Spurs: Reflections On A Goalless Draw and Particle Physics (Eat Your Heart Out, Brian Cox)

/ Alan / 10 Comments

Just one of those weeks, things conspire to make it a time of thought and reflection. Work overflowing with problems, unsettled elsewhere. The game is as enticing as always, it’s just that sometimes the mind dallies along the way.

‘Glory glory hallelujah’ rolling out from the east upper (so it seemed)  threw me. I had a vision of the East Stand, old school, battle hardened veterans but never weary of good football, the old fashioned song had to return. That was ours once, you know. No one else dared sing it. No ‘glory glory Man Utd’, just us. Time for a comeback.

Thoughts too of John White, a hero of a bygone age brought to life in a terrific book ‘The Ghost of White Hart Lane’ by his son Rob and Julie Welch, reviewed here last week. Frail, deceptively influential, superb passer of the ball, tireless in his energy and capacity to support team-mates. Sounds familiar? Surely his spirit lives in another Tottenham great, Luka Modric, a peerless display of the midfield art. Gliding over the turf, he’s involved in a scuffling tackle to regain possession, lays it off, your eyes stick with the ball yet suddenly a few moments later, he’s there, 40 or 50 yards, in attack now, scheming, touching it on, looking for the shot. String theory. Particle physics. There’s an idea that the fundamental particles that make up all matter, some of them have a property of being in two places at once. Luka’s made up entirely of those.

It’s odd how you can be alone with your thoughts amidst the bedlam of a London derby. Like the mascot. No older than 4, he stands for the minute’s silence. 36,000 thousand people, still in mournful respect, he starts to practice his moves. The kick, a stretch forward, like a slow motion robot. Delightful, bless him, totally oblivious to the world outside his imagination.

Back to reality with a bang. Harry’s imagination has been working overtime in the break since our last game. The climax of the season, playing a relegation threatened team, totally new formation. That’s the thing with Harry: even after all this time I can’t quite figure out if he’s brave or barmy. Sure I admire him for trying something new, a different way to both utilise to the full the talent in the squad and do something about our lack of goals, but now, at a time like this, when we needed a win against a team down the bottom, not now, surely.

Let’s start, as always, in centre midfield. Redknapp’s selection of Sandro on the face of it does not seem too surprising, given his masterful performance over two legs against Milan. However, he’s been uncomfortable for the most part in the league, taking time to adjust to the pace and particularly the pressure of the Premier League. Teams have sussed this, pressing him as soon as he gains possession even if it meant pushing a man right out of midfield to do so.

On the basis of this game, Sandro has passed another milestone in his development towards what I believe will be a highly successful career. He proved he’s adapted. Strong in defence, fearless in the tackle with the stamina and awareness of a genuine defensive midfielder. Luka was outstanding: he’s a truly wonderful footballer, a privilege to see him play in our colours. As good at this age as any since Gazza and if he keeps this up, he’ll become one of the great Spurs midfielders of the last 30 or 40 years.

The change was of course Defoe up front on his own with Rafa allowed even more freedom than usual to rome, actually make that, allowed less freedom because he was told to drop deep and pick up the ball. Advantage: we have an extra body in midfield, that allows Bale and Lennon, wide men key to our attacking formation, more leeway to get wide and stay there, covers the space against opponents also playing 5 in the middle with a strong middle three of Hitzlsburger, the excellent Parker and Noble.

Disadvantage: he’s not up front. Where we need goals. Where JD is isolated. Can’t be in two places at once, unless you’re a subatomic particle (theory unproven) or Luka Modric (fact).

Defoe up front on his own was an odd one, because although his positional play and movement is much improved this season, there’s precious little evidence to show that he functions well in this role. If anything, he’s the classic ‘little man’ in the bigman/little man partnership, which in the modern game has become one striker playing off another. He needs someone alongside him to put him in.

Also, Bale and Lennon are there to provide the crosses, but to whom? On Saturday, most of the time, to no one. With no target in the middle, their effectiveness is diminished regardless of the opposition’s tactics, and on Saturday Bridge handled Lennon very well. We looked brighter when Pav came on, went to 4-4-2 and the Whammers were tired. He had space to do that thing he does, you know, knocks it a metre in front of him, moves onto the ball and wangs it, like the goal he scored against Chelsea.

JD as lone striker smacks of desperation rather than sound tactical planning. It may be new but underlying it is the same old problem – none of our three strikers are good enough at the highest level.

Rafa has been on the end of some hefty criticism around some of the boards and sites. Already people are saying he’s a luxury, that he doesn’t fit in. Mine is only the ‘hefty’ bit: he needs to shed a few pounds, it seems to me, and to get fully fit again so he can trust his legs and lungs for 90 minutes.

The thing about Rafa coming deep is not just about what he does, it’s what everyone else does in response. Modric was able to push on past him, as was Bale. Lennon should have varied his position when he did not have the ball, should have got in the box more. This movement has to be part of the system if this is how we’re going to play. Rafa deep gives us more options but only if other players not only get past him into the box but have the ability to do some damage once they get there. This goes for Rafa himself: he’s got to be more mobile with the stamina to last the game, including some lung busting runs to get right into danger areas. If this is the way to go, we need to have that commitment and awareness from other players to be flexible and to move well.

Certainly it produced some excellent flowing football. Our movement was a joy to behold at times, we always had a spare man, the width and a series of long crossfield balls from deep meant an expansive game and we held onto possession well for three quarters of the game, the exception being the first twenty minutes of the second half where our opponents not only took the game to us, they could so easily have scored a goal that might have proved to be the winner.

No punch up front to finish, all our good work put to waste. And yet the chances were there. Defoe missed three good ones and a couple more. I thought he had the measure of the defence when he twice early on got to the near post first, in front of his marker. Showed he was sharp and thinking about the game, but there was no sharpness when the easier opportunities came his way. Not the most emotionally intelligent of individuals, scoring against his old team probably meant too much, which got in the way of his instincts.

Whatever, no use Harry getting ratty with the MOTD interviewer. Three games against teams we could have beaten, two points. 4th is receding as fast and as far as my hairline. I liked the formation, with the proviso that VDV uses this break to return to fitness I’d like to see it again sometime, maybe with Pav up front, but then again…I know, none of them are quite reliable enough. It makes good use of Rafa and Luka, gives Bale the chance to get in the box and if JD had taken just one of those opportunities… but it requires polishing, so leave it for now, or for when we are three up away from home, certainly back to 4-4-2 against Wigan.

John White: The Ghost of White Hart Lane by Rob White and Julie Welch

/ Alan / 10 Comments

On my daughter’s mantelpiece sits a photo of her son, then aged about 3, walking along the beach with his father. Taken from behind, they are unaware of the camera’s presence. Their stance and gait are identical. Size and stature come from shared genes, the rest, the bit that matters, just happens.

For Rob White, denied the chance to bond with a father he never knew, there’s a gaping hole where that bit that matters should be. The story of his dad, John White, the former Spurs and Scotland international who rose from working class poverty to become one of the most distinctive players of his generation before dying in a tragic accident, is dramatic and fascinating in itself. Yet this is no ordinary biography. His story is interwoven with Rob’s search not just for his father’s ghost but for his own identity.

Rob was born a few months before White was fatally struck by lightning, sheltering alone under a tree on a golfcourse during a thunderstorm. White was in his prime: 26

The Ghost of White Hart Lane

years old, a Double and Cup Winners Cup behind him, the man around whom the incomparable Bill Nicholson intended to rebuild the ageing Tottenham team.

The touchstone for Rob’s quest is a dusty box tucked away at the back of the loft. As a boy, he scrapes off the dirt and prepares himself for the wonders within, like an archaeologist about to enter a hitherto unknown Egyptian pyramid. Inside, he sifts through the cuttings and medals, tries on his father’s tiny boots, size six and a half. Tries to conjure up his father’s spirit.

The search continues into adulthood. There’s no shortage of material as White was well liked and respected by his fellow professionals. Much is made of the camaraderie and team spirit of the Double side and he is still deeply mourned by those who knew him in the game. His close friends Cliff Jones and Dave Mackay in particular remain bewildered by his absence.

Little wonder White was so popular. On the field, not only was he supremely talented, a superb passer of the ball with excellent control, he was also tireless and unstinting in his work on behalf of the team. From boyhood backstreet kickabouts to the great stadiums of Europe, you underestimated him at your peril. This small man had the heart of a lion and lungs to match, with a phenomenal workrate. He made himself constantly available for his teammates for Spurs and Scotland, ready to pick up a pass and move it on. To his opponents, they simply could not get near him. He appeared and was gone again in the blink of an eye, hence the nickname the ‘Ghost’.

Despite Welch’s meticulous research and consummate storytelling, there’s a sense of never quite defining the man. Contradictions appear. Diffident in company, he was also an inveterate joker and confident in his ability. This little boy lost in the Spurs dressing room when he came to London from Falkirk in 1959 could easily delight crowds of 65,000 at the Lane, 160,000 at Hampden Park, yet each winter, after Christmas, his mood and form dipped until the spring.

This may be because White, a loving father and husband and good friend to many, always held something back, a reserve shaped perhaps by self-protection at the loss of his own father at a young age and of a series of rejections in his formative years because people were unable to see beyond his small stature. However, his childhood in a caring extended family dominated by matriarchal figures instilled a powerful determination, epitomised by a ferocious desire for supreme fitness. He played football all the time, in the back yards and on the green, challenging his brothers, both of whom good good enough to play professionally, to races and keepie-uppys, delighting in the fact that he beat them every single time.

 

John White - Spurs and Scotland

Along the way there are solid gold nuggets of Spurs history. The Double, John’s rise to prominence and his growing influence is well chronicled and there’s a touching piece on Tommy Harmer, whose talent deserved more but who peaked in the mid 50s, between the great Tottenham teams of Push and Run and the Double. Blanchflower’s status and role in the club is perceptively defined, as is his decline, memorably instanced by the image of White steaming past him on a pre-season training run.

As with other biographies from this era, there are frequent reminders of how much the game has changed. White played for Spurs on a weekend pass from the army as he had to complete his National Service. The players lived up the road from ground. When sacked as manager to make way for Nicholson, Jimmy Adamson had been at the club for 51 unbroken years. White’s transfer was facilitated by a Scottish journalist, Jim Rodger, who took no fee – all he wanted was the scoop.

However, in other ways, at Tottenham nothing alters – Blanchflower, arguably the most influential midfielder in our post-war history, dropped for not fulfilling his defensive duties. The team criticised post-double because they were ‘only’ third or fourth.

Admirably the book leaves the reader in no doubt as to White’s ability. The only modern comparison is made, surprisingly perhaps, not with a midfielder but with Dimitar Berbatov, who like White has a picture of the game in his head and can anticipate several passes ahead. In my mind’s eye, the similarity with Luka Modric is inescapable, both small but tough, tireless with superb touch and almost prescient vision.

All this information and more unfolds for Rob as he grows up. The most poignant passages concern his search for connections with his father as a child. He watches the few snatches of film available of John in action, then convinces himself he runs in the same way as he studies his refection in shop windows. Mackay takes him under his wing. He’s allowed on the team coach, into the dressing room, not just to hear about White’s exploits but to experience the smells and sounds of the dressing room, the pre-match tension rising as kick-off approaches, the evocative clatter of studs on concrete as the players run out.

It’s comforting for a child to have so much information about a lost father. However, this is tempered with unease and frustration as the man eludes his grasp, walking beside him through his life yet when he reaches out to touch his presence, there’s nothing there, a ghost.

Rob is still searching into adulthood. He hears the stories, even sees a medium. His family are there for him, yet adulthood brings initiation into family secrets. Far from offering resolution, there is deeper mystery in the news of a half-brother from a fleeting teenage army relationship.

My first Tottenham game was in 1967 so I never had the privilege of seeing White play. Talk to fans from the Double era, they laud the greats, Mackay, Blanchflower, Smith up front, then invariably turn to the best footballer of them all, ‘John White, now there was a player’, and with a gentle shake of the head, tail off into wistful silence. The least known of this team, the book is a fitting tribute to his supreme talent and should bring him the recognition he deserves.

You find the man, however, in Rob White’s disarmingly open and honest search for his identity. His loss is laid bare as he works through familiar grieving patterns. Anger at what he can’t have. He can’t know his father, turn to him for advice or, as an adult, give a him a Christmas present. Seeking information, from people who knew his dad, family, press cuttings. Agonising over the might-have-beens and if-onlys. On the day of his death, if Jones or Jimmy Robertson had accepted his invitation in the dressing room after training to play golf, if Jones had run back with his trousers that he accidentally picked up, thus delaying him for precious moments…

This excellent book succeeds in being both a fascinating portrayal of a fine footballer and a profound, touching insight into how our origins shape our sense of self, of interest to all fans whether they support Spurs or not.

Rob’s a season ticket holder in the Park Lane now. I hope he enjoys the game and the club still. One wonders if, perhaps in the intensity of European games under lights in this venerable old ground, he catches a glimpse in the corner of his eye of the spirit of a true Tottenham great, his father. For me, there’s only one more thing to say about this book: having read it, I ache to see John White play.

The Ghost of White Hart Lane by Rob White and Julie Welch      Yellow Jersey Press

Testing Testing

/ Alan / 20 Comments

This is a drill. Do not be alarmed. Go about your normal business quietly and calmly. Repeat, this is a drill.

If you normally reach this site through Newsnow, your joy at Our Great Victory has been tempered by TOMM’s absence in your life, as the latest post has not registered for some unknown reason. Goodness knows how you managed to pull through.

So there it is, down there, look, just begging to be read and digested.

If you have read it, because you searched for the site, linked via another site or subscribe, I take my hat off to you, and you have the honour of being one among a verrryyyy select group. It’s the same piece, except that I’ve now spelt Ibrahimovic correctly. But not Robinho. Frankly, it’s probably not worth reading again just for that, but hey, that’s up to you.

Special thanks to cutekidbedroomsets.com for the link and for the person who reached via that. Really. I have no idea.

I’m checking to see if this one gets through. If this doesn’t appear in newsnow in 30 seconds, a stiff letter in green ink will follow. That or I’m screwed.

 

 

Grit and Glory

/ Alan / 13 Comments

Glory comes in many forms. Rather than seizing the moment, last night its mantle was placed round our shoulders, the creases gently smoothed out. Hopes of snatching the prize in the cavalier fashion that has characterised previous home performances steadily evaporated in the face of the reality of a purposeful Milan team. Then, gradually, other qualities emerged that are just as worthy: resilience, grit, organisation. Our moment became the final whistle, when we discovered that glory tastes just as sweet however it is gained.

Tottenham Hotspur have reached the quarter finals of the Champions League. The achievement speaks for itself and any embellishment from me detracts from that simple bold statement of fact. The Champions League. Quarter finals.

For long years we looked on, the Champions League a fictional drama played out at peak times on the box, surely, because it wasn’t anything to do with us. Pretending that second legs in the Europa Cup against teams we had never hard of was a ‘glory night’. It was good to be part of that, sure, let’s not detract from that, but a glory night? I was there for those, and no sir, they were no such thing.

When finally we made it, we were so shocked, we were 3 down after half an hour to a team with a name straight out of Carry On Switzerland. Fans of the other teams said we had ideas above our station, no longer a big club, this proved they were right. Four down at half time in the San Siro and relieved it wasn’t more, they were right. 45 minutes later, Europe looked up from its paper, held back from changing channels to something more interesting and raised one eyebrow. After 90 more at the Lane, Europe was on the edge of its seat. Now, the holders of the European Cup – beaten. Leaders of Serie A – beaten. Europe’s ticked us on its favourites list. The name Tottenham Hotspur resounds across Europe once more.

Full, unreserved credit to Redknapp, the coaches and the whole squad for this outstanding success. There have been mistakes along the way but we have learned quickly. Over the 2 legs against Milan, we defended assiduously with focus, application and great determination. Last night we found heroes not in our rampaging wingers but 2 centre backs, Dawson and Gallas, who refused to give ground despite being under periods of sustained pressure. From first to last, they stayed in shape, timed perfectly their interventions and Dawson in particular headed away the crosses that came later as Milan pressed forward.

Very early on, Ibrahimovic moved onto a long through ball, the excellent Seedorf I think, that reached the heart of our defence far too easily. Daws was ready, however, and at full stretch expertly tipped it away for a corner. This seemed a portent of things to come. It was, but not how I expected. Rather than it being only a matter of time until another such chance was converted, it encapsulated the duel to come. For the most part, we would keep Milan under control. Certainly at full stretch on many occasions, but like Dawson’s touch, it was enough.

Gallas saved us by knocking one off the line. Even at such a desperate moment, he retained his composure, as if that had been his cunning plan all along. In future, Willy old son, when they say ‘goal line clearance’ you don’t have to take it quite so literally. Corluka and Assou-Ekotto also played well. Tucked in alongside the centre backs, unusual discipline for us, the two won the ball and limited the times Milan could slide the ball into those channels, a move Pato and Robiniho thrive upon. Usually but not last night. Neither could they get round the back. This top class attack was reduced to only a few genuine chances in the match. Lots of near chances that caused this heart to race  but gradually it became clear that by and large we were winning that battle in the box. Behind them, Gomes was seldom called upon but was not found wanting, two good saves in the first half, a couple more with arms and legs all over the place, no style but good enough so who cares.

The other remarkable feature of this tie is the emergence of a top class midfielder around whom this team could be built and who could lead us to further success. Sandro was wonderful, the best player on the field over the two legs, above the glittering array of established names around him. Time and again, especially in the second half, he put his foot in, was the man making the block or tucking body between ball and opponent. Once he has it, he can pass or play. The Milan attack breaks down around him, moments later this athlete is galloping upfield, scowling with steely determination as he learns the English game, up and down, up and back.

I’ve said on several occasions that to me he’s a atural defensive midfielder because of the positions he takes up, nestling in front of the back four and most importantly for our defence, tracking runners into the box or sitting in the channels amongst the back four. Above all, he’s brave enough under pressure to take command and go decisively for the ball under pressure to cut out a cross in the crowded box. Not the finished article – he was furious with himself when he gave the ball away in the second half and Milan advanced on goal – but he has learned so quickly. I haven’t looked it up but wasn’t he excluded from the first CL squad. Not good enough then, now a master of the midfield. He’s 21 years old.

Redknapp was brave too to play him in such a key tie. His faith was amply rewarded. For once we had a Plan B: Milam relentlessly pressed us further and further back. Their midfield three had the centre and we lacked width on both sides to exploit their narrowness. They prevented Lennon being used as an outlet. It was dangerous to concede ground up the pitch and I longed for more mobile front men who could chase and stop the flow of passes from the Milan back four. However, Milan are at their most dangerous if Pato and Robiniho have space between our back four and the midfield, so falling back not only limited that (again we did well in this respect in the second half) but aslo allowed Gallas and Dawson to stay in the box where they are at their best.

His substitutions were impeccably timed. Bale seldom touched the ball but kept Milan occupied: they knew he was there and that’s enough. Jenas provided an injection of bounce and energy that lifted the whole team in a crucial period. He did so well. Pav was on to provide some running up front to cut out passing from deep. Crouch was tired by then and never the most flowing of movers. Milan had him sussed: little nudges, making a back then falling, and Crouchie can’t resist putting his hands on the shoulders as he jumps. I know, where else are they supposed to be, that’s the level of his arms compared with the rest of the human race, but he was unnecessarily clumsy at times and the long ball/knock down tactic became increasingly naive. He had his moment, the best chance, maybe our only genuine chance on the night, but fluffed it.

Lennon got on the ball more in the second half and was always a danger in that period. A series of decent crosses didn’t amount to much – we couldn’t get men into the box to support Crouch – but his forays offered much needed respite to the defence and were a constant worry to Milan.

This was one of those performances that’s great once you know the score. I’m reflecting on how the composed dedication of the players delivered the result but at the time, it’s blood thumping heart-stopping plutzing for fuck’s sake get rid of the fucker football. Someone said to me this morning that they enjoyed it even more after watching the replay. That’s because you know the outcome! Spurs were guilty of giving away possession far too easily. Some of this was due to Milan’s pressure, of course, but some was wasteful and plain crazy. The incident where Gomes scrambled a save cried out for caution to slow things down a fraction, then he chooses to throw the ball directly to an opponent and back they came. No matter how many saves he makes, this behaviour creates turbulence throughout the side.

Having said this, me the arch worrier became increasingly certain (honest!) that in the last 15 minutes we were not going to concede. Time and again we were first to the ball all over the pitch. Milan thumped one over with about 7 or 8 minutes left and they slumped, collectively. Relief tinged the emotion ringing round the ground in the last few minutes but also we knew the team needed a final lift as time wore on. Simple songs echoing in the dark.

So you’re in the Champions League quarter finals, I don’t know what to do. Never been here before. Somehow it didn’t seem right to get up and leave, like a normal game. Instead of slipping gratefully through the cut-throughs to the car, we wandered up to the High Road and let the throng flood past, a jostling mass of navy blue and white, of shared joy. The crowd swept us up eventually and we were away, the sanctity of the car an anti-climax because we wanted this feeling to last. It will: it’s better this morning and growing stronger. This morning I have serious business at work but I can’t stop grinning. Adrianna, she who knows nothing about the game and cares even less, has e-mailed to say well done, she’s happy too. This feeling is contagious and it’s not going for a long while yet. As Harry says, it’s the impossible dream. Except this is reality. Outstanding.