Chapter 111: The Young Generation

Saint wasn’t as sad about Grace leaving as he should have been. It struck him as odd, odd enough that for a moment he wondered whether he loved her at all. Then he shoved the thought to the back of his mind, because there were more pressing things to think about. The Premier League season was about to begin.

"Manchester United are a great club and one of the strongest sides in the country. Stuart Garrity is a very good manager." That was what Saint told the press.

Garrity was only forty-four. In coaching terms that made him a young man, and yet he had already won the one trophy most managers chase for a lifetime, lifting the Champions League with United the previous season. There was no exaggeration in calling him the standard-bearer of the new generation of English managers, which was exactly why the media had got so worked up about this fixture.

Not that long ago, Saint had been tearing up the Championship, embarrassing a whole generation of experienced managers and bruising English pride in the process. England was proud of its league, proud of its coaches, and last season a twenty-something, relegation-threatened nobody had walked in and taken the whole thing apart.

Luckily for the nation’s pride, while Saint was stirring up trouble in the second tier, the top flight had found a new young banner carrier of its own. United had swept through Europe last season and won their Champions League trophy, on top of the domestic cup. A double, no less.

"Are you confident of winning this time?" The reporter clearly wasn’t going to let him walk away.

"Confidence? I never lack confidence, but confidence alone isn’t enough in football, because nobody knows what happens in the next second on that pitch." Saint’s answer left no gaps.

But the press were the press, and no answer was ever clean enough for them.

"SAINT EXPRESSES CONFIDENCE OF BEATING THE DOUBLE WINNERS," read one headline. Another ran with, "United are very strong, but nobody knows what happens in the next second." A third was simply, "Garrity is an excellent manager, but I am better."

A few misquoted sentences, a bit of creative reshuffling, and the story was off, travelling around the country faster than any of them could follow.

"Has this kid lost his mind?"

Arrogant. Cocky. The words weren’t new, but this time they hit differently. In the Championship, the noise had been limited. Now he was in the Premier League, the most-watched league on earth, and every syllable carried further.

"The little sod," Jasper growled in Saint’s living room, waving a newspaper as if it owed him money.

"Mate, why do you look angrier than I do?" Saint said, watching him with a bemused sort of silence.

"I’m angry for you! Aren’t you furious at this twisted rubbish?" Jasper demanded.

"No, honestly, I’m not angry at all." Saint shook his head.

"Eh?" Jasper stared at him, unable to believe it.

Of everyone in England, Jasper knew Saint best, and even he couldn’t make sense of this.

"To be honest, the papers have got it about right. That is what I actually think," Saint said.

"Oh, God. I’m starting to think the people calling you arrogant had a point." Jasper put his head in his hands.

"You don’t believe me?" Saint asked.

"Of course I don’t! You’re facing the champions of Europe. Do you know who they’ve got? A back line of internationals, a midfield that bosses every game it plays, and forwards who’ve been scoring goals in this division for years. They are the best team in the country."

"Fine. Fancy a bet, then?" Saint looked at him.

"What bet?" A flicker of caution crossed Jasper’s face. He had lost enough of these to Saint over the years to have learned a few lessons.

"On the opening game. I’ll say we beat them." Saint’s voice was perfectly calm.

"Win?" Jasper asked.

"Win," Saint nodded.

"You’re on," Jasper said. He was absolutely certain of United, and anyone looking at the two team sheets would have felt the same.

"What are the stakes?" he asked.

"Cars. You just gave me a Lamborghini, so let’s keep it on theme. If you win, I buy you any car you like. If I win, you buy me another one."

"Since you’re so keen to give me cars, who am I to say no?" Jasper laughed, and the deal was done.

While the bet was being struck in Birmingham, Garrity was giving his own interview in Manchester, and he was famously the most mild-mannered man in the game.

Though young for a manager, in temperament he might as well have been seventy. "Saint is a remarkable lad. He and I have a funny sort of connection."

It was true, actually. About five years earlier, Garrity had eaten at a restaurant Saint’s father once ran in Birmingham.

As a player, Garrity had been a handsome man, a heartbreaker of a midfielder. After he retired, his waistline had expanded fast, and the only thing responsible was food. He was a true glutton. If football hadn’t claimed him, he’d probably have ended up as a food writer. Even now he wrote a column for a food magazine.

On the subject of eating, Saint and Garrity actually had plenty in common, though it was a topic they were destined not to discuss in depth for the time being.

"Saint is right. Football is full of surprises, and Villa’s squad impressed me a great deal. I’ve a feeling they’ll be something of a revelation this season."

It wasn’t the kind of answer the English press had wanted. They’d been waiting all summer for this fixture, hoping Garrity would hit back on their behalf and put the cocky newcomer in his place.

Instead, what did they get? No sign of the young manager’s arrogance. No swagger from a Champions League winner. Just a calm, courteous, forty-four-year-old man who had no interest in a war of words.

Here was a manager who had won the biggest prize in club football, who led one of the most famous clubs on earth, who had every right to be proud, and he’d chosen to be gracious instead.

The journalists were furious. The more polite Garrity was, the more the headlines seemed to go flat, and the more they had to turn their guns back on Saint to keep the story alive.

Saint read all of it over breakfast and smiled. It didn’t bother him. What he wanted was the one thing he had always wanted, which was a result on the pitch, and in a few days he’d have his chance to get it.