Tag: Nottingham Forest

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 3-1 Forest: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. A Pretty Discombobulating Plot

If your route home from N17 yesterday evening was one of those ruminative ones then I can pop a comforting arm around your shoulders, remove the arm to pop a hand on the Bible in order to swear that I’m telling the truth, pop the arm back around your shoulders and assure you that you’re not alone. AANP, too, was thrown off kilter by the meandering and complex path our heroes took to their three points.

From the pretty comfortable opening, to the quite possibly complacent period leading up to half-time, to the sudden burst of second half inspiration, to the finale that neatly evaded any type of description altogether, the old grey matter just couldn’t fathom it out. It was like one of those dubious, award-winning foreign films one sometimes stumbles across, in which the plot leaps between genres and the characters change identities halfway through. In short, if anyone professed to knowing what was going on, they should blush with shame for the untruths they told.

Taking it chronologically, we started with admirable spunk. Forest provided a polite reminder that they are now a Nuno team, by pulling every available limb back into their own penalty area and daring us to make the game interesting. Admittedly the greatest chances of success came when we actually lost possession, prompting them to commit one or two bodies forward – at which point our lot cunningly won the ball back and had a fresh dart, but with fewer opposing limbs to negotiate.

All a bit convoluted, but the move with which we opened the scoring was pleasingly sharp, featuring quick passing in midfield and another of those moments in which Timo Werner’s undoubtedly good intentions actually manifested as a useful end product.

Thereafter, as was suggested by my Spurs-supporting chum Dave, our lot rather swanned around with the air of a regiment who were three goals up and drinking in the accolades, rather than a team that still had a good hour of elbow-grease ahead of them to ensure that the points were safe.

But for some unnecessarily wild flaying at the ball by that Chris Wood bimbo, we might have been in a spot of bother come the midway switcharound. I’d still have expected us to unearth a win from somewhere, but in that first half we were adding layer upon layer of complication to things, and unnecessarily so.

Even graver issues might have arisen if the arbiters of such irresponsible behaviour had cast a less generous eye upon James Maddison’s right to self-defence upon provocation. Whatever he did may have amounted to little more than pat on the tummy and some eye-catching amateur dramatics from the lad on the other side of the court, but if Maddison clenched his hand into a fist – and I’ll be dashed if the visual evidence clarifies things one way or t’other on that count – then he could have had few complaints about being ejected from the premises (as would have been the case for the other lad too, by the by).

Conventional wisdom has it that the introductions of Messrs Hojbjerg and Bentancur made the vital difference after half-time, and I suppose one can broadly go along with that, although I struggle to recall the specific good deeds demonstrated by either. Hojbjerg I did notice mopping things up in midfield, generally ensuring that if one of our attacks faltered and Forest tried to escape the shackles, he was on hand to pilfer possession straight back from them and set the lilywhite machine in motion once again. While others will presumably differ, I maintain it would be a stretch to say that either he or Bentancur bossed things, but we certainly had a bit more control with those two hovering about the place, so if one wants to fete the pair of them then they have my blessing (even if Hojbjerg did then try to undo his hard work by gifting Forest a couple of suicidal passes in the final knockings).

A purple patch briefly ensued, in which gaps appeared in the Forest setup and our lot pulled that old trick of nabbing a couple of quick goals before anyone had a chance to register what was happening, thereby changing the entire complexion of the game; and thereafter the final twenty or so passed pretty serenely, which as a lifelong Spurs fan used to the bedlam of a panicked finale, is always accepted gratefully but rather suspiciously.

So a satisfactory enough outcome, but by golly the convoluted plot was difficult to follow.

2. Werner

There are some of lilywhite persuasion who insist that Werner is a marvellous attacking asset; and others (known to have included amongst their number yours truly) who qualify this by suggesting that his outputs are a little predictable – and his finishing in Chris Wood territory – which I suppose means that the truth lies somewhere in between.

One could argue that the proof of the pudding is in his beating of a right-back and firing in a low cross that someone or other contrives to prod in, and he did that twice yesterday, albeit the second drew a point-blank save that rather upsets the narrative.

Now a pretty stirring argument could be made for the value of a winger who can lay at least one and possibly two goals on a plate per game, even if he spends the remaining 89 minutes idly inspecting the stands and whistling the theme tunes of cartoons from his homeland. The creation of two goals per game, the argument would continue, is a marvellous effort, irrespective of whatever else he might or might not contribute.

And yet, I do find myself emanating all manner of dissatisfied grunts and tuts when I watch the chap in action. I suppose it’s because for every one successful foray down the left, I do feel that we have to accept at four aborted (or otherwise ineffective) efforts, whether he sticks to the outside or tries his luck infield. I quite possibly do him a disservice – I certainly haven’t been keeping count of his efforts – but some sort of nameless frustration gnaws away, suggesting that he might utilise his talents just a mite more handsomely.

All that said, at £15m, he would be a solid squad member next season, quite the laddie for rotation and inspiring cameos. Nevertheless, I would hope that we throw four or five times that amount on a wide player upon whose forehead one can slap a post-it note on which is scribbled the word ‘Elite’, and who might usurp young Werner from the Starting XI.

3. Udogie

To err is human, what? Most weeks it is a pretty safe bet that when adjudicating the quality of the offerings on show, one reserves a particular word of praise for Destiny Udogie, making a point of emphasising how toothsome he was in reverse as well as on the front-foot. Commonly the driving force behind any left-of-centre surge over halfway, he is also generally an impressive barrel of meat and sinew when haring back into the conventional left-back spot.

Yesterday, however, he had a bit of a stinker. Most obviously, his dereliction of duty as Forest piled forward for their goal was a tricky one to excuse. Rather awkward, no, catching the golden boy red-handed? And yet there he was, clear as day, hand in the cookie jar, so to speak. The Forest fellow motored up alongside him and off towards the area, and young Udogie slowed to a halt and almost visibly shrugged. Difficult to fathom what went through his mind at that point, but ‘Chase the blighter’ it most certainly wasn’t.

Such things happen however, and while he had a slightly dreary time of it in other respects yesterday as well, by and large one can rely upon him, as well as VDV and Vicario, to prompt the approving nod. All things considered it is a stroke of luck that his dies horribilis happened on a day on which we crossed the finish line ahead and at a canter.

4. Our Goals

For all the mistakes and off-moments there were some pretty rip-roaring goals to wrap the thing up.

I was particularly glad for young Pedro Porro, as he never wants for enthusiasm when it comes to having a ping from the edge of the area, and he generally misses by not more than two or three whiskers. “One of these days,” I tend to mutter with a wry smile, as he goes through his curious post-miss routine of scratching his head like a man possessed and contorting his face into all manner of anguished expressions – also like a man possessed, truth be told.

Being blessed with the technique of a man who ought to earn a living in the more glamorous part of the pitch, it was particularly pleasing to see him catch a high volley sweetly enough to fly off into the top corner. Apparently the thing came off his shin, which does spoil an otherwise pleasingly thrill-packed little tale, but it hardly detracted from the aesthetic value, which is what really matters.

As for young Van de Ven, I have to confess to being most taken aback by his finish, travelling as it did with the velocity of an Exocet. ‘Who would have thought the young man to have had so much power in his left clog?’ was the refrain echoing around the place as we drank in the replays, for he certainly packed a bit of feeling into that effort.

As well he did too, for if he had joined the seemingly endless list of cast members overcome with a sense of altruism that inclined them to wave away the opportunity of a shot, and instead pass sideways for someone else, I do rather fear a vein in my temple might have exploded. One appreciates that sometimes the ball is received at an awkward angle or pace or whatever, but really the obsession with refusing to shoot when inside the area had far exceeded the realms of decency. Full marks then, to both Messrs Porro and VDV for straightening their priorities and swinging a leg like there was no tomorrow.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 3-1 Nottingham Forest: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. Richarlison

Senor Conte’s popularity at AANP Towers has dropped in recent weeks at a rate that would have lead balloons looking on enviously, but if he were aiming to worm his way back into AANP’s affections (this no doubt being amongst his primary concerns) his inclusion of Richarlison from the off was a smart move.  

And the Brazilian didn’t disappoint. The headlines alone attest to this – with a goal pedantically disallowed, a penalty won and some robust spots of jiggery-pokery in the build-up to two other goals all featuring on his CV. Had he contributed nothing else of note these would have been worth the entrance fee, but it was Richarlison’s broader performance that prompted a spot of proud avuncular clucking from this end.

Ask me for the likely tactical instruction bestowed upon the chap and you’d be treated to one of my blanker looks, as it wasn’t particularly clear to me whether he were being asked to fulfil specific duties in specific situations. I mean, presumably he had all sorts of tactical equations ringing in his ears, as Conte hasn’t really come across to date as the sort of egg who will simply give a shrug and tell his players just to go out on the pitch and make it up as they go along.

So it is safe to assume that Richarlison was under various orders, to be in certain places at certain times and whatnot, but aside from all those specifics I was taken by the more general way he set about his business. He seemed to adopt an attitude that if a job were worth doing, it were worth doing with energy and aggression. His To-Do List seemed to include both exploratory trips into the right-hand side of the final third, and the less glamorous business of nibbling at opponents when we were out of possession, in order to win back the thing; but irrespective of the nature of the task at hand, he always went about in a way that was quintessentially Richarlison-esque. One watched on rather approvingly.

He took his disallowed goal mightily impressively. I had been under the impression from his various considered observations of the last few days that his lack of playing time had had a detrimental effect upon his mood and performance levels and such things, but one would never have known judging by the way he walloped home his effort just three minutes in.

He made it look pretty straightforward – which, I understand, in industry circles, is quite the seal of approval – but from my vantage point it seemed anything but. The ball was bouncing for a start, which tipped the scales heavily in favour of a shot disappearing off into the upper stand. For added complication the ball also looked for all the world like it was more interested in getting away from Richarlison rather than teaming up with him for collaborative adventures. That our man made light of both challenges, and simply leathered the ball into the roof of the night, was massively to his credit. Just a shame that it amounted to naught, what?

Quite when he will register his first league goals for us is anyone’s guess (I noticed him shoot a rather pleading look at Kane when the penalty was awarded), but his contributions elsewhere were valuable, and his ability to add presence within the penalty area as well as outside it offers a handy extra attacking string to the lilywhite bow.

2. Pedro Porro

Another whom AANP eyes with affection is young Master Porro.

The fellow is certainly eager to please, taking every opportunity to yell angrily in the face of the nearest opponent, presumably in order to convince us of how much he cares. It all seemed a bit of an act, in truth, working himself up into a state after every tackle, successful or otherwise. Perhaps it is something in the Latin blood. Either way, it didn’t matter much to me one way or another as long as he continued that business of whipping in his crosses.

Now that was where the lad earned his beans. He crosseth like a demon. In fact, if anything I chide the chap for not doing so more frequently. I’ve bleated away often enough about the need for our wing-backs to offer some attacking flavour in order to make this whole 3-4-3 business hum and whirr, and in Pedro Porro we finally have a lad who can make the eyes water with a hot line in crosses whipped at pace from the flank and into a general area of mischief, the sort that does all the hard work itself, requiring the forward only to make contact in order to complete the deal.

Funnily enough however, the goal Porro actually created relied upon a lot more finesse than the sort to which I allude above. Instead, this was more of a delicately-nurtured chip, tailored for the head of Harry Kane, and coming with a pretty specific set of next-step instructions. Rather than ‘Any Contact Will Do’, this required Kane to angle himself and steer the thing (which, being Harry Kane, was barely an inconvenience).

Nevertheless, Porro’s work was still an underrated masterpiece. Both time and space were in short supply when he took possession of the thing, for he was not roaming the great plains of the flank, but was jostling for space within the rather crowded confines of the penalty area. When he took possession it was already rush-hour. With Richarlison dinking in crosses from the right, Davies effecting full-body sliding passes on the left and no fewer than eight extras from Forest scattered around the area, one could not have swung a cat without bumping into at least three other sweaty frames . When the ball eventually came to Porro, it was clear that this was no time to pause and take stock.

However, if such concerns weighed on him, he certainly didn’t show it. Within a trice he had the ball out of his feet and curling inch-perfectly toward the head of Kane, somehow making time in his crowded schedule for a brief glance to identify his target in the process. On top of which, being a short-distance sort of affair, this was not the type of cross one could deliver through a gay old swing of the clog. In order to hit his mark from a distance of no more than ten yards, Porro had to re-programme from Power to Deftness in double-quick time.

That Porro executed the entire manoeuvre precisely the required proportions of speed, delicacy and accuracy suggested that here was a chap for whom this was not his first time. Porro is clearly a man who knows his apples from his oranges when it comes to delivering for his forwards. This could be the start of something special.

3. Ben Davies

On the subject of wing-backs, I aim a sightly grudging nod of appreciation at Ben Davies over on the left. Make no mistake, it pains me to voice such a sentiment. A chap like Ben Davies, while never wanting for effort, and almost certainly a thoroughly pleasant egg, is hardly the sort whose presence makes the heart skip a beat or two. ‘Handy Reserve’ about sums it up.

Always pretty game, Ben Davies’ principal failing as a wing-back is that his crosses miss as often as they hit. And having banged on a fair bit above about the virtues of a dead-eyed crosser of the ball from the wide positions, you will understand that this shortcoming grates. Perisic may have offered precious little value in literally any other field since joining the gang, but he does at least swing in a mean old cross. Ben Davies does not.

However, as amply demonstrated yesterday, Ben Davies does make the most of whatever other tools he lugs around with him. Take his positional sense, for example. It may sound like the faintest possible praise with which to damn a poor chap, but when our heroes scurry forward he does position himself in locations that make the opposition think a bit, and occupy a spot of their manpower, be it out wide on the flank, or scuttling off into the area to offer the option of a slide-rule pass towards the by-line. Most of the time he’s ignored by his colleagues, a decision-making route one certainly understands, but his presence in these spots does assist the general operation.

And his eagerness to toe the Conte line, requiring all wing-backs to augment the attack by taking up positions inside the penalty area because the midfielders sure as heck won’t, bore some fruit yesterday when he kept the ball alive by the skin of his teeth, in the build-up to our opener. Indeed, he popped up as an auxiliary attacker on a couple of other occasions – a header here, a drilled effort this – this being the sort of game in which a wing-back didn’t have to worry too much about what was happening at the rear.

And there’s the rub, I suppose. This was not the sort of game in which we had to worry too much about the defence, it was the sort of game in which Ben Davies caught the eye as a handy contributor. One might say it was “only” Nottingham Forest, but a week ago it was “only” Wolves, and that didn’t stop our heroes making a solid pig’s ear of things, so I’ll happily take this week’s harvest – and Liverpool’s little gift – and move on.

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Spurs match reports

Nott’m Forest 0-2 Spurs: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. Richarlison The Bounder

One of the more agreeable outcomes of Sunday’s festivities was the revelation that there are few things in life more entertaining than seeing an absolute bounder at his most dastardly, as long as the aforementioned b. is draped in your team’s colours. Richarlison’s little production was marvellous stuff, as guaranteed to delight his followers as it was to incense his opponents.

Naturally enough it incurred the spluttering apoplexy of great swathes of the population, incensed at the sight of Man Providing Entertainment During Game (although oddly accepting of the Forest chap whose response to being offended was to hack Richarlison at the knee, the principle here seeming to be that hurt feelings matter more than hurt limbs).

Here at AANP Towers the reaction was pretty rapturous, my inclination being to march over to Nottingham, hoist the chap on my shoulders and ferry him around the pitch to drink in acclaim from all sides. If Richarlison’s to-do list for Sunday included ‘Endear Self To N17 Fanbase’ he certainly hit upon a fool-proof way of doing it, the chap breezing his way towards cult hero status with a crack like that.

And more broadly, the sight of such chicanery being peddled by one in lilywhite was all the more welcome, for adding a little bite to what has, for as long as I’ve been watching, been a team with far too soft an underbelly. Rascals like Richarlison, Romero and the late, lamented Lamela add the sort of devil to proceedings that is guaranteed to rattle even the most serene of opposing minds. There is a limit to such things of course, and one wouldn’t want the entire collective to approach each game as some sort of gangland showdown, but anything that makes opponents bristle and provokes a degree or two of ire will be warmly welcomed around these parts.

2. Richarlison The Genius

Richarlison’s unspeakable acts rather detracted from his other critical input of the day, in quite gloriously creating an unmissable chance for our second.

It was all the more impressive for its genesis coming at a point in play when, from an attacking point of view, all appeared to have been lost, at least temporarily. Matters might have been resolved more swiftly and conventionally had young Sessegnon not dithered at a rather crucial moment (a moment that seemed to me to illustrate that for all his youthful exuberance, he rather lacks the nous and wiles of Perisic).

And one would have been forgiven for flinging arms towards the heavens, and settling in for another five minutes of Forest keep-ball, had Richarlison not stomped over to the left flank to take matters into his own hands. Moreover, with the ball edging off towards the sideline, and a Forest player commandeering that patch of land, the odds were not stacked in his favour. And yet, none of this seemed to strike the young imp as any sort of problem.

Of the Forest blighter, Richarlison made light work. One solid biff of the upper body, and the F.B was as a felled log, effectively removed from the picture. There then followed the issue of how best to distribute his newly-acquired winnings, for between Richarlison and the lone lilywhite figure of Kane were five red shirts plus a goalkeeper. However, where most mere mortals would have seen challenge, Richarlison appeared to see only opportunity. What followed was the sort of moment that makes one widen the eyes and feel the lower jaw loosen from its moorings, for the chap was somehow struck by the notion that the appropriate thing to do would be to unleash a peach of a ball with the outside of his boot.

Look closely enough and I’m pretty sure one would spot that the ball itself was smiling, because everything about the delivery was perfect. Arc, curl, height and geometric plotting were all immaculate, to the extent that I’m not sure Kane needed even to shuffle his feet in order to bop the thing home.

Here at AANP Towers we have long regarded The-Weighted-Ball-Inside-The-Full-Back as without peer when it comes to aesthetically pleasing passes, but frankly Richarlison’s ball for Kane has turned on its head everything we thought we knew about the art.

3. Davinson Sanchez

Those who know AANP best would no doubt take one look at the heading ‘Davinson Sanchez’ and brace themselves for a few paragraphs couched in the fruitiest Anglo-Saxon. I remember a gag from my A-Level days in which one fellow said of another fellow, “I come here to bury Caesar, not to praise him,” which just about sums up my usual take on young Sanchez. This time around, however, it seems the square thing to do is slather a bit of praise on the chap, because he seemed from my vantage point to get better and better as the game progressed.

That said, the start was pretty inauspicious.  He managed to orchestrate an illegal tangle of limbs within literally the first ten seconds of the match, which was pretty heavy going even by his standards, gifting Forest a free-kick in a dangerous position and prompting an agonised howl from AANP Towers.

Naturally enough, his every touch thereafter prompted a nervous tension to wrack my entire being, but in possession he kept things simple and when called upon to defend I’m not sure he put too many feet wrong.

As the minutes ticked by and he chalked off a frankly preposterous nine hours without conceding, he even produced a casual Cruyff turn inside his own area, as if to hammer home the point to any remaining naysayers that actually, in Davinson Sanchez country, nothing could be simpler than keeping opposing strikers at bay.

Messrs Dier and Davies obviously played their part, but I struggled to shift the gaze too far beyond the figure of Sanchez, gently batting away all attempts to sneak past him. Make no mistake, Romero will be welcomed back with open arms the very minute the assembled First Aiders give the nod, but for now I can do no more than salute Davinson Sanchez, for a job well done.

4. Conte-Ball

Scour the back pages for the scoreline only and one would assume that this was routine stuff. Two-nil, plus a missed penalty, at a newly-promoted mob, seems to tell a pretty straightforward story.

The blow-by-blow account, however, speaks of an infinitely less comfortable affair, in which our lot barely had control of the dashed thing for any sequence lasting longer than thirty seconds. Moreover, in the first half in particular, Forest were not purely kept at arm’s length, but were short-triangling their way into our holiest of holies, popping the ball along inside our area. That they barely managed a shot on target all game was due in no small part to the massed ranks of lilywhite bodies arranged in protective formation inside the area, and willing to fling every available appendage in the way of the ball.

The whole pattern of proceedings, was bizarre in the extreme. Whenever we did obtain possession, the drill seemed to be to leg it up the pitch as fast as humanly possible, and pop off a shot – an exercise that never seemed to last more than about twenty seconds, but which nevertheless proved oddly successful. It meant that despite minimal touches of the ball, and a complete bypassing of central midfield throughout, our lot actually racked up a good half-dozen near misses in each half, which amounted to a darned sight more than Forest managed.

And yet at no point (until the second goal, circa 80 minutes) did we seem to have control of things. Au contraire, our general game-plan appeared to have much about it of skin-of-teeth. I’m sure I was not alone in feeling deeply uncomfortable in seeing wave after wave of Forest possession – generally not amounting to too much, admittedly, but emitting ominous noises nevertheless.

And yet, by setting up with a central midfield pair, Conte seems almost to concede that we will perpetually be outnumbered in that area. He seems almost to be gambling that our defensive five, plus Bentancur-Hojbjerg, will do all the defensive necessaries, and our front three, plus wing-backs, will produce as many chances as needed. Which, oddly enough, on both counts is exactly what happened on Sunday.

So one might argue that it works, but by golly it’s not much fun to watch. And had the Forest bod learnt how to head a ball midway through the second half, it would not have worked. There were shades of Jose’s defend-defend-counter, and although our countering was pretty effective, and with better finishing would have eased the nervous strain considerably, the whole thing did make me wonder if we might not try to approach games by actually bossing possession and dominating things.