I didn’t see it coming. We’d been squeezed back into our own half from the very beginning, a dog on a leash struggling in vain to free himself.

From where I sit, you see every bead of sweat, each straining muscle, look into the players’ eyes and beyond, deep into their psyche and their soul, determination or fear, laid bare. I saw the pass but not where it would end up. I saw the red shirts, odd how they stand out, more so than the white, however bright. So much red and the only white was the ball itself. Then Lennon, scampering goalwards, so sudden, so perfect because in that instant I knew. Control as perfect as Greaves, gliding, in his stride. Bustle and rush, this frantic game paused for a long, lingering moment. The moment. Lennon looked up, saw an open goal. I looked up, saw an open goal, just as I see it now, eyes half-shut.

Felt the moment. In my ears, the roar. A powerful exultation from way down, expressing years, decades of frustration and misery, gone in that instant. The old ground shook and shivered around us, coming to life like an old soldier’s last hurrah, rediscovering the spirit and glory of past victories, buried but never forgotten. Seen it all before but knows there’s more to come.

Finishing above our rivals for the first time since 1995 carries a meaning and significance far greater than the parochialism of a win in the north London derby. Once, we were equals, with identical records in a fixture that dates back to the early years of the last century. Then they pulled away into the far distance, in the process winning not one but two Doubles at White Hart Lane. I was there for both and it hurt, my goodness me it hurt.

Now, there is an inescapable feeling that the balance of power is about to shift and this game was the tipping point. More precisely, around 4.35 on March 3rd 2013 was the tipping point. A relatively young Tottenham team is one for the future, packed with skilful players desperate to better themselves and loyal to manager André Villas-Boas. Contrast this with Arsène Wenger, a decent man unfairly criticised by sections of the media and his own fans but whose ideas appear jaded, his hitherto masterful judgement in the transfer market having finally failed to bring in enough players of sufficient quality. Never mind north London, the future is ours.

Derbies often don’t live up to expectations but you cannot say this about the north London derbies at Spurs in the last five years. Fantastic, breathless football with the quality enhanced rather than hampered by the frenetic pace. The 3-3 match was one of the best ever seen in the Premier League, two sides giving everything they had for 90 minutes.

Yesterday, Arsenal did not give everything and therein lies a significant difference between the sides and between Arsenal then and now. On top for the first half an hour, they beavered away in midfield and denied Spurs any room. We could not keep the ball and as in other matches recently, especially in the opponents’ final third where Adebayor singularly failed to rouse himself despite the usual inspiration of playing against his old team and Parker, the supposed reliable, was more flummoxed than the rest.

Our defence were exposed but rose to the task. Dawson and Vertonghen were magnificent throughout, unbeatable in the box. Superjan’s saving tackle on Giroud was miraculous. Time and again Dawson got to the ball first. Rock solid and they did as much as Bale and Lennon to win the match for us. Lloris, impeccable again, swept up the leftovers.

Both sides played a high line so the play was heavily compressed in the centre. Trying to get going, we fell back, playing the ball this way and that across the halfway line. Suited Arsenal – we were getting nowhere and it was only a matter of time before we gave it away under pressure. To counter Walcott’s pace, we had dropped back a little more than in previous games so everything moved five or ten yards closer to our goal. Dembele moved up a little towards the end of the half and had a good period either side of half time.

Bale gets all the attention. I noticed the hand-held camera following him at full-time when it should have been on Vertonghen and Dawson. However, the key is that somewhere in the last couple of months, Spurs have discovered the mysterious alchemy of resilience. We were not playing well but we did not concede. Not fluent but it was tight. Bale in fact was not allowed much time or space but the midfield stayed firm and the defence played as a unit.

Regular Spurs fans, just pause to consider one aspect of the last couple of paragraphs. The fact that I can write about a defence working as a unit. Pushing up, playing the high line, playing any tactic for that matter. Who would have thought it? Walker had the best game defensively he’s had for a long while. Anyway, something is working and that is down to our Andre.

But back to Bale. As we always do. Add a matchwinner to that resilience and we have a team capable of doing something. It’s the recipe of a successful side. Under pressure, we were at our most creative and turned adversity into goals. Bale on the end of Siggy’s pass and he took it like a classic goalpoacher. But what a pass – took 6 red shirts out of the game in a single moment. Lennon on the end of Parker’s pass – took out five red shirts in a single moment. I’ve read stinging criticism of Arsenal’s back four but they were two fine goals, perfectly timed runs onto passes of perfection.

The old Arsenal would have come back at us after the break but that sustained determination is missing. Don’t know exactly what it is but we’ve got it and they’ve lost it.

After taking over as the second half began, we stupidly gave away the sort of goal that makes my blood boil. On top but concede a needless free-kick and pathetic marking at the near post. Yet despite a couple of chances, our opponents’ opportunities were limted by sterling defence that got better as the match went on. The players look so fit they could have played another game straight way. In fact, once Defoe came on  (can’t get rid of the idea that Manu took the easy way out) we looked the more likely to score again, Bale putting it over at the far post after a stunning move from deep inside our half and Siggy showing the tell-tale signs of a man without confidence by passing when the only option was a shot.

Within the mayhem in the stands, something odd happened. About 80 minutes, I suddenly found a moment’s calm. Dawson and Vertonghen were winning everything. Perhaps Arsenal weren’t going to score after all.

Many articles over the weekend about the fit between Villas-Boas and Tottenham, favourably comparing his achievements with his time at Chelsea where the old guard did not take to his methods and Abramovich pulled the chair out from under him just as he was trying to get comfy. Undaunted, the young manager with the manner of an earnest, newly qualified teacher came to a club where he could express the ambition that burned inside him. He found a group of talented, maturing footballers of a like mind who were good but wanted to better themselves.

Similar pieces appeared here in Tottenham On My Mind before the season began. I added that we may have to wait awhile until it all came together. For once, I was right. The players have bought into the Villas-Boas way and so have I. At the end, we celebrated together, players chucking their shirts into the crowd, Dawson the last to leave the pitch. The old place may be on its last legs but on the good days it rocks like a proper football ground should, and this was one of the very best.

One, two, three times he came and they cut him down. They saw yellow, we saw fear in their eyes. Not dirty or cynical fouls these, merely desperate. Let him past and disaster lay ahead. The fans were spellbound, defenders mesmerised as Gareth Bale was unplayable for the final twenty minutes. No option but to stand off. He began a move in the centre circle, a few short passes set him up and created a little room to work up a head of steam. Switch it onto the left, from 25 yards the keeper cannot move save to allow his shoulders to slump in defeat. Top right hand corner, a matchwinner to surpass efforts that could not be bettered, or so we had thought.

This is crackpot crazy Boy’s Own stuff of dreams, a throwback to Brylcreem, toe-caps and dubbin. The star-man weaves through flailing, futile tackles to score the last gasp winner when all seemed lost. The celebrations turned to black and white jerky ungainly jumps, then a dutiful trot back to the centre circle, fade to sepia and gone.

Except what Bale did was to dash into the welcoming arms of his manager, to be joined by most of his team-mates. Remind me again about that players’ revolt so gleefully reported by the media in August. The bit about how Villas-Boas can’t communicate with his men, how does that go? Together and loyal, this is a proper team, and their stellar performer knows he is part of it, not just an individual.

There were other stars at Upton Park last night. Dawson is one of the grunts, unsung and unswerving in his dedication to the cause. With Andy Carroll up against him, under bombardment from crosses and those long, straight free-kicks that beg for the second ball to be gobbled up by an opponent’s boot, Dawson bent double in that familiar crouch of concentration, slapped his thighs and was ready for battle. He did not flinch for a moment.

Behind him, I fail to think of anything Hugo Lloris could have done better. Not a foot out of place, or a hair for that matter, he came to catch those crosses and snaffled every one. Two early decisive low saves, then one rush from the line in the second half when the defence dozed off for a second. Outstanding.

Oddly, as everyone was bouncing in the stands and I was bouncing off the walls in my living room, as the players left the field I felt a sudden moment of complete calm. I wanted to shake him by the hand, to say how we appreciate what he has brought to the club. It seems like he doesn’t do fuss, but he needs to know. This is the Age of Hugo.

Third in the table, playing our best football when the pressure was on. Opponents preyed on our vulnerability to late goals not so long ago. Now they fear the final ten minutes as we are never out of it. Think what we could do if we had a striker.

Parts of this game were very average, interspersed with periods of downright scratchiness. An early Bale goal, the other side of his shooting, from distance and left footed but slotted low into the corner. The great goalscorers always passed the ball into the net from inside the box. Bale does the same only from long range.

However, we allowed the whammers to get back into it. Parker, a player I admire, is fit but a fraction off the pace and that’s all it takes in that influential role in front of the back four. Some good things but wayward passes and, criminally for him, giving the ball away. A fraction of a fraction late at Carroll’s feet and it’s a penalty. He would have been better advised to stay on his feet. It feels as if last season, he would have.

And the ball kept on coming back because we could not keep it in their half. Abebayor was poor again all round. Last season the goals came regularly, this the lasting image is a miss when the keeper is lying on the floor. Another last night.

This became worse as the match went on. We had no respite, meekly conceding possession. Wham won every 50-50. Dembele was playing too deep, emasculated by an early booking for a petulant revenge foul, Holtby’s hustle and bustle wasted by being constantly moved out wide. He has to stay central to have an impact. There were times when I thought of Sandro. When he played, we only needed one defensive midfielder.

Cole scored for the Hammers, well-taken after Vertonghen had made a major error in stepping up for an offside that never was rather than simply tracking the attacker. It was a bad decision, created perhaps by a mind conditioned to play the trap. You sensed that was his instinctive first thought, whereas as a defender his gut should tell him to stick with his man.

Chasing goals and you bring on a midfielder without a Premier League start. No strikers on the bench is not good. But Tom Carroll and Sigurdsson both pepped up our efforts just as we began to droop. It looked like we may not need a striker as Caulker had three headers from corners all saved. He had so much time, Allardyce must have gone bananas. We should have scored from at least one of them.

Never mind thunderbolt and lightning, my pre-match dream of a tap-in came true. I find it reassuring that highly paid professionals can occasionally have absolutely no control over the football whatsoever. The ball pinged about in the box, defying all physical laws known to human kind, before it rested at Siggy’s feet, begging to be tucked home.

Caulker had a good game too alongside Dawson. Our Andre got the tactics right with Jan at full-back, another big man to combat the set-piece threat. Lennon was quiet. Parker was the DM furthest forward when it should have been Moussa, who delivered one cutting through ball to Bale to remind us of how decisive he can be.

Big Sam will no doubt spout post-match stats to reveal some hidden injustice but it shows how he relies on the percentage game whereas he might be better advised to make more of the talented players like Cole and Nolan rather than just kicking the ball over their heads. I imagine him muttering something about wishing Kevin Davies could be five years younger because he can’t do without him.

Arsenal to come, an intolerably significant potion of pride, history and league position makes this one of the most important derbies of recent years. We are ready.

Gareth Bale rescued Spurs with two stunning free-kicks that secured a precious lead to take to Lyon, just when the European dream was fading away. May as well cut out the flab, trim the fat, cut out the middle man and just give him the ball. He’s going to sort it one way or another.  Might as well keep the same headline for every piece until the end of the season. He scores all the goals and there’s danger in the air each time he touches the ball.  It’s magic, thrilling out of the seat stuff. Polish every second he’s on the ball, wrap it in scented tissue and tuck it away in the memory bank for when you are old and grey.

Yet Bale threw a lifeline into a dark, dank hole that he helped to dig. He wasn’t alone, of course. Lyon are a tough, well-drilled side. Bale and his team-mates ran into a battle-hardened Champions League outfit and by the end had run out of ideas. It’s foolish to level the criticism that we would be nothing without Bale – we have him, he’s there, same as every great player lifts the whole side. However, last night’s uninspired effort confirmed the problems we have in keeping the ball and up front, which could cost us dear as the season reaches a climax.

A lead for a tough second leg was more than looked likely for much of the second half. I’m grateful but it does not fully obscure ineffectual efforts again from Dempsey and Adebayor, who is now generating ironic cheers from the East Stand when he wins a header. Parker is properly fit again but his forward passing generates nothing.

Serenaded throughout by a band of itinerant balladeers in the Park Lane, this was a Valentine’s day with my one true love. The lights were a bit bright, hardly the sort of secluded atmosphere you need for romance. Bit heavy on the dimmer switch.

But romance so often smacks headfirst into reality and comes off second best.  A decent crowd, considering the inflated ticket prices, and the whiff of a glory glory night dissolved into the reality of these first-leg games in Europe, one that was a long way from the final even though we are in the middle of February. The game was like an air-bed with a tiny hole. It looks solid but it’s slowly deflating before our very eyes. Play well and it’s never truly satisfying because there’s another game to go, another chance to cock it up. Play poorly and there’s opportunity for redemption. Either way, there’s something empty about a first leg tie. Bit like all my Valentine’s Days, really….

It took a while but we got going. Lennon and Walker combined superbly down the right. Beating the full-back this way and that or a through ball inside him, their pace was unstoppable. More please. Demebelehad a good first half too. Even though I don’t like him so deep, he had enough room to turn defence into attack. One throughball, cutting and quick, set up Adebayor but he missed the chance.

Finally, down he right again, Bale with an open goal, unmarked, he misses. Unbelieveable for Superboy under any circumstances, but now the lead shield had come off the container of green kryptonite that I am convinced lies buried beneath the penalty spot.

No matter. A free-kick, ridiculously far out even for him, but it swerves this way and that, sideways away from the keeper then down into the corner of the net. Bale has changed his technique in the last month or so. He no longer gives it sidespin and curl with the inside of his left foot but rather strikes it cleanly and lets the ball do its work. The swerve sets the keeper in one direction so a touch the other way and he has to change balance as well as direction.

Bale did not have a good game, all round. He has so much at his disposal, can do so many things, so many options, that it was as if he had too many choices that he delayed and deliberated, or tried something too flash. The simple choice is often the best.

Second half and we seldom got going. Lyon limited the space for Dembele and on our right. We were therefore less effective although I would not have substituted Lennon who had another good game. Lyon’s 4-3-3 can turn defence into attack quickly and once they had equalised with another in this game of stunners, they fell back and we were getting nowhere until the injury time winner. As above but no less wonderous. The keeper is still dizzy from watching the flight of the ball.

Bloggers are free and easy with words. We churn them out like manic 5 year-olds with their first Playdoh set, misshapen splurges of gloop strewn all around, ideas left incomprehensible to those who look on with tolerance and, sometimes, patience, but clear in our heads as we rush on to next one. 

Words deserve more care. Some must be cherished, lovingly wrapped in soft tissuepaper and stored away for special occasions only, so that when they appear, they dazzle and amaze with their shimmering brightness.

Here’s one I’ve unwrapped because the time is right. It’s simple impact has been long since mired in a quicksand of over-use and hyperbole, but for some it has meaning still. ‘Great’ carries not only the heft of significance but in a mere five letters includes also a sense of perspective, because it compares something with others around it and with examples from the past. It’s a mighty word, not to be used lightly. To me, Gareth Bale is a great Tottenham Hotspur footballer.

The greats have two things that set them apart. One is that they possess a distinctive signature, something in the way that they perform the same tasks as their professionals that remains unique. Hoddle’s long pass, stroked rather than kicked with precision and spin, backspin to hold it up into a striker’s stride or top to let it roll on invitingly into space. Gascoigne’s burst, arms out, head down, sucking a gaggle of defenders into thinking they could get him before emerging with the ball at his feet. Greaves’ effortless glide across the turf, the ball always two or three feet from his foot, the pass into the net. 

Shut your eyes and see Bale at top speed, perfect control again but this time with pace, power and muscle. He can trap a ball, shoot from range or in the box, pepper the keeper with long shots or slide one past desperate outstretched fingers to nudge it inside the far post, but in 45 years I’ve never seen a six foot 13 stone player run like that with a football at his feet.

The other unique quality that marks out the great ones is their enduring capacity to astonish. Even if you have seen it all before, this run, this pass, this shot is a thing of wonder that leaves the spectator dumb with awe. When Bale gets the ball, I’ve discovered that I no longer cheer encouragement – why would I, he doesn’t need my help. Instead, I gawp like a lovestruck teenager. He runs, my mouth falls open and I hold my breath, I am drawn from my seat by some mysterious force. Time restarts when the move is over.

In an age when the average is given preposterously inflated status, when mundane is the new top class, Bale continues to amaze. At Spurs we are privileged to see him blossom into a wonderful footballer coveted worldwide. I bore my kids with context, with stories of heroes and magnificent occasions from Tottenham’s past. I’m so delighted they have a player whose career they have seen from its awkward beginnings and who now weaves tales they can spin for their children and grandchildren. An honour and a privilege to see him play. Enjoy every moment, I beg you – this doesn’t happen very often.

Yesterday Bale won the match with two very different goals and could have scored two more. From a starting position on the left, he came inside more as the match went on as it became clear that Spurs needed some inspiration to lift the spirits as well as the tempo. Beforehand there was talk of him playing as a striker. It’s tempting as right now, you feel he can succeed at anything he likes. However, he needs a few yards to get going – defenders would love it if he had his back to the goal and pace was taken out of the equation – so that free role is perfect. 

Over the last few games, Spurs have been busy but lack a cutting edge. Bale makes the difference, versus Norwich, West Brom and now Newcastle. In a bright opening, he burst down the left and Dempsey should have touched in his perfect low cross as it skimmed along the six yard line. Then a free kick after Dempsey’s good turn was cut down by Colloncini. In a footnote, Spurs had men spare at the far post but a cross was never an option. We no longer joke about Spurs and free-kicks. Over the wall and down again, enough to bounce before it plopped into the corner.

The game was bookended by decent spells at the beginning and end. In between, we struggled to impose ourselves. Going a goal up after five minutes paved the way for some lovely flowing football with everyone involved but gradually Newcastle came back into it. Last week I suggested that with a striker shortage, we could always tighten up at the back even though ‘one nil to the Tottenham’ doesn’t have much of a ring to it. The suggestion seems reasonable and we played two defensive midfielders in Parker and Dembele. While Parker was there, Dembele is wasted in that role. Three times we left acres in front of the back four. Cisse missed with a header, unmarked as Caulker and Naughton looked on when they should have done much more, then no closing down and an equaliser. 

Newcastle have a strong midfield that at the moment lacks the capacity to control a game but they were always dangerous in bursts and kept Spurs quiet for the rest of the half. In the second we had more of the territory and I can recall Lloris making only one real save, an important one late on at Ameobi’s feet. Meanwhile we had the ball without making much of an impact. Dempsey was poor up front, showing his uncertainty in that role by dumping his stock in trade, the awareness and one-twos at the edge of the box, in favour of three long shots when others were much better placed. Holtby impressed in an advanced role but was wasted by being moved wide left in a reshuffle at the start of the second half. Predictably the game passed him by and he was withdrawn in favour of Adebayor. Parker drove on from the back but exercised poor judgement and accuracy with his forward passing. Lennon fizzed and came back to help out the defence.

Enter Bale. Just when it seemed the deadlock would not be broken, he seized on a mere moment’s hesitation between the Newcastle centre halves. At his feet, an innocuous bouncing ball in the middle suddenly became a charge on goal. This wasn’t a mere lunge to a high ball. He got there first and controlled the ball. A gallop, three touches, the fourth slid the ball home.

We became a different side. Bouncing around now, we protected the lead well. Dembele got into the match and Dawson came into his own, dominating his area to close out the match. Bale’s athletic long shot was touched over gymnastically by Krul, then the Welshman put the easiest chance of them all over the bar from close in. 

So not entirely convincing but we remain four points clear in fourth, although Arsenal are ominously coming into form and Chelsea can never be written off with talent such as theirs. The pressure will increase with every game and we will have to play much better when the key battles versus our main rivals come along. Time to get Adebayor motivated – he is key – and find the best midfield shape. In the meantime, relish what we have. Gareth Bale is 23 years old.