Chapter 141: Pryce First

But that was a story for the end of the season. For now, if Hartigan wanted to be the best goalkeeper in the country, he would first have to get past a rare talent at the other end, Vacek.

Vacek had arrived in the Premier League only that summer, and the doubters had been loud. When he first signed, the papers had wondered whether a goalkeeper who had cost so much could settle in English football at all.

The answer came early. Hearing the home crowd chanting his name, Vacek produced a wonderful save in the fifth minute.

It began with a cross from Holm. Brandt rose above Barzley and met it with a firm header, and Vacek reacted at once, flinging up one hand and turning the ball away.

"Barzley," Teale said from beside him, breathing hard, "if you can’t handle him, swap with me."

"I can," Barzley answered immediately.

Barzley was a smart lad, and smart lads learn fast. In the past month his progress had been rapid, and that progress had brought a streak of pride. After the League Cup tie, where he and the academy’s Joe Marsden had shut out Shrewsbury’s strikers so completely they never saw the ball in the box, the pride had grown.

So when Saint decided to pair Barzley with Teale against Brandt, he was not only trying to stop the German. He wanted Barzley to feel the weight of a top-class centre-forward on his back.

Bigger clubs were waiting behind, of course, but only on one condition, which was that Barzley could genuinely shut a striker like Brandt out. For the moment, that was close to impossible.

Villa’s fast start had dragged Southampton into Villa’s rhythm, and on the touchline Gresham was frowning. A team being pulled into another side’s tempo is a team already in danger, and he knew it.

Gresham could not help glancing across at the Villa bench, but unfortunately Saint was not on it.

At that moment Saint was sitting in the Holte End with a pen and a small notebook in his hands, the two FA officials either side of him so afraid to speak that they simply watched. Every minute or so Saint wrote something in the notebook, tore off the page, and passed it forward to Danny.

Danny held two mobile phones, and on the bench, down by the touchline, Cadman was holding two mobile phones of his own.

The rules had said nothing at all about Danny’s phones. The officials had gone through Saint’s pockets that morning, thoroughly, and found only a packet of mints.

"After that opening burst, Villa have finally slowed the game down," Pemberton said on air.

In the first twenty minutes, Villa’s fast attacking had made this look like a game from another league, and the supporters in the ground were so absorbed that they hardly dared blink for fear of missing something.

At home, viewers were messaging each other to ask whether this was really the same Villa side who had been written off in the summer.

Under Saint’s notes, relayed through Danny and then Cadman, the tempo began to drop on the pitch. On the Southampton bench, seeing Villa ease off, Gresham’s frown finally lifted, and he even went back to his seat on the touchline.

But just as he sat down, a huge roar broke out from the stands, and the manager was almost thrown out of his chair.

Just as Gresham had turned around, Villa had won the ball off Southampton’s feet and launched a quick counter.

It began with Moat. He had shown his promise at Southampton last season, and this year Gresham had given the young midfielder more chances. But a young player is a young player, and Moat’s recklessness gave Villa their opening.

Taking a pass from Salgado, Moat surged into Villa’s half with the ball, trying to draw defenders onto himself.

But Conlan had been waiting for exactly that. Since the Chelsea game, Conlan had completed a breakthrough, and Saint’s Scout’s Eye had registered it, his rating ticking up to the A level.

What did A level mean? It meant that Conlan now had the strength to hold his own among the big sides, and every part of his game had improved.

It was not unusual in football. Some players simply take off after one good performance.

"Conlan has won it! The ball has broken to Reyes!"

"A long ball! Reyes has hit a long pass over the top!" A fine midfielder picks his pass to suit the situation.

With a tall forward like Tomlin up front, Reyes naturally went for more balls in the air.

"Tomlin! Tomlin is into the Southampton penalty area! This is a chance for Villa!"

"The header! No, Tomlin does not choose to shoot, he has nodded it across to a teammate!"

"Who is it? Number ten! It’s Pryce! Pryce has come in!"

"Shoot!"

"GOAL! It’s in! It’s in! Twenty-two minutes into the game, Villa have finally broken the deadlock!"

"Pryce! Gareth Pryce! His first goal for Villa, his first league goal since joining the club!"

"It’s in! It’s finally in!" Pemberton’s voice cracked and almost broke.

Pryce was a Midlands boy, born in Erdington, a lad who had stood in the Holte End on Saturdays before he was old enough to shave. He had left for bigger clubs and bigger wages, and now, in the latter part of his career, he had come home. For every Villa supporter who had grown up in the Midlands, this was the picture they had been waiting for.

Pryce did not run to the bench. He ran to the Holte End, sank to his knees on the touchline in front of the supporters, and kissed the badge on his shirt, and the whole stand sang his name until the floor shook. Rocher, Jurek and Tomlin piled on top of him, and even the usually calm Reyes jogged over to ruffle the old man’s hair.

On the touchline Cadman had thrown both arms around Pratt, then remembered himself, let go, and pretended to straighten his tie.

"Damn it!" On the Southampton bench, the furious Gresham kicked the water bottle beside him halfway across the touchline.

Actually, depressed was closer to the truth, because Gresham had no sense of having been involved in the goal at all. He was a manager who had been the last man in the ground to find out his team had conceded.

"One nil! One nil! With their manager suspended and nobody giving them a chance, Villa’s fast start announces what they want from this game, and they lead after twenty-two minutes!"

"Well, well! Let’s go to the stands!" The live pictures cut straight to Saint.

"Ha ha ha! If you didn’t know any better, you’d say that was just a regular fan!" Saint was hugging the fans around him, singing with them, clapping with them, and cheering for the scorer.

But after the celebration, Saint quickly slipped back into his role, and the next instructions went out through Danny.

Down on the pitch Reyes was already waving his arms, pushing the players back into shape. Villa had scored, and the next five minutes were the most dangerous of all, because a side that has just scored will often relax and a side that has just conceded will often fly at you. Cadman, reading Danny’s text, signalled the same thing from the touchline, and Teale clapped his hands twice and barked at the back four to drop another five yards.

Saint saw it all from his seat, and a small, satisfied smile crossed his face. His players did not need the notebook to know what to do. The notebook was only there for the moments they did.

Throughout it all, the two officials stood by with cold faces. Quite obviously, this method of Saint’s would not be allowed again in the next game.