The Two Sides of Tottenham

The two sides of Tottenham Hotspur, the new Spurs that is, combined in adversity to produce a hard-earned 3 points. The adventurous passing, utilising pace as well as finesse these days, set up an open, bright game but after Defoe’s sending off, we were forced to show true grit and determination. Put them together and we have a little something going on.

These days we are surrounded by signs of how the team has changed this season. Over the last few years, in these circumstances, going down to 10 men would produce a familiar tale of opportunities created by good football and then dumped in the trash as we meekly collapsed under the slightest hint of pressure. For some reason, journeys to Bolton and Blackburn come to mind. On top against inferior opponents, Palacios flies in unnecessarily and gets sent off, or the entire defence is inexorably sucked to the near post under a cross and the ball is tucked in. Insignificant moments in the last decade but entirely symptomatic of a  lack of resilience that persisted through several managerial changes.

Now we have Luka Modric, moving at ease through a crowded midfield, buzzing, probing,always available, a little nick of the ball here in the tackle. A touch of a pass to keep possession or the vision to not only sumptuously spread the ball 60 yards, not only take the entire Villa team out of the game in an instant, but to place the ball millimetre perfect into Hutton’s stride. That’s not enough. Dig in now, run, short passes, shield it, keep it, knock it off to a colleague and then run to get it again. And again. And again. Never stop. Point to where you want it. Point to tell them where to run, where you are going to put it. Outstanding.

By the end, this man’s hair is matted in cold sweat, socks round the ankles, crippled with cramp, counter to instincts late in the tackle but it’s all for the team. Like Steve Perryman, he works back, shoulders down, hunched in effort to get goalside, short strides because there’s another tackle to be made.

With Rafa, it’s all in the same move. A sublime, innocuous touch turns defence into attack. Then hard yards, head down, run 60 yards, edge of the box. then breathe, slow it down, not sweat but brains now, wait, the space will open up, wait a moment then strike, beautiful unerring, far corner.  The crowning moment, a gorgeous goal.

Peter Crouch, on to hold up the ball and receive the mounting pressure but his first steps are back towards his own goal to cover, his first meaningful touch is a fine tackle in midfield and he’s back for more. He never quite manages to find his way forward (did he ever set foot in the Villa Box? I suppose he must have…). Back to mark Collins and he headed everything away.

Kaboul back from injury, shaky and uncertain early on, then a mighty near post defensive header, did well to be there in the first place, did better to head to safety, his skill enabled by the strength in his upper body to hold off the men behind pushing in his back. Dawson alongside him, only his second game back from a serious injury yet there is no loss of pace and none of determination. The crosses came flying in and he headed them away. Kaboul and Dawson, in their own way, outstanding.

Two full backs, committed and neat on the ground. Benny in particular, another decent game, good touches, keeping the ball and one vital far post defensive header. He takes risks occasionally but he knows the significance of holding possession. All this sweat and determination I’m going on about – keep the ball, it’s the best form of defence in the modern game. Finally, Palacios worked productively to protect his back four, although he conceded when in a great position to put Luka in, which led to the cross for Villa’s goal, but for the most part he did his job.

At the final whistle the players were genuinely delighted. They looked each other in the eye and said, ‘Well done my friend’. Rafa, substituted but he wouldn’t sit down, kicked every ball to the end. Daws, wide eyed with satisfaction in the post match interview. Love that guy.

There’s a vibrant team spirit to match the burgeoning talent. Luka’s consistently high standards are complemented by Rafa’s top class talent. I’ve seldom seen a player able to find space as he does. It was a shame that were prevented by a poor refereeing decision from seeing VDV and JD together. However, Defoe’s lack of sharpness is heightened by the levels of ability around him. Once more his control let him down at crucial moments. As they say, he needs a goal. Interesting the difference in body shape when Rafa stroked home the first goal. He’s moving at ease onto the ball whereas JD has gone too far and has readjusted his body, so he’s off balance and not in the prime position to convert the cross, should it have reached him.

So plenty to enjoy from yesterday’s concoction of graft, grit and genius. It’s the sort of win that does wonders for the fragile psychology of footballers -we survived the battle and we can do so again. It’s certainly the sort of match we would not have won 12 or 18 months ago. However, let’s not get too carried away. Poor Villa: Martin O’Neill has left them in a right state. Lots of giant defenders and precious else. They suffered with their injury list even though it’s not as long as ours as been recently. In the second half they lumped over an endless stream of long crosses from deep that we headed away. The wingers swapped over, and they lumped over an endless stream of crosses from deep that we headed away. Their young midfielders watched, stood still, as the they lumped over an endless stream of crosses from deep…

This coupled with an implacable determination to miss any chance that came their way, from whatever angle, meant that Gomes was seldom exposed. He tried his best for them – I reckon he just got there ahead of Heskey but if I were a Villa fan I’d be furious that wasn’t given. Gomes I think has been told to dominate his box more, fine, but he’s not got that balance right when the ball’s low down. That young typing error Lichaj was excellent against Bale, as good as any full back this year. Houllier, a good footballing man, was incoherent afterwards, a stream of vaguely related words trailing off into silence as he contemplated his problems. We took advantage but future opponents will not be as generous.

 

 

 

The Rumble of the Seats On The Shelf

The rumble of the seats on the Shelf echoed around the girders of the venerable old stand, growing into a roar as this tense derby tumbled headlong towards a climax. The rumble as the punters rise in expectation to catch every last fraction of a moment and their seats slam into the backrests, the clatter of anticipation as Bale, Luka, Lennon launch themselves onward. It’s the classic sound of the derby that took a while to appear but later, in the second half, as we freed ourselves from Chelsea’s pressure in a series of high speed counter attacks, was heard every few minutes, stilled as we stayed upright for the last five or so, the penalty save offering fresh optimism.

Although it’s a familiar sound, its character seems to have changed of late. No longer in hope, more of expectation. Chelsea were beatable: we entered this as slight favourites and have players who not only thrill the crowd, they are matchwinners too. Bale again, bursting 70 yards in the first half. I refuse to take my eyes off him. I want to savour every stride, full tilt at the opposition, his expression focussed but full of expectancy. I never want to get used to this. He’s so special, it’s like I’m seeing it for the first time, such is my delight.

Yesterday he did well but was cleverly marshalled by Chelsea. Fereira used all his experience, including a gentle bodycheck in the first half when Bale would have been clear, that failed to merit a booking but took him out with ruthless efficiency.  His effectiveness can be also be measured by the space he gives others, notably Defoe who drifted wide left several times, into the space vacated by Fereira’s close marking. One pass from there led to our goal.

We have others able to step into the limelight. Modric was outstanding throughout, painstakingly making himself available time and again to pick up the ball from colleagues and either move it on or burst through the centre himself. As both sides attacked in an expansive game, Luka revelled in that space and where none existed, he made some with a swivel and close control. He’s a top quality footballer and an absolute pleasure to have in a Spurs shirt. In the past I’ve compared him to the great Ossie Ardilles, hunched skipping run, ball close to his feet and dictating the pace of the whole game as others move to his promptings. Modric has better stamina and a better shot, while he’s starting to approach the influence the Argentinean could exert.

This was a match that was finely balanced throughout. Both sides had spells on top but neither dominated for extended periods. Certainly both Spurs and Chelsea could have scored at almost any point. In the first half, Chelsea looked the most likely. Kalou and Malouda are perfect in turning 4-5-1 into 4-3-3 and although we had men back, the midfield and defence failed to pick up their runs from deep. Last week Birmingham scored from such a run but Chelsea wasted several good opportunities.

The feeling was, Drogba and Lampard would have taken one of those. Much has been made in the media of Chelsea’s injuries to key players but little significance has been given to our much larger casualty list. It shows how well we are able to compete that the media are barely noticing.

In the end, we scored first, a superb finish from Pav but his gorgeous first touch laid the foundations, taking the ball away into space despite a crowded box, then a fine swivel shot to the neat post.

Unfortunately as far as the strikers are concerned, and we tried all four of them, that’s about the last time I can talk about good control. Defoe was especially poor. At least three decent opportunities to make a break were wasted due to this deficiency, one in particular where he let Terry in with a chance when he should have been clean away. As it was, Terry and Ivanovic were consistently too powerful for our lot, brushing them off the ball with insolent ease, far, far too simply. We should have tried to get them on the turn more often and when we did, another recent failing, the poor final ball, appeared again. Hutton to Pav is one example that sticks out from the second half but there were others.

Second half, Drogba on, crank up the tension. Yet our back four came into their own in the second half. Palacios covered assiduously in the centre but he and Luka could have come back a few yards to shield their defenders, while again Bale and Lennon were adrift too frequently when Chelsea had the ball. Hutton and Benny, especially Benny, defended expertly. They too sit a little too far from their central defenders as a result of the lack of protection in front of them but both used their pace to deal with the many balls into the channels.

Hutton’s passing could have been more consistent but he linked well with the attack, giving us an extra dimension. He had space because the threat of Lennon and Bale kept Cole and Fereira penned back and that’s where Chelsea have to seek their width as the midfield are fairly narrow. Although our two wide men open up space for the opposition as well as us, their presence curbed a key offensive area that Chelsea  usually employ.

Inside them, Dawson was immense, as if he had never been away. I was pleased to see him back but feared that a tough game such as this was a game too early – do this one when he’s match fit and has Gallas, fast becoming indispensible, alongside him. As it turned out, no need to worry. A towering performance. Finally, credit to Bassong for taking Drogba on. The Ivorian drifted onto Seb, presumably because he was seen as the weak link, but right from the first challenge, Bassong did not shirk from the physical contact, buffeting him about, refusing to let him turn and making the interceptions. Not everything worked, and he gave the ball away on three occasions in dangerous positions, but he refused to be over-awed.

The equaliser came from the other side, the left. No danger, Daws there and the angles sorted, but it squirmed over and through. There was great power in the shot but Gomes should have saved it. Ironically it came at a time when we had got on top again. I thought we had dealt with Chelsea’s pressure and were coming out the other side. Confident of our defence, a goal would come only through a mistake. I felt utterly deflated.

He made a couple of other good saves, notably from WP’s skimming header, then late on, as we pressed on the counter for a goal, another error at the death. I’ve not seen any replays of this or the game but it looked like another rash challenge. He’s a fine keeper who does not deserve the ridicule he received on 606 last night but diving at feet is becoming a weakness.

Then the hero, and be honest, you thought it had to be us with the winner as we dashed upfield, freshly invigorated. No repeat of Liverpool.

Before then, Keane had been rushing about in what could well be his last home appearance, earning cheap applause but doing little positive. Actually, that’s unfair – we need some energy, particularly as Harry’s strange substitution to have both Crouch and Pav made Chelsea’s task in defending that much easier. I really don’t see what that gave us.

A point in the end when we could have had three, or just as easily none at all. However, the lasting impression is a positive one. We took on the champions, were never overawed and certainly not outplayed. On the contrary, in another terrific football match we bravely and continually took the game to them. Sharpen up and the goals with come, and with them points and glory.

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Always On My Mind: The Members Club

I’m stewing in the velvet lobby so I call Adriana. Businesslike, she marches down the corridor. Out of my earshot, the doorman remains unconvinced, then she looks him in the eye and imperceptibly cocks her head to one side. A squeeze of his arm and I’m in.

 

From the corner of his eye he watches her sway down the hall. His grin fades only when she turns the corner into the bar.

 

‘This is nice’, I say as she folds into the deep sofa cushions.

 

‘Lola’s a member. We were going over the layout for the book. The salmon was superb and it was too cold to move. You don’t mind, do you?’

 

‘Guess I’ll have to get used to it’. She furrows her brow. ‘It’s great, really.’ I forget, Adriana doesn’t do irony.

 

She smiles uncertainly but, reassured, kicks off her shoes and pulls up her feet under her. ‘Sit down darling, it’s so cold.’

 

‘Chequers in Sutton,’ I go on. ‘Trainers.’ She looks unsure again. I push my Sainsbury’s carrier bag under the table and out of sight. ‘In the end, my mates went in ahead, then this girl brought out a pair of their shoes in her bag in return for us taking her friend in. Think she was only 16. I changed back into my trainers once I was inside. Don’t know what the fuss was about in the first place.’
She looks at me intently for a moment, her eyes wide in the gloom of the bar. ‘I never have any problem getting into clubs.’

 

It takes a while to be served at the bar, although it doesn’t seem very busy. A couple of advertising types are momentarily distracted from their tipsy creativity by the sound of Adriana’s laugh from across the room. When I finally bring the drinks she has company.

I beam with recognition and let out a choked gasp.  Eventually, words. ‘I used to watch you every week. Fantastic!’ ‘I haven’t said ‘fantastic’ since I was 14. He smiles confidently, but not at me. ‘From the Shelf. Season ticket holder.’

 

‘At the Lane. 40 years.’

 

Finally he turns away and fixes me in the eye. For perhaps 10 seconds he looks, says nothing. Then he turns back to Adriana. ‘You’re so right,’ he says, ‘Morocco in October is perfect. Not too hot. Are you sure you’re not from that part of the world? It’s just your accent….’
I’m still standing, holding the drinks. I shift from one foot to the other. Eventually, I put them down and pretend to need something from my coat. The man smoothes out the sofa cushions and eases across.
‘Just off to the toilet’. ‘OK’, she says, without breaking the flow of the conversation.

 

When I return, the man has rejoined his friends on the other side of the room. Adriana plumps up the cushions. ‘Come, sit.’ She looks at me and laughs, suddenly hesitant. She says something and laughs again but I’m looking at the lock of hair that’s fallen over her eye.

 

‘Feel my hand, I’m cold.’ Her fingers edge out in that familiar way and touch mine. ‘You know him?’ she asks.

 

She purses her lips. ‘Don’t know why you like people that that. Thinks he’s got something, all talk. All he thinks about is himself.

 

‘You’re a good judge,’ I reply, ‘Overrated. Selfish’. A pause. ‘Cracking right foot, mind’

 

‘Sorry darling?’

 

‘I said I never really liked him.’

 

‘Neither did I. What is it about me, I always seem to attract these sort of men. Come closer, you’re all warm, warm me up.’

 

 

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Bucketful of Joy

A typical spurs performance in Europe. A mixture of judicious possession football, incisive attacking and reckless abandonment of defensive duties. Three times we went ahead only to let our opponents back into the match. A penalty needlessly conceded let slip the initiative presented by a lunatic own goal (and for fans of a certain vintage, it’s good to see the return of fat goalkeepers) but meh, this is Spurs, this is Europe, we’ll just run up the other end and get another one sometime soon.

Quite how we made as much space for Twente as we did, I’m not sure. Somehow we manage to enlarge the pitch when our opponents are in possession. Repainting the touchlines when the ref’s looking the other way. It was especially bad after JJ went off and we missed Modric’s influence terribly, but a pleasure to see JD so sharp again. As on Saturday we wasted good opportunities with a final ball that lacked precision. Sometimes the number of alternatives created fatal hesitation but Lennon curbed the instinct to shoot, only a little dink, so simple, so effective.


At the back, Bale and Lennon were too wide when Twente had the ball so…look – this doesn’t matter. Leave it. Today is not about analysis, it’s about celebration. I’ve only just about got used to associating Tottenham Hotspur FC with the Champions League. I still blink at the Sky ads, Champions League, JD’s on the poster, why… This morning I’m repeating over and over – Champions League. Knock out stages. Group winners.  If you see me today, I’ll be at Waterloo in a minute, then the old County Hall, I might say hallo, buy a coffee, chat even. Bit overweight (I’ll shift a few pounds. promise. After Christmas. New Year), black woolly hat, that’s me but the eyes are blank. Champions League. Knockout stages. Group winners.

I was going to debate the list of possible opponents. Nah… we’re there. All that matters. Who cares. Bring them on. Bring them to the Lane. Europe has learned something about us this season, they don’t want to come here.

In a world full of hyperbole, where a loss of perspective is routine, this is a remarkable achievement. Genuinely outstanding. Take this, a bucket of superlatives. Astonishing, pulsating, glorious, unbelievable, transcendental, fab gear, brilliant, there are more, those are just the ones on the surface.  Pick it up and empty it out, that’s us today, covered in glory.

In qualifying, we’ve scored more goals than any other team in the group stages and I believe are the only team ever to score at least two goals in every group match. (We’re allowed to leave the dodgy defending to one side today). Last night had been inked in my diary for months. Last game, if we were still in with a slender chance, maybe just maybe in the so-called group of death, have to sit down and watch that one on the red button. But we were through already. With a game to spare.

This has led to yet another bewildering phenomenon. In these days of tribal fandom, people like us. Spurs are popular. Fans love to watch us play. Many of the comments that I received on the blog this season from opposition fans have praised the team. Some criticise my conclusions but most end up by saying something like, ‘But good luck in Europe, I really enjoy watching your adventures.’

In the time I’ve been a Spurs fan, we used to be well liked by neutrals or least there was a fondness for the club that dated from the Double and our attacking teams in the late 60s and early 70s. I knew a good few Welsh and Irish people who followed us, rather like Manchester United are followed today. After the Villa Cup Final, I wore my Spurs scarf and badges in London and five people during the course of a single tube journey congratulated me on a thrilling game. You wouldn’t get that these days. Indeed, when we were down, other fans constantly accused us of having ideas above our station,living in the past, not a big club. We wanted success, they reveled in our failure.

Now people look for our matches. They’ve watched football from a bygone age, end to end, bags of goals, attack. They’ve seen heroes, especially a young full back come midfielder who is a character straight out of Roy of the Rovers, stampeding through packed defences in series of unstoppable runs with players bouncing off him from all sides.

Yet this is real. Gareth Bale personifies the talent, enthusiasm and spirit that Spurs have brought to the tournament, culminating in a pulsating encounter that saw the European Champions defeated and left an indelible imprint in the ancient rusting girders at the Lane. The old place has seen it all, but they’ve not not seen anything like this. The ground was rocking and is rocking still.

It’s unfair to single out one player, however outstanding his impact. Van der Vaart has taken centre stage and Modric has done increasingly well as the competition progressed. Huddlestone anchored the team, perfect in Europe where he has a fraction more time, while Crouch, maligned in these pages I confess, remains a mystery to foreign defenders.

Above all the team has played as a unit in the three key home ties, resilient and indefatigable. The first half Berne is a distant memory, a treatment room full of injuries overcome.

And Harry Redknapp has done us proud. He wants to attack, a strategy that has looked risky during frequent buttock-clenching incidents and which is perhaps dictated by the absence of a truly dominating defensive midfielder. But for now, who cares. He’s made it work to dramatic effect. Just enjoy. Savour every last succulent moment, because this is entertainment and pleasure of a rare quality. I love this club.

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