Is That A Tornado? No, Just Our Gareth.

October 21, 2010 / Alan / 11 Comments

A deep trough of despair. Darker than the furthest reaches of an undersea abyss. Despondency worse than watching ‘The Deep’ on BBC recently. Believe me, that is touching bottom.

Soaring skyward, floating high on wings of joy. The freedom born of pure elation. In between, flatline mediocrity. A footballing lifetime in 90 minutes. Euphoria terror disbelief exhaustion. Spurs in the Champions League.

We’re off! Spurs. In the Champions league. In the San Siro. Never thought I would see the day. But Adrian Chiles is on the pitch so it must be important.

Hang on. I saw him coming, why didn’t you? You saw him, Lenny, Zanetti I mean, but you stood still. No one else picked him up. Gomes, arms and legs. No good explaining it to your Brazilian mate, you’ve got to go. The rest, funny lines across the screen. Trouble with the signal, or hands over my eyes.

Graph of My Emotions After 15 Minutes

We’re all in this together. Sounds vaguely familiar. Reality is, some groups suffer more than others, and in our case, it was the fans. Spurs defensive formation was totally overwhelmed by a team playing the highest quality football. There were individual errors but I’m inclined against vulgar finger-pointing. Collective failure requires collective responsibility. We had little idea how to cope until the second half when we slowly sorted out the basics, not a lot to ask, and Milan slowed to walking pace. Even then they made inroads on a regular basis.

Given that we were a goal down after less than two minutes, it’s stretching things to say the writing was already on the wall, but in virtually the first movement of the game, Bassong advanced 35 yards from his goal to confront an opponent. Our goose was cooked. The midfield offered no protection so the back four had to come out. With Lennon looking on, neither back nor forward, Hutton advanced. Zanetti into the space left behind, gratefully, the pass a cutting thrust to our heart. In creation and execution it was beautiful simplicity, but there was so much room.

Inter, all poise and movement, lulling us into a false sense of security as they idled on the ball. In reality they moved in synchronicity, a many-headed single organism. Patience, then the gap and they pounced. Two and three, different players but the same move. Behind the defensive midfield and into the space, Bale and Lennon redundant as they should have come in much tighter to form a barrier at the edge of the box. Inter nonchalantly toyed with us like a cat pawing a half-dead sparrow.

Whilst I admire Redknapp’s attacking instincts, he mis-read this one. With Lennon, attack is the best form of defence: I get it, Harry. Defenders outside the Premier League have found Crouch surprisingly hard to handle. However, he misjudged his opponents. Lennon was the wrong choice, at the start and then when we had to make the substitution. We were too open when we did not have the ball. Modric should have stayed on. We could have remained creative, agile on the break and held possession better, a major fault as JJ was particularly wasteful, his anger at his own failings shown in his pace as he dashed back, sadly, too often too late.

Crouch meanwhile was crazily distant, 10 or 15 yards too far up the field. He could have been an effective outlet for the ten men but failed until the second half when clearly he had been given instructions to fall deeper. Surely that message could have been conveyed to him earlier. Compared with Inter’s superb football, our few hopeful crosses towards him in the box looked utterly pathetic. The one decent ball to the far post, he failed to even hit the target. This is the Champions League, we have to do better.

Late in the first half, Bassong was caught fully 65 yards from his own goal, still trying to get to his man. One on one he’s fine, good pace and timing, but we had learned nothing. If Gallas is supposed to be the wise old head at the back, then I’m not sure what exactly he’s up to. Benny was caught on one move but that was a breathtakingly accurate pass. One of many. Hud and JJ were bewildered, naïve innocents amongst masters.

If you’re four down at half time, the first word that comes to mind is unlikely to be ‘relief’ but be honest, you felt the same. Those fans who had confidently stated before the game how wonderful it was to be there, don’t really care about the score, didn’t consider the possibility of this impending catastrophe. Half-time was both respite and the source of further terror at what was to come.

Or so we thought. Inter strolled around but for the most part we were more resilient, tighter and narrow when they had the ball, set up for damage limitation.

Then came a force of nature, magnificent in all its fearsome glory. Bale could have fulfilled his defensive duties better but in full flight he is one of the great sights of European football. With ruddy cheeks, wide eyes and floppy hair, he looks like a kid in an adult’s body, but he is an awesome, inspiring figure who terrified the defence of the holders of the European Cup.

Television doesn’t truly show how big he is, unstoppable on the go and with the stamina to make lung-busting runs. Close control at full tilt, direct to the heart and one, two, three into the same corner.

Gareth Bale at the San Siro

How can defeat taste so sweet? When Bale is in your team. Scintillating, superlative. I’ll stop now.

We were beaten by a much better team, whose quality will be seldom matched in Europe, and 1-0 in the San Siro is OK. Today it’s the exhilaration of Bale’s hat-trick that remains, although I suspect that’s the mind doing good deeds in covering up some horrible memories from earlier in the evening.

There is genuine reason for optimism, though. They are strong defensively although we never seriously pressured them for any period. With ten men that’s understandable, up to a point, and when they come to the Lane in a couple of weeks they’ll have on their minds a vision of Lennon and Bale running at them, never mind VDV. Whatever, it will be fun finding out.

Perhaps the most significant move of the game was not one of Bale’s storming goals. After about 70 minutes, we pushed the ball around for 30 odd passes before suddenly upping the tempo for Hutton to advance towards their box. He wasted the chance, shooting over with his left foot when others were well-placed, but that’s not the point. In the move, we looked like Inter and that’s a real compliment. Steady, one and two touch, ball and players on the move, then the move on goal. Granted Inter were strolling at the time, but we were transformed from the gauche, naïve waifs of the first half. I think we learned something after all.

Almost Like Being There

October 2, 2010 / Alan / 4 Comments

No alternative, really. I had to go to the meeting. As the cosmic orrery whirrs inexorably into infinity, it’s hardly the equivalent of a supernova but it had to be done.

If it were just about me, no problem. In a heartbeat. Being there is all that matters and I would have put aside most everything else, just as I have for the last 40 or more years. This was about other people, however. I take my role as a trustee of a child care charity seriously, trying in my largely insignificant way to do the right thing for others.

Can you see me?

As a reasonable, aware and generous character, I’ve accomplished a few decent things over the years but amongst the people who knew me best, my legacy will be one of broken promises, mind-numbing stubbornness and scarred relationships, all due to Tottenham Hotspur and being there. Weddings, of course weddings. Not actually been invited to that many, come to think of it. Friends living in sin, perhaps, or so dysfunctional that they can’t hold on to a relationship for long enough. Three invitations turned down, when I was younger. Maybe they just don’t bother asking any longer. As a teenager I dreamed of getting into the school team, or in the coach’s case a nightmare as I was rubbish. But my chance came, early season against the old boys. Could have cemented my place for the rest of the season, but Spurs at home, not selected ever again. Dumped a group of kids in the hands of two colleagues and walked 6 miles along a dual carriageway in the rain to get to the station, when we were in the old second division. Missed the start of a course that was vital to my professional standing at the time because Spurs were at home to Ajax. Rang in from a phone box to say I was ill, pretend cough and sore throat, I was 29 for goodness sake. And best not to think about a couple of women who swiftly lost patience. The natural blonde….oh well, best leave it.

Now many people have other stories about football fanaticism far more crazy than this. Feel free to confess in the comments section. But for me, it’s been about arranging my life to the best of my ability to be there. The course as above – I chose that one partly because it was interesting, mainly because it took place on a Tuesday and Thursday. In those days, children, an immutable law of the universe stated that Spurs played evening games on a Wednesday, the A’s on a Tuesday. T’was ever thus and evermore shall be so. And the thought of football on a Thursday, well, please. Rotas, duty systems, favours stored up for cover. But this was an appointment too far. It’s like I’ve let myself down. In a complex, ever-changing world of compromise and shallowness, a man has to live by some principles, and what is he if he lets slip the fundamentals? I despise myself.

Very pleasant it was too. Excellent company in a swanky restaurant. I know it was good because you could barely see the portions. My sea bass was more like a stickleback. I made out I had not started out of polite deference, waiting for the other orders to arrive, but in fact I paused in expectation of vegetables that never came. What they termed a sauce, I thought was a smear on a dirty plate.

My son texted the half-time score. Regular updates would have been too much, the strain of waiting, anticipating a message that could arrive at any moment. Better for the nerves to wait until 8.35. Couldn’t even pick that up as I was sat next to the chair who chose that moment to begin the speeches.

So we say goodbyes and stroll back to the station. My companions step left to the bus stop and I cross over to the tube. Then…I have to turn back. There’s still about 5 minutes left. 6 screens in the Wetherspoons on the corner, all showing Man U. Oh well. There’s another pub in the next street, 100 yards, may not be open in the City at night, quiet place, I’ve been in there before, pleasant but the lights are just a fraction bright. Just this one, give it a go.

Can’t see through the windows. May not even have a TV. Open the door, it’s reasonably busy, I register the reassuring familiar burble of a commentator’s voice plus a crowd roar. It’s us and we’re 3-1 up. There, in the corner of the screen, 3-1. I smile then in the few steps it takes to get to the bar I’m grinning manically. The barmaid was positively terrified that I was so delighted to see her.

White Hart Lane. Nearly

I dimly clocked a Spurs shirt to my right but my focus was on the TV. I looked up, it’s Bale in the box, it’s in and the whole place goes mental. I’m slapping the backs of total strangers having been in the place for all of 50 seconds. It’s full of Spurs fans. Everywhere. The surge of raw emotion, pent up and suppressed in the days leading up to this most vital of matches to the extent that I suspected the passion just wasn’t there any more, utterly engulfs me. I swoon and sway in the ecstasy of victory, flooding over me, purging the heart and cleansing the soul. The roar is deafening and we’re dancing to ‘Glory Glory Tottenham Hotspur’ over the PA as the players troop off.

A couple of blokes by the door bring me up to speed. I watched every second of the drama when I got home but somehow I felt part of it all. So to the regulars of the One Tun in Farringdon, my sincere thanks for evermore. As good as I could get to being there. And in my case that’s the biggest compliment I can pay you.

Spurs v Bremen – Intoxicating, Infuriating, Ultimately Satisfying

September 15, 2010 / Alan / 14 Comments

Spurs opening match in the Champions League was an intoxicating mixture of breathless brilliance and the downright infuriating. Just as we became accustomed to the new model Eurospurs, dictating and dominating to the manor born, as if this were our 51st game in the competition rather than our first, familiar frailties threatened to expose it all as a giant conceit. In the end we discovered a measure of equilibrium and the result not only provides sustained satisfaction, it also heightens the anticipation for the home game against Twente in a fortnight. A point to begin with is fine, four after two matches and the possibilities are staggering.

Wide eyed we marvelled. Pass and move, smooth, purposeful and easy on the eye, punctuated by a few moments of swooning beauty, like gazing into the eyes of a stunning woman for the first time and she looks right back. Two mesmerising moves for the goals, both moving the ball 60 yards with two passes. I roared at the first, gasped open-mouthed at the second. A move of classic simplicity, made to look effortless by outstanding skill and finished with a header that was glorious in its perfection. The opening passages were truly the stuff of dreams.

Our five man midfield was set up to avoid being over-run but we proved how effective an attacking option such a formation can be. The proviso is, we have to have the right players. Last night the blend was almost perfect. Huddlestone and Jenas toiled unstintingly in the centre and crucially could also deliver the ball accurately when required. JJ in particular was excellent throughout, his stamina and passing adding another dimension to that key area of the battle. His selection to replace the off-form Palacios was a bold move by Redknapp and the manager was rewarded with a fine display.

Definition of a class midfielder: Rafael van der Vaart. This guy has got it. In spades. Strong, shrewd and skilful with a great touch and sense of where to be, right time right place. The Bremen defence were permanently on edge as he moved around in the area between back four and midfield. He wasn’t averse to dropping back when we lost the ball.

In the delicate balance between our attacking instincts and the need for prudence lay the destiny of the match. On the left we clearly ran out winners. After the group stages are over, Gareth Bale will be the most talked about young footballer in Europe. He slaughtered an international opponent in a battle-hardened team. In fact the most grief he had all evening was from his manager who appeared to be giving him an ear-bashing for not doing more of the same in the second half.

Over on the other side, the scales tipped the other way. Lennon failed to sparkle but even so he provided width that stretched their defence and kept their left side occupied. His lack of tracking back, however, left our flank ripe for exploitation and Marin took full advantage. In the same way that Bremen did not close us down in the centre, Marin was given far too much room: too often he faced only one man when he should have been double-teamed. His sense of freedom was enhanced by Corluka’s wretched evening. Left exposed, he appeared to have totally lost his bearings, a dyspraxic lost at sea. In vain I waited for this solid player to gather himself. His form has been poor for some time now and is becoming a major concern. His positional play and sound timing always has to be sharp to compensate for his lack of pace, and these resources have deserted him. A favourite of mine, I’m so disappointed.

The strength of our centre backs provided a solid platform at first for our early enterprise and later for some hard defending as Bremen pressured. Kaboul was the pick. This raw talent is maturing in front of our eyes, His application has been superb this season, taking Dawson’s determination to seize his chance in the middle of last season as his example.

Benny. Ben. Benjamin. Benny boy. Benny the ball. Ben Dover no not that one. Ben Jovi. What on earth. You know I like you, wrote about it a few weeks ago. But we’ll never know what passes through your mind. Lovely passes, good support of the attack, nicely timed tackles. Then a wildly misplaced hack up the field. I’ll actually let you off the goal. You could have done more but even if you had, he’s a big bloke and would have beaten you to that ball.

But here’s the thing. Don’t give the ball away unnecessarily. Regular readers (I can dream) know what’s coming…I’m retitling the blog. From now on it will be called ‘Giving It All Away’. It could be sub-titled ‘Severe Ball Retention’ but that would get the wrong sort of interest from Google searches. Here’s the infuriating bit. Keep the ball. Don’t give it away, let them come and get it. Time and again we presented Bremen with possession. Even when we played keep-ball in the last 10 minutes, we had that throw-in and free kick in the far left, in or near injury time, and no one took it to the corner flag. This will come with experience, or so I would wish to believe, but we’ve heard it all before, in the Premier League. It’s the hardest lesson to learn and frankly Bremen should have punished more severely.

As it was, our defence was pierced too easily in the second half. The midfield who were sound by and large, were asleep after the restart. All five of them were upfield, presenting Bremen with a open path to our box, uncluttered by tackles or pressure. Well-finished by Marin but he could not believe his luck in getting that far.

A combination of good fortune, wayward finishing and some good blocks saw us through. Cudicini could have come for the cross that led to Bremen’s first but it was a decent ball (delivered with any pressure being applied) and he was solid enough on his line. Notably his distribution was an asset – on several occasions he passed the ball to team-mates from the box where most keepers would have hacked aimlessly downfield.

The contrast between VDV and Keane could not have been more damning against the Irishman. I say this with no pleasure as in his experience and all-round game is welcome in a substitute. However, he too gave the ball away and wasted precious opportunities, opting for over-complicated passes and making runs that look good but in fact ask far too much of his colleagues. Notice how often his runs require a ball of such precision, into the narrow strip between the back four and keeper, or a ball right into the corner that takes him into safe areas for the defence.

I detest the popular phrase ‘settle for a point’ because it denies potential and restricts ambition. However, the fact of the matter is, an away point at Bremen is a fine outcome. Undoubtedly parts of the second half were excruciating – I covered my face with my hands on more than one occasion – but this morning I was quietly delighted, a feeling that has stayed with me all day. Driving late last night night, I found myself switching from station to station, just to hear the sports bulletins, opening item, “and in the Champions League tonight…”, followed a few moments later by ‘Tottenham Hotspur’. These words are so familiar, yet so distant. Until now that is. Exhilarating and excruciating, this is the Champions League and we are part of it. And I want more.

Spurs v Young Boys: Dancing in the Dark

August 27, 2010 / Alan / 8 Comments

What convinced me was the steward’s hi-visibility jacket. I had been trying desperately to play it all down. We weren’t in the Champions League yet. This was just the qualifier, not yet, don’t get your hopes up, earn it first.

I didn’t notice at first. Trying to get in, yes to see the game but mainly, right now, to get out of the rain. Had to park further away than normal, mind full of traffic problems rather than navy blue and white. No glory in the Blackwall Tunnel. Me soggy and anxious, barcode is bound to go wrong, sod’s law, she’s fussing over the bags of the people in front of us. A little UEFA ribbon round the handle will save us all, never mind the petrol bombs and semtex hidden under the bloke’s coat. Nicely, mind, she’s sweet and kind, her gentle consideration out of place and time amongst the testosterone overload.

Then, the moment that Tottenham Hotspur arrived in the Champions League, for me at least. She’s wearing a Champions League official steward luminous orange waterproof jacket. The circle of stars and everything. Not just something knocked up in the printers on the industrial estate. Official. Probably flown in all the way from FIFA. Someone somewhere made it possible for her to have an official CL jacket. It mattered. We had arrived.

In the ground, cheap plastic flags, corny gesture, leave the atmosphere to us, the fans have done it for the last hundred or so years so we’ll probably be OK on our own tonight, thanks anyway. The anthem on TV sounds so ridiculously pompous, the perfect sign of the overblown self-importance of this competition.

Yet when they played it, I waved my plastic stick like my life depended on it, roared as the whistle blew, took photos, which I never do lest it detract from being part of the moment, of stands rippling with white silk and unbridled anticipation. I wanted to remember it all, a souvenir, but what’s the point – I’m never going to forget it, being there, Tottenham Hotspur in the Champions League, never until the day I die.

The passion from all parts of the ground lifted our men, Dawson I think, to reach an early cross first, but wide and wasted. It was a reminder from the first leg: never mind all the formations, the passing and the pitch, they can’t deal with high balls. That’s it, I said, to no one in particular, that’s it, just get it in, good crosses, either side, get it in. Straight away, Crouch, across the keeper. I leapt as it left his head, it was in, beautifully placed.

It was enough but we needed more. Young Boys move the ball impressively, excellent control, well-drilled, get possession and four or five drive forward as one. Tension in my head but not so much in the ground. My failings: on the death certificate, Terminal Anxiety, Shelf Side, Tottenham Hotspur. Neat and tidy doesn’t score goals and the YBs had little punch up front.

A great atmosphere most of the time, although it was quiet during periods. It never needed to reach the heights because we didn’t have to fight that hard for the win and for once scored the goals at all the right times. It’s always a good time to score, etc, but JD’s success came when the tempo had dropped and the game was becoming too even (blatant handball from my angle, didn’t really enjoy the well-taken goal as much as I should because I was waiting for the inevitable whistle), Crouch again at a flat spot (just cross it, see what I mean) and the penalty to finish it all off, still at a time when they need just two to tie it up.

YBs were not going to get into it themselves but Gomes’ injury could have been a turning point. He looks such a wuss, on the point of tears. I’m not sure what was going on. I’ve not seen any TV coverage of the game and so I don’t know what they worked out from the bench, but Harry appeared to come out and tell him to get on with it, presumably on medical advice. Get through to half time is all very well but it created uncertainly at the back where before there was none and this spread right through the team at the end of the first half. The cross that the 15 headed over left defenders and keeper staring blankly at each other. That was a bad miss and could have presented the initiative to the Swiss.

Otherwise, we were on top without romping away. The pen sealed it and oh what fun we had for the last 10 or 15 minutes. Crouch should not have taken that spot kick. Whoever was the man chosen by Redknapp, Pav I think, should have taken it regardless of a hattrick. Personal glory should be subordinated to the needs of the team. The match was not conclusively won at that point and we need to maintain the ruthless streak through the tournament. Start now.

Churlish to complain, I’m not really, but the match evidenced the oft-made point about the lack of technical ability of English players. The YBs would not survive in the Prem but their ball control was for the most part way better than ours. Once, Defoe was given the ball under pressure but in his stride. A simple trap and pass would have released Lennon but he fumbled it. Crouch, bless him, the ball sailed from ankle to above head high more than once.

Still I’m not complaining. Honest. Bale was always dangerous and Huddlestone impressively directed things from deep. A fine European performance, revelling in the extra space he had, always available even if not all his passes came off. Ledley was always there to head off the pressure and Benny had another good one. Crouch, the Prem defenders can deal with him, nudge in the back, get in first because he hangs back, but Europe may not know this. Two metre Peter our secret weapon against Europe’s finest, who would have thought it?

No comment on the draw. It’s tough but we knew that. Being there is all that matters. With a team including several players who have been with us for a few years, maturing in front of our eyes. We’ve suffered during their growing pains, winced at their naivety, grumbled about their mistakes. But under Harry’s watchful gaze, there they are, our boys, they’ve taken us to the CL. Bale, Benny, Daws, Lenny and big Tom. Although they wobbled, I never lost faith. So very proud of them.

Quiet on the way home, reflecting. It’s only when I reached my house and tried to sleep that I realised the adrenalin was still pumping through my veins in overdose proportions. What is it about this club that makes grown men dance around their living room, in the dark, at 1am, laughing silently, just laughing and laughing. It’s the Champions League and it’s real.