Author: Alan

The Seismic Rending of Victory in the North London Derby

/ Alan / 9 Comments

Released from the stifling burden of his defensive responsibilities, Kyle Walker moves purposefully onto a loose ball. He’s spent a good while with his back to the wall, unable to shake free of the relentless pressure coming his way as our north London rivals dominate. Walker’s known primarily for his pace but he’s a fine footballer too, so it’s a touch then head down, eyes on the ball, it flies low and on target.

Walker has phenomenal potential but still has a lot to learn – his pace can’t solve every defensive conundrum. The thing is, this young man is tough beyond his years, battle hardened as a teenager in the Championship and now he has his opportunity, he’s absolutely determined to seize it. His eyes are cold and focussed. Ready. As the ball hits the net, the deafening sound of a seismic shift, a  cracking, groaning roar as plates collide to reshape our world in a terrible rending. Rising from the dust, a fresh landscape, new typography to bury the old amongst layers of dinosaur eras. North London is ours.

When I first began to understand fully the significance and drama of the derby, the records of the two clubs over the years showed almost precise symmetry. In the thirty or so years since then, one team has forged ahead. It’s bad enough but on top of that they not only pinched our precious prize of being the only team to win the double, they did it on our ground, then repeated that feat, as well as playing some of the best football the Premier League has ever seen.

Their dominance was symbolised not by these frightening statistics but in the derbies. We just could not get near them. Every time, something happened. Controversial decisions, red cards, we score four but they get five, how can that happen? But most of the time, the fact is they swept us aside, at the Lane with dazzling counter-attacking football and a defensive line that left us like toddlers banging our fists on the floor in blind frustration. I still feel the pain.

Now the balance has finally shifted. Three wins and a draw in the last four tells part of the tale. The key is, we have rebuilt our team gradually whereas they have failed to do the same. Now it’s they who are struggling to keep up. Our blend of youth and experience represents the way forward. And then there’s the intangible but real sensation that in a tight game like this one, it’s going to swing our way. We absorbed considerable pressure in the second half especially and had a few scrapes but did not concede another. In the past, we’ve had to play at our absolute best even to be in with a shout. Yesterday we won despite quiet performances from Modric and Adebayor. Then there’s that swerving, challenging shot that no one, and let’s be honest that includes the fans as well as the keeper, thought was going in until it crossed the line and there was no turning back.

Unlike the crash bang wallop of other city derbies, this was another in the growing tradition of excellent matches, shaped by a fascinating tactical battle between one manager who lives and breathes tactics and another who likes to deny their importance. As with many aspects of Redknapp’s public persona, things aren’t what they seem and ultimately the changes he introduced in the second half proved decisive.

Harry’s instinct to attack plus our opponent’s weakness in defence encouraged a 4-4-2. Wenger countered with five in midfield, tried and trusted by him as well as covering up for his side’s imperfections. After a bright start when we had good chances, their three in centre midfield first stifled our advances then after a period of stalemate, pushed us onto the back foot. Defoe was forced deeper and deeper. To his credit he worked hard all afternoon to good effect but it wasn’t where he wanted to be.

Despite this, we had gone one up, wonderful control from Van der Vaart – no irony, there, not handball – followed by a shot across the keeper. Although the marking could have been better, Rafa made that chance by his movement, popping up unexpectedly on the left. He has the freedom to do so because of the movement behind him, Parker running the show and shifting across to cover if he or others go forward. Adebayor didn’t shine, and missed a cracking chance in the second half, but on the theme of movement, he takes defenders with him to make space for others. A special mention for Defoe in the build-up to the goal. Instead of knocking the ball off, back to goal he turned and took the initiative. That was the crucial moment. Suddenly it created danger and committed their defenders. Three passes later, the ball was in the back of the net.

Second half, the three dominated and enabled them to exploit our vulnerable left. Parker and Modric couldn’t get the ball, never mind get us going, and we fell apart for the equaliser. Too much room for the cross, acres of space at the near post to score.

Redknapp turned the tide by bringing on Sandro, a brave decision to take off your goalscorer and and dangerman, but the correct one. Chances came and went but with this new Spurs there’s another one coming along. Luka should have done better with his but he was uncharacteristically off his admittedly stellar standards. However, he and Bale had done enough to unbalanced the defence that throughout we had been able to move around. Sucked left, there was space on the right as the ball ran loose to Walker.

When the going gets tough, Scott Parker gets going. He took over and despite a couple of knocks, he was not prepared to let this hard-won lead slip. It was as if he’s been playing in the derbies for ten years rather than making his debut. He knew what it meant. Outstanding. With Sandro straight into the action and Bale raiding down the left, we could have scored again but at least it meant for most of the time we had the ball and kept it far, far away from our goal. Kaboul and King protected it well, with Van Persie anonymous. Kaboul was beaten too easily twice in the first half by RVP, once conceding a free kick. However, he didn’t repeat those errors and was commanding in the last 20 minutes, when he needed to be. King’s return is a masterstroke by Harry. He doesn’t seem stretched in the slightest. Odd though to see our rivals cross the ball so often, rather than pass it around, a sure sign that their powers are on the wane. K and K headed it all away.

We won, yet by the end I was exhausted. Relief at the final whistle, but as I calmed down, I realised that despite my anxiety, we were totally on top after we scored. Now there’s only joy, which will last a long while. This is going to be a good week.

It’s frankly unlikely that in other circumstances I’d be able to have a chat with Salman Rushdie. However, a combination of Twitter and the comradeship of being a fan brought us together last evening. A few messages exchanged, he’s been a Spurs fan for 50 years and watched the match in Los Angeles, where he reports the sun grew even brighter on the final whistle. Let’s enjoy the sun and enjoy the win together.

 

 

 

 

TOMM Takes A Break For a Week

/ Alan / 3 Comments

Family stuff and that, so rather than bodge a post or two, I’ll pause for breath, back this time next week, with the mouthwatering prospect of the north London derby. So many of their fans on the phone-ins expressing their dread at this fixture. Mmmm.

Plenty of the good stuff in the pipeline, including a revised and expanded version of my piece on Spurs and the riots that’s in this month’s When Saturday Comes magazine and an interview with legendary Spurs author Martin Cloake on Danny Blanchflower.

Regards,

Alan

Still Laughing

/ Alan / 20 Comments

Yesterday I rediscovered a valuable element of the art of watching football. It’s absent for a good reason – when Spurs play it’s a serious business as far as I’m concerned and I’m totally absorbed. Wouldn’t have it any other way, that complete commitment is the source of the passion, but it can be draining and debilitating sometimes. Watching Spurs, you know what it’s like. Yesterday however, there were times when I could throw back my head, punch the air, slap a few backs, jokes even. Yesterday I rediscovered laughter.

 

Glorious flowing football, top quality performances, opponents imploding, four goals and above all, the last 20 minutes just to sit back and lap it up. I often say that I can relax only when we’re 5 up in injury time but sadly that’s not so far from the truth. Even yesterday, when we were utterly dominant in the first half, there was always the danger that one ball onto Carroll’s head would undo the marking that left him anonymous or the scintillating play that should have given us a three goal lead at the very least after 55 minutes. But two in quick succession, against 9 men, and I was chuckling with the wild joy of it all.

 

Never mind the dismissals, we started supremely well and maintained that level of excellence. Modric and Parker set the tone, get on the ball and push it around. Adebayor holds it, knocks it off, in the air or on the ground, finds space and finds the channels, and if he’s in those channels, Luka, Scotty and Niko in the first half, Rafa in the second, will find him. Crouch seems like a bad dream. That was all in my imagination, right?

 

We slaughtered Skirtel, destroyed by a combination of Bale’s pace and Benny pinging classic first-time passes inside him. On the hour, he’d had enough. That foul was his only means of escape.

 

In case it’s escaped anyone, Luka might have wanted a transfer but he’s a professional. No hint of anything less than his supreme best. And the goal, pouncing on a loose ball, up and onwards, up and onwards, we were right behind the line and in the air before it hit the netting. I didn’t come down for a few minutes. The break in play that followed shortly afterwards provided respite to marvel and wonder. And there followed the imperceptible dip of the shoulder, leaving two men in his wake, the pass that took out four defenders. Outstanding.

 

In a game with so much at stake, even this early in the season, Liverpool fell apart. I can’t recall the last time I’ve seen a top team cave in so easily. Their attitude was all wrong and too many were absent, Henderson, Carroll, Suarez and Downing, all players I rate. However badly we are playing, Spurs inder Redknapp would never show that attitude.

 

Suarez did provide one of the classic comedy moments. Berating the linesman, he was the last man in the ground to realise his was about to be booked as the ref strode officiously towards him. Still he carried on, until the ref suddenly appeared in his line of sight. Comedy gold.

 

I thought the ref was OK, although I suspect Liverpool fans think otherwise. His booking threshold early on was low, which I don’t like, but he was consistent, and Adam and Skirtel can have no complaints.

 

Bale was dangerous throughout but selfish – too many long shots. However, he made several chances and just as you began to fear the worst, one up and wasting opportunities galore, Defoe held on and took his chance. Manu followed soon after. It will go down as tucking in a rebound or some such platitude that doesn’t do him justice. He flicked up and over the keeper, and in. The chuktspah of it all. That’s class, top class, because it was done with such nonchalance.

 

Credit to Harry for setting up the team so well, literally the shape of things to come. Parker as DM, stays back or rather comes forward last, Luka’s starting position is deeper than last season but the platform gives him and others more freedom to get forward. Benny has clearly been told not to venture too far forward too often. This makes it easier for Niko/Rafa to cut in and Walker has room when they do.

 

Parker, the fifties throwback, neat short back and sides with a hint of daring in the fringe, baggy shorts and black boots, centre of gravity somewhere beneath the earth’s crust. it’s his first touch that stands out. Or maybe his positioning, tucked in deep, sliding into the gaps in the back four or shepherding the ball away. Short passing, yes, that’s it, pass and move, always there, keep the tempo high. How about long passes, like the one late on, picked out his man, on the spot. I had a little chuckle, so many on the boards said he wasn’t good enough for us because he was at WHam.

 

The little things that matter so much, that show we’ve prepared well. That show we care. Ledley, knee knackered, groin groaning, pocket large enough for both Carroll and Suarez, gets 7 minutes rest at the end, not that he broke sweat all afternoon. 7 minutes left, 3 goals and 2 players to the good, he pauses at the touchline to give Bassong detailed instructions.

 

Walker, major player in the defensive mess that nearly gave a goal away, moments later has the presence of mind to stoop low and head back to his keeper when he could have been forgiven for just banging it anywhere. A cool head and no fear, more precious even than his pace.

 

Friedel, Friedel what’s the score? No answer. Gomes and Robinson would have played to the crowd. Brad is focus and concentration. I know which I prefer and that professionalism is turning a good team better. I’m still laughing.

 

Manu – We Need Him But Does He Need Us?

/ Alan / 19 Comments

Tottenham Hotspur desperately need a player like Emmanuel Adebayor. His strength, pace and goalscoring ability on the ground and in the air will if all goes smoothly become the long sought after focal point for our attacking play. No one who was at the Lane to witness his exquisite volley in the 3-1 defeat by our neighbours will need to be convinced – it’s seared in my brain, probably forever, which can’t be said for many of the goals we’ve scored since then.

So the real question is not do we need Emmanuel Adebayor but why does he need us? Specifically, and let’s not beat around the bush here, why does he want to play in front of fans who have given him dogs abuse, more calculated and vile than any I can recall in over 40 years of watching Spurs?

That Song is nasty, brutish and racist. Many say that’s not a legitimate interpretation. I wrote about this last year and nothing I’ve heard before or since has altered my opinion. I am neither a prude nor averse to the abuse that crowds dish out during matches. In fact, there’s a powerful argument  to say that abuse is all fans have left in the face of intransigent and distant administrators, a game driven by profit and power and players who value money and celebrity above pride in their performance.

Despite this, there are limits and this song goes too far. In so doing, it shames the tradition of tolerance in the stands at Spurs. We are rightly indignant when subjected to the equally despicable insults relating to the yids tag, especially as no one does anything about it, indeed in some quarters we are blamed for bringing it on ourselves. However, in the dark days of football racism in the seventies and eighties, when WHam and Chelsea fans racially abused their own black players, when bananas were routinely chucked onto the pitch and not as an energy aid, you never, ever saw that at Tottenham. Yet this song is sung out of habit these days, when until recently the player had nothing to do with us, didn’t even play in the same league. I’m not particularly aware of him having a real go at us, although I am happy to be corrected. Not in the way Terry and Lampard, Henry and Pires have gone out of their way to taunt us.

The song is sung just for the delight of it. He first heard when his father had been dead for less than a year. And we are not the only ones. L’arse sung it when he scored against them for City after his infamous length of the field run to their end.

So in the face of this extraordinary abuse, which he heard for himself at the Bernabeu only a few months back, knowing the fans detest him, he signs. If he strung us along until deadline day only to spurn us at the last second, I wouldn’t have blamed him.

The easy answer is ‘money’. No doubt there’s plenty on offer, not just in terms of matching his salary but also a hefty bonus for signing on the dotted line. However, that’s not the sole reason because he could have achieved that aim by staying where he was or by accepting the other offers that were around.

Professional pride is a factor. He wants to play regularly and knows he will be first choice at Spurs. Harry made him welcome and despite any misgivings about his image expressed on this blog and elsewhere, his reputation with most players is justifiably high. Our style suits Manu perfectly, and if it all goes according to plan, he will be a star again.

Yet professional pride can’t be the full answer because there’s plenty of evidence portraying the striker as disruptive and selfish. At our neighbours he became bored and agitated for a move, cited in the process as an unwelcome influence in the dressing room, while at City he had a right sulk on after being left out, including a fight with one of his team-mates. When the mood takes him, he’s not professional in the slightest.

For us mere mortals, it’s nigh on impossible to fully understand the psyche of a professional footballer. They’re like you and me, flesh and blood after all, yet so different at the same time. In your world, whatever your job, if you had been viciously and publicly abused over a sustained period by your main rival company, would you go and work for them for the same money and if you had an alternative job offer? At your sales conventions, in the pub, in your trade press, you were the butt of all the jokes, now you’re on the payroll. I wouldn’t, and I’m the most reasonable man I’ve ever known.

Some players deal with this by being mercenaries, flitting from club to club with little or no loyalty to anything other than themselves and their paycheque, but that doesn’t ring true in this case. There’s something more to Adebayor. Many professionals react to the pressure by retreating into their own world as a form of self-protection. They assiduously guard this sense of self-worth, to the point of absurdity at times where their self-importance becomes arrogance. However, without their self-confidence, they are lost, unable to cut it in the face of the demand to succeed in the public eye, endless analysis of their faults compounded with stark abuse from fans. In Adebayor’s case, this resilience is not just about football, it’s survival.

The messageboards and twitter greeted Adebayor’s signing with a flood of suitably positive new versions of That Song, and very amusing and self-depreciating they were too. In a small way I like to think I set the ball rolling. Granted my effort in that article last year is unlikely to be adopted by the Park Lane –  “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 doesn’t even scan but has the advantage of historical accuracy.

Manu was born and raised in Lome, a town near Togo’s border with Ghana, where in order to eke out a living for her son and his 5 siblings, his mother sold dried fish. One account states that his family were so poor, they could not afford to pay for medical treatment so he was left in the hospital for a week or so. At 11 he was staying in a football academy close by a border where drug and arms trafficking was rife, moving on to France in 1999. This in an era where England’s internationals complain about the pressure of being in a 5 star training camp for a few weeks.

Despite his wealth, Adebayor hasn’t forgotten his roots. He’s built a house for his mother and family as following his father’s death in 2007 he’s taken responsibility for the household, and he regularly returns to his country to put something back into the society from which he escaped because he could play football.

Perhaps it’s not merely a common language and heritage that cements the friendship between Benny Assou Ekotto and Abebayor. Both have known hardship in their early lives, both present a detached attitude to the game that does not detract from the quality of their performance. They are self-contained, secure and confident in their sense of self. It gets them through.

This inner strength was tested to its limits and beyond when along with his Togo team-mates, Adebayor clung for cover in the twisted wreckage of a bullet-ridden coach as it was attacked before a tournament. His friend, the team’s press officer, died in his arms. He’s lived a life most of us could not imagine and he’s only 27. Perhaps the songs don’t have the same impact.

So there’s plenty to admire in Emmanuel Adebayor but the reasons behind his success mean that we’ll never become that close to him. And what does it say about us, the fans? Most didn’t sing that song, of course, but many have, and anyway he was on the receiving end of more than his fair share of abuse just for wearing the red shirt.

We’ll never take him to heart but I believe he will receive a warm welcome tomorrow and he will earn our respect if he gives of his best, as his former team-mate and fellow subversive Willy Gallas has done. Fans of all clubs are often accused of hypocrisy and there’s truth there. However, our loyalty is like no other in sport, in life perhaps, and that loyalty, blind, crazy, illogical, harmful, unwavering and unstinting, is to the shirt, to the club. Our club. That’s the point from all this.

In my own silly immature way, when Manu first comes over to the centre Shelf tomorrow, I’ll shout his name and applaud. He’ll hear me and I like to think it will mean something but it won’t. And if he scores, and runs over to the fans, and the fans sing his name, if he winks and raises an eyebrow in ironic surprise, I wouldn’t begrudge him his moment. Good luck to you, Manu. You’re one of us now and we’ll look after you.