Author: Alan

We Came To Celebrate and Are Not Downhearted

/ Alan / 15 Comments

We came to celebrate, and despite the result we were not downhearted.

We battled through the hold-ups on the M25 and the Blackwall Tunnel, blanched at the accident on the North Circular and arrived in our seats panting from effort as well as excitement. Same old jokes, we make them, we’re told them and still we laugh as if we’ve never heard them before. ‘5-0 by halftime? Or a bit longer? No probs.’ The teams are just coming out and the sudden arrival heightens the shock. From a dowdy north London street, plunged into the glare of white light and blaring fanfare I am transformed, grinning manically. On TV this is precisely the clichéd manufactured atmosphere I abhor. Being there, I can’t quite believe this is the Champions League at White Hart Lane, a worldwide audience welcomed to our little home.  Should be used to it but I’m not, and in a way hope I never am, because this thrill should never be taken for granted. A corny soundtrack and twenty kids flapping a giant fireman’s blanket festooned with logos: somebody catch me, I’m falling.

We came to acclaim our heroes, despite the forlorn hope of victory, and my goodness how we roared them on. Those watching on TV knew what an atmosphere sounds like, real support from proper supporters, hardened over years of disappointment to the point where we know when the team needs us. The noise rolled around the old ground, tightly packed stands close to the pitch, a raucous cacophony from all sides in a proper football ground.

We got behind them and they knew. You could see it in every sprint and stride, every tackle, the grimace of challenges or the deftest of passes. It was meant for them and they knew. As with the performance against Stoke, they channelled their disappointment at the first leg result into sustained endeavour, maybe to win, there was always a chance, but mainly just to prove they could play against one of the finest European club sides, to match themselves against the best.

The first half hour flew by, almost as quickly as Bale flew past Ramos. With Modric prompting and Pav active up front, Bale took on a steady supply of long cross field passes and rose to his task. He fearlessly took them on and delivered several searching crosses under the most intense pressure that on another day with perhaps some shrewder positioning by colleagues in the box could have been converted. His touch to bring down a shoulder high pass destined for the stands and then instantly charge at them once more was nothing short of miraculous. Taking deep regenerating breaths on his way back to the halfway line, he was tired. His back ached, so he adjusted his strapping and head down, charged again.

We needed goals and came close on a few occasions, Pav missing the best chance as Lennon laid bare the defence then laid the ball back. It bounced at the crucial instant of contact, way over. Lennon attempted to make up for whatever happened in Madrid, coming into the match more as the half progressed, always  dangerous. He could have crossed it  more often rather than touch it back but he did so well. The other great opportunity was when a long Bale throw fell at Huddlestone’s feet, much to his and everyone else’s surprise. Back to goal a few yards out, there was no movement for him in the box and the chance of a simple lay-off was gone.

The imperative to attack left us stretched at the back, very much so at times but there was no alternative. We scraped by on more than a couple of occasions. Our captain had his own solution: Michael Dawson decided to take them on alone. He wanted to be first to every ball. Seemingly right across the back line, he appeared whenever danger threatened. Left, right, upfield or in the box, time and again he won the ball. Not everything worked – he overreached himself once or twice, a reminder of the player of two or three years ago – but now he has the experience to cover his lack of pace. One moment of classic defending, when Ronaldo’s shimmy left BAE face down  in the grass, Daws came smoothly across, stood tall, waited, then made the tackle. It wasn’t a night for defenders, supposedly, but his performance shone with pride and total commitment.

You may tire of reading in the blog of the wonders of Luka Modric but I’ll never tire of writing about him. Another top class performance of midfield artistry, stubby strides over the turf in search of scarps at the back and deadly passes going forward. Given some freedom by Hud’s presence and then Rafa dropping deep, he went further forward as the half progressed and almost scored or made an assist. Almost. When he came off towards the end, he looked shattered by the pain of defeat, as if it were then and only then that the possibility had crossed his mind that somehow his talent was not about to create a miracle. Arm round his manager, he went to slump on the bench.

A fine first half but no goals. Pav did well on his own up front, effort, movement and even a bit of muscle, but he lacked support. I would have liked a bold decision from Harry for this one,  have the balls to leave Rafa out and go two up front but Defoe is woefully out of sorts. I’m sure I would been grumbling if he had played. Now if Crouch were eligible and hadn’t…enough of that one already, I think. As it was, Rafa should have stayed further forward, sliding across the edge of the box and in contact with Pav and the midfield. That’s where he does his best work, as in the second half when he looked fit to me.

We didn’t quite do enough to get the ball into the crucial area in front of their back four but behind the midfield. Madrid press well upfield which makes it hard for us to play out of defence. However, this leaves space behind them. It’s difficult to put the ball there, especially as the superb Alonso was patrolling, but nevertheless there were opportunities missed. To have beaten Madrid we all had to be on top of our games, and Hud had a reasonable rather than good time, wayward with some of his passing. No real criticism but he could have been key, his passing the reason why he was preferred to Sandro.

Ronaldo is a card, eh? Before kick-off he had a pleasant chat with Bale on the halfway line, all smiles. 90 seconds later he’s clutching his backside and rolling around after an innocuous challenge. A precious moment with the strutting peacock in the second half, he goes over to the bench for, apparently, the sole purpose of having a minion fall at his feet and tie his laces. Fabulous player, mind.

And so the second half is ushered in with the same gags.  ‘Don’t be late back from the bogs, you’ll miss the first of the 5″, still the same gallows humour in response. No laughs as the ball spins from Gomes’ grasp. Not only this, it taunts him by seeming to remain within reach before agonisingly creeping over the line. The balloon’s been pricked and the hissing of escaping hopes and dreams is heard from miles away.  Another one makes little difference, logically, but the whole place sags. Just something, a goal, pride, a win on the night, by now that would have been sufficient but it was gone. There were 35 minutes left but effectively that was that. Individuals tried to make up for it on their own with series of increasingly desperate runs from JD and Sandro, Modric too, but you have to pass it to get round this lot.

Harry and Jose loiter on the touchline, two blokes with long coats, hands thrust deep into pockets and idly kicking up traces of dirt with the tips of their shoes. ‘What me,  nah, just hanging around waiting for a mate.”. They cared, profoundly, and there’s no point in hiding it.

There’s a celebration of the presence of another Tottenham great, Paul Gascoigne, who doesn’t often do the rounds of the lounges and boxes (although sadly lounge bars, maybe) but you trust his mental well-being is boosted by the warmth from people who love him. The singing is still going but quieter. Then, for no obvious reason, the doldrums are lifted by a chant for Luka Modric. Then another, and another, and the Park Lane goes through as many men as they can, a touching recognition that despite defeat we are with them, for they have done us proud.

The end was sad. This is gone now. Pride in the fact that we the fans were able to participate in the Champions League quarter final, pride in the players who got us there. Chelsea are advertising on the radio for their upcoming home games, presumably because their gloryhunting fans are sick to death of a decade of unbroken success. At Spurs, we stayed behind to give them a standing ovation, long and hard. An ovation for a team that had lost 5-0. That’s what Europe meant to us, that’s how much we believe in our team. We know what has been achieved. True fans, lifelong supporters.

 

 

To ease the pain, there’s a good interview with Ricky Villa here, from Duncan Tucker: http://duncantucker.wordpress.com/2011/04/09/candela-live-interview-with-ricky-villa/

Plus more about the paperback edition of one of the best Spurs’ books ‘The Boys from White Hart Lane‘ by Adam Powley and Martin Cloake http://martincloake.wordpress.com/

Spurs Take A Bow For Bouncing Back

/ Alan / 8 Comments

Still feeling the pain of Tuesday night’s self-inflicted wounds, Stoke were frankly the last team I wanted to meet this weekend. High energy and elbows, they saw  us as victims, injured, bleeding and sorry for ourselves. At kick-off I swear from the Shelf I saw the glint in Pulis’ eyes.

Time to do more with those anxiety exercises, I think. I could not have been more wrong. Spurs came out confident and bold from the first whistle, as fresh as the spring sunshine. Our passing and movement was a delight, successive attacks bringing the whole team into play, shifting from side to side, someone always available for the extra pass. Luka and Rafa buzzed around the box, prompting and probing, making a series of chances. Crouch and Pav were willing foils and played their full part, even a hint of a partnership in the making.

The team deserve great credit for this. In the past they’ve not apparently been able to raise themselves for challenges like this one. The disappointment of Madrid must have knocked the stuffing out of them despite the bullish statements about it only being half time. So praise without reservation for this professional focus. They demonstrated admirable purpose and poise, every last one of them.

The return of Huddlestone and Kaboul provided extra impetus. Both looked fresh and willing. Hud passed the ball well throughout, giving that added dimension of more possibilities, increasing the number of angles and picking out the men ahead of him quickly, accurately and early. His first time cross for Crouch’s second was effortless and pinpoint, a sumptuous arc that invited the header.

I’ve remarked before on Kaboul’s determination all season to claim a place in the starting line-up. In the first couple of minutes, he won two challenges in quick succession, imposing himself on the game right from the beginning. he sent a message to Stoke that they could not floor us physically. Not only that, his bouncy confidence spread through the team from the back. Despite a couple of wild moments, most notably his run upfield in the last 5 minutes when Stoke had brought on the big guys, it was an impressive return, bearing in mind the length of time he’s been injured.

if we’re liberally sharing out the praise, here’s a double scoop for Peter Crouch. What the hell, stick a flake on top. Defying both his limitations as a footballer and the burden of responsibility for his role in Madrid, it was his best performance for ages, maybe ever. Two classic far post headers, one firmly deposited into the back of the net from close range, the other back across the keeper. No mean feat considering the giants hulking around in the Stoke back four. It also shows the value of decent crosses.

After Madrid, some fans went in search of an apology. This absurd trend in the modern game is no more than a pathetic PR stunt, designed to pacify, well, no one except the papers perhaps. There’s only one way to prove your worth after a shocker, the same one that has applied since the game first began: go out and play a blinder, and keep it going. He duly obliged. I hope he appreciates the generosity of the Spurs crowd, who warmly cheered him when he pranced about in the warm-up, then gave him some special noise when they announced the teams. I confess I clapped but remained mute. He’s a lucky man, especially as it was not so long ago that he treated the Park Lane to some ironic applause when they had the nerve to seethe over another wayward display. He was visibly delighted and responded accordingly.

I did the Observer Fans’ network report on Sunday. They call after the match and run through a few questions, then ask for ratings out of 10, which annoy me anyway but at that point I was negotiating a particularly dodgy manoeuvre to get onto the North Circular. That’s my excuse for giving Pav a 6, i.e. average. I hereby apologise. A 7 is more like it…as if he cares. He could and should have been sharper in front of goal but he had one, possibly two assists. Generally he worked around Crouch, with Peter drifting to the far post while Pav had a freer role in and around the box. Could this be the start of something good? It’s the best partnership we have up front as JD is nowhere right now.

Self-inflicted wounds. The title for the book of the season. Completely on top, we gave the ball away and let Stoke back into things not once but twice. How many times is this going to happen this season? The mark of a good team is that they come back after a bad game, but we’re not there yet if we fail on the other criteria and lose possession so easily. Etheringtons’ goal was particularly good, however.

Stoke’s formation surprised me. We tend not to do well if the opposition crowd us, and Stoke are well practised at this, yet they kept an expansive shape with Pennant and Etherington out wide. Delap and Whelan were often outnumbered as Rafa came off his wing into the centre. Also, Pennant gave his full back little protection against Bale, who looked full of vim and vigour again. First challenge, Pennant kicked Bale at the top of the shinpad and laughed as he trotted back. Part of a plan, I think, but he discovered that Bale was almost back to full strength and fitness.

Modric was back in the centre and both he and the whole team looked better for it. One surge led to a superb goal, striking into the heart of the defence and plunging the knife home with a decisive finish. One sublime little pass, 15 or 20 yards only but bisecting two defenders precisely into Bale’s stride. Brilliant. Again.

Stoke came back into it in the second half, which was not as entertaining as the first. They came closer to scoring, hitting the post via Gomes’ body, and pressured us with a series of high balls that did nothing for my blood pressure. We held out, even though I lost it completely when Corluka just kicked the ball aimlessly downfield in injury time instead of passing to a white shirt. Walking back to the car, pulse almost back to normal, I reminded myself that actually in those frantic last minutes, we won every single ball into the box. not all were cleared at the first time of asking but we got there first. Credit again.

I was delighted with their spirit. We should have won at a canter but we won, a victory much needed as the top four were receding into the distance. We need to secure 5th too, just to remember. It’s put me in good spirits for Wednesday. First 30 minutes, let’s give it a real good go. Win or lose in the end, give it everything and I’ll be happy. Lennon and Bale flying on either wing, stretch them as they stretched us. If Bale takes out three men to stop him, then slip it inside where others will be waiting. Let them know they’ve been in a game. I’m actually looking forward to it now.

That Song: Enough Already

/ Alan / 11 Comments

As if the result in Madrid wasn’t bad enough, Spurs remain in the news because the goalscorer has spoken about the abuse he received. Quite how Emmanuel Abebayor heard the song infamously named after him is surprising in itself. From what I hear from people who were there, the din at the Bernabeu was like nothing they had experienced elsewhere. A backhanded compliment perhaps, to the many thousands of loyal Tottenham supporters who tried their best to raise the team’s flagging spirits. However, there’s no joy or glory to be had in this loathsome example of terrace creativity.

Let’s get into this. It’s racist. It’s not nearly as overtly racist as the abuse that was hurled at black players in the 70s, when anything could be shouted with complete impunity. Clyde Best, the West Ham striker who was one of the first black players to make an impact in the old first division, was regularly racially abused by his own fans, for goodness sake.

This does not make it better nor excuse either the obnoxious lyrics or the obvious gusto with which it is sung. I don’t care about the degrees of discrimination: it’s an empty debate because it’s foul. It’s about a black man washing elephants. His father may have indeed washed elephants in the past but this is irrelevant because it’s used here in a derogatory way. The song doesn’t go, “Your father undertook a series of menial jobs despite the probable stigma and damage to his self-esteem in order to care for his family and give his son the best possible opportunity to further his footballing career”. It’s a wounding insult directly related to a skewed perception of his upbringing, distorted by negativity and cultural superiority.

Yes, as others have pointed out, his mother may well be a prostitute but I’m not sure that the evidence is conclusive. Ridiculous if I phrase it that way, nevertheless this is has been part of the debate on some messageboards. The word is used because it rhymes with Abebayor and is suitably degrading.

The Campbell song – equally sour and obnoxious. It’s homophobic and makes fun of an illness. It may be a mental illness but no on cares about mental health, do they. If he had cancer they wouldn’t chant, even though he’s hated. It also uses imagery drawn directly from the experience of black people in the south of the USA throughout the last hundred and fifty years. Sorry if I’m bringing up the history of persecuted groups here but in both the songs, those are the images that have been chosen. Sol wasn’t in a gas oven or under a train, obnoxious though those examples would be.

Abuse is part of football culture whether we like it or not. It won’t go away and I don’t want it to. In a recent comments section on this blog, when a piece was filtered out by Newsnow because I included a swear word, my dear old friend Ian noted that he had hardly ever heard me swear. Very sweet but inaccurate. Football brings out the sweary in me and I enjoy it. Let it all out. Not too much when kids are around, it’s under control, but that’s what kids will hear at a game and if parents don’t want them to, then deal with it afterwards. Children understand when to use those words and when not to.

So I’m by no means a prude. In fact, the modern footballer deserves some stick if they are not giving value to the fans because it is the only way sometimes to shake them out of their comfort zones, insulted by their fat agents and fatter bank accounts, turning up for the money and neglecting the supporters. Campbell is the classic example. He let us down so badly, he shouldn’t have an easy time when he comes to the Lane. Talking of the noise in Madrid, when he appeared in the first derby after his transfer, there was bedlam. Talk of a Spanish style turning our backs gave way to good old fashioned abuse and I joined in.

However, this is not an excuse to not only sing but almost to revel in chants that contain language you could not and should not use in any other setting. Neither is it an excuse to say other teams do the same to us. As a jew, the hissing noises through clenched teeth and masked by gleeful grins are wretched and deeply sinister, especially as no police or steward will do anything about it. The anti-Semitism from other fans is rife. That’s no excuse for the song.

I admit that I’m not sure where the line between legitimate abuse at football matches and songs like the Campbell and Adebayor chants runs precisely, but wherever it is is, the songs cross it. Way, way past. Moreover, debate about the finer points serves only to obscure the bigger picture. It’s often used by detractor of the so-called ‘PC brigade’, political correctness itself being a term of denigration that dismisses the efforts, sometimes misplaced admittedly, of people who wish to communicate in a manner that does not discriminate against their fellow human beings.

These songs are vile, nasty and despicable. They have given Spurs fans the label of being discriminatory because of the adverse publicity they have garnered. This deflects attention from the consistent anti-Semitism that surrounds us. Also, Spurs fans have a proud history of not being discriminatory. In the bad old days, Spurs fans didn’t have racist chants, they welcomed our black players, no bananas on the pitch. I genuinely can’t remember when I last heard an individual fan shout a racist remark at the Lane. Now this glorious part of our heritage has been tarnished. Please stop.

Spurs Crumble Then Capitulate

/ Alan / 11 Comments

Not like this. Not this way. If we had to go, and we’ve had a miraculous tilt at this European lark, then go down with a passion, a flourish. With the style that swept Inter aside, or the courage and poise that created a victory against Milan in Italy, then the fortitude than saw us through at White Hart Lane. But not like that.

Reaching the Champions league quarter finals is a wonderful achievement, far beyond my wildest dreams when the campaign started. ‘Reaching the group stages and giving a good account of ourselves’ or some such, that’s what I wrote back then and I believed it. To be contenders, to be part of something, that would have been enough for me.

So here we are are, the heady intoxication of the CL quarter finals, and when the camera panned around the floodlit tiers of the Bernabeu, every Spurs fan in the world bit their lip and marvelled. What that, in my eye, just a speck of dust….  At the start of the season nobody expected this but here we were, on merit. We deserved to be there because we had taken on and beaten some top sides. We had done everything we needed to and no one could ask for more.

There’s disappointment but never despair in being beaten by a better team, and Madrid were far superior on the night.. This one wasn’t quite like that. Spurs have so much to be proud of but this meek capitulation means it will take a while for that positive memory to rise to the surface of my steaming and frazzled brain. To lose to a series of self-inflicted calamities hurts. However well Madrid played, however many shots on goal they racked up, all the goals were avoidable to a greater or lesser extent. Two at least made us look mugs, and that hurts badly. They pulled us this way and that, stretching our ten men until we snapped, but two of their goals were unchallenged headers from set pieces that came straight out of the Blue Square. Majestically taken but utterly preventable. An early corner and their main danger man is unmarked. All he had to do was to take a few steps forward and jump. No one was on him. No one.

In other circumstances, you couldn’t blame the team for using a corner to take a few seconds breather. Second half now, under intense pressure but surviving with two banks of four, working hard, thinking hard, still only one nil and thoughts of having something to aim for at the Lane. But against the cream, there’s no respite. Quick corner, Gallas clearly hampered all night by his injury although he did well to make light of it, nothing in his legs to jump, but still criminally isolated as another straightforward header from a quick corner.

I’ve left the worst until now because I don’t even want to think about it, let alone write a couple of vaguely coherent paragraphs. This blog makes a determined effort not to blame individuals but the utterly inexcusable actions of Peter Crouch delivered a body blow that left us doubled up. It was as if you were cornered by a gang of bullies in the park then one of your mates turns round and whacks you. The physical pain will pass but the sense of being let down lingers on.

In my more philosophical moments, of which there are many,  secretly I like it when sportsmen at the top of their profession do something stupid under pressure, because it shows that actually they’re human, they are like you and me. This is not one of those moments. Lumbering in for challenges that he was never going to win, not once but twice, the yellow card warning totally ignored. Lanky leg off the ground, not once but twice. Them’s the rules, Peter, have been all season. To compound the madness, two completely unnecessary challenges, 70, 80 yards from our goal. No despairing last ditch heroic efforts here.

Time and again we’ve stressed the value of experience in Europe and how this team has had to learn so quickly, on the hoof. Yet this is not the case for a 30 year old veteran of World Cups and of European competition. No callow youth this, tanked up on adrenalin and speeding the night away.

This destroyed us. Bizarre though it seems in the cold light of day, Crouch was arguably the single most important player in our formation. His height has troubled other European defences and so Harry teamed him with Rafa, the latter searching for crumbs as the long far post balls not only might have created something up front, they also provided a precious lifeline to relieve pressure on the defence. He might have helped out at corners too…

His absence meant we were under pressure throughout. Rafa lost his role and was taken off as the game passed him by. Ten against eleven would bend us out of shape. No out ball meant we could not shift the ball out of our half. No one to hold it up, back it came almost before we had time to catch a lungful of air. Pressed back, time and again our midfield, harassed and harried, looked up desperately for something ahead of them. However slim a chance of getting it forward at least with Crouch there would be something, but they searched in vain.

Mouriniho needs no second bidding. He pushed his men up to hold a high line. The back four could play it out with impunity. Marcello could get forward, freed from the pressure of having to care about what he had left behind at the back. No Lennon to worry about either. Very odd that, by the way. I’ve not seen the media since the final whistle. I wonder if he complained about something before kickoff and they were forced into making a sudden ‘should he shouldn’t he’ decision. Whatever, his threat was important tactically in keeping the rading Madrid full back occupied. Madird could therefore press high up in midfield, just as Barca do. We were never going to get behind their defence and Bale and then Rafa from the cheekiest of throws, were dealt with by Carvaliho. JD coming on was pointless.

Spurs passing and movement was poor and we gave away the ball so many, many times. Luka was unexpectedly at fault. I looked to him for something different. However, Madrid gave them absolutely no room to move and any team in the world bar Barca would have struggled in those circumstances.

After the early disruption caused first by Lennon’s sudden withdrawal then Crouch’s brainstorm, we regrouped and defended well for long periods by conceding territory and crowding the space in front of our back four. Jenas and Sandro worked hard, the latter dropping back to central defence to limit the room Madrid wanted to play those little angled passes. Dawson was the pick of our defenders, determined and strong. Not sure where he was for the second goal, though, and at times Madrid pulled him out of the comfort of the middle. He seldom missed a tackle. Gomes was admirably decisive and his clean handling would have inspired an increasingly desperate rearguard effort. Then an error at the near post. Those shots are harder to save than they appear on TV. It came from behind a defender and was swerving, but he still should have got a stronger hand to it to save.

Ultimately it was too much. Ten men plus wave upon wave of eager  attackers, probing away. Bale not fit enough to both attack and drop back to defend, three men on him instantly he received the ball. There was room on our right. Corluka was often left unprotected too, then injured. We’ve run out of right backs for the league now. Gallas couldn’t jump. The pressure told as we tired, giving the ball away more and more, unable to close down every forward.

Not the end of our European adventure but an ignominious night none the less. 4-0 is a sound beating. Given the  nature of the defeat, it will be so hard to be inspired by adversity to league success. Self-inflicted wounds take an age to heal. Stoke will be looking to steamroller us on Saturday, knackered, injuries and depressed. Never mind the top four, the struggle to hold on to the top four will test Harry’s powers of motivation to the limit.

 

No Wigan report this week. New piece of software, pressed the wrong button when in the final paragraph, no time to re-write it. You were mortified, weren’t you. Regards, Al