Peep peep peep. From champions elect to champions, from Jamie Vardy’s house to the Hawthorns, from Jose Mourinho to Antonio Conte, from a back four to a back three – on Friday in the English midlands, the stars were aligned once more, the universe at harmony again as Chelsea won the Premier League, a distinguished feat for uber-manager Conte.

Yet, for much of the night, victory and ascension to Mount Olympus were precarious. In Birmingham, Tony Pulis was an obdurate party-pooper, the evergreen 40-points coach proffering an unbreakable portcullis. At times, West Bromwich Albion were playing with a defensive line of six players. His team lined up in an infernal 9-1 formation, a fiendish method of football torture.

Football, the old-fashioned way

It was a purgatory of defending. Chris Brunt and James McClean were de facto full-backs, playing wide of Craig Dawson and Allan Nyom respectively. WBA refused to leave their own half, but perhaps there was a latent beauty to their approach. They were demented when little was at stake, an XI “non compos mentis (not in the right mind)“ at the end of the season. It was football, the old-fashioned way.

Chelsea didn’t wilt. In a tepid first half, they were in an N’golo-shock. The Frenchman, who has so often enabled Chelsea to attack, sat on the bench as he returned from a groin injury. Cesc Fabregas was a refined replacement, offering delicate and weighted touches, a human anti-depressant in the Chelsea midfield. Eden Hazard generated further elevation with his cunning drives. Pedro remained elusive. Diego Costa was peripheral, but always with the promise of menace. Every Chelsea player was part of a moulded unit, a regenerated collective with a palpable identity and pronounced character, with shape and purpose.

From inception to glory, Conte transformed Chelsea from an irredeemable mediocrity to a ruthless domestic superpower. They were a glory-bound perpetuum mobile ever since the Italian switched to a back three again Arsenal in the fall. In a league of lordly coaches, Conte is the quintessential manager. He managed. He dealt with his players, maximised their talents, motivated them and stimulated an all-round encouraging atmosphere in West London. He had Stamford Bridge brimming again.

Conte adapted

He adapted. Indeed, Conte has never been afraid of adapting. A frustrating and stubborn opponent – perhaps stubbornness is the ultimate Pulis virtue – required Conte to tweak his formation. Michy Batshuayi and Willian replaced Hazard and Pedro respectively as Chelsea switched to a 3-5-2.

It was an inspired move and vintage Conte. With Nasser Chadli galvanising WBA up to the point that Pulis’s Juventus ventured out of their own half and exuded adventurous tendencies, so much so that Chelsea’s back line got stretched, the game became delicate, with a peculiar paradox: the team feverishly attacking seemed the least likely to score as the Londoners left plenty of space at the back. Striker Salomon Rondon troubled Chelsea.

But this strange, even non-descript, game always had a pre-destined finale. This was not to be night of fatalism and devilish devices to rebuff the champions elect. This was a 90 minutes for jubilation, exaltation and coronation, even if Chelsea played a sub-standard game, but when the moment did arrive, it came in the form of 82nd minute “twiglet” fun.

The Belgian Batshuayi was the improbable scorer. He steered Cesar Azpilicueta’s assist with a mundane finality into the net. It was an ordinary strike, but little did that matter. Chelsea had won the title. Delirium ensued, with Conte’s heart rate having paramedics on edge. The Italian combusted in unabashed Rivellino style. At Chelsea an effervescent coach met a great body of talents. He built the league’s best team. All hail Chelsea, the champions of England!