captain’s shot is almost insolent!" The finish was a perfect show of Strickland’s personal footwork.

"Three two! Chelsea have taken the lead for the first time in this match!"

"Oh, my word, what’s happened? The Villa manager has flown at the Chelsea captain!" While people were still caught up in Strickland’s goal, a huge commotion broke out on the touchline.

"What on earth is going on? Has the Villa boss lost his head because his side are behind?"

It had to be rewound ten seconds. When Strickland scored, he had waved his teammates off and then set off, alone, towards the Villa bench.

At that moment Saint had stepped up to the edge of the technical area because of the Chelsea attack.

Strickland ran straight up to him and looked at Saint with open contempt. Saint, naturally, would not back down, and replied with a look of his own.

But the look annoyed Strickland. This was the pride of London, who had been pampered by his club and the supporters since the day he turned professional and praised by every reporter in the country. Who in England dared look down on Jamie Strickland?

"Pah!" Strickland spat, and a gob of saliva flew through the air straight at Saint’s cheek.

"You bloody idiot!" Saint reacted quickly, but a half-step too slowly, and the spit landed on his face.

The saliva did not trouble him for long. In the next moment Saint lifted his foot and drove it straight into Strickland’s stomach, a furious kick that sent the Chelsea captain flying.

Footballers were physically strong, and Strickland, furious, tried to get back up at once, but somebody moved a lot faster than he did.

Rennick, the genius, had charged in and was flying at Saint after Strickland went down.

The result was that Rennick flew out as well, to keep Strickland company.

Saint’s father had sent him to boxing classes as a boy, and although he had only kept at it for two years, those basics, together with his current fitness, were more than enough for what was in front of him.

He sidestepped Rennick’s flying lunge, and drove a fist into the genius’s stomach.

In a matter of seconds Saint had put two men down. A footballer’s blood is hot, and when the Chelsea players charged towards Saint and he was getting ready to fight, well, in truth Saint also wanted to run, but this was a live broadcast to the whole country, and there were forty thousand people in the stadium. In the end he decided to stand and fight, with the thought that there were people behind him too.

But at that moment the fourth official ran in, and Cadman raced over with the coaching staff from the bench to protect Saint from behind.

Then Villa’s players and substitutes came running, and, just as with Chelsea, the referee and the linesmen threw themselves into the melee.

In the stands, Chelsea supporters began to shake the fences, trying to climb in. Fortunately, the stadium had enough security, and the riot police streamed out.

Up in the directors’ box, Kessler had risen from his seat with his mouth slightly open. Beside him an adviser was already reaching for his phone, and the Villa chairman held up a hand without turning round. "Not yet," he said quietly. "Let me see how this ends."

Down on the pitch it took nearly three minutes, a dozen stewards and every official in the ground to pull the two sides apart. Teale, to his credit, spent most of that time with both arms wrapped round Barzley’s chest, hauling the young defender away from a Chelsea midfielder and muttering "Not you, not you, not you" into his ear.

Of course, with that scuffle the game was impossible to continue, and Saint and the Villa players were escorted back to the dressing room.

By then Strickland had finally got to his feet, but from the pain on his face you could tell just how heavy Saint’s boot had been. He was bent almost double, one hand pressed to his ribs, and two Chelsea physios had to take an arm each to walk him down the tunnel. Rennick followed a few steps behind, still clutching his stomach, and not once did he look in the direction of the Villa bench.

On the other touchline, Hallam stood with his arms folded and his face like stone. He said nothing to the cameras, nothing to the fourth official, and nothing to his captain as he passed. For a man who prized control above everything, it was the loudest silence in the stadium.

"Good grief, Strickland has done a very stupid thing." Commentators around the world finally understood what had happened.

"Saint must be in the wrong, but if one man bears more of the responsibility, it has to be Strickland, because the cause of this whole affair was the spit," Granger said.

"Spitting at an opponent is disrespectful enough, and Saint is a manager, not a player." Pemberton was more direct.

"It’s not an exaggeration to say that this kind of thing is unacceptable on any pitch. Even if Saint was wrong to kick him, you can’t put the whole blame on Saint, and Strickland has to carry most of it," Judd said.

As for the fans watching, the split was obvious, but most chose to stand by Saint.

Plenty of neutral supporters went as far as saying that one kick was too light and that he should have been given a few more.

At that moment Saint had no idea what the outside world was saying, and no idea what would happen next, but of one thing he was sure: he did not regret what he had done.

"I owe you an apology," Saint said, though what he needed most now was to apologise to his players.

"You fought for the win on the pitch, and I got in the way from the touchline," he said sincerely.

Nobody answered at first. The room was quiet except for the drip of a tap in the corner and the sound of boots being unlaced. Cadman had a towel in his hand, and without a word he passed it to Saint, who finally wiped his face properly.

"Boss, we’ve just been overtaken." The one who dared speak up at that moment was Saint’s favourite, Rocher.

The Frenchman did not say it to blame him. He said it flatly, like a man stating the weather, and then he looked up with a half-smile. "But you are right, boss. We were not finished. Another ten minutes and we would have scored again. I do not think any of us was worried."

A low murmur of agreement went round the room. Pryce nodded slowly. Teale leaned back against the wall with his arms crossed and said, "For what it’s worth, gaffer, if somebody had spat at me, I would have done a lot worse than kick him."

"Marcus," Cadman warned.

"I’m only saying."

"The lead is only temporary. I’ve always believed you’d go out there, equalise, and go back in front to win it," Saint said with total certainty, and every player in the room believed that was how the game would have gone.

"But because I couldn’t stay calm, all your effort may have been for nothing, and we may even be declared the losers." Given the situation, if the match was abandoned or replayed, the score at the point of the stoppage would probably be what counted.

"But I don’t regret it," Saint said. At the same time, he made his position plain.

"I am your manager, and I will take whatever punishment comes. A fine, a ban, a forfeit, I’ll answer for all of it. But I will not stand on a touchline and be spat at by anyone, no matter how many caps he has or how many shirts they sell with his name on the back."

He looked from face to face, from the veterans on the left to the youngsters huddled by the door. "What matters is that none of you carries this. You played well. Whatever the officials decide, that does not change, and I won’t have anyone walking out of here with their head down."

For a moment nobody moved. Then Vacek, the keeper, stood up and began to clap, slowly at first, and one by one the others joined in, until the sound of it filled the small room and drowned out the noise from the corridor.