Chapter 524: The Taste II
"Chelsea will change shape in the second half. Conte will go to a back four. He’ll bring on Fabregas for Bakayoko to control the midfield. That means more of the ball for them but less defensive security. The spaces will be bigger. The counter-attacks will be faster." I looked at the room. "Stay patient. Stay disciplined. The third goal will come."
Palace defended with the discipline that Sakho and Konaté had built over four months of partnership. The first-choice centre-back pairing, reunited after three days apart, played as though they had never been separated.
In the fifty-fifth minute, I made the change.
But he had played ninety minutes against Stoke four days ago and seventy-five against Arsenal, and Rebecca’s data on the touchline was showing his sprint distances declining. The trigger was tiring. The blade was on the bench.
Blake stood up. Connor Blake. Seventeen years old. Academy product.
The particular calm of a teenager who had been raised in Gary’s and my academy and had been taught, from the age of thirteen, that the moment would come and that when it came, the only thing that mattered was whether you were ready.
I brought him on for Pato. The Brazilian walked off to an ovation, his afternoon’s work complete: one goal, seven key movements, two pressing turnovers. He sat on the bench, towel around his shoulders, and put his hand on Blake’s empty seat as the boy jogged onto the pitch.
Blake’s first involvement was a press. Rüdiger received from Courtois and Blake closed him down from thirty yards, sprinting at the German centre-back with the fearless aggression of a boy who didn’t know he was supposed to be intimidated by a World Cup defender.
In the sixty-first minute, Hazard found space on the edge of the box and shot. Hennessey saved. Not a spectacular save. A positional one. He was in the right place because Steele had spent three days teaching him where to stand when Hazard drove inside from the left, and the teaching had held. The save was unglamorous. The preparation behind it was extraordinary.
Sakho won a header from a Chelsea corner, the ball travelling thirty yards to Neves on the halfway line. Neves turned, saw the shape of the pitch, and played a long ball over the Chelsea defence with his left foot. The ball was aimed at nobody. The ball was aimed at the space. And into the space, from the left wing, cutting inside with the acceleration that made him unplayable in transition, ran Zaha.
Zaha was through. Courtois came out. And Zaha, instead of shooting, instead of trying to beat the goalkeeper with power or placement, looked up and saw Blake. Seventeen years old. Running in from the right side, twelve minutes on the pitch, unmarked, eight yards from goal, the entire net open in front of him.
Blake hit it. Right foot. Clean. Hard. Into the bottom corner. Not the roof of the net, not the spectacular finish of a player trying to impress. The bottom corner, the finish of a boy who had been taught by Paddy McCarthy that the most important thing about scoring a goal was making sure the ball went in.
The Holmesdale erupted. Not just for the goal. For what the goal meant. An eighteen-year-old academy product, raised at Beckenham, coached by Paddy, developed through the pathway that Danny Walsh had rebuilt from the ground up, scoring against Chelsea in the Premier League.
Blake celebrated. He ran to the corner flag, slid on his knees, and then turned and pointed at the bench. Not at me. At Gary in the crowd.
Zaha reached Blake first, ruffling his hair, the gesture of an older brother more than a teammate. Sakho lifted him off the ground. Konaté, who was only a year older but who carried himself like a veteran, shook his hand with the formal seriousness of a centre-back acknowledging a striker. Neves tapped his chest. The family.
The final twenty-three minutes were controlled. Professional. I brought on Kirby for Kovačić in the seventy-third, Townsend for Navas in the seventy-eighth. Blake played the full remaining thirty-five minutes.
Paddy hugged him. Not the handshake of a coach congratulating a player. The hug of a man who had dedicated his professional life to developing young footballers and who had just watched one of them score against Chelsea in the Premier League. Paddy’s eyes were red. His voice, when he spoke, was rough.
In the dressing room, Dann found Blake. The captain, who had been on the bench all afternoon, his own body recovering from Wednesday’s heroics, walked across the room and sat beside the eighteen-year-old.
"Eighteen, skipper."
Blake looked at him. "What does it mean?"
The whistle blew. 3-1. The revenge. The taste of ash, washed away by the taste of something sweeter. And the taste, this time, belonged to the academy. To Paddy. To the pathway. To an eighteen-year-old who pointed at his coach when he scored because he knew exactly who had made the moment possible.
[Goals: Pato 12’, Zaha 37’, Blake 67’. Chelsea: Hazard 23’.]
[Premier League: P23 W18 D3 L2. Points: 57. Position: 2nd.]
[Pato: goal + MOTM performance in 55 minutes. The trigger fires.]
[Kovačić: 2nd start. Dominated Kanté. The sole-of-the-boot pass that started everything.]
[October’s taste of ash: answered.]
Thank you to Sir nameyelus for the Super Gift.