Spurs v Manchester City. Dawson is Our Leader. We Shall Not Be Moved

December 17, 2009December 17, 2009 / Alan / 6 Comments

A satisfying win for Spurs against Manchester City, one of our main rivals, not without its problems but in the end a comprehensive victory.

After 33 minutes, something remarkable happened. We passed the ball around a bit. I glanced up at the clock to quietly mark the moment. Until then my head had been swivelling like a spectator at centre court as the ball whizzed from one end to the other as fast as a Federer forehand. Entertaining enough but we weren’t getting anywhere by missing out the midfield and hitting early balls to Crouch and Defoe. This must have been tactical orders. City pressed right up the field so I presume we wanted to clear our lines and work from knock downs. Maybe it was designed to get away to a start without mishap, then settle down. Defoe and Crouch had problems with understanding the offside rule, although to be fair JD has really worked on this problem that bedevilled his game over the last few seasons. Unfortunately, as fast as the ball pinged forward, back it came as Crouch’s lack of close control was highlighted.

We were getting nowhere and City looked sharp and purposeful, quick to the ball with Tevez in threatening space between the back four and midfield. Then a little move, Lennon down the right and a chance. Just wide, and nothing special, but the tide had turned. From then on, our grip on the game tightened as City simply faded away. Kranjcar got on the ball and found his touch whereas Huddlestone never got the range or weight of pass. We fed the ball wide right and Lenon took Sylvinho apart. Once again we saw how he now has a cross to match his pace and dribbling, a lovely ball stood up to the far post for the first goal. It was a thrilling period of the match, holding our breath as he twisted and turned, promise in every touch. Hughes made a huge mistake in leaving Sylvinho on his own with Robinho in front him. Come right this way, Mr Lennon, the goal is waiting for you. Next time, read my preview, Mark. Or not.

Immersed in the sea of misery, hope and desperation that is the way I watch Spurs, defending a lead causes more trauma than when we are chasing a goal deficit, as with Wolves on Saturday. I am a hopeless case: even when we were two up I see the gaps at the back, the might-have-beens, the danger of Tevez on the ball…This may have some basis in reality, given our apparently unending capacity over the years to cave in, but the fact is it says more about my psyche, permanently damaged after 40 years of supporting Spurs, than it does about what happens on the pitch. City were not going to score. It was they who folded in adversity, their expensive stars able to live easily with defeat. I genuinely forgot Robinho was playing until he strolled towards the Shelf at the start of the second half.

But last night there was another, more significant reason to ease my anxieties. Michael Dawson produced a magnificent performance, the heart of the defence and the soul of the team. He’s normally strong in the box, determined in the air and fearless in his blocking. In addition, his decision-taking was impeccable, effortlessly stepping forward to intercept and tackle around the edge of the box or to cut out a through ball. His distribution, short and long, retained possession and turned defence to attack. His expression is now steely focus, dealing with the moment and then straight away thinking ahead, either to direct others into place or to anticipate danger. If we need to maintain a high tempo, then Daws will keep it moving from the back. That purpose and urgency communicated itself through to the team, whose spirits must have been raised by such might behind them.

Daws is not the finished article. He must always work so hard on his positioning and anticipation to compensate for his lack of pace and he still lets players get in front of him and/or between him and his defensive partner. But our search for a leader? Right there. Give him a go, HR, regardless of the fitness of others. He’s earned it.

Never mind this football lark, long ball down the middle, a Gilzean-esque flick (and believe me, there is no higher praise in my book) and we are two up. Crouch is so frustrating, he won every ball in the air, trouble is, you don’t know where it is going to end up. Most players have good and bad games. He has good and bad spells in most matches, beginning last night with some poor control, then setting up both goals and a purple patch where he was unplayable that then inspired him to attempt to score from as far out as possible when on each occasion other players were much better placed.

Niko sneaked through for the third, not sure quite how but a thrilling climax to the match, allowing even me to actually enjoy the last five minutes of the game, complete with a bit of Adebayor-baiting.

Hud did not get going, JD’s upper body strength enables him to hold the ball much better than in previous seasons, and Assou Ekotto put all thoughts of handbags to one side with an accomplished 90 minutes. Wilson looks out of sorts still. When it doesn’t work for him, he dwells on it, admonishing himself with a pained expression and Honduran swearing. It’s a bad sign if players allow mistakes to play on their mind.

Spurs v Wolves. Weak Minds At Work

December 13, 2009December 13, 2009 / Alan / 5 Comments

With a few desperate minutes left, three of the Premier League’s most talented players conspired over a free kick outside the Wolves box. As the tension simmered around the Lane, they after great deliberation hatched their devilish plan. The whistle blew and the execution was impeccable. Defoe to Modric, Modric to Huddlestone – except the ball was returned to precisely the same blade of grass to be gratefully smothered by a couple of eager onrushing defenders.

Our performance in a nutshell, a brainless and futile effort. To suggest that the rest is not worth discussing is tempting but unfair, because Wolves deserve credit for a fine defensive display. Admittedly their intentions were revealed after 30 seconds, when ten of their players clustered around their penalty area, and the early goal gave them the perfect incentive, but they stuck to McCarthy’s plan with great resilience.

There it is. I couldn’t resist. Second para and the ‘R word’ already, my word of the season. They had it, we didn’t. What’s worse, I thought we were learning it, but the evidence from successive weeks shows this was a false hope. Confronted with the requirement to be patient, considered and determined, our resolve crumbled in the second half, our superior skills and talent reduced to a series of long hopeful punts in the vague direction of Crouch’s spindly body.

A bad start set us back on our heels. We have been defending set pieces better of late and admittedly it looked a decent ball but surely we could have done something about their goal. Dawson played well again and if the rest of the team had possessed half his obvious urgency then we would not have lost, but he still let his man come in front of him to rise unchallenged.

Near the end the Wolves fans chanted about only ever being given s**t refs, but they have short memories. Being a mature, balanced individual, I reacted as any fan would to a defeat and deliberately didn’t watch MOTD. The theory is that if Hansen, Lawro and Shearer don’t make their pronouncements the game didn’t really exist. That and sticking my fingers in my ears and going ‘Lalalala’. So without the benefit of a replay I may be totally misguided in not seeing anything wrong with Hud’s challenge that was flagged a foul by an over-eager linesman anxious to make an impression.

Around me there was growing frustration but as the game went on I thought we were doing well enough. The well-organised defensive barrier was hard to break down but for the most part we kept possession and made space, especially towards the end of the half. Lennon had two men on him as soon as he touched the ball and defenders concentrated their efforts on the near post to block crosses. However, they can’t be everywhere and we consistently spread the ball wide and maintained a decent tempo. Huddlestone was excellent throughout the half, superb passing allied to an unusually high workrate. Kranjcar was also prominent and Assou Ekotto saw plenty of the ball, delivering some fine crosses.

This was always going to be a game of few chances. Although we lacked a cutting edge, those chances did arrive but were not taken. Keane should have done better with a header, and he, Lenny, JD and Niko all wanted that extra touch on the ball that was not there as Wolves began a game-long series of flying blocks and lunging tackles. You would think that the forwards’ confidence was high and that they could try an early or first-time shot, but curiously they collectively seemed unable to do so. Maybe their confidence is more fragile than might first appear.

Keane was especially poor. On several occasions he wasted hard-earned openings by taking the ball wide rather than striking for the heart of the defence. More space but less danger. He cut a forlorn figure when substituted. Something is not right in his mind. Wilson too is a shadow of his former self, wasting possession consistently. He needs a rest.

Meanwhile, behind me Dave the pie-man dozed contentedly, oblivious to all efforts to wake him. He had the right idea.

The series of excellent crosses from BAE in particular were largely wasted in the first half for want of a big centre forward to get on the end of them. So Crouch comes on and the stream of crosses totally dries up, replaced by endless balls delivered from wide and about 40 yards out. Even with this tactic, we were unable to get more than one player close to Crouch for any of his knock-downs. Poor though most of them were, the law of averages suggests that something will come of them if players can shift themselves. But apparently transfixed by the shiny bright sphere glistening in the floodlights, the players stood back and admired the ball’s graceful arc through the night sky.

This aspect of our play is utterly unfathomable and unacceptable. It’s not Crouch’s fault – I’ve said before that he likes the ball in front of him and would have lapped up the first half crossing, delivered from the byline or close to it, whipped in and around the 6 yard box. Under pressure (actually, not that much pressure), there is a collective mental disintegration. We could not build a move of four passes, or get the ball wide, or link the full back with the wide man. Last Sunday, the same mental attitude meant we conceded endless free kicks for no reason and could not keep possession, thereby throwing away a match we had sown up.

It’s not as if we can’t be creative or keep the ball, and that’s what makes it so disappointing. With such a lack of mental strength we will not get anywhere and are in danger of wasting the full talents of the best squad we have had at the Lane for years.

One slight plus was the reappearance of Modric, who pleasingly picked up the pace of the game straight away and his touch looks good, but of course he needs more time. Gio managed to hide for 15 minutes…

Work is the curse of blogging classes. Over the last week my writing has been confined to two reports for the trustees and the Department. 8000 words, set out, if I may say so, with clarity and balance to be read and enjoyed by three people then shredded unceremoniously.

In my last TOMM outing I called for a bit of perspective after Man U. Two games since then, evidence enough to draw some conclusions. And the unpalatable but unavoidable truth is that we remain fundamentally fragile deep down inside. We need to remain steady under pressure – keeping the ball sounds simple enough but is apparently beyond our collective consciousness. Also, both Villa and Wolves piled men into their box to defend slender leads to the last man. We on the other hand tiptoe around, presumably to help the groundsman by not churning up his six yard box. I can’t think of a better explanation, and we would do well to learn from those two, starting next week against City and at Blackburn.

Villa v Spurs Preview. And I Love You All

November 27, 2009 / Alan / 11 Comments

Same again. Steady as she goes. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Blimey this blogging lark is too easy.

I’ve spent this week glowing mostly. I like to think that my fellow human beings have been enriched by the experience as I spread warmth and happiness amongst them. If only they had let me have a crack at those nuclear negotiations Iran or that climate change stuff, the world would have been a better place.

I’ve not really had the inclination to write. Happy happy joy joy. Hello clouds, hello sky. Everything in the world is lovely and it would spoil it if I picked up the laptop. It is such a wonderful feeling, I just want to extract every ounce of pleasure and delight, savour every last moment. Sunday was a great day: I left the ground grinning like an idiot and am grinning still.

Maybe we Spurs fans only get worked up about the bad stuff. In my job I tend to come across many problems – the good stuff goes on but the few complaints and wrongs end up on my desk. I encourage colleagues to take a positive approach, to dwell on strengths and success rather than be problem-oriented, but here’s me feeling a little odd. All is well and nothing to say.

In the end, this feeling is unusual because this is a very special week. When you witness a piece of history, it’s hard to put it into context, but nine goals, eight in one half, one player scores five, almost the biggest ever margin of victory – this club has been going for over 125 years, I’ve been part of 40 or so of them, and this is history right here right now.

On Saturday I would not make any changes but Harry may be tempted because of course Villa will present a totally different challenge. Martin O’Neill will have looked at Sunday’s game with the gimlet eye of a true predator. Not for him the beauteous wonder of Kranjcar’s touch: he has eyes only for the gaps left behind as Niko trundles unwillingly back to defend. Milner is the ideal man to both protect the Villa defence and then dash forward into the space. Defence-splitting through-balls will not be admired either, as O’Neill will instruct his back four to hold back and stay close to cut down the space behind and in between them.

O’Neill is one of my favourite managers. If consistently getting the best out of players is the key to being a fine manager, then he qualifies every time. Normally I’m sceptical about the bosses who cavort hysterically on the touchline but his appears to be genuine enthusiasm and involvement. And behind sits John Robertson, a dour faced perfect foil apparently thinking only about when he can pop out for a quick drag. The straight man for the star but without each other, neither would be so famous.

Rumour has it that O’Neill had dinner with Levy when we had a vacancy but it did not come of anything. The Irishman asked for a big salary, maybe £2m, and would not accept a director of football. Levy should have shaken hands on that one. I hope O’Neill does the World Cup again for the BBC. He’s fantastic because he’s happy to talk about football but can’t stand all the hype and dumb questions – and he’s not afraid of showing that on screen. I bet Lineker and Chiles are really scared of him.

Back to Saturday. Harry might be tempted to replace Crouch with Keane to work on Villa’s back four but I’d keep it the same, telling Crouch to come off his markers into the space in front of them, thus shifting the centre halves from their defensive line. His height will be valuable in defending set pieces: Villa have scored a high proportion of their goals in this fashion.

Whatever plan Villa concoct to stifle Lennon, it either won’t work because he is just so hot right now, or it will commit so many players as to leave space elsewhere. We must be ready to slot Defoe and maybe Hud into channels on the right, and/or shift the ball quickly across field. There will be gaps if we do it right.

Bassong is fit, I’m not sure about Ledley. Dawson has done well but may step down if more pace in the box is required.

I’d also keep attacking, not recklessly and with the safety net of Wilson permanently stationed in front of our back four, but to maintain pressure on Villa and score one more than them.

Spurs v Wigan. Joy and Pain. Without the Pain.

November 23, 2009November 23, 2009 / Alan / 13 Comments

Just a fantastic day, one for celebration and delight rather than analysis. I cannot recall a 45 minutes of sustained joyous brilliance like it, a whirlwind of marvellous passing, electric shooting and outstanding athleticism.

Less a football match, more an exercise in physical and psychological destruction, imagine what the total might have been if we had actually played for the last 30 minutes of the first half, instead of sitting back and allowing Wigan to ease back into the match. Come on, be honest: at half time how many of you said this was typical Tottenham, letting our advantage go to waste? The Bloke Behind Me confidently predicted one-one.

Remember the way the old teleprinter on Grandstand would chatter the big scores, giving the figure and then the word in brackets, lest anyone think an error had been made. Tottenham Hotspur 9 (nine) Wigan 1 is how I shall hold this victory in my memory.

I saw the 9-0 against Bristol Rovers but as I’ve said elsewhere, I don’t recall that as being an exceptionally good Spurs performance. What was different about yesterday was that every goal was fabulous. Not a deflection or scramble amongst them.

It was as if the forces that hold the cosmos in equilibrium decided that the Tottenham Yin and Yang needed squaring up, but rather than do so over the course of a season or two, they squeezed the reckoning-up into 45 minutes. To make up for all those moments of hand-wringing, hands clasped to face in horror or utter derision, everything worked. The mental aberrations and Laurel and Hardy pratfalls, the late comebacks and underserved breakaway deflections, balanced out in one fell swoop on a chilly November afternoon. The earth is spinning more smoothly on its axis, don’t you agree? Although it might have been nice if Bentley could have saved the one decent free kick since goodness knows when for the winner against Chelsea or United.

The fact that Defoe scores five and I’m not sure if he was Spurs’ best player says something about the quality of the second half onslaught. Earlier in the season in a match report I remarked on JD’s progress. He has bags of natural talent but not the football nouse that delineates the good finishers from the great. Or so it used to be. Against Hull he moved better, one touch for control and the second for the strike, and yesterday showed how far that development can take him. His running and positioning was canny (granted Wigan gave him enough space but he took full advantage) and his finishing was deadly. Twice he took the ball too wide, or so I thought, twice he found the net, unerringly into the corners, keeper a tangle of limbs.

Through-balls and crosses, they were all the same in this display of the art of finishing. This is what he can do if given the service – all afternoon he was able to run onto the ball rather than have his back to the goal. Credit to Crouch, who bewildered his markers by coming off the back four into no man’s land where he was not picked up. Mind you, it did not take much to befuddle Titus Bramble, bless him. Plaudits also to Harry, who insisted in the second half that our runs started higher up the pitch, thus exploiting Wigan’s lack of pace in defence, just as we did against Burnley.

Our 4-4-2 looked right, a brave decision to leave Keane on the bench but absolutely the correct one. However, who needs tactics when all you have to do is give the ball to Lennon. It still took us 45 minutes to work that out but poor Wigan never quite sussed it. Even right at the end of the game, we were still passing the ball wide right to Lennon or Defoe and they were still leaving them all alone. They were great passes, though.

Eric 'the Invisible Man' Edman pictured yesterday

Lennon produced a scintillating performance of classic wing-play, harking back to the golden years of Jones and Robertson, although neither were as quick as he is. In the first half he loitered on the wing, feeding on sweeping cross-field passes from Huddlestone and Kranjcar, whose abilities mean we can change the point of attack quickly and opposition defences can never therefore be at rest. After the break his diet was supplemented by telling through balls, but these days it is all meat and drink to him. No longer does he dwell on the ball, twisting hither and thither because he can’t make up his mind, nor do crosses sail aimlessly into Row Z. He can pick out a man, cut to the by-line or switch inside. A remarkable achievement for one who is still comparatively young, and an absolute credit to the coaching staff.

But what is most memorable is just how thrilling this was. When he came onto the ball, I held my breath and rose from the seat in genuine expectation and excitement. Something would happen but you didn’t know exactly what, and there’s the beauty.

Wilson stayed back and Tom went forward, that’s the natural order of things. The stand-out for me was Kranjcar’s superb midfield creativity. He displayed the complete array of skills: impeccable first touch, the vision to see the ball early and inch-perfect weight of pass to deliver. Deft flicks, through-balls or 50 yarders across the pitch, they were all the same, all performed with the nonchalance brilliance of the top class thoroughbred. I adored that cross from the left in the second half, caressed early with the outside of his right foot, or the flick over the hapless opponent’s head late on, followed by a run into the heart of the box.

I’m enjoying this so much, I’ll leave to another day the debate about how we shoehorn all this talent into the team, but suffice to say that Woodgate had to have a strong word with him about his failure to pick up Scharner’s runs into the box, one of which led to the handball, sorry, goal, a defensive shortcoming which better teams would have punished more severely.

I ended the game with a sneaking admiration for Scharner. He kept going for the whole match as his team-mates disintegrated around him, still making runs, still trying to get something out of the game. He had the front to look the Shelf right in the eye when given the bird towards the end of the match (you can’t put your heart and soul into abusing a bloke who was seven goals behind at the time, even if he is a cheat) and straight-faced hold up his right hand. I’d invest in that bloodyminded attitude for our midfield – shame about the talent.

A few minutes from the end, I managed to draw breath and it started to sink in. That bloke in Worcester Avenue, laughing uncontrollably, that was me and I’m chuckling still. It’s a feeling that won’t go away for a good while yet and I hope you had as much fun as me.