Europa League

The Night Hugo Lloris Became a Spur

/ Alan / 7 Comments

Ironic that The Glory Glory Nights, Martin Cloake and Adam Powley’s luscious history of Spurs in Europe should arrive unexpectedly just before kick-off. I’ve preserved its shrink-wrapped beauty until now. Seemed wrong somehow to expose it to Spurs in Europe, the 2012 version. Borey Borey night, more like.

This otherwise forgettable effort contained one notable feature. Lazio away marked the arrival of Hugo Lloris as a Spur. He spent the evening flinging himself across his goal and all over his area. Diving saves, calmly snaffling crosses, hurling himself at forwards’ feet like a fifties custodian. He kept Spurs in the game. One point to Lazio, one to Hugo Lloris.

Lloris has the hallmark of a real Spur. He’s classy, catches the eye and distinctive. And he also possesses the classic characteristic of all great Spurs: the man has style. There’s no other keeper in the Premier League like him. Because he’s so different, he has his moments. We must get used to his punching and his fondness for coming off his line will lead to wincing as well as gasps of gratitude. However, as I said earlier this week, the good far outweighs the scary. He leads from the back.

It’s not as if he’s a flamboyant man. Many keepers are ‘characters’, or bonkers as their team-mates would call them, and they relish the limelight. Lloris does not strike you as that kind of man. This, he’s decided, is the best way to do his job and how well he did it last night. His is a quiet determination to protect not just his goal but his area too. A relatively slight man, he maintains a presence by fearlessly getting amongst the bodies in the box. His mind is sharp too. He can see the play spread before him and as sweeper he dashes to the edge of his territory and beyond to snuff out danger. This in turn enables us to play a higher line and have more bodies in midfield.

He’s even got that magic ingredient, that somehow the headers and shots are drawn to his feet and legs rather than a foot or so either side. My son who was at the game reports that he threw his shirt and gloves into the crowd at the finish. One of us now. It may not even rate a footnote in the next edition of the Glory Glory Nights but his emergence could be the catalyst to energise our fortunes this season and for years to come.

He certainly had more than enough opportunity to demonstrate his talents. The defence was porous throughout and Lazio earned a steady stream of chances, created by clever passing picking out forwards who consistently found the gaps between our back four. They were far too wide apart and the full-backs should have tucked in much more than they did. Sandro did some sterling work in front of them and Carroll is always willing but mostly we failed to cut those passes out at source. Pressing from the front was effective in the second half on Saturday but we seemed to quickly forget that lesson. Given that Dempsey and Adebayor failed to get in a goal attempt between them, they were badly anonymous.

Overall, the match was characterised by the timid vagueness typical of our away performances in this season’s Europa League. The fans are waiting for something to happen – it’s as if the team are too. These group games have ‘dull’ wired into them but we could have been actively dull yesterday by holding onto the ball better, even if we were unable to create any chances. Siggy on the right allowed for more men in the box at times, something I’m in favour of, but he hardly made much of an impact. Once more Carroll showed his maturity. Apparently unfazed by the pressure, he is always looking for the ball and his touch means often he can do something valuable with it. Things might have been different if his superb early through ball to Bale had met with the plaudits for an excellent goal it deserved rather than an unjustified offside flag.

AVB (boring, some say…) went for the points but the arrival of Lennon and Defoe merely hastened the deterioration in our defence. An away point in Rome is fine. As it happens, my suspect maths confirm that the task would have been the same even if we lost. Win or draw in the last game and we are through. At last – proper cup football where results matter now. It’s how the Glory Glory Nights were created.

The Glory Glory Nights by Cloake and Powley is published by Vision Sports, review to follow next week

Last week I was copied into a letter from Alex Stein re the Spurs yids issue, which was sent to the editors of the Guardian, Times and Telegraph, Peter Herbert, Daniel Levy and me. That’s the company I keep. It’s the first item in the comments section and adds some perspective as the premeditated attacks on Spurs fans in Rome could well be the work of fascists. 

Maribore

/ Alan / 6 Comments

It’s half-time in a Europa League group that’s a marathon not a sprint. Two clichés for the price of one there. Full value from Tottenham On My Mind, as always. I’m sure you’re grateful.

What the hell, let’s take this stuffed doggy toy of an analogy, sink in our jaws, shake it about and rip the innards right out all over the living room floor. Always a pleasure and a privilege to watch the mighty Spurs but be honest, that game felt like a marathon at times. Still, in terms of the group, long distance races tend these days to be a tactical battle with the runners clustered in a group until the closing lap or two. The tension builds as the bell approaches but much of it is a waiting game. If Spurs were Mo Farah (stay with me, it will all be over soon), we’d probably be holding our position in third, saving energy for the finish but keeping Brendan Foster on the edge of apoplexy.”He has been the fastest! He is the fastest! He will be the fastest!” There’s nothing wor Bren likes more than conjugating a verb during commentary.

Remember that the Glory Glory days of memory were in the much missed era of a knock-out competition over two legs. The group tends to prolong the agony rather than the suspense because the latter fades away into boredom long before the end. Win the three home games and that should be enough. We have drawn one, against the best of the other three teams, with two home matches to go. Maybe the suspense is cranking up a notch after all. By then, let’s hope we still care.

Villas Boas seems satisfied thus far. He clearly prefers to hold what we have so rather than pressing for a winner in a game where Maribor and their fans were delighted with a point against the world-famous Spurs, we finished with two defensive midfielders and our fullbacks well inside our own half. The away point will do. We were lethargic for extended periods and even when the uppers in the half-time tea started to work in the second half never made enough chances to be comfortable.

Maribor defended well, almost welcoming the opportunity to funnel back to their own box where they restricted the space and marked tightly. They were more sprightly on the break than we expected therefore we could never settle. Their forwards were disconcertingly able to find room around the edge of our area and after a few scares they scored first, a fine run that left Walker a spectator, Huddlestone bamboozled and Lloris nowhere before scoring. Like many of their chances, it was skillfully made but poorly defended. Giving the ball away in midfield was once again our undoing, Townsend the culprit. He was punished but was by no means the only sinner as we tried to come inside and beat players when there was room on the flanks and passing is for us much more effective.

Falque helped to brighten up our performance with some good work down the left. He set up the goal. Defoe was turning away to celebrate his sweetly struck shot from a rebound but instead saw it strike the back of a cringing defender on the line. It ran to Sigurdsson who mishit it home from a matter of feet. Messy not Messi, and when we had attempted to replicate Iniesta’s wonderful goal against Celtic by delicate passing interchanges inside the box, Maribor easily crowded us out.

Still, we made our good fortune on that occasion by attacking the box and having several players ready and waiting. Far too often we were crossing to a lone striker. When Sandro advanced to support the attack, we looked better but otherwise we badly missed Dembele’s combination of strength and creativity in midfield. Siggy seemed as if he was trying to both set up chances and be on the end of them. He ended up doing neither . Throughout we looked weak up front and seldom picked up the tempo to a pace where we know we play better. Huddlestone offered no drive from the centre. Like him, much of our play was ponderous.

It’s an art to get out of the Europa League group with the minimum of effort.  We are fielding strong teams so there’s little rest for several of our top players. An early win can make everything so much easier – we clearly went for it which is why it was so disappointing to concede to Panathinaikios in a game we dominated. I suspect AVB would like to be thinking about resting players when in fact we have to go hard to qualify. Ironically it should spice things up a bit. The games at the Lane will have something at stake.

AVB, like me, does care about this competition. He’s right in thinking also that it will help the team settle into his pattern of play. Frankly this result won’t figure much in the history of Tottenahm Hotspur and we can’t read too much into it. However, as part of the learning process, Spurs must develop the ability to up the tempo and take the game to inferior opponents, even for a spell or two in each match. We have to keep our heads rather than get on top then take turns to blast aimless longshots, as we did last night.

AVB’s Spurs. All In The Cut

/ Alan / 10 Comments

Cut to fit mohair, deep blue not black, hand-stitched. Three button, bottom one undone, buttons on the sleeve, tapered trousers. AVB fits Spurs like a made-to-measure suit and we look sharp.

Genuine silk lining, brushes against the skin as you put on the jacket. Can’t be seen but we know it’s quality. Run your fingers gently on your thighs, that brushed fabric soft and giving. Understated but oozing class and it feels so fine.

Spurs are easing into this new look with the elan of a mod in sixties Carnaby Street. Contemporary but classic – we know who we are and what we are about. A bit cocky but that never did us any harm. We sense this is right for us. Pass and move, on the floor, play from the back. Sandro imperious, dominant. Dembele the playmaker, it’s all in the touch. Details make the difference – the short pass, the ball inside the full-back, keep possession. The buttonhole stitching, silk in top pocket.

Reading on Sunday, Lazio this week. We’ve found our style and like the admiring glances. Perhaps that’s why the home draw against Lazio ended with a contented reaction at the final whistle rather than the grumbles that greeted the last two home draws. We played much better but there was more than enough to provoke disappointment – disallowed goals, the missed opportunity to secure an early home win against the best team in the group, the Italians consistent fouling in the second half. It felt as if we took the long view – at least we know what we are about now, know we can do it if need be. And what we need is three points tomorrow.

This was more like a pleasant evening stroll than a glory glory night. Spurs were on top for the majority of the match without ever threatening to cut loose, while Lazio were satisfied with containment as the game went on, settling back into a comfortable 4-5-1 and dropping deeper as time passed. By the second half, they sussed where the real dangers might come from and took it in turns to foul Bale, Lennon and Dembele, early and high up the pitch to snuff out potential breaks without placing undue pressure on their goal.

For most of the time it was all neat and tidy. Can’t mark that cloth after all. I wondered aloud at one point if this match could set a record low for shots on target. Me, I prefer something a little rougher round the edges. Smart only takes you so far. Bit ragged. Feisty, fire and spark, but this wasn’t one of those games. In the last ten minutes especially, Spurs became a little too comfortable. Lazio slowed it down and we allowed ourselves to play at their pace. Sure, we’re playing the long game – long season, long competition. Don’t want to lose the first match, I get that. But with only Klose up front, we could have pushed our spare man at the back, Vertonghen, into midfield when we had the ball, thereby allowing the others to push up still further. On several occasions in that final period we held 5 men back when we attacked. For once we had a side full of big men yet played two free kicks short rather than putting the ball in the box. Like wearing a floral tie with a mod suit, I don’t get it.

Yet by then we could have been promenading to good effect. Two perfectly good goals disallowed, the first a fine diving effort from Dempsey, who I would like to start alongside Defoe on Sunday. I confess I couldn’t judge it from my viewpoint and as I’ve said, the crowd were philosophical on the night rather than getting worked up over an injustice. Maybe other parts of the ground were. Caulker’s header looked fine to me. However, these days there’s so much fouling in the box from set pieces, I forget what the laws are. We get the benefit sometimes, as did Walker on Sunday – handball or a little push, which does the ref give? We feel good now but those referring errors could hurt come December.

Lennon as the most unlikely ace face, but credit to him for effort and encouragement. AVB set him wide to create space and we used the ball inside the full-back to good effect in the first half until Lazio shut the door. Lenny should have scored, once inexplicably opting to pass when shooting was by the far the simpler choice.

Sandro was magnificent once more. Such is his influence, it could tempt AVB to go with only one DM thus releasing more attack-minded players. Dembele oozes power and class, great left foot, lovely touch. Purring with delight over him, he’s a player and no mistake. Caulker eased himself into the team although he looked nervous. Lloris had little to do. He’s prepared to boss his box, readily coming off his line. His first such run nearly ended in disaster but fortunately Klose fluffed it (not the only time he did so) but it’s what we need. Two fine keepers is a good problem to have.

The game was soured by the racism of a few Lazio fans. I didn’t hear it or see the nazi salutes that Park Laners have reported, but action must be taken by UEFA and the club itself. Di Canio’s nazi salute (alleged nazi salute, sorry, he claims it wasn’t. Pins and needles in his arm, I’m sure), that was to Lazio fans, wasn’t it? The club must take action. It’s not just UEFA’s responsibility.

It’s also a shame because there was a poignant moment when both sets of fans chanted Paul Gascoigne’s name and applauded each other. The memory of a wonderful player endures.

One final and futile comment – Spurs are never going to have European glory nights if the opposition fans occupy most of the Park Lane. I know the safety issues but there must be a way to at least tuck them safely in the corner. No other team in the land would shift their own supporters to that extent.

I Couldn’t Handle It. We Were Winning

/ Alan / 6 Comments

‘Oh, is there a match on darling?’ It’s sweet of Adriana to sound even vaguely excited on my behalf.

It’s the first time today that I’ve thought about football. I’ve known for a while that I would be working late so I put it to one side, and anyway sitting next to Adriana for the afternoon’s meeting is distraction enough.

‘No it’s fine, just fine’.

‘Are you sure? I don’t mind, really I don’t.’ She looks me full in the eyes and I almost believe her.

‘No honestly. We deserve a drink after that rubbish.’

Still holding my gaze, she strokes my cheek with her fingertip then makes her way to the bar. It’s packed but a group of city suits part to let her through.

Actually, that’s not strictly accurate, not thinking about the game. More self-deception, part of the practised art of being a fan. It’s just not been on my mind as much as a Spurs match usually would, but as kick-off time came near my concentration fell away as part of me was over the water. No one noticed. It was social care after all – talking all afternoon with no decisions, then someone looks at the clock and earnestly declares we had worked hard enough for today, let’s take it away and re-convene in the New Year. I wondered if we might pull a few strands together but blank looks sent me scurrying to the pub. No wonder my career is going nowhere. I just don’t fit in.

Adriana is still at the bar and surrounded. She says something I can’t catch and the group erupts into laughter, which one red-faced guy takes as a signal to squeeze her leather skirt.

I screw my eyes up at the screen in the corner. Two up, must be near the end of the first half. Not bad, give it a go anyway, something about a lovely strike from Townsend but we lost this one in a single home game against PAOK. Played it tidily until then, win that one and through, but not now.

I turn away to rescue Adriana but she’s more than a match for the lustful yuppies. She hands me a beer and rolls her eyes in mock dismay. ‘Cheers!’

I glance at the TV, in slow motion Defoe is rolling the ball into the net via the defender’s back. The commentator brays, ‘Now it’s on!!!’ and I have to steady myself against the table. I hold my palm to my forehead and continue to stare.

‘Bad news darling? I thought your lot were doing well’.

‘It’s terrible. We’re winning.’

‘I saw on the news last Saturday. Very good! But your manager looks ill, darling, he should give up, have a rest.’

‘Couple of setbacks lately’.

‘What’s this match?’

‘Europe,’ I reply.

‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ she asks. Soothed by her interest, I can’t fight against the weight of 40 years. Against my better judgement, I embark on a brief discussion of the merits of the Europa League.

It’s a mistake. I struggle on with diminishing enthusiasm in every passing moment. Rather like the Europa League itself, in fact.  Her furrowed brow is a signal I cannot miss so I pause. ‘So this match doesn’t mean anything?’ she asks. I hastily gulp a mouthful of beer and nod at the same time with the inevitable consequences. ‘So why are you worked up then?’ she adds as I try to brush away the beer that has already soaked into my shirt.

‘Because it’s on again. The score is good for us in the other game, if we score two more and it stays the same, we’re through. Oh no.’

I just wanted a peaceful time until Sunderland and then Chelsea. Respite. Clear the head. But the pressure was on. I was unhappy about throwing away our decent chances in the Europa League. Ridiculous to be pleased to be out of a competition, even though I seem to be in the minority of Spurs fans in thinking that way. Win something shiny rather than come 4th, although I don’t see why we can’t do both. But I had reached an accommodation. Dealt with it, it was over, move on. Knew where I stood. But now, now we’re winning. That’s thrown everything up in the air. It could be so simple but now this. I steadied myself against the table again and prepared for the second half, tense, agitated, hopping from one foot to another. For football, I was back to normal.

Adriana’s bright blue eyes searched for something arcane and buried. ‘So you’re like this because they’re winning?’

I pause. She’s not heard the cliché before so it’s fresh for her. ‘In football it’s not the despair that gets you, it’s the hope’. She continued to stare for a few more seconds, her tooth dimpling her bottom lip. Then she patted me on the shoulder. ‘Watch the game darling, watch the game.’

She likes the stories. Of Dos Santos, a talent misunderstood by his manager who wants to party. To me, ineffective in a match where he should shine, she saw a young boy a long way from home. Or Kane, struggling against criticism unfair for one so young. She didn’t see the clever quick feet in his run or the instant turn for his goal but was delighted when he scored. She’s right, I’m sure his mum will be pleased. And no, I didn’t see the first half but they must have played a lot better, and no, I don’t know why they were so limited now. Or why they kept shooting from way out. It is easier for the goalkeeper to stop it, you’re right.

Near the end, the barman brings over a drink. Her sudden warm smile of surprise catches the young man unawares and he rushes away quickly to hide his blushing cheeks, in the process almost bumping into a man carrying a full tray of drinks. He swears unnecessarily loudly. The poor boy’s total salary will go in the dry cleaning bill for that suit, at least that’s what the man threatens.

The wine is from the suits. She holds it up to them, mouths a thank you across the crowded room and then turns her back on them.

‘Nearly over’ I say, visibly relaxing in defeat.

She smiles again. ‘Let’s stay to the end. I know you want to.’ She squeezes my arm. ‘Onwards and upwards. There’s always next week’. I squeeze her hand in return. Adriana understands more about being a fan than I give her credit for.