All Action, No Plot

Apologies for the tardiness – busy times at AANP Towers. While it would have been nice to add my tuppence worth to the wave of euphoria in the 24 hours immediately after the Arse was spanked, the delay perhaps allows for a more circumspect few musings.

AANP is classifying it a game of one half and two quarters.

First Half

For spells in the first half our lot barely got near the dashed thing, and with l’Arse hogging possession it threatened to be the opening scene of one of those Final Destination films, where the kid has a premonition of unabated carnage on all sides. With no Sergeant Wilson to roll out his little routine of charging up to opponents, stopping a yard off them, looking them in the eye and then daring them to pass him, our midfield pairing off Modders and Hudd looked initially like lambs to the slaughter, alternating between standing back or making woefully ill-timed lunges for possession.

And yet, as it turned out, we kept them at arms length. Other than a first-minute shot which BAE snuffled out on the line, I’m not sure l’Arse managed a shot on goal in the entire first half. By contrast, on the counter we created a couple of chances – and as for the opening goal… As the ball dropped from the skies, a montage of Gazza’s St Hotspur day free-kick and Bentley’s Emirates volley flashed through the mind, before the boy Rose took a punt and gained immortality.

Half-Time

Nice to see David Ginola (Cult hero! Cult hero!) at half-time, but I spent the interval cursing our lot for what they were about to put me through. 

One Quarter

As it happened, the first half of the second half (you follow?) was simply wonderful. I’m not just talking about the goal, gorgeous though it was (who knew Defoe had the defence-splitting diagonal killer pass in him?) It was the manner in which we gave l’Arse the run-around for twenty minutes or so thereafter, with a maturity I simply did not know we had. Watching Gudjohnsen and Modders play keep-ball as weary Arse legs chased shadows was one of the most satisfying sights of the season.

On the evidence of Wednesday night, the January re-shuffle of Keane-Out and Gudjohnsen-In looked a master-stroke. Admittedly Gudjohnsen fluffled a glorious chance to kill the game, but that apart his calm, shielding of possession in midfield was brilliantly executed, and exactly what we needed. Difficult to imagine Keane giving us that sort of input if added as a late sub.

Second Quarter

The inevitable nail-biting finale soon followed however, prompted by the arrival of Van Persie. It was desperate, last-ditch stuff at time, but by golly didn’t it make the chest swell with pride? From the front (Defoe racing around to execute sliding tackles) to the back (Ledley, an absolute Rolls Royce of a defender) they fought to a man, and when we ran out of men we were able to turn to a deity in goal. On my little Spurs Fixture List booklet, next to each result, I note down our goalscorers; for this game the notes read: “Rose, Bale, Gomes (3)”. His acrobatics and reactions defied belief.

Nerves shredded and fingernails chewed to the bone, my heart has now filed for divorce from me, on the grounds of persistent unreasonable behaviour – but it seems a price well worth paying. After the Pompey defeat, the lowest I have ever felt as a Spurs supporter, I tried to remember how the good times felt; not sure I’ll ever forget the feeling around 10pm on Wednesday night.

Gary Mabbutt will be signing copies of AANP book Spurs’ Cult Heroes for the masses on the following dates:
Waterstones Stevenage - Saturday 24 April, 12 noon;
Waterstones Walthamstow - Saturday 8 May, 1pm

Spurs’ Cult Heroes, is now available in the Spurs shop, all good bookshops and online (at Tottenhamhotspur.com, as well as WHSmith, Amazon , Tesco, Waterstones and Play). 

You can become a Facebook fan of Spurs’ Cult Heroes and AANP here, follow on Twitter here

Well ‘Arry reckons everything is tickety-boo in the Tottenham camp after the Sunday afternoon nightmare. No-one tired, no-one too depressed - just one big, happy, upbeat family. Marvellous. Here at AANP Towers we have been moping around with the air of those who have just had the will to live sucked from their being. Admittedly ‘Arry can hardly pitch up to the press and declare that the whole lot of them are weeping into their bovril and marching the corridors of White Hart Lane waving placards proclaiming “We’re Doomed”.

Whatever their mental and physical conditions after Sunday, the players have no option but to dust themselves down and try again tonight. Pushing aside all the mindless fluff and clichés about this being the perfect game to play on the back of the Portsmouth defeat, what exactly are the reasons to be cheerful?

No Deep-Lying Opposition – Huzzah!

If l’Arse stuck nine men behind the ball, held a line just inside their own area and spent the evening crowding out our lot every time they approached, I would weep tears of blood. Praise to the heavens then, for opponents like l’Arse, who will instead attempt to scythe through us with lightning-quick one-touch football, thereby sparing us the anguish of a 90 minutes spent camped in the opposition area without rippling the onion bag.

Moreover, with l’Arse defending relatively high up the pitch, our Welsh Messiah will have plenty of space behind them into which to gallop. Could make for interesting viewing – the handsome young Welshman is odds-on to be our most creative outlet once again.

No Fabregas – Huzzah!

AANP is notoriously bad at scouting opponents. Whenever I watch Spurs I tend to lump every opponent together as They Who Must Be Vanquished, and if a chum should remark that the opposition number 16 (or whomever) had a good game, I will present a face the very picture of blankness. Amongst the few exceptions to this bizarre blinkeredness are Messrs Scholes, Gerrard, Cahill and Fabregas (although this selection may have something to do with the fact that they typically come up against Jenas).  The point of this slightly tangential ramble is that AANP fears Fabregas, and rejoices in his absence. (The absences of Song and Gallas are also bonuses.)

Floodlights – Huzzah!

White Hart Lane by night might be a little eerie most nights of the week, but come match-night, with the floodlights on, the place crackles with atmosphere. If you’ve read this far the chances are that you too love floodlit nights at the Lane, and with that ‘orrible lot from down the road ambling onto our patch tonight we in the stands have the chance to scare the bejeesus out of them before the game even begins. The packed train on the way to the stadium; the booing of Sol’s name when it’s announced over the tannoy; the Star Wars theme as the players march out; and the cacophony of noise as the game kicks off – money cannot buy that sort of atmosphere. Our lot would have to live on different planets not to receive an adrenaline shot from these evening kick-offs.

So this may yet be a night to rival 5-1, or indeed the original St Hotspur’s Day, 19 years ago today. However…

Midfield Worries

I recall feeling mightily peeved at the injustice of it all when, at the very end of Carlito’s Way, having steered clear of all manner of unsavoury types and approaching gunmen, in just about the last scene of the film and within spitting distance of freedom, Al Pacino is gunned down by Billy Blanco from the Bronx. Similarly unjust was the Sergeant Wilson saga - having gone a good eight or nine games knowing that one more yellow card would see him banned, to pick up a caution in the dying moments of the semi-final – and unjustly too – was cruel in the extreme.

Personal injustice aside, it leaves us with a distinctly less menacing look to the midfield. The Hudd was miles off the pace on Sunday, and rarely rises to the occasion against the big boys. Kaboul – or even Ledley – might yet be given the holding role in midfield. Sometimes we can get away with the absence of Palacios in midfield (the league game against Pompey a couple of weeks ago being a case in point). A league game against l’Arse is not one such occasion. The AANP prayer mat has been rolled out and dusted down.

Other Team News

The target of much vitriol following Sunday’s defeat, evidence continues to mount in favour of Crouch’s use as an impact substitute only, and it would be surprising if he were retained in tonight’s starting line-up. Niko Kranjcar is the latest to join the queue for a band-aid, while Lennon has suffered a mysterious “setback” in his rehabilitation.

For various reasons, this should be a completely different kettle of fish from Sunday’s game – but as on Sunday, defeat is unthinkable. As on Sunday it is time to stand up and be counted. The spirit of Gazza and Lineker ’91 would do nicely.

Gary Mabbutt will be signing copies of AANP book Spurs’ Cult Heroes for the masses on the following dates:
Waterstones Stevenage - Saturday 24 April, 12 noon;
Waterstones Walthamstow - Saturday 8 May, 1pm

Spurs’ Cult Heroes, is now available in the Spurs shop, all good bookshops and online (at Tottenhamhotspur.com, as well as WHSmith, Amazon , Tesco, Waterstones and Play). 

You can become a Facebook fan of Spurs’ Cult Heroes and AANP here, follow on Twitter here

”There would be something quintessentially Spurs about doing all the hard work and then gifting away the game on a plate, through one moment of madness.”

-AANP, yesterday

And sure enough…

It’s easy to forget that honours were fairly even in the early stages, as misplaced pass was matched by misplaced pass in a midfield absolutely jam-packed with bodies. While presumably not much of a spectacle to the neutral, we at least appeared relatively well organised. When called upon Gomes made a save that seemed to defy belief (it was suggested by one esteemed chum that Cudicini would not even have bothered trying to save it). It was not setting the world alight, but the game-plan was working.

Thereafter however, all the worst elements of Tottenham Hotspur FC came to the fore. Once upon a time a balding, ginger loon patrolled our defence, permanently liable to produce something like an over-the-shoulder-volleyed-own-goal without warning; and yesterday was like revisiting the days of Gross, Francis and Gary Doherty, as madness infected half a dozen in lilywhite, each of whom could barely wait to give the self-destruct button a good old thump.

Schoolboy defending? Complete absence of off-the-ball movement? Early resort to the long-ball? Lack of passion, effort, fight? Truly, this was the Tottenham of old.

Schoolboy Defending

First goal: Eminently preventable. Sloppy defending in allowing the cross; Ledley of all people was second best when it arrived; and a touch disappointing for Gomes to be beaten on his near post.

Second goal: Where to start? Plain careless from Sergeant Wilson, while Hudd ought to be subjected to a public thrashing for simply chickening out of a challenge. And Ledley, Ledley, Ledley. Flying in was reckless at best, with further errors compounding an unusually shoddy display. I suppose in ten years he’s entitled to one bad game. Credit to Fabregas for taking it well, but no team with top-four aspirations ought to just melt away like that in the face of a one-man attack.

Third goal: Oh for goodness’ sake…

There could have easily have been others too, Gomes saving twice from Eduardo, as our back-four dubiously experimented with the world’s most ramshackle offside trap.

Complete Lack of Off-The-Ball Movement

Yes, the midfield was congested, and yes, the priority in the early stages was safety-first; but these factors do not prevent movement off the ball. Not for the first time in recent weeks, it was pass and move without the move. I suspect some of them are still rooted to their positions on the Emirates turf even now.

We had plenty of possession, but whichever of our players found the ball at his feet would be offered precious few options, and as a result we were treated to the unholy sight of…

Early Resort To The Long-Ball

Plan B became Plan A far too early. By Jove I miss Luka Modric.

Lack of Passion, Effort, Fight

The body-language was utterly defeatist after the third goal. While 3-0 represents a mountain, two quick goals can hardly be described as beyond the realms of probability, and would have swung things right back our way. ’Arry curiously seemed to remain in his seat, rather than prowling the technical area and giving the players some food for thought – although as I watched on TV I may be doing him a disservice here. It did appear as if he had resigned himself to defeat pretty blinking early, and the players seemed to take their cue from him.

Moreover, if you don’t mind me banging a far older drum, these guys are paid shed-loads for their 90 minutes of work once or twice a week, so I demand to see them bust a gut each time they play, no matter what the score.

Patience Runs Out For Tow of AANP’s Favourite Sons

For what it’s worth, yesterday was also the straw that broke this camel’s back. The last vestige of patience has snapped at AANP Towers.

Jenas at least worked hard, but all the effort in the world does not mask the guy’s limitations as a central midfielder. And I can’t even be bothered to find a nice polite euphemism to describe Hudd’s performance. These two are simply not good enough if we want to challenge the top four (I suspect many will be tempted to tar the Barba-less Keane with this brush too). If we want to make the top six, beating the average Premiership fare en route, these chaps will do the job just fine. Our fixture-list in the coming months suggests presents a stretch of winnable games, and I suspect that Jenas and Hudd will trot out some decent performances in that time.

However, against Man Utd, Chelski and l’Arse they are not good enough. As long as they remain our first choices in central midfield, we will remain second-best against these teams.

Perspective

Nothing beats a good diatribe, and one league win in six sounds bad, but when the dust settles it is worth remembering that the situation is far from critical. Recent weeks perhaps prove that we remain a work in progress, but we nevertheless retain a realistic chance of finishing in the top four. This is a marked improvement on previous seasons, and is something for which we’d have settled back in August. We may be a level below the top three, but I fancy our chances against the rest. Liverpool continue to stumble, and imminent games against Man City and Villa are crucial, while the returns of Defoe, Lennon and above all Modric will make a world of difference.

As ever, all are most welcome to leave memories - and browse those of others - regarding some of the players to be featured in forthcoming book Spurs’ Cult Heroes: Dave Mackay here, Cliff Jones here, Glenn Hoddle here, Chris Waddle here, Ossie and Ricky here, Gary Mabbutt here, Graham Roberts here, Jimmy Greaves here, Clive Allen here, Jurgen Klinsmann here

You can become a Facebook fan of Spurs’ Cult Heroes and AANP here, or follow on Twitter here

Normally the points in this fixture are rather an irrelevance, but this time there is more at stake than just bragging rights. The sides go into the game separated only by goal difference, and the three points up for grabs could prove crucial come May. Ultimately, league position is the gauge, and this season for a change we have a realistic chance of finishing above l’Arse. Our squad is much improved, a degree of consistency has been added and player for player there isn’t much to choose between the two teams, even in the absence of our pint-sized attacking triumverate. Plus, unlike the last time we challenged them, Paul Stalteri is now nowhere near the squad. Irrespective of the result tomorrow, the gap has narrowed and come the end of the season we could well finish higher than them.

I earnestly suggested all this to my l’Arse-supporting colleague at lunch today, and while he nodded politely enough he could not disguise a smirk. Which speaks volumes.

The Good News

The good news is that Ledley is back. “Good news” is an understatement, for these are almost certainly the three greatest words in the English language.

Woodgate may be available; Crouch – threatening a robot celebration if he does the business tomorrow - has a hat-trick to his name against l’Arse, in his previous incarnation as a scouser; while Bentley must have gazed at his reflection in the White Hart Lane mirrors even more adoringly than usual after his excellent performance as Lennon’s deputy on Tuesday, against Everton. Full-strength we may not be, but strong nevertheless.

The Usual Grumble

As ever, the grumblings of unease emanating from AANP Towers relate to our central midfield. ‘Arry will presumably have to pick one of Hudd and Jenas to partner Sergeant Wilson in midfield, with Hudd possibly the favourite, having been preferred last week. Prayers are fervently being offered around these parts that he uses this game as the springboard to unbounded amazingness. Rip-roaring displays of sensational passing are all very well when we’re two up against Premiership also-rans, but I struggle to recall him doing it in the biggest games. Now would be a corking time to right that wrong.

Curiously, for a man so uniquely capable of inspiring a thousand foul-mouthed tirades from his own fans, Jenas has a rather impressive pedigree against l’Arse. A couple of years back he scored a lovely last-minute equaliser at the Lane; and a year ago almost to the day he produced an absolute blinder at the death in the 4-4 game, the sort of goal about which pundits and fans alike would been raving all season if scored by anyone who wasn’t Jermaine Jenas.

I also recall, with some bewilderment, that there was a brief period under Wendy Ramos when Jenas grew his hair and became awesome. He genuinely looked like he had indeed stepped up a level, and his feats included the first goal in the 5-1 spanking of l’Arse. It proved the exception rather than the norm in his career, but provides some cause for optimism.

Things I’d Like To See on Saturday: Absence of Kamikaze

As mentioned above, player for player the two teams are tightly matched, by which rationale we do have a decent chance; yet I still shudder uncontrollably with an uneasy sense of foreboding. Pessimism is a cloak that fits rather snugly at AANP, and it is not especially difficult to envisage one of our number succumbing to a sudden kamikaze urge and doing something magnificently ill-advised.

My wish-list for this week therefore comprises things I don’t want to see happening. Like Sergeant Wilson picking up two reckless yellow cards. Or Robbie Keane having a penalty saved. Or Gomes dropping a clanger. There would be something quintessentially Spurs about doing all the hard work and then gifting away the game on a plate, through one moment of madness.

I was going to end with a little SWOT analysis of our opponents, but then I realised I don’t actually care about them. Instead, have another viewing of Bentley’s greatest moment in lilywhite.

As ever, all are most welcome to leave memories - and browse those of others - regarding some of the players to be featured in forthcoming book Spurs’ Cult Heroes: Dave Mackay here, Cliff Jones here, Glenn Hoddle here, Chris Waddle here, Ossie and Ricky here, Gary Mabbutt here, Graham Roberts here, Jimmy Greaves here, Clive Allen here, Jurgen Klinsmann here

You can become a Facebook fan of Spurs’ Cult Heroes and AANP here, or follow on Twitter here

Same old, same old. You’d think that after a couple of decades and probably the best part of a thousand games it would be a bit easier to stomach, but no, Spurs’ capacity to frustrate remains unparalleled. Yet again, come the final whistle I was left looking around for a small puppy or irritating child to throttle.

A usual gripe of mine is that we are playthings of the footballing gods, as flies to wanton boys and all that. Yesterday however, the footballing gods even took pity on us and gave us a couple of helping hands – disallowed goal for l’Arse which other refs might have permitted, Adebayor and his hammie, Eboue and his red card (nb Oh the hilarity of Eboue’s red! After the ostentatious embraces and words of comfort for Modric, when Eboue thought he’d got away with it, then to see him summoned back and sent packing – genius!). It really was set up for us on a plate. In fact, it was being spoon-fed to us. By half-time I had ventured from my private little pit of pessimism and was actually rather looking forward to the second half. The footballing gods, their work done, put their feet up to enjoy the spectacle. The gooners in the crowd, captured on tv, looked suitably morose. All was right with the world.

Sigh. One esteemed custodian of the interweb describes it as a kind of purgatory. Personally I see Tottenham as similar to women – intensely frustrating, with an adamant refusal to do things the simple way. A breed that seem to delight in complicating things solely in order to drive me to madness. And yet, I keep going back for more torture.

Despite the lack of cutting edge, it was not a bad display from us. In the early stages, of eleven vs eleven we seemed to be a bit sharper than they, the work-rate and team ethic an improvement upon much that has gone before this season. ‘Arry recently pointed to the attitude of Carlos Tevez as an example our players would do well to follow – of constantly harassing their man in possession, until this possession is eventually surrendered. At times yesterday, in patches, something akin to this could be seen from our lot, even as I pinched myself. Maybe it’s the start of a brave new era, and the arrival of a more determined mentality. Or maybe it’s just the perennial improved attitude for the game vs l’Arse, to be replaced next week with the usual lethargy.

Much of the credit for the high tempo of the early stages in particular must go to soon-to-be firm crowd favourite Wilson Palacios. For many this would have been our first good look at him, and, whisper it, he showed enough to suggest that he might be, you know, the one. The answer. If White Hart Lane is The Matrix, this guy could be our Keanu Reeves. Unless he goes off the boil like the second and third Matrix films. Anyway, either Palacios is possessed off rather extremely impressive energy levels, or he reads the game particularly well (maybe a generous dollop of both), as every time an Arse midfielder broke with the ball in the first half he seemed to be ready to greet him with snarl, foam at mouth, barrel chest and crunching tackle. He rather enjoys a foray forward too, and one gets the impression that he’ll be a lot more effective in the final third than do-do-do-Didier. I should probably also add a disclaimer that the screen on which I was watching was a little short on brightness and visibility, so it’s quite possible that every time Jenas did anything useful in the centre I automatically attributed it to Palacios.

However, as with Keanu in the early part of the film, Palacios still has room for improvement. The odd misplaced pass, and a typical piece of shambolic Tottenham marking from a corner that ought really to have seen Song score. Still, it’s only a matter of time before he becomes the complete midfielder, turns us into a top-four team and sees everything as little columns of green numbers.

Until the final minute we didn’t create a clear-cut chance, but prior to that Lennon, Modric, Keane and Pav all had opportunities which weren’t too far off. Credit to Taarabt for playing in Modric in the final minute, he weighted the pass well. And Modric, ah Modric. No-one misses on purpose, I suppose, but one of these days I really will throttle a puppy, and have some difficulty explaining it to the constabulary (“I know I’ve got a dead puppy in my hand, but it was the last minute, he was clean through…”)

nb – Many thanks to Lee, for the venue recommendation for yesterday’s game. Home from home.

A Spurs fan is p*ssed on, barely 24 hours before the Norf London derby. It’s an omen I tell ye. Cracks will appear in the sky, four apocalyptic jockeys will saddle up and all hell will break loose at the Lane today, so run for the hills, God help you all. I sneer in the face of those who suggest I’m overreacting to the fact that my four month-old nephew urinated on me as I held him yesterday.

And baby-related trauma is not the only portent of momentous significance to have emerged in the build-up to this one. All-action-no-plot etchings of Spurs cockerels have been mysteriously appearing across the sandy beaches of Perth. Alright, that’s not really so mysterious, given that I’m frequently to be found next to said etchings, with sand-encrusted finger. And while it may all be a bit tenuous, as the clock ticks down towards kick-off – and the search for a bar that will show the game out here in Oz becomes increasingly frantic* – I find myself preparing as if I’m in some way involved. Admittedly my preparations tend to comprise little more than retreat into a shell of pessimism, but it’s the same before every game, and exacerbated before a game against that lot. The fact remains that we fans do prepare, as if we can make a difference, even when on the side of the world. (Insert tedious comment about the contrasting attitude of the players around here).

Like anything I do will have the slightest bearing upon events at the Lane today. There’s some sort of mentalist theory that if a butterfly flaps its wings in London it causes a hurricane in South America. Personally I find that as believable as a profession of loyalty from a Premiership footballer, but nevertheless, the fact that I’ve been weed upon for the first time in my life, just a day before a North London derby – well, it must be some sort of prognostication of doom, no?

Possibly more relevant to the outcome of the game is the second debut of Robbie Keane. Penalty miss ’07 aside, he’s been something of a bête noire to the other lot, and the odds must be short on a roly-poly and badge-kiss celebration at some point today. For all the rights and wrongs of his departure and return I’m glad to have someone of his mentality in the team for a game like this. In other areas, headline-writers will be disappointed to note that ex-Gooner David Bentley will be viewing things from his beauty-parlour back home rather than the pitch, due to a one-game suspension; while lack of match-fitness may deprive l’Arse newbie Arshavin from crossing scimitars with national striking partner, but categorical non-friend, Roman Pav.

Should we triumph today, on the back of my urinary dousing, a new pre-match ritual may be born…

* = A more positive omen is that I might have found a place that’s showing the game live here in Subiaco, Perth, one of the sunniest, but least all-action places on earth. Fingers crossed.

Christmas approacheth. Lights are being lit in shopping centres, adverts are being aired on broadcasting stations and pundits are getting over-excited by the performance of Arsene Wenger’s latest crop of youngsters in the Carling Cup – all sure signs of the imminent commemoration of the birth of our Lord. So how good are l’Arse’s latest crop of young gunners? I’d better make clear right now – I haven’t seen them in action (I hate that lot, why would I see them?), so this isn’t really a debate about their quality. I caught the goals in their 3-0 win over Wigan, as I did their 6-0 win over Sheff Utd in the previous round. Well done, very pretty, not particularly impressed. Casting my mind back a few years, Arsene’s kids are regularly trotted out in domestic cup competitions, invariably destroying lesser-rate opponents, but they came a cropper (4-0) vs Man Utd in the FA Cup, and were rather gloriously destroyed 5-1 by my lot in the Carling Cup. Furthermore, lest anyone has forgotten, the 6-0 demolition of Sheff Utd earlier this season was promptly followed by a defeat at home to Hull, or someone similarly nondescript, three days later.

However, there are many (not least the whinger-in-chief himself) who insist that this year’s crop really is something special. I suspect that that Vela character is indeed a bit of a talent, as he’s had the odd cameo in the Premiership, with some degree of success. I’ve also heard particularly good things about Wilshere, and as he is an Englishman with a left foot, there is a sense in which I temper my innate hatred of l’Arse, and watch his career with interest. There may well be a couple of others who make it at the other lot, one or two who go on to the international stage. On the whole however, I’m happy to laugh cynically in the face of all those bleating about what a golden generation this is. Yes, admittedly a sizeable proportion of such guffawing can be attributed to my white-hot anti-l’arse bias - I can admit that my perspective on the red half of north London might occasionally be influenced by two decades of bile and hatred.

However, more broadly, it seems to be a footballing fact, quite possibly supported by the law of averages, that of the plethora of teenagers who debut amidst a blaze of optimistic publicity at a given club, only one or two, if any, go on to establish themselves at that club or a better one. Inevitably, the media fanfare which accompanies the entrance of said youths onto the scene includes the phrases “precocious”, “wonder-kid” and “the boy’s got a big future ahead of him”. But look more closely, my action-indulging chum, and you shall see also phrases synonymous with “shows great potential”, “one for the future” “destined for great things”. And there’s the rub. It’s not sufficient for these whippersnappers simply to break into the first team at 16 or 17. Andy Turner did that at Spurs. (To answer your question – exactly). They need not only to make an instant impact, they need then to progress and improve. Fabregas did it. Rooney did it (although some even dare to question whether, really, he has improved that much, the heretics). But for every Fabregas who made it at 16, nailed his place in the team and carried on improving, there are a bucketload who had their 15 mins of under-age precocity and disappeared into the footballing equivalent of that flat glass thing which whisked away the baddies in Superman II. If a player is at the same level at 22 as he was at 16, or even the same at 26 as he was at 21, he’s not really going to make it. I’m thinking of Caskey, Turner, Austin, Edinburgh, Marney, Gardner, Davies and Etherington - all apparently “wonderkids” from Spurs teams gone by. I fear Lennon is going the same way, as is, less depressingly, Jamie “three-touch” O’Hara. They might make it as good honest pros, maybe even win a medal and a handful of international caps along their journeymen careers. But the hype surrounding Wenger’s latest hoarde of ear-studded, excessively-gelled and already cliché-spouting kids would have you believe that a fair number of them will rise to the very heights of the game. I make no attempt to disguise my scepticism.