Not So Much a Match Report, More a Celebration

November 3, 2010November 3, 2010 / Alan / 23 Comments

Last night Spurs produced a fearless, compelling and utterly irresistible display of bravura football, the like of which I have seldom seen in my 40 plus seasons of watching my beloved team. Inter Milan, proud champions of Europe, a defence the envy of the competition, were repeatedly torn to shreds. One of the greatest nights in our modern history, but with football like this, there’s scant need to be parochial – this morning the eyes of Europe are upon us.

At the end of the night, a shy, modest young Welshman was anointed as a world-class talent. Gareth Bale shattered Inter with an unstoppable combination of muscular direct running and devastatingly accurate crossing. Top class players with every trick in the book, pace, hard tackling, positioning plus the arcane dark arts of international defenders, they’ve seen it all before but on the night all they saw was his backside as he powered past them. As they thrash around in the middle of the night in storm-tossed demented half-sleep, the number three will float into their consciousness and torment them for evermore.

I’ve seen a game or two in my time but I’ve never seen anything quite like Bale. In full flight this big man is a fearsome sight. he needs a stride or two to get moving but once he gains momentum he’s away. Yet despite this, the most remarkable aspect of his play is the final ball. Viciously swerving crosses that are nigh on impossible to handle or the far post ball on the ground, they are dispatched with great accuracy whilst he’s stampeding through at full tilt. The touch to the byline, the amount of times the ball does not cross the line but is pulled back as his instep curls around it and into the box. This is not a reflex reaction. Rather, he’s learned to pick his passes much better, witness the second and third goals last night. As the blood pumps furiously and every sinew strains, his mind remains focussed and calm. He is twenty-one years old.

It’s not as if Inter were unprepared. Not only was there plenty of first hand evidence from the first leg, Benitez knows the English game intimately, yet his team offered too much space. Even if they had closed him down, Bale would have escaped their clutches. This signals a new strand of defensive tactics. Against Bale, formations are no longer described with players spread across the pitch horizontally. Goal-line to goal-line, 5-3-2. It’s the only way.

This was no one man band. Modric was outstanding in the centre. Low to the ground, seeking space and then filling it with an angled ball or a short stabbing run to collect the pass and move on. Always active, he provided both an outlet for team-mates and a steady supply of creativity. Little arms outstretched, give it to me, give it here, I want it give it to me. The opening goal was exquisite, a simple natural beauty rather than the glamour of those that followed but nonetheless it took the breath away. The touch and turn, head up, how can a football rolling 6 yards be so sumptuous? Van der Vaart, on the same wavelength, as one and in. Stunning.

VDV roamed wild and free in the first half. Not everything came off but Inter could never rest. Hud was solid in the centre, spraying the ball wide and undertaking defensive duties diligently. Gallas had a decent match. He bounces around like tigger, hopping up, down and sideways, alert and balanced, barking out instructions. No thought of bygone days, only Spurs on his mind and new challenges ahead. Lennon occupied Inter’s attention, if only the final ball were better but he made his fair share of opportunities. Another word of praise for Kaboul. He should be way over his head in this company but he’s not having any of that. He wants it, wants it bad, and he had another good game. For our third, the little Inter forward had possession, edge of the box, back to goal, and Kaboul stayed patiently on his feet rather than diving in. Result? We gained possession and Bale disappeared into the wide blue yonder.

Yet the really wondrous aspect of this match was the team itself. No hint of the disjointed, aimless play we’ve seen so often with this squad. They produced a sustained display of attacking endeavour, moving as a single organism with one intent, victory. The movement was excellent throughout with barely a moment to catch their breath. They supported each other magnificently and played from the off with sustained purpose and high tempo. From the kick off Bale took a waist-high pass under pressure and first time knocked it back, to Benny I think. A footnote on a wonderful night but it was a sign of confidence. Spurs imposed themselves on their illustrious opponents from the beginning and never let up. My head was spinning as we tried to break down the Italian barrier – both wings, running, passing, onetwos, the entire gamut of creative football.

I suspect Benitez had no sense that Spurs would dare to attack so consistently. It’s the Champions League, a group match, you want to win but are cautious because losing is a crime. Everyone knows that. Kudos to Redknapp and the coaches for setting up the team in this way and for instilling the will to win. The fluency up front was a joy to behold. Not just VDV and Luka, but Bale making diagonal runs off the ball into the middle and pushing JJ forward when Rafa went off. Inter had barely a moment’s respite from this unceasing assault.

So Bale, this giant of the game, runs amok then amidst the tumult of celebration absent-mindedly checks his hair. In the post match interview, he looks at the floor, says he’s still learning. Last week he had a few days off. Went to stay with his mum. Just a kid of twenty-one. Me, I’ve seen it all before, but I’ve not seen anything like this. Past 1 am, can’t sleep, watch the recording and waves of goosebumps flow down my body from head to toe. After all this time, I should not surprised by what Spurs does to the emotions, but once again they’ve floored me. A head-spinningly joyous night of wild passion and wonder.

Rodney You Plonker

October 25, 2010October 25, 2010 / Alan / 14 Comments

Like a splinter under the skin, it’s usually a minor irritant, but sometimes, if you don’t get it out straight away, it festers and infection can quickly spread. Another two points dropped at home in a match where despite Everton’s effort and organisation we were the better team, another game where we go a goal down, another opportunity slipping away.

We’re a quarter of the way through, give or take a percentage point, and patterns are revealing themselves. This promises to be a tight league from top to bottom. Battling for a top four where Chelsea lead but Liverpool are floundering and United surprisingly vulnerable, there’s everything to play for and to establish ourselves in the top four we must show the ruthlessness that goes with that status. From that perspective, we have to bank points from games like these, rather than allow them to slip from our grasp.

The pressure’s on all over the field. Every element of the team has to function to their peak. The focus is always on the strikers, especially so if we’re playing one up front. it’s becoming a well-worn path, but Crouchie -what are we going to do with you, you downright plonker. This absurdist masterclass was surely surrealist performance art, a slapstick satire on the post-modern society. Effort is futile and wasted, we may as well accept our pre-ordained fate. No matter how much we try to control the world, time and again it refuses to obey, often wildly and unpredictably spinning off into the ether, just when you think progress is being made. Have you noticed, the ball and the world are the same shape? Worthy of the Turner Prize, I have a clearer, more humble sense of our place in the cosmos but not our top four prospects.

It was so unco-ordinated, when he sarcastically applauded the Park Lane’s ‘Super Pav’ chant I’m surprised he managed to make left hand strike the right. If it were possible to make things worse, take the piss out of your own fans, why don’t you.

This blog is all about the team. We stand or fall as eleven not one. However, when our single striker is so off and when so much is played towards him, frustration is the very least of the emotions. Modric and Van der Vaart are programmed in their genes to play the ball into channels or slide the ball in behind defenders. They’ve being doing so since they were kids, yet so often they turned away in frustration, as if to say, ‘Of course, forgetting myself, can’t do that, silly me’. It makes things so much easier for defenders.

Once again we started brightly enough without making any real inroads. Promising signs of interplay between Luka and VDV and a welcome ease with our passing. Luka is taking a while to play himself back into form and there were signs that he’s on the right track. Twice in this period he was prominent in and around the box, and he makes things tick. They talk about strike partnerships but if Luka and VDV get it on, we have something to look forward to. However, certainly as the match wore on, we could have done with more drive from midfield to overcome the increasingly frequent flat spots.

Talking of plonkers, this week Wilson got his mum to write him a note so he was excused detention. Next time he may have to play in his underpants as punishment for flying into to tackles. The early, needless booking helped in the short run because, wary of a second yellow, he stayed on his feet and had a better game as a result but the half time substitution was inevitable. It disrupted the team and used up a substitution that would have been handy as we struggled to score the winner later on. It’s a sign of his anxiety but he’s had a long time to learn that remaining upright is an option.

After a decent start, Everton came back into things. They defended with application and were busy in the middle without ever being negative. In the past they’ve lacked potency up front but Yakubu was always a threat. It was a fascinating struggle with Gallas and Kaboul. Both had good games. Kaboul once more emphasised his potential with another useful performance. Unafraid to impose himself on opponents, he did well. A fraction impetuous at the edge of the box, a foul, just, and Baines punished us with a superb free kick.

We were back on terms quickly. With Crouch pulling away to the far post, he makes defenders uncertain, or in this case the keeper, and Crouch’s deadly knee left VDV with a simple touch. On the far post, a decent ball will take out the centre half and leave him one on one with teeny tiny Baines, but the little guy is shrewd. The art of the good defending includes how to nudge and touch without conceding a freekick and the full back used his height to snuggle into Crouch’s back, secure in the knowledge that the ref would keep him safe. Once we had a good shout for a penalty, first half to the left of their box, but that was it.

Games are won and lost in the periods when teams get on top. We made chances early in the second half but they fell to Crouch, who proved the toe-poke is a less potent weapon than he presumably believed at the time. Pav was no better when he came on, similarly fluffing his one big moment.

Heitinger kept his compatriot VDV quiet during this time, effectively patrolling the area in front of the back four. We could have done with JJ’s energy and drive to lift us as Everton dropped back towards their goal. Instead, our efforts petered out, epitomised by one of the best attacking full backs, Hutton, launching a series of high balls from 35 yards out, easier to defend than going to the byline. I would have switched VDV and Luka with VDV more involved in the centre but we have to get both of them into the box as often as possible.

Bale had a reasonable game. Despite the evidence from Wednesday, he’s not superman but as he was surrounded by two and three men, he used the ball intelligently without making the breakthrough himself. He could have worked back more, not only to help out at the back but also he’s better coming from deeper positions. Galls had a good game, doing that bouncy thing he does to stay in touch with the man he’s marking and barking instructions at the back four.

I know what you’re thinking. I admit, the Turner prize cannot be awarded for performance art. Oh, and we are in a good league position. Forgive me if I’m asking for just a bit more in matches like these.

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.

In Search of Alan Gilzean

October 20, 2010July 14, 2011 / Alan / 12 Comments

Looking back, Gilly almost ruined things, just as it all began. The impeccable touch, leaping headers and sharp finishing – even as a teenager I knew this was class. Trouble was, unconsciously I compared everything that followed with this benchmark, little realising that what I took as a wide-eyed youth to be the norm was in reality the gold standard, never to be surpassed. It took many years and a great deal of heartache before the penny dropped.

Even in his prime, Alan Gilzean did not look like a professional athlete, let alone one of the finest strikers the club has ever seen. Thinning hair slicked back and a shambling, slightly stooping gait made him look older than he was. He didn’t so much run as ambled, for all the world suffering from the hangover that surely must follow his legendary appetite for alcohol. Yet appearances can be deceptive because Gilzean is the very epitome of the modern centre forward, a man who scored goals and made them too.

In Search of Alan Gilzean

He had no pace to speak of but the mind was keen and clear. In the hurly burly of a frantic penalty area, the greatest remain calm and still. Let the others move, then the space is revealed. Gilly would be there, pouncing on a loose ball or touching home a cross.

Sometimes he would wait, then move a fraction ahead of the rest. Possibly others had tried the near post glancing header before but if so I don’t remember and anyway, Gilzean perfected the art. Other more orthodox crosses, he leapt, soaring from a standing start, so sure and certain was the contact that I swear I heard the smack of leather on bald pate above the celebrations of the crowd.

All truly great players possess a distinctive move, unique and unforgettable that marks them out as extraordinary. For Gilly it was the glancing header. Long ball or cross, he would step in front of the defender then rise to meet the ball, sometimes body tall and taut, at others contorted in effort but with the sole aim of head to ball for the perfect touch. If Chivers was stampeding through or Greaves loitering with intent, it arced precisely into their grateful stride. The accuracy was astonishing and there is nothing like it in contemporary football. If as an admirer states he was “Nijinsky in studs”, then Crouch is a three legged carthorse on his way to the glue factory.

On the cover is an iconic image. Gilly leans laconically against a post, legs crossed, maybe a slight smile playing on his lips. The area must be bulging with bodies but he’s alone, a master of his own time and space. Don’t be fooled – in the mud on shorts and legs lies evidence of sweat and labour. My own favourite photo came from an early 70s programme. Jennings saves his second penalty in the game at Anfield. As Beal and Knowles rush in to congratulate him, Gilly is already wheeling away with not a flicker of emotion on his face. It happened, now let’s get on with it.

He was an easy man to underestimate, but try telling that to the defenders who faced him. Many give testimony to his prowess in the book. He seldom blew his own trumpet, preferring to slide away after training, usually to the pub. Hunter Davies in the Glory Game concluded that he saw football as a job and that he didn’t like the game, but that was mistaken. He loved playing but could leave it behind at the club gates.

Part biography, part detective story, James Morgan’s excellent book is propelled by his quest to solve the mystery of why so little is known or remembered about a footballer who was prodigiously successful on both sides of the border. A lifelong Spurs fan, he involves the reader not only in his search for the great man, rumoured to be a destitute recluse, but also in his dogged pursuit to right a profound wrong and secure a place for Gilzean in the Scottish Hall of Fame.

Gilzean was born and brought up in Coupar Angus, a small Scottish town. A natural sportsman, he played with distinction for Dundee, for whom he totalled 113 goals in 134 appearances. When the time came to leave, Bill Nicholson’s Tottenham was always his preferred destination and he turned down several more lucrative offers, including one from Italy. Much was made at the time of his disloyalty in letting Dundee down. However, he made his move only after careful deliberation and at the age of 26, hardly a money grabbing tyro.

A great favourite of Billy Nick’s, he completed 10 years with Spurs, during which time he adapted his game to create two superlative partnerships with Greaves and then Chivers, no mean achievement as their styles could not have been more different. In the process, he selflessly put aside his own glory for the sake of the team, converting from an out and out striker into the perfect partner.

Gilzean’s apparent indifference on the field hid a fierce competitor who worked hard at his game. What emerges most from the many entertaining stories told by those who knew him and played alongside him was how well he was both liked and respected. His taciturn appearance belied a man with a playful sense of humour. His team mates revered his awareness and touch: he brought out the best in them, and they are grateful. When I interviewed Greaves recently, without hesitation he named Gilly as the greatest he played with.

Morgan is a fine storyteller, weaving his tale with the same dexterity as his subject demonstrated on the pitch. With thorough research and the copious use of anecdotes, he allows the reader to build up a detailed insight into the character of a man who hid from the limelight. Like any good mystery writer, he maintains the air of anticipation to the end and I found myself rapidly turning pages as the denouement of a possible face to face meeting approaches.

Along the way, there’s plenty of entertainment as he reels out stories from a bygone age of football. Gilly was a fearsome drinker with an eye for the ladies, and used to frequent the Bell and Hare with Mackay, Jones and others, chatting to the fans while Bill Nick turned a blind eye. It’s a different world, with home being an average semi in Enfield, outrage from Dundee when in the mid sixties he demanded an increase on his weekly wage of £25 (John White was on £85, after all…), reporters nicknamed ‘Scoop’ and, most tellingly in this age of the celebrity footballer, a move to London would mean greater anonymity, compared with small town life.

A passionate fan, Morgan need agonise no more that his subject has not received due credit for his achievements as his highly readable account has set the record straight. Not only an antidote to every ghostwritten, mind-numbing footballer biography that you have ever read, it’s a fitting tribute to a truly wonderful Tottenham Hotspur player.

As a kid, I didn’t know much about football and even less about life but I knew one thing about Gilly, the King of White Hart Lane: he had style, and when I watch our team, I search for it still and let me tell you, it’s hard to find. The very best thing about this book is that if you never had the privilege of watching him play, you’ll understand.

In Search of Alan Gilzean by James Morgan Back Page Press

See links for website or click here: http://www.backpagepress.co.uk