Morris Keston – Superfan

May 4, 2010June 6, 2010 / Alan / 4 Comments

Imagine sitting, say, on a train or in a pub. You’re having a relaxing chat about football with one of your best mates. He’s brought along a couple of other people, you’re introduced and get on really well with them. The conversation and the beer flows, a good time is had by all. It’s a familiar enough story for most of us, one of the pleasures of being a fan, and something we share with long-time Spurs fan Morris Keston. The only difference is that he’s sitting next to Bobby Moore, who’s brought along half the 1966 World Cup squad for company.

Since he began supporting Tottenham Hotspur in the mid forties, Morris Keston has watched them nearly 3000 times. He’s followed them all over the world, whether it be a major final or a meaningless friendly, not that any Spurs match is meaningless for Morris. He curses his triple by-pass operation because it broke his run of watching every home game since the early fifties, but he missed just the one game. Not only that, during this period he’s known most of the Spurs and England players and counts everyone from Moore, Greaves and Hurst through to Jennings, Venables and Crooks as personal friends. You name them, he name-drops. The book’s title is no publisher’s hyperbole – Superfan he most certainly is.

Most Spurs fans of my generation have probably heard of Keston. Often interviewed over the years, he’s featured in the Glory Game, Hunter Davies’ classic inside story of the club’s season in the mid 70s, where he incurs the wrath of the board because the players chose to attend his ’67 Cup Final celebration party rather than the club’s official function. I always regarded him with a mixture of envy and resentment. Although I’d kill for the chance to mix freely with my heroes, as an equal, I begrudged the wealth that bought the travel, the parties and, frankly, access to the club. The reality is somewhat different. Keston is indeed a successful businessman but he started from nothing. Brought up in the Jewish community of the East End, he was evacuated during the war but suffered from malnutrition because the care he received was so poor, a not untypical story that remains largely hidden because it is at odds with the myths of Britain in wartime. His mother figured he would be safer in the comfort of his family, despite the rigours of the Blitz, so he spent the rest of the war in London, earning a scholarship and beginning a lifelong obsession with football. Leaving school at 14, he was sacked from his first job in a barber’s after he refused to work on Saturday afternoons. Eventually he got into the schmutter business, schelpping around the country for a fortnight at a time, taking in third division reserve games and any football that he could, and co-ordinating his return to London with the home fixture list.

There’s little more about these fascinating early years here, a shame in my view but then again that’s not the story. Or rather stories: this book is a series of entertaining tales and anecdotes about Keston’s relationship with football and the people in the game. They are mostly Spurs related but not all. He knew directors and players at other clubs clubs including Chelsea and Stoke, and was personal friends with almost all the Boys of ’66. Oh, and for good measure Frank Sinatra and Muhammad Ali. As you do.

Some remind me of those speech bubbles in Roy of the Rovers, where they begin by summarising the plot in case you missed last week’s episode- Voice in the Crowd – ‘Melchester have to win this 3-0 after the bruising encounter in Poland where Blackie was butchered then sent off’. Second Voice: ‘Yes, and the club will go bust if we don’t reach the next round and Roy’s girlfriend was run over by the team bus’. But never fear – like any good storyteller Keston is quickly off and running. It’s an easy, pleasant read that rattles along, and will undoubtedly carry you along with it.

His access was astounding. Moore, Hurst, Greaves and others regularly popped in for a for a cup of tea during the 1966 tournament. He stayed in the same hotels and travelled on the same planes when Spurs and England went abroad, and could get a seat in the director’s box for most games, the only exception being at the Lane, where the Wale family who ran the club in the 60s and 70s regarded him with suspicion. He sat alongside Terry Venables (Uncle Terry to his children), holding a seven figure cheque as they waited in vain for a call that would have transferred ownership of the club from Irving Scholar. Business and financial advice to a legion of players, chairing testimonial committees, negotiating transfers, all in a day’s work. And those parties.

Perhaps the most telling anecdote comes not from the author himself but from Graham Souness, who Keston helped out as a cocky 16 year old tyro. Now Morris had nothing to gain from that, no prestige or kudos. No one knew who the hell this anonymous apprentice was. He did so because he wanted to, because he cared about the club and the young players. And yes, the parties, but the players came round for a cuppa and a slice of his long-suffering wife’s apple crumble. He entertained in his home, with home-made cooking, and although it’s not acknowledged specifically here, that’s the real secret of his appeal. He emerges not as a glory hunter but as a homespun, friendly and generous bloke, often a little star-struck, who is deeply in love with football and Tottenham in particular.

It will appeal more to the older Spurs fan and it’s great fun. There’s little analysis of how the game has changed over the years – that’s not the aim of the book. However, ultimately it’s a tale of a bygone, arguably better era, where you could turn up on the turnstile and get in, where players were open and willing to chat rather than be surrounded by a forcefield of PR and agents, where players understood that they and the fans are one and the same, not a different class.

The Amazing Life of Morris Keston – Superfan by Morris Keston and Nick Hawkins Published by Vision Sports Publishing.

Look out for book signings with Venables, Jennings, Hurst and others in and around London

What Do Gomes, Dawson and Bale Have In Common?

April 23, 2010 / Alan / 7 Comments

I’ve been reflecting on this tumultuous week past for Tottenham Hotspur. I say reflecting: what I really mean is, I’ve been thinking of little else. Work has suffered, naturally. Days like today, when I have been office and computer based, have passed in a giddy and unproductive haze, just remembering. From my office window I’ve not been dissuaded by the slice of daylight above the large breezeblock wall, even though it frames the twin chimneys of the cement factory, and still I gaze dreamily into space.

Talking with people, the other major component of my role, has however been a belter. I’ve been on scintillating form, even if I say so myself. On the ball, sharp as a pin, empathetic and witty, where logic has failed to win the day, sheer charm has taken over. Perhaps work would fund a portion of my season ticket, if not in gratitude then as an investment in my future performance levels. I’ll run it past the chief exec and let you know what he says.

I can’t recall a week quite like it since I’ve been a fan, which is 1967 onwards. Not one with both the sheer joy of the victories against Arsenal and Chelsea but also containing such extremes of despair and elation. All suggestions welcome. One that comes to mind is the ’81 cup final, when the replay was on the Thursday following the first drawn match. The anticipation of what was my first final gave way to the realisation at some point in the second half that actually we were going to lose, then the ecstasy and overwhelming relief of our fortunate equaliser. Then that goal at 2-2 in the replay, the absolute pinnacle of being a Spurs supporter.

But of the all the things from this remarkable special history-making sodding brilliant week, one provides a glow so warm you could toast your marshmallows on it – the performance of players who in many quarters had been written off. Not good enough for Spurs, won’t take us to the next level, total waste of money. Get rid. At one time or another, these and other charges were levelled at the three supernovas in a galaxy of stellar performers, Gomes, Dawson and Bale.

Less than three weeks ago the mighty brains of the Sky pundit panel solemnly identified Gomes as Tottenham’s weak link. We who knew differently had faith, but the image lingered of the kindly face of this gentle and loving family man contorted into a rictus grin of terror every time he emerged from the safety of his line to deal with a cross. It was not so much the fumbles, although they were agony enough, it was the look of sheer bewilderment that followed that truly worried us.

So we roared our approval at his gravity-defying leaps into the top corner, gasped as his reactions palmed away goal-bound shots, cheered with gratitude as, one on one, in the tangle of long limbs the ball bounced to safety. Above all, in all this was the element of delight and pleasure that he had become one of ours, his struggle to demonstrate his skill and determination complete, and all this on our behalf. Show them, son, you show them all, every last one who sniggered as we suffered, you’ve shown them.

Dawson’s mask of devoted concentration broke towards the end of the Chelsea game. Ever alert and steely-eyed, he bent to pull up his socks, necessary as his mental exercise to gather himself and stay focussed, and he grinned. He finally took pleasure in his own performance as well as that of the team, as his name was belted out from all four stands. From a gawky clumsy and ungainly oaf to John Terry’s replacement. The Park Lane spotted it first, then the football media have followed this week.

We can only imagine how hard he has worked this season. Recovering from injury is difficult enough, but then he found himself out in the cold and watching from the sidelines as without him we secured a low goals against tally. He waited, and when his chance came, he made damn sure that he took it. Nothing was going to be left in the dressing room. In the past he’s held something back for fear of making a mistake, but his wholehearted approach is precisely his biggest strength. He let rip in a series of fearless performances, the background to which must have been not only the need to avoid jeopardising the team’s success but also the worry that this could be his final opportunity, with five centre halves in the squad and a manager impatient for progress. He is nothing short of outstanding.

And Bale, the terrified hesitant youngster or scourge of the best defences in the league, a rabbit stuck in the headlights or the most dynamic full back around? This force of nature was comparatively recently in danger of being consigned to the dustbin of Spurs history, the overflowing section labelled ‘Promising youngster – Failed’.

I’ve mentioned before a 5 Live commentary of a cup match when he came on as sub. The commentators could hear the bench screaming at him to get forward, in a game that carried little pressure, but he was immobile, unsure about how to react. Again he has suffered the pain of serious injury that for young players can leave emotional scars more lasting than the physical damage, but given the chance presented by BAE’s injury, he was determined to take it.

One of the things about writing on the net is that your opinions hang around in the ether for eternity and come the day of reckoning, all will be taken into account. A couple of years ago on MEHSTG I described Bale as a world class prospect, but I never realised that he was this good, and frankly, neither did he. We’ll gloss over the ‘this is JJ’s year’…for two years running…

Three magnificent footballers, who I dearly love and cherish, who should never leave us. They’re ours – we’ve watched them grow and mature, now as part of our family we can marvel at their talents.

In closing, a reappraisal. We were awful against Portsmouth but perhaps in the light of subsequent events my verdict that they lacked the resilience to perform at the top was harsh. They could have done more, should have taken hold of that game without playing well. However, in hindsight many of them were not fully fit yet they gave everything in terms of energy and commitment. Corluka was obviously totally gone but he kept moving and tried his all. I don’t believe that the Arsenal and Chelsea performances emerged solely from the motivation of defeat at Wembley. Deep down, it came from a commitment to doing their very best for Tottenham Hotspur, and you can’t ask for anything more.

Spurs v Chelsea

April 19, 2010June 6, 2010 / Alan / 16 Comments

Not again not twice not both of them not in the same week. You hardly dare think about the possibility. On Sunday they were out on their feet after 70 minutes, after 120 they were the living dead. It’s OK, they did enough on Wednesday. You always want more, in that delicious five minutes before kick-off, when all that has gone before is forgotten and time begins, always hope for more. For so long we couldn’t beat them at all. Yet twice in one week.

The surprise of spring sunshine in the afternoon is pleasant on your back but it’s not right for a derby. The journey is too easy, park up with no problem, it’s all just too – nice. Early evening football is wrong somehow. The teams emerge and there’s a phone call.My boy, a man now, tall and strong, is cut down. As passionate and silly and consumed and soppy about the club as you were at his age, he lives for each match. The news is delayed by the discordant and irrelevant Premier League anthem.No music fires us like the sight of white shirts and navy blue shorts. The call confirms the worst. His friend, the same tender age, has hours, his insides eaten away by cancer ravaging his organs and his spirit. My boy leaves to be with him for the last moments, we blink away tears and scream louder than ever at the kick off. From inside, let it out, screaming and shouting to get it out somehow.

And we play. Oh how we play. Ball to feet, one touch and pass, then move on. The others are moving too. Ball to feet, they want the ball, no one hides, they pass and move. It flows upfield and endangers their goal. Modric leads. Luka little Luka ball to feet moves it with a touch to me to me, in comes the tackle but he moves it on with sway and swivel, in his stride, theopponent thinks he has a chance but Luka is away, the defender left spurned and forlorn by the object of his desire, wondering where it all went wrong. But Luka, lovely little Luka, is already looking fo rmore, to me to me, head up gliding into space, balanced and poised amidst the turmoil, who wants it who needs it. The pass is angled and perectly weighted, he moves on I’m here to me to me. It is a masterclass in creativity and he runs the midfield. It is beautiful.

Huddlestone too, cumbersome and unfit perhaps this past few days. How could a man of his bulk disappear on Sunday? Yet he’s put that behind him because time begins at kick off. He moves, he’s available to me to me, pass it on, long and short to me to me. Pav wanders when on Wednesday he stood still, Bentley wide, Bale running, running. To me to me. Pav shoots, Bentley messes up, Defoe’s power blocked.

After ten minutes you draw breath. This is happening.You thought it could not get any better after Wednesday night but this is happening. Deco, Lampard, Mikel, Cole, they are all there but look at the space in midfield. Arsenal did not let us rest for a second, they tackled and nicked and nipped and smothered, but Chelsea watch us play. This is a training match. Ancellotti is the tactical master at every level but hasn’t he watched the DVDs. What about all those blokes with clipboards and notepads who sit behind him, or Arnesen who left us behind because we were not good enough for him? Just Watch the DVDs for five minutes,or ring Mick McCarthy, Tony Pulis orPhil Brown (he’s got time on his hands), this isn’t the way to play against Spurs. Later, Mikel injured and you make Deco the defensive midfielder. Idiot. Ta.

Bale stampeding forward is stopped only by an outstretched leg but nothing. Then handball. Not him,someone else give the ball to someone else anyone else not the shimmy please not the shimmy just plant it please not the shimmy. Bang! That’s what you do best bang it, one up and fully deserved. Chelsea top of the league and outplayed by the living dead.

Bale is unstoppable, a force of nature rampaging down the left. He is a sprinter with the build of a middleweight and the touch of an angel. He rips huge gaping holes in the defence from first to last. Again he’s on the ball, off then slowed, almost stumbled, they close in but he is away, all is well we’ve shifted him to his right foot and Cech has the angles covered, then low and firm, near post, as Cech dives he thinks he has it, my near post that’s mine but it’s gone before your hand is fully outstretched grasping only thin air. This is happening.

Space in midifled means they have more men up front. We organised superbly against the Arsenal but this lot have Lampard, Ballack and Drogba, they have bodies waiting as it comes forward. But we have Gomes. Ridiculed by pundits and fans throughout the land, the icy fear in his bulging eyes when he came for crosses sent shivers down the spine. Past tense. Lampard lightening volley and Gomes leaps to his right, all arms and legs but look at those hands, together and strong, just as they were for an earlier stinging long shot. We have Gomes and wouldn’t have anyone else. We have Gomes.

Corners and pressure, just keep them out,hang on until halftime, the better team, well on top, don’t let yourselves down, hold onto halftime. You won’t let me down, you’ve done enough to prove yourselves this week, the living dead, don’t let yourselves down.

Half time.Time to catch your breath, slap a few backs, shaking heads. Can’t last. Not Wednesday and tonight. Is this really us? Can’t last.The whistle blows, they attack, balls into the channels, Drogba absent in the first period, moaning now and a better player for it. Balls into channels, where’s Ledley? They were saving him for tonight, for Drogba, pace over ten yards, strength to hold him off, intelligence and anticipation to get there first. Where’s Ledley, I wish Ledley were here, wish Capello could see Ledley.

But we have Dawson,strong and tall. We have Gomes, sweeping up the loose. We have Bassong, inspired and surprisingly strong. They have too many men forward, if only we could set Pav and and JD free, just keep them out. JD on the break, one on one, game over – he’s missed it! Bale unstoppable, missed it! Pav moving well, drops back working so hard.This is what English football is all about, hear the noise, work back, sprint forward,work back.It’s worth it, enjoy it, you understand now what it’s all about, you are working so hard and enjoying it. Here’s the chance you’ve worked so hard for- missed it! How many more, how many more….

Terry unblinking as the abuse washes around him. Looking tough but inside it’s getting to him. Wayne, Vanessa, we don’t care, your mother or your father, couldn’t give a flying one. Just now, just this moment. It’s not pleasant but it is all we have. The Land Rover with the tinted windows, the PR machine, your media mates, the electric gates at the house, cut off from the real world, cut off from us, all that money, no protection now. It’s all we have and it’s getting through. Two fouls and gone. You have a word with Bale, somehow his fault that he was too fast for you, old man. The kids smiles and answers you back, didn’t expect that did you?

The abuse, the songs, the chants, the noise. Great slabs of noise rise from the stands of this old ground, high and close to you, feel the noise, closing in. No escape. Chelsea fans sing about the library. Meanwhile the Lane is rocking and rolling, shaking to the foundations, ten on the richter scale. A roar from deep down, all those defeats, those years of pain, now we have a team. Down and out on Sunday evening, they have dragged themselves up somehow, some way, and we are beating the top of the league easily. Easily the better team. They are giving everything and so shall we. From the Park Lane, the Paxton, East Upper, new songs roll around, picked up on all sides. Chelsea surrounded, no escape. This is as good as it has ever been. Steep stands and devoted fans. A proper football ground.

Keep the ball, keep it. They always come back, can’t if we have the ball. Stay on your feet, don’t dive in. Keep it Bentley you greasy haired poser, stay on your feet that’s it nice and easy keep it. Working hard, never stop, no one stops, every last one of them. Just keep it.

Dawson, our mighty leader, we’ve got Dawson at the back. First to every ball, blocking with every fibre of his body, get in the way. Drogba dozing no more, through, shoots, far corner but there! Dawson from nowhere and blocks. The crowd rise and roar, the mask of fierce concentration slips for a moment and he grins to himself. One of us, a remarkable performance, leading from the front.

As Luka moves towards the ball already in the background Bale is off. Lung-busting surges from deep, unstoppable endless energy, how many times in the last week, how many? Ferreira, international,broken and substituted at half time, as before him Salgado then Kelly. Magnificent physicality and atheticism.They can’t stop him,but the ball slides tantalisingly past the post. Pav clear, hit it turns, hit it! Flickity flick fuckety fuck wide. Just hit it!

And they score, same goal as the Arsenal, same time, same anxiety in the noise. Then it’s over, sweet relief then overwhelming joy. Both of them vanquished. Tears for the team, for my boy, for his friend, his family. A wild and crazy week,contrasting emotions but those emotions, wretched and ecstatic both,were profound and lasting. This is our team, our wonderful wonderful team. This why we do it. Our wonderful team.

Breaking Rocks In The Hot Sun, I Fought Oh Never Mind

April 13, 2010April 14, 2010 / Alan / 14 Comments

Although I normally detest DIY, knocking down a brick wall in the garden today with a 14 pound sledge was curiously therapeutic. In such trying times, I’m grateful for small pleasures.

As Daws slipped, so our dreams were replaced with dread and disaster. 48 hours on, what rankles is not the pitch or the injustice – we were easily the better team – nor even the lost opportunity of another cup final. It is the realisation that fourth place, a proper tilt at our great London rivals and the glory promised by this momentous week is fast fading away. Weary legs and shattered morale is no condition for the eve of the Arsenal derby.

More talented than Redknapp

So who’s fit? I mean, really fit, not someone passed fit by the medics and written on the team sheet by an optimistic manager, but people who can last 90 minutes in the white heat of this bitter contest against one of the best teams in the country. Redknapp thought he could get away with it on Sunday. Play them for 60 minutes, we’d be a couple of goals up, replace them with someone else who could last the rest of the match. Or maybe he didn’t have much of a choice, and he may not tomorrow.

Word is that King is available. The plan to save him for Saturday and Drogba may be out of the window, or stick with Dawson and Bassong. Bendtner is (astonishingly) in a run of form and alongside Van Persie will pose a greater threat than we would have expected a week or so ago. Walker may not be risked at right-back so Kaboul could slide in there, but he may be required elsewhere. Benny may be on the left with Bale pushed forward.

Hud and Nico were both nursing leg injuries on the coach home. Kaboul is the obvious replacement defensively, alongside Luka. Led’s not mobile enough for this role these days. But wait, who’s this riding over the horizon? Jenas is reportedly fit, is this the moment for redemption in the eyes of a crowd who have become increasingly critical of his abilities in his absence? Spurs may not have passed him by after all.

Jenas is third from the left

Up front I have no place for Crouch. Nothing personal, but his presence discourages the movement and invention that is required to beat Arsenal and Chelsea. Enough with the long crosses. Bentley, get in to the byline – Walker’s pace may help here, so let’s be bold. It has to be Pav plus one, Defoe if fit for me.

I know it’s not the done thing, and remember I have been hating them for longer than most of you who are reading this, but they’re good, you know. They also point up the crucial problem with our team. Redknapp is expert at grouping players who at their best will play to their strengths and dovetail into a team. They know their job and stick to it, which is why Harry’s players like him. In this strength, however, lies the problem also. There’s no flexibility, whereas our opponents have their team ethos and shape. Whoever comes in, it’s easy for them to fit in, whereas our performance suffers if one or two are at anything less than their peak.

The key to the match could lie down our left. If Bale, whether at full-back or midfield, comes forward he may push Walcott back and prevent his pace doing much damage. He’s not much of a defender either. But if young Theo keeps him occupied, then we are diminished as an attacking force. It will be a compliment to Bale if Wenger leaves him on the bench.

Redknapp said this week that in order to bounce back from the semi-final defeat, there’s no team he would rather meet than Arsenal. This is the dated media posturing of a man with his back to the wall, desperate to put a positive spin on impending doom. Anyone but Arsenal more like. Yet we don’t know the mood of the players. We shouldn’t project our own despondency onto the squad. In a manner worthy of my maturity of years and character, I reacted to the defeat in the normal way. Ignore all media, stick my fingers in my ears and sing ‘lalalala’. Eventually I read two newspaper reports, both of which were sympathetic towards us – we were unlucky. And if that is the mentality that the club take into tomorrow’s match, determined to make amends, then we are in with a chance. The sub-text to these reports was that there was nothing much to worry about. However, fans are clsoer to the true state of play that most journos. Our sub-text is that the semi revealed our chronic lack of resilience, in which case we could crumble under the pressure.

Honestly? I fear the worst. But we can rely on one man to give his all. Michael Dawson will be burning to make up for the cruel fate he suffered on Sunday. If even a fraction of his determination and application rubs off on the others, we’re in with a chance.