The Saint Maddox Odyssey

”Shot! Blocked again! Villa still cannot find a way through!” Forty minutes of the first half had gone, and for every one of them Villa had been in complete control.

Yet that control had never once broken the deadlock. In those forty minutes Villa had fired in nearly twenty shots without a single goal to show for it.

”Damn it!” Saint, on the touchline, could not help swearing when Osei’s long-range effort flew wide again.

Villa had not scored in forty minutes, and while some of it was down to the players themselves, most of it came from Burnley’s tactics. Against a promoted side, Burnley had simply parked the bus in front of their own goal.

”This is really shameless,” Saint muttered, clearly forgetting that nearly every side in the Premier League with a chance of relegation did exactly the same thing to the bigger clubs.

Cadman could only pretend not to hear. Brought up on a diet of narrow away wins and clean sheets, the assistant coach privately thought Burnley’s approach was working beautifully.

If Saint had known what his assistant was thinking, he would have seriously considered finding a new one.

When the referee finally blew for half-time, it was still nil-nil.

In the final five minutes, Villa had eased off. After such sustained pressure the players’ energy had drained heavily, and Saint wanted them to save something for the second half.

”We slow it down after the break,” Saint told them in the dressing room, and Reyes understood at once.

A midfielder of his calibre had instincts that most people never develop. Villa had been attacking at full intensity, which meant Burnley’s players had been mentally tense for the entire first half. If Villa dropped the tempo, that tension would loosen. Once it loosened it would be very hard to tighten again.

”Try a few more long shots,” Saint added. Villa had no shortage of men who could strike from distance. Colley, Reyes and Conlan could all hit one, and Osei had the legs to chase anything that came back off the keeper.

While the players rested, Saint checked one more thing. In the system store he had spotted a card that would force a chosen opposing player to put the ball into his own net, and he bought it for three points. The deal was simple: if the game was still level after seventy-five minutes, he would use it.

After the purchase the system flashed up a message: each card could be bought a maximum of three times per season.

”Bloody hell.” Saint had not recovered from the pain of spending three points when the notice startled him.

But the system was not the only thing that gave him a fright that afternoon. When the teams came back out and the game restarted, Burnley did something that startled him even more.

In the first half they had defended with ten men behind the ball. In the second they came out and attacked. Tom Varley played the ball back to Stuart Millet, who took a long, patient touch and found Neil McGinn.

McGinn was Burnley’s half-time substitute, replacing Amos Rudd. Compared with Rudd he was older, stronger and far more physical, a different kind of threat altogether.

The Villa defenders reacted quickly, but still could not stop the move, and McGinn headed it down to Varley.

Varley, however, was only a decoy, there to draw the attention of the Villa back line. The real danger was on the left, where Danny Poole was waiting.

”Varley swings it across, it goes between Teale and Rami, and Poole is in on the left, he shoots!”

”Vacek comes out, a very decisive goalkeeper.”

”The shot! No, Vacek, Vacek has saved it! The Villa goalkeeper has stopped Poole’s effort from point-blank range!”

”Again, again, it’s Tomas Vacek again! Villa’s best signing of the season!” Pemberton’s words would have been agreed with by every Villa supporter, and probably by the media too.

Villa had brought in veterans like Teale, Pryce, Reyes and Jurek, men who had played for big clubs, but none of them had performed quite as well so far as the goalkeeper.

”My word, the Villa keeper has just stopped Burnley’s best chance of the game, and a one on one at that.”

”But it isn’t over, the save leaves the ball inside the box. Varley, this is another chance for the Burnley striker!”

”Teale! Marcus Teale, thirty-six years old, and he may not have the pace to catch Varley, but he has the experience. A sliding tackle, and Teale gets the ball before the striker does!”

”What an escape! Villa have survived an incredible scare, thanks to a brilliant save from their goalkeeper and an old-fashioned tackle from the veteran centre-back.” The sweat on the brow was the same in the stands and on the touchline, from the supporters to Saint and his staff.

When the cheering began, it was the Villa supporters who gave their loudest ovation to Vacek and Teale.

Since the first round of the season, Vacek had won over the whole of Villa Park with his performances, and had even won over the national press, though they did not like to admit it.

As for Teale, he might have been thirty-six, but two performances were enough to show that he was still one of the best centre-backs in football. His experience was the most valuable asset Villa had.

Even in his fright, Saint did not forget to glance across at Burnley’s manager, Gordon Marsh. The man was furious at that moment, clearly angry that his counter had not paid off.

There was a gap in quality, and after studying Villa’s first two games Marsh knew it well. It was exactly that knowledge that had made him choose such a defensive plan.

The first half had gone perfectly, which gave him hope, and the second-half counter had been designed with the same idea. Unfortunately for him, Vacek and Teale had ruined it.

”Tell everyone to drop back,” Marsh said, helplessly. ”If we leave here with a point, it’ll be down to luck.”

Marsh was a thoughtful, self-aware man, and perhaps it was that self-awareness that had kept Burnley up the season before.

Villa, meanwhile, were in no hurry to find a way through. That was the veterans’ job, and Saint did not need to give a single instruction, since the older men already knew exactly what to do. Controlling the rhythm of the match was still Reyes’s job.

Since arriving at Villa, Reyes had begun his own coaching journey. He sat in on the staff meetings these days, quietly observing Saint at work.

Out on the pitch he did it again now. Without a word to anyone he dropped a few yards deeper, took the ball from Teale, and held it for an extra second before passing. Then he did it again, and again, and each time the Burnley players edged a little further back, tired of chasing shadows.

Saint noticed, and said nothing. He glanced at his watch instead. Sixty-one minutes gone, and the pace of the game had changed completely, exactly as Reyes had predicted in the dressing room.

”Keep the ball,” Cadman muttered beside him, almost to himself. ”Just keep the ball.”

”They will,” Saint said. ”That’s the whole point.”

Behind them, on the bench, Jurek began to stretch. There was still a long way to go, but Saint could already feel the match tilting, slowly and quietly, back in Villa’s favour.