Chapter 147: Martin Alder

"Alder! He shoots, and it’s wide! Norwich’s first effort has missed the target!" In the opening five minutes, Norwich had produced their first shot of the game.

Two minutes later, Villa answered, and this was Villa’s second effort of the match, from Tomlin.

It was hard to believe how evenly matched they seemed. They were old rivals, of course, and the players seemed locked together. Villa’s first shot had come from Pryce, then Alder had replied.

Now Villa’s second came from Tomlin, a classic big man’s header from the side, but Norwich’s goalkeeper, Ollie Brandwood, blocked it.

It had to be said that Norwich’s goalkeeping department was in good shape. As well as Brandwood, the bench held a young talent, Joe Hallett, a lad who made no secret of the fact that his idol was Ray Whitcombe.

Soon afterwards a Villa corner came to nothing, and Norwich took the chance to break at speed. It ended with a cross from the flank, aimed at Carver, Tomlin’s replacement, who rose against Barzley and powered a header at goal.

Carver’s header was well placed, and Vacek flew across to take it off the line. In other positions it might have been a goal, but the goalkeeper had won that battle.

But Saint had not expected that a goalkeeper winning one duel would not stop his team conceding, and certainly not so early.

Just three minutes after that save, Norwich attacked again, straight into Villa’s rear. Alder drew the defenders towards him by dragging the ball toward the touchline, then crossed from the byline.

Wes Pettigrew, who had gone in at speed, sent the ball to Carver’s head. What Carver did next went well beyond what Villa’s defenders had expected.

The big man, a few yards from goal inside the area, did not go for the goal himself.

"He’s headed it back! Norwich’s centre-forward has made an unexpected choice, and instead of attacking the goal himself he has nodded it back across to the left!"

"Number ten! Number ten! Alder! Alder shoots from the side, Carver has headed it to Alder! He shoots!"

"GOAL! It’s in! It’s in! Ten minutes into the match, Norwich have broken through Villa!"

"Martin Alder! Martin Alder volleys it in, and in the face of Carver’s header, Alder did not wait for the ball to drop!"

"One nil! One nil! At Villa Park, in Villa’s own home, Norwich have scored in the opening ten minutes!"

In earlier matches, it had usually been Villa who scored soon after kick-off, and Villa had even picked up a strange nickname in the league, as the side with the most aggressive start in the opening ten minutes.

"Oh, my! The Norwich manager looks very excited!" When he saw the ball hit the net, Fenner dashed off the bench and ran all the way down the touchline, both arms whirling like a windmill.

In fact, Fenner’s excitement was entirely understandable. After all, his Norwich had won only one match so far this season, and the voices calling for his head grew louder after every game.

"Pfft." Watching Fenner’s wild celebration, Saint tutted loudly.

Saint obviously did not think that he was the last man in the league entitled to look at another manager with that expression, because for a long time other people had been looking at him exactly that way.

Contempt was one thing, but there was work to do. While Norwich celebrated, Saint walked to the edge of the technical area and made a downward patting gesture to the players.

The match had only just begun. They were a goal down, but Saint was not worried, because once you put the two line-ups side by side, Villa had a clear advantage.

Strength is not everything in football, but without it everything else is worthless.

On the pitch, the game restarted quickly, and with Saint’s reminder in their ears, Villa’s players were not hurried. They even looked calmer than Norwich.

Fenner, who had just returned to his place, could not help looking across at Saint, although in that glance he did not really see him.

Fenner had also been clear-headed enough to make a move. After the celebrations died down, he called Alder over to the touchline.

"Villa won’t want to accept this, and they’ll be pushing forward. From here we slow it down, tempt them on, and hit them on the counter."

But as things looked now, Fenner’s wishful thinking was not going to work, at least not in the first half.

For the next twenty minutes, Villa kept their patience and kept control of the ball, while Norwich, who had scored, stuck to their manager’s tactics and dropped deep.

It was easy to imagine how dull the game was on the pitch.

"A patient contest between the two sides," Pemberton said in the commentary box.

"This is the sort of thing people at home complain about," Judd said. "Everyone wants goals, but they want them on their own terms."

At home, fans were grumbling over their tea. "Just attack, will you?" one said to the television, and then, grudgingly, "No, he’s right, he’s right."

Down on the pitch the Villa players were still holding in their urge to attack, and as the clock passed thirty minutes, some of them could barely stand it.

In the middle of it all, Pryce and Alder finally found themselves side by side on the halfway line while a free kick was being set up. Neither looked at the other, but Pryce muttered, "You’ve slowed down, Martin."

"So have you," Alder said, in a voice as dry as paper. "Difference is, I get to do it in front of a bigger crowd."

Pryce almost smiled, and then trotted off to take up his position. It was the first time anyone had seen the old rivals speak to each other all season.

At the far end, Vacek was clapping his back four into shape, as if the goal had never happened. Rocher kept moving his fingers along the seam of his shorts, restless as a man on a hot pavement, and Tomlin kept glancing across at Carver with a faint frown, as though he could not quite believe the man had taken his old place.

At that moment Saint walked from the bench to the edge of the technical area and stood with his arms folded across his chest.

Saint was telling his players not to act rashly.

But it was not only Villa who were holding back. Norwich were doing exactly the same. Having taken the lead, they were waiting for Villa to jump into a pit they had dug, and they were not going to move until Villa did.

There was something to be learned there. While Saint stood on the touchline steadying his players, on the other side Fenner also stood up, and, in order to show he was different from Saint, he put both hands in his pockets.

In truth the two men were different in more than their stances. Their authority differed, and so did their grip on the dressing room.

In Villa’s dressing room, there was only one voice that mattered, and it was Saint’s.

But in Norwich’s, Fenner, who had taken charge only this season, was clearly no match for Saint, and with his team’s results looking as awful as they did, it was not hard to see why.