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

Monday Meanderings – Time to Take Stock

September 27, 2010 / Alan / 19 Comments

Time to take stock. Two defeats in 5 days against London rivals concentrates the mind wonderfully but the state of play is best judged over a longer period. As time passes, the fixture list metamorphoses from a series of randomly generated matches into little sequences that within the context and meaning of an unfolding season form intertwining patterns, our DNA of 2010-11.

Disregard our rivals from north London (I’m avoiding the A word as I’m not up to the massive interest from their fans that my last post created via newsnow). Our weakened team was worse than their weakened team – meaningless.

Our first little run was all the ‘W’s and it’s not worked out quite how we hoped. It’s not so much the dropped points – WH (doing it again, see) may have been down the bottom of the table at kick-off but they played really well – but the manner in which we lost them. This was supposed to be the time when, fuelled by the glory and passion of the CL, we kick on. Finished top four so play like a top four side. Instead, we’ve responded to the attention and pressure that success brings by allowing familiar faults to reassert themselves.

On Saturday we knocked the ball around well enough at times. VDV and Luka were creative, finding space and moving the ball on. However, this was undermined by a lack of graft and drive in midfield, a number of below par performances and above all the distinct lack of a cutting edge up front, a sentence that unfortunately also sums up the West Brom and Wigan game. We were pushed back in midfield too often.

I won’t dwell too much on the defence on Saturday. They did not do well, obviously, but we only conceded once, and no team in the country could perform well in the absence of their entire first team defence. Corluka is effectively our 7^th choice centre back and Hutton had not started a league game for us for over a year.

What concerns me is the way we come forward with the ball. Crouch’s presence means two things. One, we hoist the ball forward too high and too early too often. As I wrote last week, when the ball is in the air, it’s the great equaliser. At a stroke the skill advantage is nullified. It’s pointless having this talent if all they do is watch the pretty spinning logos on the ball. If it’s neat patterns you want, get a Spirograph.

Two, our strikers are too far forward. Crouch loiters on the edge of the box and this dictates the pattern for the rest of the team. He waits, hangs around, occasionally jogging across the line. It’s easier to defend. Sure, he’ll always win a few but by and large our opponents know roughly where the ball is going to be played.

This isn’t about Crouch himself – I’ve whinged often enough about how easily he can be eased off balance or about his poor close control – it’s tactics. Pav does the same when he comes on, or at least he has done this season.

I’m no coach or master tactician. I simply watch other teams. When they gain possession, the top teams in this country do not push one or two men forward straight away. Rather, they begin their runs from a deeper position. The best aim for the gaps that appear in front of them. They don’t wait to be picked up by the defenders, they make it difficult for their markers to predict where they will go. Coming from deeper, attackers can come short, move across the pitch, run into channels, have the ball played to feet or into the space ahead of them. That’s five options right there, without the inclusion of passes from a wide man going to the byline. Normally we have one at our disposal.

Also, our style means it’s hard for midfielders to push on past the strikers. This is a powerful weapon against packed defences but if they have so little space with which to work – if the strikers are hanging around the edge of the box then they have only the narrow strip between the back four and an onrushing keeper – there’s no margin for error with the final ball.

Against Wigan, Wolves and WH, we made it too easy for our opponents. We’ve played like this all season and, more tellingly, last season as well. Versus Wolves we brought on attacking players who just joined the line dancing 18 yards out, rather than trying to move around, take defenders out of their comfort zone, to make space.

In VDV we have a top class midfielder. He’s so shrewd with his movement and his ability to move the ball on quickly is remarkable. Good control, looks up, one touch and it’s gone. On Saturday and against Wolves, so often that quick ball went in Crouch’s direction. I think he’s been told to do that and it’s wrong. That’s not the best use of his massive talent.

Moreover, even if that is the tactic, leaving Crouch or Pav isolated renders it worthless. There aren’t enough players in the box to pick up on a header or knock-down. We have too many hanging around, instead we need strikers and midfielders to bomb on, hell for leather, get in there because that’s where the chances are.

Defoe looked sharp this year and his injury is a great loss. He’s been looking to shoot early, the old striker’s dictum of getting it on target, and it will be effective over the course of a season. Whatever my tactical rant, the fact is that we have missed a hell of a lot of good chances so far. Huddlestone on Saturday did just what I have been asking for, pushed on past the striker, made space, and missed.

Enough. Nothing about Corluka having all the spring of a tangled Slinky. Or Bale and Hud looking lost. Or Lennon and Keane struggling to find form. Maybe a word of gratitude to Cudicini for his saves. Spurs fans are often accused of having unrealistically high expectations, but the fact is, we have not progressed this season. I’m prepared to swallow the pain of a defence decimated by injury but not a fundamental flaw in the way Redknapp sets up the team and wastes the talent at his disposal.

To be fair, we have not had the full squad available and he’s not had the chance to work out how to play both VDV and Modric. However, pre-season fears that our strikers will not be able to score consistently against the best defences have proved to be accurate. Make that, average defences as well.

Strange But True. Spurs v Wolves

September 19, 2010September 20, 2010 / Alan / 14 Comments

So Arthur turns to me, as he often does around this time, and says, ‘So what do you think, then?’ Good man he is, likes to chat, asks about the family, loves his Spurs. Been going for as long as I have. Seen it all before but comes back for more.

I paused. It was that sort of an afternoon. Warm in the pleasant autumnal sun on the Shelf, we basked in our superiority without becoming fully involved. The frustration of missing a series of chances was outweighed by the comfort that another one would be along in a minute.

I leaned forward. ‘Well’, I began, ‘I don’t want to tempt fate but…’

No such thing as fate. The universe comprises atoms and particles that behave according to the same immutable laws of physics that stretch into the unimaginably distant recesses of the universe. My life is governed by decisions and coincidences without recourse to mystical spiritual forces. We are human and make our own destiny.

However, this is Spurs, so better be safe than sorry. During a match I seldom make rash judgements, at least out loud. However on this one occasion, one lousy time I have to smugly link my brain to my mouth, you know what’s coming here, don’t you…. ‘…we’ve outplayed them’.

Well we had. No disrespect to Wolves, who worked hard and were willing to move it forward when they had the ball. It’s just that we were much better than they were. In stark contrast to this fixture last season, we could always find space and time in midfield. Bale was the main outlet, banging in a series of deadly serving pacy crosses, and through the middle Hud and especially Jenas could press on and move into dangerous areas. VDV drifted inside with impunity. We kept the ball and moved it well in all areas. Our opponents seldom ventured into our half.

Literally 20 seconds after I opened my mouth, they scored. I blamed Arthur, for asking me the question, and he graciously accepted responsibility, but the reality is: I confess. Strange but true.

After the interval, I expected some drive and tempo. Nothing. Wolves came right back into it, gaining possession and unafraid to attack. Their 4-5-1 was often 4-3-3, to their credit as they could have easily sat back and retired into their shell to protect their lead. Bale was on the receiving end of a couple of hard fouls and the time-wasting is so tedious but this is not a dirty team. McCarthy gets worked up but he knows a tackle. In the second half a Wolves player and JJ crunched in. The Wolves man stayed on the floor and the stretcher vultures twitched with anticipation but McCarthy remained seated. He knew it was a 50-50 and did not try to persuade the ref otherwise.

So the subs are on but there’s not a lot going on. Pav’s on for his mobility but he remains static, lined up with the others on the edge of their box, waiting for the ball rather than looking for it, easily marked by their back four. This is a real fault if we are chasing the game: we played into their hands.

When the ball is in the air, it’s the great equaliser. Our advantage in skill and ability, nurtured, practised and expensive, is negated in an instant because it takes most of our team out of the game. Crouch may or may not win the ball, but a man on man aerial duel evens up the odds. VDV crosses the ball beautifully- he sees it early,fine control and moves it quickly, class, absolute class. but however good the ball, that class will have a greater influence if we play through the middle sometimes, on the ground. With wide men like Bale and Lennon, it’s a potent brew, but strikers hanging around waiting for something to happen is a criminal waste.

Although Kaboul had another good game – he must be scary for opposition full-backs as this huge bull of a man charges forward at them, football’s equivalent of Jonah Lomu – the introduction of Hutton gave us more options on the right. Eventually, he picked up the ball and ran with it, and ran, ran….

The penalty turned the game. I could not see us scoring until then but whilst McCarthy will have blasted his team for an unnecessary tackle, we exerted sufficient pressure to make it happen. If Hutton had had a run in the side as BAE and Bale had, we would have a true measure of his ability. Better coming forward than defending, I’ve always felt he has been too easily dismissed by many Spurs fans. His ‘unfortunate’ moments against ManU, Birmingham and Arsenal came when he was not fully fit. Let’s not get carried away but with Corluka rightly left out he can press his claims. He and Lennon combined well yesterday and could develop an effective partnership. They used to get in each other’s way but Lennon has more to his game than he did when the pair first played together – better positioning, more options, can come inside and let Hutton carry on wide on the outside.

After the game Harry took the credit, saying what a good player Alan is. Typical Harry – as with Pav last season, he excludes men then when they appear because he has little alternative, if they do well he always knew their potential. Still, Redknapp was able to not only make the substitutions but also to shake up the team by resting Lennon, keeping JJ in the middle, dropping Corluka and bringing Gallas in. These changes did not affect the balance or effectiveness of the team. Also, players who come in are motivated to take their chance, JJ and Kaboul being the two best examples. They have seen how Harry will give men a run in the team – Benny, Bale, Dawson – and he deserves credit for creating that culture of opportunity.

Strange but true – we dominate and get nowhere, then score three times during our worst passage of play. Even after the penalty, Wolves pushed us back and in their best spell could easily have scored before a deflection fell to Pav. He took it calmly – one chance one goal, can’t really ask for more….today anyway. Then Hutton with a bit of luck, but again he made his own luck. The players seemed genuinely excited for him (was that sheer relief?). Except Benny, who half-heartedly ambled up to the collapsed scrum of delight under which Hutton struggled for breath, then strolled off again to get on with business.

Jenas had a fine game, looking mobile and strong in the centre. His hesitation when he drove forward, ball at feet, was frustrating and a glimpse of what he could have been, but as a DM he did just fine yesterday.

Gallas and King were solid and largely untroubled. I confess that I never, ever thought I would see the day when William Gallas set foot on the White Hart Lane turf in a white shirt and frankly I’m not sure I ever wanted him to. However, he’s Spurs now and the boos he received were vile and moronic. He’s Spurs, for goodness sake.

To be fair to Crouch, he won much of the ball today but little came of this. One good header, well-saved but too close to the keeper.

For Keano I feel no anger, only pity. Sadly off-form and out of touch, his eyes are hollow and dull. His chance in the first half begged to be hit first time but he took a touch, the tell-tale sign of a struggling striker. He missed one in the second but at least it was an instant strike. Maybe he can play his way back into some sort of form but it promises to be a painful business, for him and us.

So a welcome win, deserved overall, just. At half-time the three flags on the West Stand roof each blew in a different direction at the same time. Strange but true, rather like the rest of the day.

Sad news today of the passing of the great Bobby Smith. I never saw him play but from the moment I was a Spurs fan I knew he was a genuine legend. The half-time round of applause was warm and richly deserved, even before the news was out. Seeing him recently on the pitch, it’s clear that this was a fearless warrior of a centre-forward, proud and unbowed by the passing of time. My very best wishes to his family and friends.