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Spurs match reports

Wolves 2-1 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. The Opening Salvo

A funny thing about watching Spurs over the years is that normally when the heart sinks it does so in the blink of any eye, prompted by production of a red card for example, or the sight of a star player pulling up with grimace on face and hand on hamstring. Yesterday, in a bit of a departure from the norm, the light of hope took the full 90 minutes to go out, which, as disappointments go, felt a rather cruel performance by the Fates, the flame finally being extinguished for good in minute 96, with just about the last kick of the game.

As it happened – and as actually always seems to happen these days – the first 15 minutes or so was a pretty triumphant era. Our heroes seemed to boss possession, moving the ball quickly and often between the lines, and doing a handy line in those neat line changes of direction, whereby they look for all the world like they’re about to pass to Teammate A, thereby compelling the opponent to shuffle in that direction to close down the space, before at the last minute passing instead to Teammate B. Simple stuff, but pleasingly effective, and for that dreamy quarter-hour or so I even wondered whether Maddison’s absence would actually be felt at all.

The goal arrived before the dignitaries had finished taking their seats, and while young Master Johnson got to run off and do the knee-slide, various members of the supporting cast deserve much of the credit.

Pedro Porro left his fingerprints all over the move, first popping up in an attacking central midfield sort of spot, to execute a dummy so convincing it seemed to make the Wolves lad opposite question his very existence. And moreover, P.P. was at pains to demonstrate that he is not one simply to complete a task and then sit back and admire his handiwork through a cloud of cigar smoke, for seconds later he could be identified in an inside right type of area, racing on to Kulusevki’s tee-up and delivering a pass that ticked all the box for young Johnson.

As mentioned, in between the good work from Porro and Porro again, the giveth and taketh was done by Kulusevski, and in those opening minutes he gave the impression that he was to be the central character in the afternoon’s entertainment. Our lot were on top in that period, and much of our good work was transported from back to front via his size nines.

He strikes me as one of the more curious beans around, in that he seems to be a pony of the single-trick variety, the sort who would cut inside onto his left foot even if his life depended on sticking to his right. I was therefore as shocked as any other seasoned Kulusevski-watcher to witness him, in the build-up to our goal, produce that delicate back-heeled flick into the path of Porro, in the process sending every nearby Wolves sort off into a different postcode.   

By and large, he seemed to be having the better of his particular thrashing out of matters out on the right. As ever, there was a degree of frustration at his eventual outputs, which, since his debut season, have tended to be pretty forgettable, either slammed into the nearest defender or sailing off into the mid-distance, but nevertheless yesterday one got the impression that he was set for great things.

2. Davies and Dier

Alas, after that pretty perky opening spell, our lot seemed to forget their lines somewhat. We didn’t have as much possession for a start, but as I’ve heard it put, under Big Ange our heroes have discovered the knack of controlling games even when not in possession, by virtue of the high-press and whatnot. This quality was sadly lacking yesterday, however. We may have led for 90 minutes, but there was much about our play of an aeroplane pilot who looks over his shoulders to see one wing has burst into flames and the other is disintegrating mid-air. Only the illusion of control, is what I’m getting at.

That we led for so long is largely due to the combined efforts of the defensive sorts, and in particular, the shift put in by of all people Messrs Dier and Davies. To say that this was a pleasant and most unexpected surprise would be to underplay the thing pretty seismically. It is not a stretch to report that feverish nightmares and cold sweats had been the way of things at AANP Towers all week as I contemplated the coming weeks of a central defence, and in particular a high-line, minus the delights of both Messrs Romero and VDV.  

Actually, rather sneakily, Dier and Davies largely avoided the nerve-shredding scenario of repeated sprints from halfway against the Wolves forwards by dropping a little deeper than anticipated – presumably a perk of taking to the field with a full complement of eleven.

Even so, any seasoned watcher of these things wouldn’t have had to give it too much thought before opining that the odds were stacked against our new-look central defence. For a start it has been so long since either of them have started one feared they might have forgotten what shape the ball was. Any rustiness would have been understandable, but no less acceptable. I watched on with brow duly furrowed with concern.

And early on I had good reason to throw a few well-chosen curses at Dier, for committing himself to a challenge on around halfway, missing his mark and turning to get back with all the swiftness of foot of a heavily-laden tanker. But I suppose in a way I had some reason to thank Dier for his leaden-footedness, for had he not erred on halfway then the world would not have been able to witness the stirring last-ditch challenge from Davies, scampering across from the left, to thwart an otherwise clear sight of goal for the relevant attacking Wolf.

And having been thrust – a little unwillingly, one suspects – into the defensive spotlight thusly, Davies proceeded to time to a similar level of accuracy just about every other defensive intervention he was called upon to make. The fact that we did not play quite such a shoot-self-in-foot high defensive line no doubt helped, removing from the equation the need for any breakneck pace, but nevertheless if his weary chums had on full-time formed a guard of honour and shoved Davies through it, few would have quibbled. (A dashed shame that the equaliser came from a run that might have registered on his radar a mite sooner, but I’m not sure he can be faulted too onerously for failing to prevent a strike of that oomph.)

Moreover, no doubt inspired by the smart thinking and acting of the chap to his immediate left, Dier gradually took the hint and started to warm to the task, using both head and feet to good effect defensively at various points, as well as demonstrating a clear grasp of the play-out-from-the-back memo slapped about HQ by The Brains Trust.

And had he continued to implement this approach into the 96th minute and beyond we might have tootled off with a point, but in the sort of misstep that he does tend to include in his baggage, he tried to execute an offside trap from twelve yards out in the last action of the game, rather than, say, racing across to block the shot, and the game was duly lost.

3. Hojbjerg

One of the other consequences of Monday night’s jamboree was the need to jimmy someone into the Maddison-shaped hole in midfield. While I’d offered up a sacrificial lamb or two in the hope that Bentancur might get the nod, it was presumably decided that the fellow is not quite ripe enough to pick from the start just yet. Instead, in a triumph for fans of the deeply underwhelming, the shirt was thrown at Master Hojbjerg.

And in a nutshell it struck me that if someone were to bottle the essence of Hojbjerg and uncork it at a later date, yesterday’s performance would be what would flow out.

He seemed pretty keen to make clear from the outset to even those of the meanest intelligence that he was very much not a like-for-like replacement for Maddison. As such, progressive passes were at something of a premium, and Hojbjerg instead generally kept things on the unremarkable end of the spectrum, focusing instead on his pointing and shouting.

As the game wore on he did occasionally seem to become inhabited by some intriguing sense of adventure that prompted him to venture forward into the final third as a temporary auxiliary attacker, but not really to any great effect.

Less pleasingly, his penchant remained undimmed for hurling himself to the floor at every given opportunity and campaigning for official intervention, which I suppose is hardly the front-page stuff it used to be but still grates no end around these parts.

Worse than that however, for all his pointing and shouting the chap still has a tendency to neglect his defensive duties when the cry goes up of ‘All hands on deck’. Whether he simply lacks the fitness or considers it beneath him I’m not too sure, but throughout his lilywhite career and again on Saturday, he could be spotted a good ten yards behind the action as Wolves bodies sped forward. (Indeed the winning goal might have been prevented had Hojbjerg carried on tracking back rather than slowing to a stop – although others around him were probably more culpable.)

The return of a presumably chastened Romero in a few weeks will hopefully ease the pain, but for all the good intentions there was a pretty significant absence of thrust about our work. If this really were a glimpse of how the coming couple of months will play out one might want to keep the bourbon handy.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 1-4 Chelsea: Five Tottenham Talking Points

1. The First Twenty Or So

And that, lest there be any confusion, is why it’s called All Action, No Plot.

Easy to forget after a binge like that, but way back in the opening 20 or so minutes our heroes were playing some of the best football I’ve seen in any season at N17. These racy starts have become something of a trend amongst our lot, one amongst a number of bobbish habits instilled by Our Glorious Leader in double-quick time, but in a pleasing break from recent tradition we actually had the good sense to turn complete domination into an early goal (and were a moderately-sized whisker from two).

Maddison may not be credited in the record books in years to come with any meaningful contribution to our opener, but by golly he was front and centre of the action – albeit from a temporary left-back mooring. His was a pass for the ages, transferring events from defence to attack, and taking out the entire Chelsea midfield in one thoughtful swipe of the clog.

Nor was it particularly anomalous. Everywhere one looked there was the sight of a lilywhite playing what on paper would seem a pretty nondescript pass – not much more than ten yards, A to B, ordinary fare – but actually delivered in such a way as to temporarily remove from action at least two or three Chelsea rotters, and turn the rest of them completely on their axis.

These passes came from our centre-backs, from our inverted full-backs, and actually from pretty much anyone who happened to be wandering in the vicinity bedecked in white. Typically played first-time and typically reversed, they were lightning-quick, and Chelsea could barely get a sight of the ball, never mind a touch. Had life continued thusly for the following seven-ninths or so of the match, I can only assume we would have racked up dozens of goals and beetled away up the High St still top of the pile.

I was also settling in for a full evening of Brennan Johnson and his assorted delights. Pre-match I had rather hoped that he might get the nod, he having displayed in his two or three cameos that instant grasp of the mechanics that seemed every week to befuddle Richarlison. Not wanting to wade into any debate about who is actually a better player, it nevertheless seems apparent that the former is a better fit for this particular position and in this particular team than the latter. A dashed shame then, that life being what it was, young Master Johnson’s night was pretty abruptly curfewed – and not for the first time. At the current rate, he might actually get to complete a full 90 for us some time around 2028, what?

2. The Non-Sendings Off

“Dashed shame” is how I described it, but in this I perhaps misled my public, or at least withheld a decent wedge of the facts. For while the departure of Johnson was duly mourned, the events that precipitated it were a pretty different kettle of fish, and the AANP mood was not quite as forgiving.

Taking things in calendar order, Udogie’s two-footed lunge was as thick-headed as it was peculiar. I’ve never understood the strategic thinking behind a two-footed lunge. Apart from the fact that just about any referee with a pulse will delight at the chance to thrust a red card in the relevant face, it’s also such an odd manoeuvre. Unnatural, is what I mean. And one does not really need to have played football at the highest level to appreciate that. In fact, one only really needs to possess feet. In my experience, natural motion is generally a one-foot-at-a-time affair, anything else typically leading to physical disarray and a pretty significant confusion of the limbs.

So had Udogie had stretched a single leg for all his worth, I’d have been with him. Had he slowed down and attempted to block off young Sterling, I’d have understood his thinking. But to interrupt his usual stride pattern, specifically to introduce into proceedings an entirely unnatural act was rummy enough; to introduce such an act in the knowledge that it is specifically flagged as being immediately worth a red card – well, to say AANP was perplexed is to understate things.

Had his follow-through clipped the man – and that was well beyond his control, and in the lap of the gods – he could have had no complaints about a red card. Rather than moaning at the ref, I would have strongly urged the defender himself to have his head examined and do a spot of mental arithmetic or something, to jimmy the grey matter along.

Next up was Romero, another who seemed oblivious to the fact that we were giving the other lot a pretty emphatic tonking, with little cause to upset the status quo, and decided instead to pick up the nearest axe and swing.

Once again, his little off-the-ball kick at an opponent seemed unnecessarily to invite a dubious appraisal of things by the ref. And once again, had the officials taken a militant view there would not have been any grumbling towards them from over here, but a few paragraphs of the coarsest Anglo-Saxon directed at the player instead.

3. The Sendings-Off

Romero somehow walked away from that one with his rap-sheet in pristine nick, and perhaps by this point considering himself invincible in the eyes of the law he continued hacking away until spotted and ejected. As a side-note, I do rather miss the days when winning the ball was sufficient and not too many cares were given about the follow-through, but it’s pretty common knowledge that leaving studs on a shin as a parting-gift will receive a pretty dim eyebrow from VAR these days. Once again there were no complaints about the decision, only hands flung skywards at the fat-headedness of our man.

And that really was the turning-point – or the first of them at least. That led to the removal of Johnson, at a point at which it seemed clear that he was well on top in his own private debate out on the left, and ensured that Chelsea’s temporary dominance of possession would become more permanent.

As it happens, I’m actually inclined to shrug off Udogie’s second yellow card. He’s still a prime dolt for his two-footed nonsense earlier in the piece, and admittedly he ought really to have listened to the cautionary whisper from the angel on one shoulder, urging him to exercise a spot of restraint, rather than bowing to the demands from the devil on t’other shoulder, encouraging a lunge on Sterling when he’d already been booked.

But as I say, I had a degree of sympathy, because he had just foiled a 3-v-2 attack by Chelsea, rather heroically and against the odds – and who amongst us has not got a little carried away by a moment of success and promptly over-egged the thing?

4. The High Line

The injuries, of course, were just dashed bad luck. All season there has lurked in the background the nameless fear that an injury or two might rip the spine from our lot, but we had chugged along thus far unscathed, mainly due to the absences being enforced on a strictly one-by-one basis.

Well last night that all went up in flames. Last night I got the distinct sense that if it were not one bally thing it would damn well be another. Romero’s red was followed by VDV’s hamstring, which was followed by Maddison’s ankle, which was followed by Udogie’s red, and there went our spine, for the moment and for the foreseeable.

This four-part calamity, however – and in particular the removals of Messrs VDV and Romero – served only to introduce possibly the most eye-catching segment of the production, which is saying something on a night of 5 goals and 5 disallowed goals and 2 red cards and countless VARs.

The high-line, featuring at its heart Eric Dier, was simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating. Defensively – and let’st start with the defensive aspect – it was utterly bonkers. Dier is a loyal servant, and a vocal presence apparently, and various other things that sound good and might serve pretty well in the SAS or some such – but a lightning-quick athlete he isn’t. As such, I found myself holding my breath each time Chelsea dithered around the centre-circle, and our lot lined up on halfway, ready to turn and sprint back to goal.

But it actually happened so often, pretty much most of the time the ball was in play, that I quickly worked out that holding my breath every time was not the way forward. Not enough oxygen. Anyway, we were helped out in this operation by the fact that Chelsea, for all their millions, were actually pretty vacant between the ears themselves, either too impatient or not quite bright enough to time their runs behind us.

On top of which, young Signor Vicario (more on whom later), turned out to take to the role of Auxiliary Sweeper in His Quieter Moments with a casual shrug that did a disservice to quite how capable he was. Whenever Chelsea did time their runs correctly and race off towards goal, they were generally greeted by the well-timed presence of a goalkeeper yet to put a foot wrong, in comparison to a few thousand feet he’s put right in his time at N17.

And so it happened that from a state of pessimism and doom, the mood at AANP Towers swiftly turned into one of enjoyment and hilarity. No matter what Chelsea did, they seemed utterly incapable of what ought to have been completely straightforward, and one could almost taste their frustration.

Whenever they did get behind us, Vicario swept up; and when he didn’t sweep up he made an extraordinary save, or one of our panting outfield mob caught up and hacked it away – and the general sense increasingly developed that this was going to be an absolute blast to watch.

It couldn’t last forever of course, but I have since wondered how it might have played out with VDV in the fold, even down to nine men. I rather fancy that Chelsea could have played all night and they would have failed to pick that particular lock.

Anyway, Big Ange seemed pretty unrepentant about it all, and while it made for a fascinating watch while we were defending, I have since filled the idle moment by wondering what the rationale might have been. The best I can come up with is that by playing such a high defensive line, our attackers were able to continue the high press of Chelsea defenders, and sniff around for opportunity. Or, put another way, down to nine men, Big Ange still wanted us to attack.

5. Vicario

As if the game itself wasn’t non-stop, madcap entertainment, I discovered later on that Nicolas Jackson had had the Man of the Match rosette pinned to his breast, which afforded me another chuckle, he having delivered one of the worst striking displays I’ve seen at the place.

From the AANP monocle the standout performer was pretty comfortably the lad Vicario. Again, it was easy to lose in the mists of time, but in the first half, when still 11 v 11, he pulled off a now customary Save-That’s-Actually-Worth-A-Goal, sprawling full length to his left and, that done, having the presence of mind to extend a beefy paw, to make sure of things.

There then followed his quite sensational display of judgement and timing in repeatedly scampering from his line and facing down the assorted Chelsea forwards while Dier and chums were struggling to keep up. On top of which he made some further, remarkable saves, flinging every available limb and, I’m pretty sure, his face into the way of danger to ensure that Chelsea were kept at bay and the hilarity continued.

For the umpteenth time this season I reflected that this was the sort of super-human produce of which our former custodian could only have dreamt. I’m not too sure whose brainwave it was to drag Vicario over to these shores; I’m pretty sure I gave him a murky and quizzical eye when he did arrive; but by golly I’d sell every material possession I own, and quite possibly throw in my soul too, to ensure he stays in N17 long into the future.

Three rousing cheers for Vicario then, and an additional yip thrown in for Hojbjerg too. I’m yet to be convinced that he’s really the man for Ange-Ball, but if ever there were a situation for which he most certainly is the man it’s when the team is down to nine-men. I half-expect his eyes lit up when the red cards were flashed. Hojbjerg scowled and tackled and crunched his way through proceedings, clearing one shot off the line and generally giving the impression that he was born to play in this particular match.

It’s just a shame we couldn’t quite hold out; and then, having failed to hold out, couldn’t quite nab the equaliser, before Chelsea finally worked out how to beat the world’s most obvious offside trap.

But by golly, if one is going to lose one might as well as go down swinging, and I’m not sure I’ve ever witnessed such game, determined and entertaining swinging as that. We could all have done without the final three or so minutes of injury-time and what was contained therein; and I know that to admit enjoying a Spurs defeat is one of those cardinal sins for which one is expected to make a grovelling apology on some social media nonsense; and if we entertain while getting stuffed every week then I’ll have a pretty solid rethink.

But this was, yet again, just thoroughly entertaining stuff, the sort of fare I could happily gobble down for an hour and a half every week for the rest of my days. As you’re no doubt aware, the AANP blog began on a wave of still-flowing adrenaline the morning after our 4-4 draw at The Emirates, and last night’s adventure was two hours of the same madcap nonsense. Long may it continue.

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Spurs match reports

Palace 1-2 Spurs: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1.  Davies vs Royal at Left-Back

Squad depth – or lack thereof – seems as likely as anything else to unstrap the safety harness and eject us from the vehicle this season. It’s hardly cold sweats in the middle of the night territory just yet, but the thought of pretty much any two or three of the choice XI (bar poor old Richarlison, perhaps) being simultaneously absented from a performance does make one widen the eyes and murmur, “Golly.”

And given this context I’ve been rather grateful to those gods responsible for these things for dealing us but a single absentee each week, allowing us just to dip a tentative toe into the ‘Strength In Reserve’ waters rather than having to plunge in fully and immerse the whole frame. Last week Bissouma was missing; this week Bissouma was back, and Udogie was missing.

In the sort of move that would baffle AANP’s better half, Our Glorious Leader therefore made an entirely rationale decision, and opted for Ben Davies – but any fans of like-for-like performance-matching might have been advised to prepare for a bit of a letdown. Where Udogie gives the term “Left-Back” the loosest possible interpretation, and bounds off to see what’s happening in midfield and attack and so forth, Davies’ approach is what you might call a tad more traditional.

Giving the air of a schoolboy who always did as told, Davies obediently trotted off to the left side of our defence, and made safe upkeep of this territory his priority. Which is not to say he didn’t partake in Ange-Ball and its liberal use of full-backs in attacking areas, but somehow when he ventured up the field he seemed to do so in a slightly robotic manner. If Richarlison received the ball on the left touchline and in advance of halfway, Davies took this as his cue, and dutifully trotted about 20 yards in advance of the action, and waved his arms around as instructed.

Now one could argue that this was precisely what was required, and in precisely the right circumstances – yet somehow this very precision was the problem. Much of the joy of Udogie’s performances is that one never knows quite what the hell he’ll do next, or where for that matter, whereas one could set one’s clock by Ben Davies.

On top of which, I’m not entirely convinced that Davies even had the conventional, defensive duties of a left-back entirely under control. Ayew and various others seemed to cause a spot of consternation down that particular flank, and with such limited outputs in either northerly or southerly directions, one understood the half-time move to trade in a Davies, B. for a Royal, E.

Emerson, whose lilywhite career has already waxed and waned like nobody’s business, is now finding himself having to make a fist of things as a reserve inverted left-back. And while on paper this might sound a bit thick for a born and bred right-back, it’s a role so madcap that it suited rather well a chap quite clearly missing a few key screw upstairs. Emerson swiftly beetled off into a deep-lying central midfield sort of role – alongside Porro, naturally – and the slightly chaotic nature of Ange-Ball’s formations was restored.

2. Richarlison vs Brennan Johnson

As ever, it was a tough old gig for Richarlison, who could not look more like a square peg struggling with a round hole if he were composed entirely of right angles and straight lines. As ever, there was no faulting his effort. Worker ants of the tireless variety could take a few tips from the lad, as he closed down Palace defenders, tracked back after their more attacking bimbos and patiently tried to outwit his man when actually in possession.

He might even have set up a first half goal, and quite brilliantly too, stretching all available sinews to head delicately back into play a ball that seemed to be sailing pretty serenely off into the stands – only for Maddison to lash the resulting gift off into the gods.

But while the various members of the backroom staff will no doubt be lining up to slap his back and commend him on his effort, the slightly awkward truth is that he’s not really delivering much in the way of an attacking harvest.

It’s probably worth reiterating his value in assisting our high press, for this seems to have brought about a decent percentage of the goals we’ve scored in recent weeks – and I can think of one recently-departed member of this parish who, for all his goalscoring, didn’t have the puff to chase down the opposition defence non-stop over the course of a full 90.

But alas. When it came to key passes, tantalising crosses or shots on target, the cup could hardly be said to floweth over. There have been a few inviting passes into dangerous areas during Richarlison’s stint on the left, and a fair number of shots from in and around the area, of varying degrees of inaccuracy. All ten-out-of-ten-for-effort sort of stuff, but it’s not really only effort we’re after, what?

Enter Brennan Johnson, who within about two shakes of a lamb’s tail had played a pretty critical part in a goal, first in rather inventive use of the forehead to control a cross and pass to a chum in the same motion; and then in dashing to the by-line to set up Sonny for a tap-in.

Better minds than mine will pore over the tactical minutiae that distinguished Richarlison’s performance from Johnson’s, but, put bluntly, we just seem to have a bit more attacking threat with the latter buzzing around on the left. One for Our Glorious Leader to ponder in the coming days.

3. Neil Ruddock and Des Walker

Back in the summer of 1993, a pre-teen AANP could be heard excitedly nattering away to anyone who would listen, and many who wouldn’t, that the gossip pages of 90 Minutes and Shoot and whatnot suggested that the lightning quick feet of Des Walker would imminently be speeding around the hallowed turf of White Hart Lane. This would have been pretty sensational stuff on its own, but the prospect of the jet-heeled Walker partnering with resident centre-back Neil Ruddock, a chap whose dispute-settling style might generously be termed ‘firm’, had the youthful AANP pretty giddy with excitement.

Alas, in confirmation of what had gone before, and a dashed certain omen of what was to come, Spurs rather broke my heart, by not only failing to bring Walker to our shores, but also parting with Ruddock that same summer.

The intervening thirty years spent watching our heroes have occasionally been somewhat trying – in fact, at times, particularly during the 90s, it felt like the life has rather drained from my core while watching our lot – but finally it feels that that promise of pace and power at the heart of our defence is being realised. Van de Ven and Romero are quickly morphing into a pretty sensational combo.

Both are about as comfortable in possession as central defenders come these days, which I’m not sure is the sort of accusation that could ever have been levelled at either of Messrs N.R. or D.W. But it is the glorious marriage of Romero’s clattering tackles – light on nonsense, heavy on force – and VDV’s swiftness of travel between points A and B that gives the impression that we have stumbled upon something special here.

Both were, in their own ways, in fine old fettle on Friday night. When Palace did breach the rear – which they did a mite too often in the first half – it seemed to be despite rather than because of our centre-backs, and indeed, Romero and VDV could as often as not be spotted planting a well-timed intervening clog in the way of things, to abate incoming trouble.

The earlier concern, about the potential absence of critical bodies, applies more to Romero and VDV than most, and another Top Four-standard centre-back will almost certainly be needed at some point between now and May. For the time being however, we might as well just enjoy the rare delights of a solid centre-back pairing.

4. Slow-Slow-Fast

My old man, AANP Senior, had the honour of being a regular at the Lane during our Double-winning season no less, so was presumably as excitable as the rest of us in his prime; but now, in his 91st year, he casts the beady eye in rather less forgiving manner. And when Messrs Romero and Vicario spent sizeable chunks of the second half dwelling on the ball under no pressure, before shrugging their shoulders and rolling it between each other, a certain cantankerous gruffling emanated from the aged relative. He was not amused.

Which was a shame, because I thought it was an absolute blast. Palace, understandably enough, had had a game-plan at nil-nil, to sit back and allow our goalkeeper and defenders all the possession they wanted, safe in the knowledge that no harm would come of it. But once our lot were one-nil up, it took a while for Palace to compute that their cause was not helped by simply sitting back and allowing Romero and Vicario to light cigars and natter away amongst themselves.

Eventually therefore, our hosts rather reluctantly committed a body or two towards the ball, and our heroes duly picked them off with aplomb. On several occasions, as soon as a Palace forward inched towards Romero or Vicario, one or other of this pair expertly bisected approximately half their team with a sudden forward pass into midfield.

This in itself provided a healthy dollop of aesthetic reward, but the fun didn’t stop there, as those receiving the thing in midfield were clearly well up on current events, and fully aware of the next stage of the plan. Whether it was Hojbjerg, Porro, Maddison or Sarr, the midfield johnnie receiving the ball would ping it wide, first-time and on the half-turn, and before you could say “This slow-slow-quick approach allows our lot to cut through Palace like a knife through butter, what?”, our heroes were in on goal.

This impeccable choreography was rarely better displayed than in our second goal, that slow-slow-quick approach being at the very core of the move. Romero dwelt and dwelt before neatly picking out Hojbjerg, and he swiftly conveyed the thing to Sarr, who crowned what I thought was a man-of-the-match performance with a glorious cross-field switch, from an innocuous right-back position over to Brennan Johnson in a more threatening left-wing spot. Johnson, as alluded to earlier, used his head to good effect, and a couple of classic Ange-Ball one-touch passes later Sonny was tapping in from point-blank range.

The move, in its entirety from back to front, was an absolute masterpiece, and while the television bods seemed to underplay it a tad, the fact that even AANP Senior was moved to mutter a pithy word or two of semi-satisfaction more accurately reflected its quality.

The late goal – which could be pinned pretty squarely on the otherwise decent Porro – was a reminder to our lot not to settle in for their nap before time is up, but this on balance was another deserved win, leaving only the question of whether Bentancur and Gil will make enough appearances this season to collect their League-winners’ medals in May.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 2-0 Fulham: Five Tottenham Talking Points

1. Hojbjerg

Evidence of the last couple of months suggests that, even though obliged to change his preferred XI by the rules and regulations, Ange did so only with the greatest reluctance, and likely a decent slab of harrumphing. But there we were, Bissouma’s previous follies meaning that Hojbjerg received a promotion, and at AANP Towers we rubbed an ever-so-slightly nervous chin before the curtain went up.

Anyone expecting Hojbjerg simply to get his head down and mimic the every shoulder-drop and forward burst of Bissouma would, of course, have been misreading the situation pretty drastically. Messrs P-E.H. and Y.B. are radically different beasts. Mercifully, however, if one could have drawn up a list beforehand of the preferred fixtures in which to replace the buzz and drive of Bissouma with the stasis and arm-flapping of Hojbjerg, I think a home date with Fulham might well have been pretty high up the list.

And frankly, it proved as gentle a stroll as hoped. In fact, in those opening ten minutes it appeared that we might not need Hojbjerg at all. As against Luton last time out, we had much of the runaway train about our work in last night’s opening scenes, running rings around our opponents and without too much need for the deeper-lying folk. This seemed to owe much to our pressing (which was mightily impressive throughout, strangling the life out of Fulham in their own half, bringing about both goals and generally compensating for a fair amount of sloppiness in the second half).

Back to Hojbjerg, and to his credit he did the various odd-jobs asked of him with pretty minimal fuss. The setup seemed to require him to fill in around various unglamorous locations towards the rear, but Hojbjerg being one of those curious eggs whose take on life is that the grubbier the task the better, this turned out to be a pretty convenient marriage. Fulham tried to clear to halfway, and Hojbjerg stepped up to snuffle it out; our heroes were forced to poke the ball backwards for a moment, and Hojbjerg availed himself to receive and re-distribute; and for good measure, when we threatened to become irresponsibly blasé about a one-goal lead, Hojbjerg was there to win possession high up the pitch and set up Sonny to set up Maddison for our second.

On the debit side, he did pick up an unnecessary and slightly odd booking, for opting to lunge at a Fulham body, changing his mind about matters fairly swiftly but finding that the laws of physics prevented him from effecting any alteration, and having simply to skid irresistibly about ten yards along the turf until he ploughed into his man; but then on the credit side he also played one of the passes of the season, about midway through the first half, reversing matters from left to right in a Harry Kane sort of way; so all told it was a perfectly acceptable night’s work.

Not a performance to win him any awards, nor to earn him a starting spot when Bissouma returns; but he did not look miles off the pace nor appear visibly out of sync when stepping into a unit that has been tightly-knit without him for 8 games, so he probably merits a nod of acknowledgement.   

2. Udogie

Never mind the miracles Big Ange has worked for our lot – his decision to hook young Master Udogie before we hit the 60-minute mark has left a pretty sickly hue over my fantasy team, so I’ll be demanding a full explanation at our next tete-a-tete.

I don’t know about you, but Udogie – or rather the positions and instructions Udogie is given – make my mind boggle like nobody’s business. It’s one of those awkward situations in which the more one tries to understand the thing the more complicated it all seems to become.

What I’m getting at is where the devil does he actually play? Convention would dictate ‘left-back’; the achingly fashionable amongst us call it ‘inverted full-back’; but watching the match unfold he seemed to decide that it was open season anywhere on the left, and if he had to slap a hand on the Bible and absolutely swear under oath he’d announce that an attacking midfield role, ever-so-slightly left of centre, was the spot for him. And since everyone around him was too polite or too consumed with their own affairs to correct him, there he stayed.

In the interests of accuracy, I probably ought to acknowledge that when we were out of possession he did trot back to an old-fashion left-back spot. In general, however, I cast a beady eye, spotted him a-wandering and duly scratched my head.

Anyway, whatever the hell you want to call his role, he did it pretty well, at least in an attacking sense. Maddison, as ever, was the brains of the operation, but I derived a fair amount of enjoyment in seeing Fulham simply unable to cope with the mere presence of Udogie as an additional forward body, adding to the numbers and generally making a nuisance of himself in between Richarlison and Son.

Out on the other side, Porro seemed more inclined to obey the rules of convention and hover within spitting distance of the touchline, generally limiting himself to one or two visits to the opposition area; but Udogie appears constantly to be one well-timed burst away from being our second striker.

As is often the case with these things, absence makes the heart grow fonder, and when Udogie was removed I thought we missed him somewhat. Emerson Royal, being a barmy sort, gave his own, rather madcap interpretation of the role, and with the entire collective being not quite at the races in the second half, the quality dipped notably.

So while I don’t pretend to understand his precise purpose, with each game I enjoy more and more the input from young Udogie, and hope that his early retirement last night was merely precautionary.

3. Romero

Not for the first time, some occasionally breathtaking football did not quite produce the rich harvest one would have hoped, and with only one first half goal to show for our efforts, those in the rear needed to pay a dashed sight more attention than one would have thought necessary.

At this point one could easily have gazed into the mid-distance, painted vivid images in the mind’s eye of Van de Ven neatly defusing bombs and extinguishing fires – and perfectly weighting passes that led directly to our opener, come to think of it – and purred appropriately at the chap for his highly impressive Jan Vertonghen Tribute Act.

But instead the AANP eye was drawn more towards the other side of central defence, where young Romero was busily plotting a flawless course through the night. Whenever Fulham broke down our right – and it seemed to happen far too often for my liking, considering the one-sided nature of proceedings – we seemed rather taken by surprise, as if such an eventuality simply hadn’t figured in all the pre-match planning. It was all a little too easy for Fulham to use that route to get within shooting distance. Where Senor Porro was in all this I’m not too sure, but happily the 2023/24 version of Cristian Romero has such matters well in hand.

On several occasions Romero popped up in precisely the spot in which trouble appeared about to befall, and for good measure, rather than simply blooting the ball to kingdom come, he typically had the presence of mind to make good use of it, either with a calming pass sideways, or, occasionally, with a gallop up the pitch.

As the game wore on and all in lilywhite cared less and less, Romero was called upon to do more than just intercept loose balls in his own area, increasingly being called upon to sprint back towards his own goal and put a lid on any looming trouble.

Much has been made of the calmer and wiser Romero, who this season thinks before hacking to pieces an opponent, but even with this new thoughtful head atop his shoulders, he still took every opportunity to put a bit of meaning into his tackles, going to ground and caring little if he upset the surrounding furniture.

As mentioned, Van de Ven did everything asked of him on the left, but I did particularly enjoy Romero’s bad-cop routine on the right.

4. Vicario

I trust that when Signor Vicario dived beneath the duvet and started totting up sheep last night, he was able to reflect on a pretty satisfactory day’s work for the employer. So far this season the young bean has attracted plaudits as much for his contributions to penalty area keep-ball as anything else, but last night he was called upon on a couple of occasions to lend a hand in the more traditional sense, and he did so in mightily impressive fashion.

It was the first half save that really caught the eye. A full-length extension, to a headed effort that for all the world looked already to be nestling in the net, was not to be sniffed at. Moreover, this came when the score was still 0-0, and when, although our lot were dominant, it was not yet clear that Fulham would be quite as bad as they were. It was worth a goal, and young Master V. ought to be serenaded appropriately for his efforts.

He had to make a couple more sharp-ish stops towards the end of things too, at that point at which a pact seemed to have been agreed by all concerned that 2-0 it would be, yet Fulham sneakily tried to score anyway. These later saves were a dash more straightforward, the ball being leathered pretty much straight at his frame, but I can think of former members of the parish who might have made a pig’s ear of them. They needed saving; and save them Vicario did.

Ironically enough, for one whose major contribution to date has been his confidence and capability with ball at feet, Vicario actually dropped something of a clanger in precisely that field in the first half, gifting possession to some Fulham sort inside our own area. Luckily enough, one of the main principles of the day – that Fulham were dreadful from root to stem – was swiftly reinforced, and they made little of the moment, but I thought it was a pleasing indication of quite how much Vicario has already banked that none in the galleries reacted with any opprobrium towards him.

5. A Below-Par Second Half

By my reckoning we ought to have been about 6-2 up at half-time, but instead had to make do with just the one – which would have been reasonable enough had we begun the second half with the same vim and vigour as that with which we ended the first.

Alas, our lot appeared to have tucked into sizeable portions of pasta at half-time, quite possibly washed down with an ale or two, because the sluggish second half approach was very much that of a troupe who felt their night’s serious business was done, and were content to pay only the loosest attention to proceedings for the remainder, seemingly adopting the view that any matters of precision and accuracy would take care of themselves.

Against anyone else this might have been a problem. Mercifully, Fulham – and in particular that lad Bassey, at the back – appeared to be Spurs fans at heart, and did their best to ensure a smooth passage to victory for us, both in spurning an alarming number of late chances but also, crucially, in gifting us a second goal to wrap things up, just when it seemed that we were starting to lose control of things.

How our heroes might have coped with the late concession of a goal, bringing the score back to 2-1, will forever remain unknown, but AANP certainly ground a displeased tooth as that second half unfolded. One would hope that the careless attitude was a product of the circumstance – a poor opponent; the sense that we could go up a gear or two if needed; the fixture list throwing up another joust on Friday night – but I would much rather have seen us roll up sleeves, apply boot to neck and see off the thing a little more professionally.

Still, it ended up being a mightily comfortable win, and with the Title now practically sewn up, the only question left at AANP Towers is whether we will bag the FA Cup as well.

Categories
Spurs match reports

Luton 0-1 Spurs: Five Tottenham Talking Points

1. Missed Chances

Easy to forget by the time the credits rolled and we let out that enormous, collective exhalation of relief, a few years having been shaved off each individual, but our lot might – and really should – have been two or three goals up before the clock had even struck 7 minutes.

Profligacy hasn’t really tended to be a particular problem around these parts, so one generously excuses the wayward nature of the finishing yesterday as an isolated incident. ‘These things happen’, seems the platitude of choice in such situations, ‘no hard feelings’. But even armed with this ‘Forgive and forget, what?’ attitude to life, one cannot simply gloss over the fact that for each of the spurned chances I raised my eyes to the heavens and unleashed an almighty howl.

For make no mistake, as straightforward chances go all three of these were absolute corkers. With Luton ambling about the place like they had no idea what sport they were playing (our lot had 96% possession in those opening exchanges, egads!) decency really demanded that we shovelled a few into their net and had the thing done and dusted inside ten minutes.

Naturally, the simplest of these tasks fell to Richarlison, who, bruised potato that he currently is, found some pretty extraordinary ways to fashion a pig’s ear out of them.

The first opportunity would be described by most of sound mind as a tap-in from one yard, and as such be as inexcusable as they come. However, in the interests of fairness it is only right to allow the most zealous members of the Richarlison Fan Club to stamp their feet a bit and highlight the fact that such a description glosses over the fact that the ball reached their man at a most inconvenient height, thereby rather putting the skids on the notion of this as a ’tap-in’.

One sees both sides. The ball, when it did finally arrive at the prescribed meeting point, was at what might be described as Davinson Sanchez height – meant for the feet, but sufficiently high that the dimmer members of the clan might try heading it instead. The point being that it was rather an awkward height, and Richarlison therefore deserves some sympathy for failing to keep the thing under his spell.

Personally I’m not particularly convinced, as the chap had seemed to have done the hard work – arrived on location, connected foot to ball – and quite simply missed the target.

(I noted images circulating around the interweb, no doubt posted with accompanying shrieks of outrage, that appear to show the Luton bobbie in Richarlison’s slipstream grabbing a handful of his shirt at the vital moment. I strongly recommend that these are ignored, for watching the incident again, with the beadiest of eyes, seems to highlight that this was quite the non-event, and did nothing to affect the outcome.)

Minutes later, Richarlison had the ball on terra firma, and went for the bottom corner, only to be denied by the leg of the Luton goalkeeper. Again, our man’s supporters might argue, with some justification, that he didn’t do much wrong – kept it low, aimed for the corner, struck it cleanly and so forth – but the critical point is that six yards from goal with only the ‘keeper to beat, any self-respecting striker ought to be depositing the thing as if shelling a pea, and off for the mandatory knee-slide without the need for any further points of debate.

Pedro Porro was next, letting the ball run a mite too far away from him and consequently extending the lower appendage slightly more than the textbook suggests is optimal, with the net result that he steered the ball the wrong side of the post. This one actually surprised me, because if the last nine months or so have taught me anything about young Senor Porro it’s that he seems to finish better than Richarlison. No airs or graces, just decisive thwacks into the low corners.

All very irritating, but at this point it seemed that our lot were up against a bunch of poorly-arranged mannequins, and had brought their short-sharp-passing A-game, so a further hatful of chances would arrive pretty sharpish. One little would have suspected that we would have been deploying skin of the teeth to cling on to a one-goal win at the end, but I suppose the moral of the story here is just to bury the dashed chances when they thrust themselves into one’s lap.

2. Bissouma

That gushing stream of early chances stopped, scratched its head and opted to become more of a trickle after those first ten minutes, but as all concerned readied themselves for the midway intermission the general sense remained that our heroes remained comfortably superior, in all respects other than actually bobbing along the scoreline.

And until that part Bissouma had been buzzing along doing the sorts of things that Bissouma does. Part of the joy of the man is that he manages to cram into his nine-to-five the work of several different men. He is at various points Bissouma: Destroyer of Worlds, by virtue of his ability snatch the ball from opponents just outside our own area; also Bissouma: Dropper of the Shoulder, a party-trick again typically unveiled outside his own area, when receiving the ball under pressure and displaying a Waddle-esque ability to send opponents into another postcode without actually touching the ball, but simply by dipping the frame; and Bissouma: Carrier of the Ball, which tends to be more front page news, as he gallops over halfway and threads the thing onwards to an attacking comrade.

All of which meant that when he was removed from the cast-list, it felt like we had had more than one man sent off. There is having a player sent off, and the reshuffling that this requires; and there is having Bissouma sent off. He’s a pretty valuable commodity.

A pretty brainless one, too. Harking all the way back to his lilywhite debut, when he was cautioned for tossing the ball away with a bit of feeling, the chap seems to exhibit a penchant for idiocy of a pretty high level.

For a start, in every game he seems to booked for the same foul, a rather needless, inelegant and, crucially, wholly unsubtle bundling over of a scampering opponent from behind. Occasionally in such instances one surreptitiously lowers one’s gaze and murmurs a line or two about tactical fouls – but too often with Bissouma it seems fewer parts tactical and far too many parts reckless.

But then, having collected his token yellow, to fling himself to the ground and have himself expelled from the vicinity was utterly mind-boggling in its bone-headedness. I mean, really. How does a fellow so wanting for IQ manage to tie his laces in the morning?

And more to the point, his dive was pretty unabashed cheating. AANP has a pretty strict moral compass, and bilge like this stinks the place out. Not at N17, thank you. One could argue that there have been plenty of instances in recent years of tumbling to the ground as if shot under the slightest contact; but giving the old to-dust-I-shall-return routine when no contact has been made at all just simply isn’t cricket.

3. Romero

I noted that Jermaine Jenas displayed the slightly lazy tendency of the modern telly-box pundit in shoving the Man of the Match brick at the goalscorer. In fairness young Van de Ven could be considered a fairly worthy winner, having kept everything under lock and key at the back, and then displaying an impressive ability to reshuffle what seemed like numerous feet in setting himself for the winner.

But from the AANP Towers vantage point it was the fellow joined to VDV’s hip who caught the eye. Young Cristian Romero had one of his zingiest days in lilywhite, or pink, or whatever the kids are calling it these days. Whether it was heading, blocking, tackling or racing back to interfere with an opposing striker just as they were readying themselves for a spot of shooting practice, Romero seemed pretty determined to make this his day, irrespective of what Jermaine Jenas had to say on the matter.

It was all the more impressive when one considers the hot-headed Romero of yesteryear, whose mantra seemed to be ‘Chop someone in half first, debate the finer points in life later’. Practically a Buddhist monk by comparison these days, Romero barely makes a foul, can be seen to weigh up the pros and cons before charging into the action and even produces a spot of the old UN-Secretary-General routine, wading into on-field rows as peacemaker of all things, ushering away the more hot-headed and vocal souls around him.

Much has been made of the impact of awarding him the vice-captaincy, and I suppose the evidence of this honour is there for all to see, although being of a different vintage I’m rather dismissive of such things myself. But if improves Romero as a player, and tightens the defence accordingly, then I’m happy to toot the nearest klaxon in support.

Back to yesterday, and both the occasional cross into our box and more frequent glut of corners conceded had the AANP teeth grinding away, make no mistake. However, Romero, aided by his chums, kept trouble to a minimum. (Credit at this point also  to Our Glorious Leader for the introduction of Skipp and particularly Royal, to augment our back-four into a back-five, and reduce the threat posed by back-post crosses.)

It ought not to have been a day for trumpeting the centre-backs, but it’s pretty reassuring to know that should they be thrust into service then neither Romero will grab the responsibility and sling it over his shoulder with meaningful looks in all directions.

4. Kulusevski

I suppose few in attendance would have given more than cursory glance of acknowledgement to Dejan Kulusevski for his day’s work. ‘Busy throughout, and particularly effective in the first-half’, might have been the summary in the local rag, before awarding him a 6 out of 10 and sinking its teeth into Richarlison.

But again, in the spirit of championing the lesser-heralded amongst the troupe, AANP was positively drooling about the chap by the time the curtain came down. In particular, it was the effort he put in in the final 20 or so, when both Sonny and Maddison were hooked for the greater good, and one imagines the dialogue between Big Ange and Deki Kulusevski running along the lines of:

BA: shrug

DK: shrug (of acceptance)

At which point Kulusevski loped off to be the central striker, a pretty lonely job when everyone else of an attacking persuasion was topping up on their isotonic fluids and energy gels on the sidelines.

But Kulusevski comes across as the sort of chap who, in his youth, if told to run home five miles if he wanted feeding, simply laced up his trainers and started jogging. Yesterday, he did not stop running for the cause in those final stages, either up the top or out on the right.

Regularly spotted collecting the ball and motoring off into a corner, pursued by two or three of the enemy, he found himself simply having to stiffen the torso and barge interlopers out of the way while he waited for a spot of company. The drill seeming to be that we’d clear the ball to Kulusevski and rely on him single-handedly to delay Luton’s next attack, which seemed a mite harsh on the lad, but he’s evidently an uncomplaining sort.

As mentioned, few headlines will be written about him, and I don’t recall spotting too many garlands about his neck as he trooped off, but his contribution as lone-johnnie-holding-up-the-ball-in-attack was priceless stuff.

5. Spursy

It was only Luton (just as last week it was only nine men, and the previous week it was a team shorn of three or four first teamers) but AANP can barely sit still with excitement. Not so much for the League table, although Monday 20th May has already been marked with a big thick cross as the date for the open-top bus parade along the High Road. Rather, the thrill of all this is that we continue to win games in which, in recent (and more distant) history our heroes would have come out with the best intentions but flopped badly.

After a couple of injury-time winners in recent weeks, this time we were deducted a player for half the game and told to sink or swim. There are, I suppose, tougher assignments out there, but this nevertheless felt like a significant impediment, and an equally significant achievement. Keeping Luton at bay for 45 minutes in these circumstances was mightily impressive going; having the spark to pinch a goal in the midst of it reflected that this was not merely a backs-to-the-wall operation.

As mentioned, it’s not the sort of output I’m used to seeing from our lot, but I suppose that’s what you get in a brave new era. Either way, it’s yet another of those irksome tests, passed yet again with flying colours, and it all does really make one wonder quite which replica shirt to don on 20th May.

Categories
Spurs match reports

Spurs 2-1 Liverpool: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. Spursy

Another day, another winner in the final minute of added time, and an interested onlooker might observe that our heroes are beginning to make a habit of this.

There are worse habits of course, and I suppose if one could guarantee that come the 98th or so minute our troops would always scuttle off to form a messy human pyramid in some corner of the South Stand, then I’d be all for it.

There is of course a snag here, for it is a bit rich to expect that every huff-and-puff from minute 70 onwards will result in the triumphant last-minute gallop of all on the bench over to the corner flag.

Against Sheff Utd a couple of weeks back, it was to the credit of our troops that they just about adhered to The Plan. No gormless lumping off the ball into orbit, they instead stuck religiously to the diet of short sideways passing, all fully signed up to the notion that Ange-Ball would deliver. Admittedly it took a Perisic corner of pretty much celestial quality to get the equaliser, but the winner when it came was pure, distilled Ange-Ball – from the moment Udogie managed to pilfer possession high up the pitch by first invading the opponent’s personal space and then completely engulfing him, to the quick series of passes that set up Kulusevski.

It was a triumph for a good half hour of patient adherence to His Master’s Voice. Yesterday, however, that half hour dedicated to Huffing, Puffing and Blowing the House Down did not really come across as particularly intelligently spent.

For a start, one of the key principles of Ange-Ball is that whatever great idea is being hatched, it is hatched at breakneck pace. The art of dithering is unwelcome. If, through some sequence of events, the ball ends up at your feet, the only real requirement is that whatever you do next you do it quickly. A lilywhite receiveth and that same lilywhite shoveth on pronto, about sums it up.

But yesterday, once Liverpool were down to nine, a trend arose for whomever was in possession to clear their throat, stare off into the mid-distance and take an absolute eternity to get on with things. It was not at all in keeping with what has gone before this season, and it hindered rather than helped the operation yesterday.

Another oddity was this business of trying to pick a path through the mightily congested central areas. Once down to 9 Liverpool understandably enough crowded both central defence and central midfield, which I would have thought would have been a cue for our lot to maximise the width and stretch them out a bit. But whether by accident or design, this notion seemed to be well down the list of priorities, the principle of just standing around and taking a bit too long evidently deemed far more important than hugging the touchline and dragging opponents out of position.

Personally, I’m also rather a fan of getting to the byline and firing the ball across the face of goal, this having the advantage of turning defenders to face their own goal and giving them a fresh quandary to chew over. Again, it was not an option that our lot really explored until the final minute, when it ultimately brought about the own goal. This is not to suggest that the principle will succeed infallibly and in all instances, but rather that a spot of variety might have been nice, after the umpteenth attempt to pick a path through the centre came up short.

Anyway, it all worked out swimmingly, and while in future I think we’d all rather such issues were wrapped up with time for cocktails and cigars, that we somehow find ways to win these things is in itself worth a tip of the cap. Not so long ago – about five months ago in fact – going one down at home to Sheff Utd with half an hour to play would have been a bit of a death rattle. Similarly, hammering away at a locked door against nine men would not only have ended with us drawing a blank but may well have seen us somehow contrive to concede some nonsense on the counter-attack in the dying seconds.

In these nascent moments of The Ange Revolution, there’s a very different air about the place. Early days and all that, but there appear to be forces afoot, that would have it that our lot do not simply collapse like a pack of particularly brittle cards at the first whiff of trouble, but hang about a bit, even daring occasionally to find a way.

Yesterday’s was arguably our least impressive performance of the season – not too bad when 11 vs 10, with Liverpool seeming to regard the removal of one of their number as little more than a flesh-wound, and continuing to attack, thereby feeding into our approach neatly enough – but pretty grim viewing when 11 vs 9. And yet, our lot found a way. As impressive as the flashy one-touch stuff is from Maddison and Bissouma et al, when we go flying up the pitch with sparkle and jazz, this ability to stay in the fight and just linger, giving ourselves a sniff even as the clock ticks past 90, represents a touch of steel that I don’t remember existing in too many of the previous iterations.

2. Red Cards and VAR and Whatnot

If you’ve stopped off at this corner of the interweb before you’ll know that ever since the youthful AANP had the temerity to suggest that the referee was wrong, and received a pretty meaningful clip around the ear for his troubles from the unforgiving AANP Senior, the motto around these parts has been that the referee is always right, and there ends the narrative.

This was the case last week, when Romero found that an unfortunate by-product of owning arms is that they will exist in time and space, and even if there is nowhere to pop them short of detaching them then handball will still be called; was the case during the Champions League Final when the ball hit Sissoko’s armpit and the ref decided that was plenty; was the case back in April when Jota studded Skipp in the head and then popped up to score the last-minute winner; and was indeed the case yesterday when Udogie won the ball but was penalised for a foul from which Liverpool scored their equaliser. One takes rough; one takes smooth; and one stiffens the upper lip and accepts the referee’s call.

The fact that Luis Diaz’s strike was so obviously onside, and that the VAR mob actually agreed it was onside but failed to clock that it had been disallowed in the first place, is therefore mightily unfortunate for all concerned of Liverpudlian persuasion, but absolutely gut-burstingly hilarious to this particular observer. AANP Towers pretty much rocked to its foundations to the sounds of howls of laughter from within. Every team has its own sizeable portfolio of hard-luck VAR stories – the Good Ship Hotspur as much as any other – and none generally receives much sympathy from without.

So if you have pottered along expecting leaders from different political and religious spheres, lined up with heads bowed and pretty sombre expressions all round, I’m afraid you’re bang out of luck. Nothing but uncontrollable mirth around here, and the snatching of whatever goodies are being doled out. Goodness knows we’ll fall foul of VAR again soon enough, so tonight we make merry.

As for the red cards, I suspect you’ve picked up the general tone by now. Again, a bit of a motto amongst the AANP clan through the ages – more typically aimed at our own block-heads than those in opposing colours – is simply to avoid giving the referee the option. Which is to say that if young Master Jones had not applied his studs to the lower leg vicinity of Bissouma, none of the referee or the VAR mob or anyone else would have got involved.

3. Vicario

In games such as these, when the last half hour is played pretty exclusively in the opposition half, it is easy enough to forget that the resident Last Line of Defence is even still pottering about in the vicinity.

But back in the first half, when the game was still a contest, at both 11 vs 11 and 11 vs 10, young Signor Vicario, not for the first time, was quietly going about doing all the necessaries. Actually, not that quietly, as the chap seems to be one of those slightly bonkers sorts who thinks that each of life’s daily achievements, from boiling an egg to crossing a road, is worthy of a pretty passionate scream of delight. Young people, what?

Anyway, nothing attracts the eye to a goalkeeper like an action-packed save or two, and when Liverpool were slicing straight into the heart of our penalty area with a bit too much ease, I was mightily grateful that we had Vicario stationed in the hotseat rather than veteran iteration of his predecessor.

Vicario’s double-save from Gakpo and then Robertson was pretty Hollywood stuff. One might flounce a bit and counter that both shots were essentially straight at him, and it would be a good point well made; but what attracted the AANP eye was that having repelled the Gakpo effort he understandably found that the aftermath had left him prostrate, and with limbs ill-assembled. Lesser men might have sought a moment to re-combobulate – reassess the bearings, check that all appendages remained in working order, that sort of thing.

Vicario was mercifully alert to the fact that there was no real time for such surveying of surroundings and drinking in of circumstances. Actually, it was a mindset he might usefully have passed onto his outfield chums later in the piece, but the point is that having made his save and hit the floor, he saw the value in immediately springing back to his feet in order bat away the damnedest that Robertson could fire at him.

Simply to hone in on his shot-stopping does a pretty major disservice to Vicario, for the transformation from defensive dullards to Ange-Ball entertainers owes much to the chap’s calmness and capability with ball at feet, in playing out against the opposition press. But nevertheless, his saves were pretty vital. It was a tight old game throughout, and in recent seasons we have not been able to rely upon our goalkeeper to pull off the point-blank stuff.

4. Richarlison

A strange old fish, Richarlison. One of those for whom a pretty persuasive argument could be made either way, if you get my drift.

One might point to his stats, and his goals output, and missed chances and offsides and various other rotten tomatoes and conclude that he’s not quite the bean for the job.

But yesterday, having been told to shove off to the left and make some lemonade, he seemed to cause a decent dollop of bother to those in his path. More so when out left than when stationed centrally in fact, although mitigating circumstances abounded here, not least that Liverpool switched to three centre-backs at the point, thereby pretty much depriving the poor chap of even the occasional bubble of oxygen.

But in the first half in particular, when out on the left, I thought Richarlison ran a pretty honest race. He buzzed around, linked with Udogie and took every opportunity to pop onto a plate goalscoring opportunities for those stationed in more easterly outposts. That early ball he whipped across the area was a good example, he seemingly defying physics by angling the thing back into the centre of the goal at a point when he was running off in the opposite direction. In fact the fist he made it of it was so surprisingly impressive that not a single dashed chum had anticipated it, and what ought to have been a tap-in from about five yards instead just whistled across N17.

He also hit the post at one point, which seems to sum up the way life is treating the poor chap at present, but when it came to picking out Sonny for our opener he nailed it. Maddison deserves the loudest ovation for that one actually, the weight and direction of his pass executed so as to take out approximately 8 Liverpool players in one go, but Richarlison got the memo and ensured that Sonny was left with little more to do than pop the thing into the empty net.

As mentioned, and in common with all his teammates, his well ran dry in the second half as the whole operation ground to a halt somewhat, but in a tough old fixture he made himself a nuisance, and where a few weeks ago there might have been doubts and question marks around his name, he now seems a viable option in the starting XI.

So in the space of seven days, our heroes have faced a couple of the bigger hitters, and emerged in decent shape. The draw last week was impressive for various reasons – a draw in a fixture we normally lose comfortably; twice coming from behind; looking as likely to win as the other lot, away from home – while yesterday’s was something of an oddity, in which we went toe-to-toe when 11 vs 11 and 11 vs 10, but badly lost our way when 11 vs 9 and somehow still found a win. A run of winnable fixtures loometh, but these last two games alone suggest that the current vintage is much improved on the previous few incarnations.

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Spurs match reports

Arsenal 2-2 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

(With apologies for silence last week and brevity this – AANP is still ringing a bell and yelling ‘Unclean’)

1. Ange-Ball Until the First Goal

Our Glorious Leader had promised that he – and by extension we – would not abandon his principles, so I suppose I ought not to have been surprised to see our lot stroke the thing around our own penalty area right from the off, a good half dozen Woolwich chumps in pursuit at every turn, all as if this were the most natural way in the world to approach the Away leg of a North London shootout.

It was all perfectly terrifying of course. Vicario and chums seemed to approach the job as if they had just got together to sip cocktails at a pool in Vegas. Good for them I suppose, the laid-back approach apparently likely to add years to one’s life – but had I been anywhere near the vicinity I’d have been inclined to vault the advertising hoardings, leap onto the pitch and grab one of two of them by the shoulders, to give them a good shake and bellow in their ears that their own net was only a couple of metres behind them dash it, they seemingly laid-back about this detail to the point of being completely oblivious to it.

Indeed, even when young Maddison received the ball on his own penalty spot, put in a solid dawdle and promptly had his pocket pilfered, the general reaction seemed to be at best philosophical. Such things happen, seemingly the gist amongst those in lilywhite. Nothing about which to worry.

Which is precisely the point of Ange-ball, when you think of it. Our Shot-Caller-In-Chief has been adamant throughout that our heroes are actively encouraged to embrace their inner Maddison and swan around on their own penalty spot, dipping shoulders and escaping a press, because sooner or later the harvest will be rich. And if it’s all too much for the delicate constitution of such as AANP, who does indeed make good on that long-held promise and keel over while watching our lot, never to unkeel, well then that can simply be marked down as ‘Collateral Damage’.

But the manner of the thing in that opening half hour was rummy, to say the least. It was pretty gripping viewing, for sure, so no concerns on that count. The Woolwich press, particularly in that opening half hour, was, as expected, pretty intense stuff, and although those in lilywhite tasked with navigating the priceless orb from our goal to theirs fairly regularly evaded this press, one did not have to be an expert in the field to detect that this was not a straightforward routine.

So few complaints there; on the contrary, I raised a glass and murmured a salute, for there trod braver souls than mine.  But what made the whiskers bristle a bit was that our heroes seemed convinced that if they could triangle their way to approximately 30 yards from Vicario’s goal, then it was job done and Ange would be along with his treats.

Of genuine inclination to slap on a backpack and go exploring the Woolwich half of the pitch there seemed to be few signs. Easier said than done of course, the other lot hardly likely to step aside and usher us through. But nevertheless, once the initial press had been craftily eluded and the confines of the centre circle hove into view, urgency seeped from our play.

Mercifully – and slightly oddly – the sands shifted like the dickens once we fell behind.

2. Ange-Ball After the Opening Goal

Actually, the sand-shifting probably occurred after Maddison’s own-area faux-pas, but thereafter, there was finally a spot of Ange-Ball as intended by its maker, viz. crossing the halfway line and approaching the opposition goal.

Senor Porro was responsible for the dinky little release from inside his own half that set events in motion for the Brennan Johnson shot that was clawed off the line; while Maddison was at the controls when it came to setting Kulusevski free down the right in the rather long-winded build-up to our equaliser. The common feature here being that in both instances our heroes did not approach halfway brimful of ideas and then rather lose enthusiasm as countdown neared zero, but instead lived by the sword and went adventuring into the unknown.

As such, I had our lot down as fair value for the draw by half-time, and every bit as likely to win it by full-time. Which might not sound like much, for a Sunday afternoon’s efforts, but in the grand scheme of things is a bit of a doozy. For our lot to go to that place, bounders and hoodlums baying at us from every corner, trail twice and not just stick around for the ride but actually gain the upper hand and mooch off a tad disappointed not to have won – all in the historical context of countless capitulations  at the first sign of trouble – was telling indeed.

If AANP allowed himself a private chunter or two at the curious absence of swashbuckling elan in the opening 30 or so, there was plenty about the remainder to sate the appetite. In particular, the eye was irresistibly drawn towards the glorious move near the end, no doubt described by the experts as ‘ping-ping-ping’, and requiring only a better final ball from, of all people, the absolute master of final balls – Pedro Porro – in order to allow Sonny a tap-in for his hat-trick.

In short, both in the mentality – in approaching a dashed intimidating atmosphere, giving the chest a good puff and somehow emerging as the Alpha – and in quality of play throughout, our lot were as impressive as I suspect we’d all hoped, but few amongst us would genuinely have believed us capable of being. As first acid tests go, it was ripping stuff.

3. The First Goal

Plenty went on about which to lose track of time and excitedly chew the ear off a long-suffering loved one, but I was particularly taken by the precision involved in our first goal. As ever, step forward Master Maddison for a rosette, whispered compliment from a dignitary and pointless bunch of flowers to wave at the crowd, for his were the critical touches of precision.

Spinning Saka to such an extent that the young bean seemed briefly to slip out of existence was a strong start. But then as the ball raced off towards the by-line, providing little opportunity for our man to pause proceedings and summon the great minds for a conflab, Maddison was forced to roll up his sleeves and start earning those millions. And earn them he did. The AANP eyes aren’t what they used to be, but I’m pretty sure there were 3 Woolwich sorts polluting the atmosphere around Sonny at what might be deemed the point of impact. A quick spot of maths told me that that left not more than half a smidge of space to hit in order for the outcome to be anything other than a bit of a washout.

All of which is to say that the odds were stacked so heavily against Maddison that they rather threatened to topple upon him and bury him alive. Those whispered compliments and pointless flowers ought therefore really to be top of the range stuff, because to say that Maddison picked a needle from a haystick – at full stretch, at full pelt and with some red-clad fiend lumbering into view – would be to understate the thing.

At which point, one might suggest that Sonny had little to do in order to earn his accolades and make his little hand-camera-square thing. ‘Pop Ball In Net’ would have about covered the instructions.

Again, however, this final part of the operation was a tad more nuanced. As alluded to earlier, one could hardly suggest that when Son crept into view the coast was clear. The coast was crowded, and in fact fast becoming something of a claustrophobe’s nightmare, with bodies advancing upon the poor lad like vultures getting right down to it for their daily spot of carcass.

Throw in a goalkeeper who had only minutes earlier demonstrated a penchant for the elastic, and the equation upped a few notches in difficulty.

It is therefore to Sonny’s immense credit that he put into effect just about the only type of contact that would win the day. The computer in his head, no doubt whirring like the dickens, told him that a first-time poke, using the pace of the ball and placed as far as physically possible from Raya was required; and Sonny’s left peg rather stylishly did all of the above.

There is of course a further volume or two to be penned on this one. Destiny deciding that they could brandish all the early yellow cards in the world at him but he’d be dashed if such nonsense would prevent him from dedicating his evening to keeping under wraps one of the world’s premier right wingers. The entire back-four exchanging some furtive nods and seeing to it that not a single, clear second half chance would be ceded. Bissouma gliding effortlessly this way and that, no matter the geography or number of chasing foes. Vicario making saves that, while of the standard one would expect, might still have brought a concerned frown to the map of a previous custodian or two – whilst also proving his value as the final ball-playing option with his feet.

On this occasion however, there will be no further elaboration. AANP is off for several species of medication, and with hopes unreasonably high about what damage we might inflict upon Liverpool.

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Spurs match reports

Burnley 2-5 Spurs: Four Tottenham Talking Points

UPDATE 24/9/23: A little note of apology for the absence of thoughts on Sheff Utd and the NLD – unfortunately my immune system flung open its doors and forgot to say when. A little under the weather. Hopefully back for Liverpool!
AANP

1. Son Up Top

(With apologies for tardiness. Was off gallivanting this weekend, don’t you know.)

The decision to give Richarlison a quiet bump off onto the sidelines and begin with Sonny up top certainly got the tongues wagging like nobody’s business. Never mind that Richarlison  was diagnosed with that peskiest and most prevalent of injuries (“a knock”) – around the campfire the conclusion was fairly firmly established: Richarlison had been dropped, paying the price for that alarming surge of ineptitude in front of goal.

Now much like a troublesome female juvenile in a nursery rhyme, when good Richarlison is rollicking, and when bad he’s something of a wash-out. And given that he’s spent the first few weeks of the season mooching about the place like a surly teenager, one can only imagine the sort of company he must be now, having seen his replacement dink and ping his way to a pretty effortless hat-trick.

The peculiarity in all this is that aside from his three goals, Sonny can hardly be said to have got up to a great deal during his little afternoon jolly at the weekend. Not a criticism in the slightest, to be clear, for as long as he’s knocking away hat-tricks he can spend the rest of the game grabbing a spot of shut-eye down by the corner flag as far as AANP is concerned. The point is more that Sonny’s while principal role was to crack away the goals, and crack away the goals he did, beyond that it’s difficult to rack up much in the way of his inputs.

He certainly hared away with all the energy and enthusiasm of a puppy chasing a stick when it came to closing down the poor old Burnley goalkeeper, which is actually a pretty critical part of the whole Ange-ball operation; but if anyone were donning the spectacles and keeping close track of the moments when he dropped deep or brought others into play or whatnot, they’d have been in for a disappointment.

And as such, poor old Richarlison’s sour expression would not have sweetened one jot. “Pfft”, one can well imagine him snorting, when being regaled with tales of Sonny’s heroics. And if invited to elaborate, no doubt the unfortunate young bean would have muttered something along the lines that bounding after a goalkeeper is pretty much the art that he (Richarlison) has mastered above any other, so far this season. It’s become his signature move, over the last four weeks (well, that and tripping over his own feet when in sight of goal).

Of course, the critical difference between the pair is that Richarlison spent three games looking like he’s been specifically programmed to do anything but score goals, finding ever more elaborate means of stuffing up opportunities as they fall to him. Sonny, by contrast, breezed about the place on Saturday looking the sort of young slab who has been hitting the bottom corner every time he touches the ball.

For a lad who hadn’t scored in a good half a dozen games, he took his first goal with a remarkable breeziness. A dinked chip, of all things! If he had put his head down and thumped the thing home, or carefully picked out a bottom corner, I’m sure we’d still have serenaded the loveable young charlie all the way back to North London – but to dink-chip the thing really made you stop what you were doing and mutter an admiring, “What ho!” Quite where that level of confidence sprouted from is anyone’s guess, but one cannot in month of Sundays imagine Richarlison tucking away his chances with such care-free nonchalance.

And there’s the rub, what? As long as Richarlison is labouring away up top with the weight of the world on his shoulders, and Son is sending goalkeepers and defenders flying before dreamily flicking the ball over them and into the net, then the forward-line conundrum is actually devastatingly straightforward, and not in the least controversial. Sonny’s dead-eyed accuracy (easy to dismiss his second and third, but both were as emphatic as they come) complements the rest of the Ange-ball apparatus perfectly. If Richarlison can discover such alchemy I’m sure he’ll be welcomed back into the fold pretty readily, but it would be a pretty rummy sort of prune who adjusted the starting XI to reinstate Richarlison up-top after this weekend’s activity, and Big Ange certainly doesn’t seem the sort.

2. Manor Solomon

The other critical element in the whole ‘Richarlison Demotion’ episode was the introduction into the plot of young Manor Solomon, the musical chairs setup dictating that he took up Son’s station on the left, while Son, as discussed dashed around at the apex.

I’ve been a little taken aback to find opinions of the fine young fellow hovering around the “Unconvinced” sort of marker. Thought young Solomon beavered away pretty effectively myself, but it just goes to prove that old gag about Chap A’s meat and Chap B’s poison.

I suppose if judging Solomon by the very highest standards (and why wouldn’t we?) then one might argue that his outputs were in the ‘Solid but Unspectacular’ category. He had his moments, and set up two goals, which is not to be sniffed at (just ask Richarlison); all of which was useful, but I suppose some might argue that he did all of the above without necessarily giving the impression of being the pre-eminent performer in the whole spectacular.

And frankly, if this were indeed the criticism to be levelled at Solomon, I’d mark it down as mightily harsh. In his first meaningful start for the club I thought he did a spiffing job of things. He looked pretty dashed lively every time the ball was rolled his way – and not a ‘Lucas Moura’ brand of lively either, that involves bowing the head, setting off on a dribble, losing all sense of direction and falling over at the end of some obscure cul-de-sac. Rather, I thought that his eyes generally lit up and he wasted little time in taking on whichever foe was shoved his way, often with a goodish level of success.

He set up Son for two goals, popped a few shots away, pinged a few threatening passes across the area and looked as likely to skin his man as not each time he opted for a dribble. Admittedly, the general sense was of someone of a Bergwijn or Gil sort of level, the sort of imp who can dizzy an opposing defender on a good day, but who may well infuriate a bit on other occasions – but as mentioned, for a first stab at the role it was decent enough. Truth be told, he struck me as being every bit as effective – if not more so – as Sonny had been in the previous three games.

3. Udogie

The disinterested observer might not have registered, and Gary Neville would presumably have described his efforts as Championship-standard or some similar rot, but with his each passing interaction I became increasingly taken with young Signor Udogie.

As alluded to above, if you one were the sort watching proceedings in the way AANP watches a game of cricket – glass charged, conversation flowing, typically not more than three-quarters of an eye on the match itself – one might feasibly have taken in the match in its entirety without even noticing Udogie on the pitch. For here was a chap who operated, if not exactly by stealth, then certainly in fairly unobtrusive fashion.

If the ball needed to be won, down in his little patch on the south-western corner, he simply put his head down and went about doing exactly that, with minimum fuss or fanfare. Similarly, if a pretty incisive pass needed executing, or even a tight corner needed wriggling out of, Udogie seemed always to be one step ahead. The more one noticed it, the more impressive it became.

And the gold stars rack up even more freely when one considers that young Udogie has been fulfilling a role that presumably is a tad foreign to him, what with inverting and popping into central midfield areas one moment, and then sprinting off in a diagonal towards the left wing the next, in order to fulfil his precise role within Ange-ball.

Maddison understandably attracts the headlines, and Son toddled off with the match-ball, but in terms of scuttling around behind the scenes making sure that everything was perfectly in place for the principals to hog the limelight, few can compare with the boy Destiny.

4. Maddison, and the Scenario One Dares Not Contemplate

So after a slightly gormless opening five minutes, our heroes rolled out yet another pretty breathtaking demonstration of Ange-Ball at its finest. All concerned spluttered out their superlatives at Pedro Porro’s pass for our fifth, but to me this detracted from the preceding 14 consecutive passes, which brought about the goal. Few passages of play this season will better sum up the quality of the fare currently being peddled by the soon-to-be-crowned Premier League winners 23/24.

At its heart once more was the marvellous young Maddison, and rarely has a lilywhite looked to be enjoying the nine-to-five quite so much as this fellow. His goal could not have been struck more perfectly, flying off to its destination like a missile, and boasting, when viewed from one particularly becoming angle, the joyous quality of starting outside the post before curling just sufficiently to wind its way back inside. A rarely-spotted specimen, and one that certainly prompts some pretty excited nattering amongst the regulars.

So all is rosy in the N17 garden, and we would be well advised simply to drink it in and enjoy the moment. Nevertheless, at that point in the evening in which one realises with horror that the whiskey bottle has run dry, I did find myself contemplating a more severe scenario, in which young Master Maddison, for whatever reason, might happen to become incapacitated; and here, the thought experiment took a pretty jarring turn.

For this chap really is the heartbeat of the operation. Bissouma is an absolute diamond; the VDV-Romero axis is surely destined for greatness; but Maddison really makes the thing tick. Should some ill fate befall him, I’m sure Our Glorious Leader would shrug it off in that philosophical and ever-so-slightly intimidating manner of his – but a certain unspeakable trouble would most definitely be afoot.

As it happens, I thought Lo Celso looked a pretty shiny sort of object during pre-season, all well-spotted passes and intelligent positions – but Maddison has swiftly elevated himself to the level of the indispensable. Put in the most vulgar terms, Lo Celso would have to play out of his skin to replicate the chap’s efforts.

Truth be told, the concern can be repeated for a couple of other positions. As mentioned, the central defence pairing looks ever more impressive; but remove one of VDV or Romero for a few weeks, and replace with Davinson Sanchez, and I suspect we’ll be squirming in our seats. See also Messrs Udogie, Bissouma and so on. The main cast is breathtaking; the first reserves, decidedly less so.

But fie upon such dreary supposition – it may never happen, and if the gods smile upon us (which will be necessary in order to confirm the Title in May) it never will. Going into an international break, when have we ever enjoyed life this much? The football is scintillating, the results are excellent and one simply doesn’t want the matches to end.

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Spurs match reports

Fulham 1-1 Spurs: Two Tottenham Talking Points

1. Ange’s Selection

You’ll be pretty relieved to hear that the drill today at AANP Towers is to err on the side of brevity, what with the need to spend the midweek daylight hours earning the monthly envelope rather than nattering away about our heroes. As such it’s just a couple of the standout points of discussion, but they don’t come much fruitier than what the daring amongst us might term Big Ange’s First Wrong Move.

Hindsight, of course, is always flawless, and it would be pretty easy to clear the throat and spend a goodish amount of time chirping away about how ill-considered was Our Glorious Leader’s choice of personnel in the aftermath of last night’s limp old showing. But I can at least look my fellow lilywhite in the eye and state with all sincerity that AANP has never bought into this business of mass changes in personnel. Never liked it at international level, don’t like it at club level. In fact, search long enough and you’ll find one or two souls who received a bit of a lecture from me making this point immediately before kick-off.

The principal objection is that for a fringe player to take a deep breath and deliver a performance that has the paying public rising to their feet and strewing the place with garlands, he really needs those around him to be regulars in their roles. Put another way, if we want to see what young Skipp is made of, then throw him in alongside two of Sarr, Maddison and Bissouma, rather than instead of. Or to get the real lowdown on Manor Solomon on the right of attack, make sure that the usual suspects are patrolling that flank alongside him. And so on. The principle generally applies across the team, and as mentioned, can be mimicked in national colours – if for example one wants to assess the cut of Ivan Toney’s jib in attack, or gauge the ticks and crosses of Trent in midfield, one keeps all (or most) other things equal, and lets them off the leash amongst established company.

This business of changing nine of the eleven, by contrast, generates precious few useful insights. They can be the best players around, but if they’re all new to their surroundings then they all rather stumble around the place in pretty rudderless fashion, not quite knowing who’s in charge and at what precise hour to unleash hell.

As it happens, I rather fancy that a Skipp-Hojbjerg-Lo Celso triumvirate would, after a few weeks of working together, function well enough to hold their own quite competently against someone like Fulham. But it would be a dickens of an ask to expect them to start purring from Minute 1 of their first appearance together. And the odds lengthen considerably when ahead of them they have Perisic and Solomon making their first starts, and behind them four more fresh faces out of five.

AANP would much rather have seen one of two of the usual midfield three in situ, and similarly one change in each of the defence and attack. The flow would not have been too wildly disrupted, and those brought in would have enjoyed more becoming conditions in which to peddle their wares.

The counter-argument, of course, is that Maddison and Bissouma in particular are the sort of fellows whose health and wellbeing for the bigger pond of the Premier League is just too bally important to go frittering away in the Carabao Cup. And one certainly understands the point. It is loaded with merit. Should Maddison have bounded around from the off and then twisted a limb at a right-angle half an hour in, a few pitchforks would have been grabbed amongst the faithful without too much delay.

Nevertheless, some sort of balancing act ought to have been achievable without too much strain upon the grey cells. Much like I understand is the case with the Royal Family, one wouldn’t shove the whole lot of them aboard the same aircraft – but that doesn’t mean forbidding any of them from flying at all. Which is to say, perhaps Maddison could have been rested, but Sarr and Bissouma started; Romero wrapped up with slippers and a bourbon while at least two of the other defensive three were readied for action. After all, playing twice in a week, once in a while, ought not to be too much of a stretch for these fine young specimens.

However, Our Glorious Leader presumably had his reasons. For a start he would have expected, reasonably enough, that even if they did resemble a bunch of strangers speaking in differing tongues, the eleven selected would at least each show the individual acumen to win their own individual battles and make more of a fist of things than they did in the first half in particular.

He might also have seen this as a rare chance to give as many as possible of his troops as close to 90 minutes as possible, there being limited opportunity for this sort of thing in the coming weeks without the benefit of European jollies. And with the transfer window looming rather awkwardly over proceedings, he might have considered this whole exercise a necessary precursor to a spot of September 1st culling.

Whatever the reasons, the dice has been cast, recorded and put back in its box now, so there’s no turning back. In truth it’s not really too great a blow, and frankly I struggle even to pretend to be particularly upset; but it is a dashed shame to toss away quite so casually a fairly straightforward opportunity to challenge for a trophy.

2. Richarlison

On the bright side, at least Richarlison pocketed some winnings. Considerably assisted though he might have been by the curious incident of the Fulham bobbie whose absence was temporarily enforced by a boot in a state of disrepair, one does not shrug off gift-horses when they rumble into view. One does instead precisely what Richarlison did, and loop a header back across the goalkeeper and into the net.

At kick-off, the list of wants from this fixture was pretty short and free of frills. Win the thing; have one or two of the reserves catch the eye; and by hook, crook or a penalty rustle up a goal for Richarlison. And one out of three will have to do.

It’s a good job that the wish-list did not extend to Richarlison delivering an all-round performance that blew the minds of all in attendance, because once again he stomped around the place looking like he didn’t quite belong. No shortage of effort, but whatever he tried, be it linking up the play or racing onto forward balls, it didn’t really work.

Even after his goal, which I rather bobbishly expected to stuff the lad full to bursting with confidence and brio, he continued to bump into others and generally bang the old loaf against a brick wall. For what it’s worth, I remain happy to keep giving him time, and remain confident that the goals will at least trickle, if not flow; and more to the point Big Ange seems similarly inclined, at least until such time as another striker worthy of the name is yanked into the building. Nevertheless, his overall performance was a bit of a non-event, punctuated by one isolated cause for cheer. Rather summed up the whole thing, what?

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Spurs match reports

Bournemouth 0-2 Spurs: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. Maddison

New to the fold though he might be, but young James Maddison doesn’t seem to have needed more than about 30 seconds to work out the way of things in lilywhite, and as ever, was bounding about the place like he’d been behind the controls for years.

It would do quite the injustice to the other ten to suggest that every good thing about us emanated from Maddison’s size nines, but even allowing for the merits of the collective – and they were plentiful from opening toot to final curtain – Maddison had clearly decided that he wanted to be string-puller-in-chief, and went about his business making it so.

Particularly pleasing was the fact that he did not limit himself to the final third. Here was a man not simply in the market for the headline-making stuff, with a mind to put his feet up and catch his breath when the action drifted back south. “If the ball is in play then I dashed well want to be involved” seemed to be his motto, and as such it didn’t really matter whether the thing was being parcelled out around our own area or the opponents’ – Maddison was as likely as not to be ten yards away, waving the arms and hollering for it.

I suppose if one were formally to state his position it would be ‘Midfield: Left-ish of Centre’, and as such I fancied I saw he and Sonny each beginning to detect the other’s wavelength, which bodes well for the coming months; but in common with his chums Maddison did not take this positional title as anything more than a loose guide, and tended to drift wherever he fancied, as long as it meant he could grab hold of the ball and start improvising.

It is the addition of Maddison, a bona fide creative soul in midfield, as much as the bright and breezy new setup, that has made this current vintage such fun to watch. This does of course raise a whispered question of what might happen should he be indisposed at some point, and in this context I watched Senor Lo Celso’s late cameo with a particularly beady eye.

Despite murmurs of a tearful farewell in the coming days, Lo Celso appears to be the obvious first reserve for Maddison, and from what I saw in pre-season he has grasped the gist of things, poking and prodding appropriately enough from midfield. Yesterday, in truth, he did little to impress, hardly bounding about the place with the same energy and creative verve as his predecessor, but one can probably excuse him for failing to set the world alight in a sodden 20 minutes off the bench. Tuesday night at Fulham might provide a better gauge of his suitability for the role.

2. Van de Ven

Part of the fun of Ange-Ball is that we have so much possession that one doesn’t actually spend too much time worrying about the defence, but as and when required we seemed to do the necessaries. Bournemouth had their moments, particularly at the start of the second half, but they rarely amounted to clear sights of goal (the only that spring to mind being a botched effort just before the half-time gong).

As with our attacking efforts, one is inclined to share the praise around the various contributing members, given that each got their head down and worked up an honest sweat as required. But even allowing for this, I was rather taken – and not for the first time – by the efforts of young Master Van de Ven in the centre of things. Much has been made of the young bean’s turn of pace, but this particular asset did not really need to be unwrapped yesterday.

Instead, it was a day for the more cerebral sort of interventions. Judging when to step up; temporarily departing from his berth to snuff out danger; extending a well-timed leg – that sort of thing. I was at times reminded of dear old Ledley, in the way VDV would negate the need for some lung-busting run and last-ditch tackle, by simply giving a moment’s thought to the situation and nipping in well before matters escalated.

There was a certain finesse to his game, and with Romero alongside him taking the occasional opportunity to remind us how much he loves to go thundering into the heart of matters, muscles flexing and bones crunching and so forth, it struck me that these two might complement each other pretty well in time. The pair of them will presumably have sterner tests in due course, but this was not a complete cakewalk, and VDV in particular did a pretty neat line in making things look a tad easier than I hazard they actually were.

3. Richarlison

If Maddison shimmered away throughout, and VDV neat and tidied his way through the afternoon, then poor old Richarlison belonged way over at the other end of the spectrum.

In case it was not already pretty blindingly obvious that this was not really his day, that vaguely comical moment early in the second half rammed home the point, when he trod on the ball and followed up with a hack at the nearest Bournemouth leg, to vent a spot of that rage that had almost visibly been bubbling within.

To his credit, and in the interests of balance, it should be noted that Richarlison works like the dickens to close down opponents, principally goalkeepers. Hardly the stuff of which headline-writers dream, I accept, but it’s a pretty critical component of Ange-Ball – and not the sort of thing the previous chap could sustain throughout a match. But Richarlison will plough this particular furrow pretty indefatigably, and it means that opposing goalkeepers and centre-backs are granted limited time for pausing to survey matters and run through their list of options and so forth. The chap will rush them, and those around him in lilywhite tend to take their lead from him.

Which is all well and good, but we do all want our strikers to stick the dashed thing in the net, and here the poor old shrimp is making a terrific pig’s ear of things.

Now in his defence, not all the chances he had were entirely straightforward. That header from a corner in the first half, for example, while presentable enough, was not without its challenges. It was mid-air for a start, which I suppose ought to be negotiable enough for a professional footballer, but still adds a certain complication; on top of which the angle was pretty acute and there was a Bournemouth soul pretty nearby doing his damnedest to impede our man in his task. In short, not an easy chance.

However, the other notable chance presented to him – by Maddison, inevitably, when the ball was fed onto his right foot while bearing down on goal – ought really to have been popped away without too much fuss. One understood that Richarlison tried to drag the ball inside the sliding challenge of the defender, but thereafter his feet seemed to take off on their own separate project, dancing infield and effecting semi-Cruyff turns, when what we really wanted to see was the chap blast the ball into the net and toddle off for his knee-slide. Inevitably, having added layer upon layer of complication to the task, Richarlison ran out of both room and feet, and the whole thing ended in an ungainly mess that rather summed up the way things are going for him at the moment.

Thereafter he mooched about the place in the sort of strop that would have been the envy of any self-respecting teenager, before being hauled off; at which point our attack became infinitely sharper with Sonny at its stem.

I suppose there are some demanding that Richarlison be banished from the premises and have a limb or two lopped off for good measure. AANP understands the frustration, but remains pretty sanguine about the honest fellow’s performances. Primarily because if he can bang in goals as Number 9 for Brazil in a World Cup, I don’t see too much reason to fret about a few missed chances for our lot in August. He does rather visibly let his mistakes affect his performance, but I suppose this also means we can look forward to a pretty irresistible force once he does find that first goal or two. Not too much need to panic. Yet.

4. Ange’s Substitutions

I don’t think he can take too much credit for throwing on Ben Davies when poor old Destiny limped off with his mysterious injury at the end, but otherwise Big Ange can allow himself a pretty satisfied puff or two of the Cuban when he reflects on his in-game mix-and-matching.

It would be no stretch to suggest that hooking Sarr and Richarlison for Perisic and Hojbjerg had precisely the desired effect upon things. Few of sound mind would suggest that Hojbjerg can match Sarr for youthful exuberance and boundless energy between the two penalty areas, but the Dane was hardly brought on for this purpose.

Rather, with Bournemouth having emerged from the interval with a number of guns blazing, Hojbjerg added a decent-sized dollop of sense and stability to proceedings in the middle of the pitch. On winning and shoving onward the ball, rather than gallop forward à la Sarr he held his position, and what had previously been an ever-so-slightly wobbling ship was once again steadied.

The addition of Perisic was similarly abundant in common sense – principally because it meant that Richarlison could throw no more toys from his particular pram. Sonny instead took on the forward role with gusto, and Perisic created a fresh and slightly different brand of mischief on the left.

It worked swimmingly, not least in creating the rather critical second goal, and in general the numerous combined years that Perisic and Hojbjerg brought to proceedings served us well.

Skipp and Lo Celso were also shoved on, and while these were perhaps less striking – Lo Celso, as mentioned, underwhelming slightly in his role as Maddison’s first reserve – they still made some sense – fresh legs and whatnot.

So while these substitutions were hardly the foremost innovations of our time, they still felt like sensible moves at sensible junctures, and given that some managers can be fairly chided for failing to make in-game tweaks, it all merited an approving nod, and helped to see out another serene win from what had looked beforehand a tricky old engagement.

Who amongst us could not simply watch this stuff all day and all night? Yes, the clean sheet was nice, and goals from different sources is a pretty useful box to tick, and we were even briefly top of the league – but it’s the sheer aesthetic pleasure of watching our lot ping their way through opponents that is making this the most fun I’ve had watching Spurs in years. As the sages in the stands astutely observed – we’ve got our Tottenham back.