Football’s only ball-hanger: N’Golo Kante and how he excels in every game

In the tropical forests of Middle Africa – specifically, in Democratic Republic of Congo, Republic of Congo and Angola – live the Kongo and Ndundu people. Their language, Kikongo, has roughly seven million native speakers, but many more of us understand one particular word and concept, meaning vital force or power: n'golo.

There is something very beautiful about a person who so utterly inhabits their name, even ironically – consider Claudio Bravo, Felipe Melo and Mark Noble – but that beauty is multiplied when it’s for real. And, after yet another display of dominant intensity, no one doubts that N’Golo Kante is precisely that.

Of course, he is not the only man at Stamford Bridge who radiates authority. Before last night’s game kicked-off, Antonio Conte was caught on camera, first shaking hands with the opposing bench, then washing those same hands. Much as the away support would like to believe that he was cleansing all trace of West Ham, the likelihood is that this was just another facet of the meticulous controlfreakery which delivers teams as supremely drilled and personifying as any in history. As we near the point in the season from which individual awards are debated, there can be no doubt that Chelsea’s manager is the player of the year.

His team were not brilliant at the London Stadium, but they had no need to be; hard though West Ham tried, they knew what was going to happen, especially in the absence of an atmosphere to convince them to the contrary. Before the game, the suspended Michail Antonio was interviewed on the pitch – “How disappointed are you to be missing out tonight?”; “Very” – and was fed the line that “this place, it’s really starting to feel like home now.” He did his best to go along with it, but only the UK’s most eminent pornographers could possibly have believed him.

When you go to a football match, you know that you probably won’t see anything any good, but the thrill of being there engenders excitement that you might – all the more so if West Ham are playing Chelsea. But the distant coldness of the London Stadium erases that sensation, which is probably why it wasn’t anything like full; the sooner they knock it down and build something proper in its place, the better.

The opening period of the game was fairly even, though Chelsea played with the assurance of a team who knew. On two minutes, Kante played a enterprising push and go with Eden Hazard, and barely 60 seconds later, Hazard's elastic weebling, menace forced two fouls out of Cheikhou Kouyate.

Shortly afterwards, West Ham attacked down their right – one of few sorties which came from that area, despite the relative vulnerability of Cesar Azpilicueta and Victor Moses on the opposite side of the box – only for Moses to outjump Andy Carroll, turning his nose to blood in the process. Carroll smiled, but the impression was of a man not fully fit.

Meanwhile Kante continued to punctuate things, football’s only ball-hanger. Either bounding after it or perfectly placed for its arrival, his part playground, part high ground style facilitates the excellence of those immediately behind and in front: David Luiz, the league’s most reliable centre-back – ! – and Eden Hazard, its most reliable gamebreaker.

Although Kante lacks the expansive brilliance of those who have played his position best, he shares with them the nous and nerve that enables him to excel in more or less every game. And this despite the pressure of Chelsea’s famous number 7 shirt, worn with such distinction by Winston Bogarde, Adrian Mutu, Andriy Shevchenko and Maniche; why, it’s almost as though arbitrary figures don't mean anything and don't make any difference to anything.

Around the quarter-hour, West Ham mustered a little bit of pressure, but Chelsea continued to patiently probe, safe in the knowledge that the goal would come. Which on 25 minutes it did, Noble rejecting the opportunity to stickitinthef***ingmixer and allowing Kante to intercept his pass instead. Kante then quickly found Hazard who quickly found Pedro who quickly found Hazard who quickly rounded Darren Randolph who quickly slotted home, and the result was never in doubt thereafter.

On 39 minutes Kante again walloped Kouyate, only for Pedro to lose possession in a good position before, on the stroke of half-time, he somehow caught up with his own interception 15 yards down the pitch – astounding behaviour from anyone but him – fighting through a challenge along the by-line before laying back to Hazard. And even then, there was still time for him to send Pedro away with an astute pass which nearly resulted in a second Chelsea goal.

That duly arrived on 50 minutes. Skittering forward like Bambi on roller skates, Kante picked up a pass played to him by Hazard – with his back. Again, he moved it on cleverly, his team won a corner, and somehow Diego Costa was left alone in the six-yard box to finish clinically with his thigh.

West Ham pushed a little after that, so Conte shut the game down. Altering his formation from 3-4-3 to 5-3-2, his players adjusted seamlessly and nearly scored again when Kante found Hazard, whose clever ball into Costa prompted a clever turn and shot, which slid just wide.

The away fans had seen enough, spending the rest of the game mercilessly goading their rivals – the majority of whom disappeared long before Manuel Lanzini’s injury-time consolation goal. And accepted etiquette or not, who could blame them? “We’re gonna win the league” must’ve been bad enough, but they’ve heard that one before. On the other hand, the painful truth of “You’re not West Ham anymore” and “You sold your soul for this s***hole” were expressions of n’golo too far.

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