The Saint Maddox Odyssey

”GOOOOAL! United have finally broken the deadlock, and it comes in the twentieth minute!”

”Marchenko! The Ukrainian striker burst clean past Lindley, took the pass from his teammate and fired it in. Vacek reacted well, but this time he couldn’t keep it out.”

”Lindley, Lindley, Lindley. The sixteen-year-old has had a nightmare.” In the opening twenty minutes, Lindley had become the single weak point United attacked again and again.

Without Vacek’s bravery, Villa wouldn’t have lasted anywhere near that long. Those twenty minutes were enough to show everybody why Saint had paid so much for the Czech keeper.

Lindley, by contrast, had been dreadful. United had picked him out as the target, and nearly every attack was built around running at him.

”I don’t understand it, I really don’t. There’s Teale sitting on the bench, a former Chelsea captain, and Saint picks a teenager who has never played a Premier League minute.” That wasn’t only Granger’s question in the studio. It was the question every supporter in the ground and every viewer at home was asking.

Outsiders were baffled, but after twenty minutes even Lindley himself began to wonder whether his manager had lost his mind.

It was a question he’d asked himself once before, in his very first conversation with Saint.

”George, where do you think you play?” Saint had asked him.

”Cover for Ben, in midfield?” Lindley was a bright lad, and he knew exactly where he stood in the pecking order.

”No, George. You shouldn’t be thinking about midfield.” Saint shook his head.

”Then, what, the gaffer’s turning me into cover for Jake up front?” That was what Lindley really thought. He’d played some games as a forward as a kid.

”Here.” Saint could see from the answer that the boy was heading in the wrong direction, so he pointed straight at the tactics board.

”At the back?” Lindley frowned.

”Exactly. You’ve got everything a good centre-back needs, and that is why I wanted you,” Saint said.

”Gaffer, are you sure?” Lindley still couldn’t quite believe it.

”George, you have to believe in yourself, and you have to believe in me. I don’t get people wrong. I brought Antoine, Yannick and Aldo over from France, and I picked you out of everyone in the country,” Saint said.

”Do you think the man marking you on opening day is a good player?” Saint asked.

”Of course. Jonny Ashby is the pride of English defenders.” Everyone knew that.

”In my eyes, you have talent every bit as good as his.” Saint was flattering him a little, but only a little. Lindley’s ceiling really was outstanding, S-class, the very top tier.

Potential wasn’t everything, of course. How far a player went depended on his own work as well, and turning potential into ability was the hard part.

”Gaffer, are you winding me up?” Smart lads are hard to flatter. This one had been top of every class he’d ever sat in.

”George, would I wind you up over something like this?” Saint said.

Lindley had no answer. A few months earlier he’d been an Ipswich academy kid whom nobody noticed. Now he was at Villa, signed personally by the manager, which meant the manager honestly believed in him.

Nobody had ever believed in him quite like that before, and it meant a great deal to him.

”Gaffer, I’ll do whatever you say. I’m happy to switch to centre-back,” Lindley said, working it out for himself.

From that day, Lindley changed position. Saint built him a personal training plan and asked Teale to coach him as well.

And Teale taught plenty more than just Lindley. The other players in the squad picked up his knowledge too, and that was one of the main reasons Saint had brought the veteran in.

After weeks of that training, Lindley had made real progress, which was part of the reason Saint picked him today.

The real reason, though, wasn’t Lindley’s progress at all. A great centre-back is made by getting tormented, and facing United was the perfect place for Lindley to take his first batch of punishment.

Of course, Lindley couldn’t see any of that at the moment. The boy was now doubting whether he was cut out to play there at all.

But nobody was going to give him time to wallow, because the game restarted almost immediately and Villa launched an attack.

Villa hadn’t been doing much of anything going forward, to be fair, and it wasn’t a surprise. Rocher and Lavelle were playing in the top flight for the first time, and they were facing the strongest full-backs in the country.

Rafael Duarte, the Brazilian on United’s right, was recognised as the best right-back in the world. His level was S+, and there was nothing like him on Villa’s books, not yet.

At his peak, Duarte covered the entire flank. Attack or defence made no difference to him, and at that moment he was giving Rocher a tough time.

Rocher’s ability was S-, but ability on paper isn’t everything on a pitch. Duarte was a whole tier above him, and in every other area the Frenchman was behind. Against the Brazilian captain of his country, Rocher looked almost guilty, like a boy being pushed around in the playground.

On the other side, Lavelle was having an even worse time. His ability was only B+, a clear step below Rocher. He had improved noticeably, but he’d drawn the worst possible opponent in the shape of Ray Hollis.

Hollis was thirty-five and hadn’t lost anything. He knew exactly how to deal with a young winger, and he wasn’t about to let one past him on a day like this.

Maybe Lavelle tried to take him on once or twice, and Hollis simply took the ball and moved on. There was no hurry, no panic, just thirty-five years of experience.

So that was how the opening half hour looked. In attack, in defence, everywhere, Villa were being completely torn apart.

The home crowd had gone quiet. The noise from before kick-off had drained away, replaced by the nervous sort of silence you only get when you know what’s coming.

Down in the dugout, Saint stood with his arms folded, watching all of it and giving nothing away. Cadman, beside him, kept glancing at his face, searching for some sign, but there was none.

Vacek stopped another shot, then another. Lindley took a heavy touch, Duarte pounced, and the ball flew across the box.

Marchenko was waiting for it, and the whole of Villa Park held its breath.