Categories
Spurs match reports

Eintracht Frankfurt 0-1 Spurs: Four Tottenham Talking Points

AANP’s latest book ‘All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season’, is out now for just £7.99 from Amazon (ebook from £6.99) – while Spurs’ Cult Heroes is also still available

1. An Actually Impressive, Disciplined Performance

I have to admit that prior to kick-off, the AANP who surveyed the scene and weighed up the odds was not a genial and bonhomous soul. Think Macbeth in the latter stages, when he’s a bit down on life with one thing and another, and starts a gloomy solo about his despair, and you’re pretty much up to speed.

It was those rotten league showings that did it (ignoring the Southampton win on the grounds of pointless mismatch). That Wolves defeat in particular sapped the will to live, and even though these recent Europa jollies have shown a more sunny interpretation of things, it’s dashed hard simply to swat aside the woeful league performances when they stack up on all sides, popping up, as they do, every couple of days.

So when the curtain went up and the whistle sounded, I took my place with a sense of duty rather than the slightest hint of optimism. “If it were done when ‘tis done then best get a wriggle on,” was the sentiment, continuing the Macbeth theme.

But lo, imagine if you will the AANP eyes gradually widening, as the outlook unfolded before me in increasingly upbeat fashion. Admittedly, that one early ball played straight over the top and down the middle, absolutely scything apart our defence, had an ominous quality to it, but that aside, for about 80 or so minutes this was as accomplished a defensive performance as I’d seen from our lot in the Postecoglou era.

It’s a low bar, admittedly. Historically, opponents have not exactly had to over-exert themselves to fashion chances against our heroes. Simply ambling up from halfway whenever the fancy takes them has generally proved sufficient. They may encounter some waving arms and stern looks from various retreating lilywhites, but nothing that will actually inconvenience them, let alone block their path. “Drop in whenever you like!” has generally been the rallying cry from the Tottenham defence.

Yesterday, however, events played out in pretty sharp contradistinction. For a start, our midfield three of Bentancur, Bergvall and Maddison seemed particularly attuned to the notion that intercepting passes in the midfield third would save a heck of a lot of trouble further down the line. Rather than simply watching short passes whizz about them, these three were on their toes and ready to spring into action, and as a result, transporting from Middle Third to Final Third wasn’t quite the procession that Frankfurt might have expected.

(As an aside, with these three evidently now the preferred midfield combo of Our Glorious Leader, I’m inclined to give them an approving nod. A pleasing balance, wouldn’t you say? What with Bentancur patrolling the rear; Bergvall either carrying the ball at a hot scurry or passing quickly; and Maddison – when the urge grabs – seeking out a creative pass.)

The key to the tightened defence, however, seemed to be Van de Ven. His presence, and specifically his pace, seemed to my uncouth eye to allow our lot to play a relatively high line for much of the game, rather than defending the edge of our own area, and also meant that midfield and defence were in close proximity. Having VDV in attendance also meant that when Udogie was gripped by the urge to motor forward, calamity did not immediately ensue if and when he lost possession.

In general, this seemed to be a day on which, mercifully enough, the entire back-four appreciated the merits of wearing proudly their defensive hats, rather than seeing themselves as attacking sorts whose main remit was to do exciting things in possession.

Another pretty critical element was that the whole business of playing out from the back was quietly eased off the agenda until, by the business end of the second half we dealt almost exclusively in long kicks from Vicario. Whether or not it was by coincidence, for about 75 minutes I’m not sure Frankfurt were allowed a clean shot at goal.

The final 15 was a little fraught, and while I suppose it could have gone horribly wrong, on balance of play and chances made over the two legs, our lot seemed jolly good value for the win. Not only was the defence oddly compact, but we still managed to pose enough threat to have Frankfurt scrambling – and without the need for any suicidal pouring forward of every man in lilywhite. Attackers attacked, defenders defended and in general the balance was pretty solid.

2. Romero

Van de Ven’s mere presence might have instilled some much-needed calm about the defence, but by golly Romero alongside him picked a smashing time to deliver one of his better performances.

Much like his midfield chums, his reading of things was good enough to enable multiple timely interceptions, and whenever that Ekitike chap unveiled his dancing feet and started sniffing out a shooting opportunity, Romero was on him like Mary’s little lamb, close enough to whisper sweet nothings in his ear, whilst avoiding what was presumably, given the Argentine’s history, an almighty urge to kick a few lumps out of him.

Indeed, even when Romero did break ranks and stride up the pitch, he had the good sense to stay on his feet rather than go lunging in. In a moment of realisation so unlikely it made me feel quite dizzy, it dawned on. Me in the second half that Romero’s side of the defence was pretty much under lock and key.

In possession he was his usual eager self, happy to look for passes of a more progressive ilk when he deemed the occasion appropriate. Indeed, it was his flighted pass that resulted in Maddison having his head knocked off and our lot winning the penalty. However, as mentioned earlier, it was also a relief to see the realisation dawn upon the chap that he was there primarily to defend, and this he did almost flawlessly throughout.

I say ‘almost flawlessly’, because in the final knockings he could not really help himself, after a good 90 minutes of discipline. Some pent-up mindlessness eventually came flowing out when he went flying out of position and into a sliding challenge, that left his opponent spiralling off into the air, earned him a yellow and conceded an unnecessary free-kick in a dangerous spot. I understand that to err is human, but to abandon one’s senses and go hunting for blood seems a mite excessive. Romero ought to have known better; but by and large this was a humdinger of a performance from him.

3. A Quick Word on Maddison

There were cracking performances all round, in truth. Tel offered a threat throughout, and while he never actually delivered on it, one got the impression that the Frankfurt coves tasked with minding him did so with considerable caution. Brennan Johnson famously doesn’t really offer a great deal in possession, but for the second consecutive game he actually produced a spot of end-product to go with his pace, picking out a decent first half cross that Tel duly scuppered. Porro and Udogie found a pretty useful balance between defence and the occasional foray forward. Solanke only stopped running in order to pause before that expertly-despatched penalty. Kulusevski frankly did not look fit, but still gave a few pleasing reminders of how happy he is to assert a spot of upper bodyweight when the situation demands.

Maddison beavered away, in slightly peripheral fashion at times, not necessarily cutting to ribbons the Frankfurt back-line but not shirking the challenge either. However, where he really earned his corn was in that penalty incident, when, as alluded to, the goalkeeper well and truly mangled his timing, and rather mangled Maddison’s frame in so-doing.

Replays suggest that Maddison had enough of a peek, while the ball was airborne, to be fully up-to-date with current affairs, and well apprised of the circumstance that a great oak of a man was rapidly approaching from the north, to flatten him. And where some – and I name no names, but hint at our club captain – have regularly been spotted ducking out of any challenges with a hint of rough-and-tumble about them, Maddison was undeterred.

Having hatched a plan to deliver a pretty subtle header past the onrushing goalkeeper, he executed the first part as far as he was able, and for his troubles appeared to have every functioning part of him snapped in two. Little wonder that he wobbled off shortly after, but he earned the penalty, and frankly kept our season alive. If we do raise the shiny pot come late-May, look carefully and you’ll spot AANP giving him an understated but meaningful salute of appreciation.

4. Why The Hell Can’t We Play Like This Every Game, Eh?

Not wanting to take the sheen off things, but it was a sentiment that kept repeating in my mind as I watched last night unfold with ever-growing admiration.

I appreciate the mentality of wrapping VDV in cotton wool in between Europa dates, he being so critical to the whole operation, and without him the apparatus is arranged rather differently. Nevertheless, even sans VDV, approaching each league game with yesterday’s level of discipline and determination could not conceivably do anything other than bring about better league results. Wolves would not have stood a chance if we had unleashed last night’s fare upon them.

One would, of course, settle for winning the trophy – one would trade lesser-used limbs for it, in truth – but the nagging thought remains that we would be a dashed sight better off (and Ange a lot more secure in his post) if we mustered this level of performance every week.

Still, hats off to the lot of them. This was jolly impressive muck.

If you fancy a spot of Good Friday non-league football, AANP’s regular stint behind the mic takes in a relegation six-pointer at 3pm, between Enfield Town and St Albans City in the Vanarama National League South – feel free to listen in on https://mjl99.mixlr.com/

Categories
Spurs match reports

Wolves 4-2 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

AANP’s latest book ‘All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season’, is out now for just £7.99 from Amazon (ebook from £6.99) – while Spurs’ Cult Heroes is also still available

1. How Much Longer?

The game, it would appear, is almost up. One never really knows with Grandmaster Levy, but it does not take a great leap of the imagination to imagine him now preparing some words of thanks and making arrangements with the media team, because short of a miracle that would make Lazarus blush The Postecoglou Era is seemingly coming to its natural end.

Put simply, you cannot go about the place stuffing up literally every engagement and expect to skip away gaily at the end of it all without any consequences. Stuffing up once in a while, you may get away with. Even stuffing up a couple of times consecutively could conceivably be excused, in a “Such-things-happen-dear-boy” sort of way. And depending on circumstances one could maybe point to a sizeable heap of the temporarily crippled, or a dominant display somehow ending in a head-scratching 1-0 defeat.

But when the collective trots out under your watch week after week, and simply ambles through the motions with the sullen reluctance of schoolboys being dragged about the place against their will, you really have to sit down in a quiet room with the man in charge, and ask in no uncertain terms what the devil he is doing. Or what the devil he is not doing, if you want to hit the nail on the head particularly cleverly.

Both performances and results have been of undiluted rot for an absolute age now, and while the players ought to hang their heads in shame, AANP is the sort who considers that the general attitude about a place starts with the fellow in charge. And Postecoglou seems utterly unable to get a tune out of his troops at present.

In some respects, of course, one sympathises. All four goals yesterday were the result of what one might call Individual Human Error, and one can only imagine the fruity Anglo-Saxon that would have escaped the Postecoglou lips as he watched Vicario and Romero and Bergvall bungle activities quite so spectacularly.

After all, when a man is down and in need of the troops to rally around and dig in for him, the last thing he wants is for those same troops to absent-mindedly point their weapons at their own feet and, forgetting where they are, tug on the trigger as their minds drift elsewhere. Such fat-headedness does not really serve the agenda. In need of some respite, Our Glorious Leader was instead treated to the sight of three of his most trusted lieutenants presenting gift-wrapped goals to the other lot, so he couldhave been excused the weary sigh.

Even in these circumstances, however, ultimately one can direct a stern look towards the leader of the pack, because the complacent, sloppy nature of yesterday’s mishaps leaves the whiff of a culture in which mistakes are shrugged off without too much recrimination. And if that’s the message being peddled by the Big Cheese, then it’s little wonder our heroes fail to rouse themselves to any great – or even middling – heights week after week.

Another huge frustration from afar is that just a few days ago our heroes demonstrated that when the urge grips them they are still fully capable of donning their Sunday best and belting out something decent. The draw against Frankfurt might not exactly have been a performance for the ages, but churn out that sort of produce every game and I imagine sentiment would turn back in Ange’s favour.

The win against Alkmaar a few weeks ago was of similar ilk, and where you might think that the fact that our lot can turn up the dials on certain, special occasions might soothe the aggravated soul, it in fact does quite the opposite, at least to this particular Tottenham-watcher. Seeing the crew-members unveil a bit of sparkle on Thursday nights in Europe simply pours petrol over the flames the following Sunday in the Premier League, when they make the collective decision to keep their A-games firmly under lock and key, and instead treat the whole 90-minute binge as one giant inconvenience.

All that said, there is still a pretty straightforward way for Our Glorious Leader to wriggle his way back into the good books. I’m not entirely convinced that even winning the Europa would do the trick at this stage, if League performances continue to freefall – but if he can cajole, bribe or in some other way convince the players to start playing like their lives depend on it in every game, it would be a jolly good start. Playing well and, ideally, winning on a weekly basis would, I fancy, do wonders. Goodwill may well have drained from most Spurs fans, but at this stage I simply want to trot up and enjoy the show.

As an interesting aside, for those amongst us who enjoy a statistical quirk, Postecoglou’s record at this stage (90 games, apparently) is superior to those of Messrs Burkinshaw and Venables. So all is not necessarily lost, but when both results and performances are this poor for this long, it is difficult to defend the chap; and conversely, an upturn in both would give at least some reason to persist.

2. Vicario

Part of the problem with being a goalkeeper, of course, is that when you make a fig of things, the consequence is rather severe. Whereas if Solanke, for example delivers a duff pass, or Ben Davies clatters his man, those nearby generally have an opportunity to regroup and correct things, and the error can generally be wiped from memory.

Not so the goalkeeper. Misplace a short pass when you’ve got 1 on your back, and the chances are you’ll be picking the ball out of the net within about 5 seconds, with various cameras zooming in on your features and replaying the moment from all angles, just to stick the knife in. So when Vicario had one of those days on which he randomly fixated on all the worst possible options, we paid for it rather dearly.

I actually thought all the criticism flung his way for that punch in the first minute was a bit thick. It was not the best punch, I agree. His conviction and aggression levels could certainly have been topped up. But neither was it the worst in the world – he at least made contact ahead of those around him, and shovelled it to the edge of the penalty area, which seems the minimum requirement in these situations.

If anything I was rather irritated that none of those around him thought to loiter on the edge of the area, in anticipation of precisely such an under-nourished clearance.

That said, I did not have any sympathy with Vicario for then bleating away about being hindered in the act of goalkeeping. If there were opponents in his way and jostling him – well, why shouldn’t they? That sort of give-and-take is all part of the bargain, and rather than chasing after the referee once the ball has flown past him, I’d rather he directed his energies towards blitzing everything in his path and dashed well making sure that the six-yard box is his domain and nobody else will get a sniff.

However, as evidenced by that ghastly second goal, the business of blitzing everything in his p. and making the six-yard box his d. is pretty foreign territory to Vicario.

Now admittedly the cross for that second goal caught a deflection and took on board a sizeable slice of spin. If I were addressing a distressed three year-old who had failed to gather in cleanly a heavily spinning ball, I might toss them a sweet and suggest they do not dwell on the incident.

Vicario, however, is an experienced, international goalkeeper. As such, I will not be tossing him a sweet for his efforts on that second goal. I have a good mind instead to pelt him with rotten fruit. His hesitation and general flapping was close to a sackable offence for a man paid a tidy sum to, essentially, catch a ball.

Sandwiched in between these was yet another of Vicario’s mind-boggling errors with ball at feet. Of course, AANP has long despaired of the business of passing out from the back, but it is here to stay so I can but suffer in silence on that one – as sure as night follows day, we insist on passing out from the back.

Normally the problems emerge when the ball reaches our defenders and they duly tie themselves up in knots; but on this occasion Vicario simplified things by removing defenders from the equation and simply passing the ball straight to the Wolves lot inside our own area. That they did not score says much about their finishing, but Vicario should hang his head in shame, and meanwhile AANP yearns for the day when goalkeepers simply return to blasting the ball up to halfway and letting everyone scrap it out from there.

3. Our Defending

Not that the errors yesterday were Vicario’s and Vicario’s alone. As mentioned, that second goal was immediately preceded by a cross from the left deflecting upwards and with a fair amount of spin, so an element of challenge was undoubtedly introduced.

For clarity, however, having been deflected upwards and received its generous helping of spin, the ball had not morphed into a bomb, mid-flight. It was still just a football, and any bright spark in Tottenham sky blue landing upon the bright idea of clearing it with a spot of heft as it fell back down to earth would have received no unpleasant surprises.

Such a course of action, however, was far beyond our lot. Ben Davies opted to stop and play for offside, a decision that Djed Spence, behind him, was having no part of. The result was that the Wolves chappie whom Davies had a moment earlier been monitoring was now free to stroll in unfettered fashion right up to our six-yard box, to have a poke around and see what mischief he might get into.

This was the genesis of the problem really, because while the forward rather pickled his header, his mere presence unnerved Vicario considerably, prompting his flap. Of Davies, however, there was no sign. He only re-emerged on the scene once the damage was done and the ball in the net, to appeal with some gusto for an offside flag, which rather put the seal on his ignominy.

There then followed, for the third Wolves goal, the most peculiar error from Romero. Seemingly in full control of things, with the ball under his stewardship and not too much danger in the atmosphere, Romero picked one heck of a moment to begin daydreaming and completely forget where he was and what he was doing. Despite staring straight at the ball, he seemed suddenly seized by the urge to take a few steps off in a different direction.

Well, one could have advised him beforehand that that would be a dubious move, and so it proved. Whichever Wolve it was stationed on his shoulder could not believe his luck, and scooped up the ball to take towards goal, leaving our World Cup-winning centre-back looking suspiciously like he was possessed of two left feet.

Depressingly, even the mighty Bergvall joined in with this lunacy in the later stages, attempting to cart the ball out of defence and instead pushing it obligingly to the opposition forwards. He at least can draw upon a whole stack of good deeds faithfully carried out this season – the most recent of which came five minutes after his arrival yesterday, with his forward burst for our first goal.

The rest of them, however, ought to blush in shame and go without food and water for a few days by way of penance. It’s hard enough for us when our midfield offers so little protection, but when the defenders and goalkeeper dance about the place with little clear concept of the basics of the role, one rather hangs the head and wonders what’s the point.

For what it’s worth, yesterday’s positives included a sprightly first half from Maddison; that rarest of sightings from the size nines of Brennan Johnson, in the form of a pretty decent cross; and a return to the pitch of Kulusevski, which suggests he will be involved in at least a temporary capacity on Thursday.

Really, however, this was yet another round of muck, from which neither players nor manager emerge with the slightest credit.

Categories
Spurs match reports

Spurs 1-1 Frankfurt: Two Tottenham Talking Points

AANP’s latest book ‘All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season’, is out now for just £7.99 from Amazon (ebook from £6.99) – while Spurs’ Cult Heroes is also still available

1. It’s The Hope That Kills

Now you can call AANP a grumpy, pessimistic, cynical, long-suffering Spurs fan who will always find the cloud to any silver lining and whose default mode is to expect it all to end in disaster – and you wouldn’t be the first – but when that Ekitike lad popped home his goal like he was shelling peas, the slump with which I descended into my seat was a pretty defeatist one. ‘This won’t be pretty’, was, if I recall correctly, the specific line I muttered, before mentally calculating how far ahead Ajax went before Lucas Moura went into overdrive.

It was a pretty rancid sort of goal to concede too. I don’t suppose I’ll ever sit here and note that we’ve conceded a joyous goal, but one could probably freeze-frame various different constituent parts of this one, and shoot a few pointed looks at a few specific personnel as the woeful saga unfolded.

Maddison straightforwardly losing possession in midfield was a bad start, and a slap on the wrist is administered accordingly, but if you were to suggest that this and this alone brought about the goal I’d suggest you go back and study the history books a little longer, because between Maddison’s gaffe and the ball hitting the net, a fair amount of detritus was crammed in.

For a start, Porro hit upon the bright idea of allowing one of the brightest young talents in Europe, and the designated Frankfurt danger man, to tootle onto his vaunted right foot rather than showing him down line on his left. P.P fans would no doubt wave an indignant fist and point to the fact that thereafter he did not allow Ekitike a sniff on his right, and correct they would be – but ought it really have taken a goal to alert our man to this danger? Ought he not to have been fully tuned in to the threat a few days earlier when preparing for the match?

A muttered oath or two also flew in the directions of Bentancur and Bergvall for failing to rush out and close down that Ekitike pest; and if you play back the footage you’ll note Romero dangling the world’s least committed foot in the vaguest direction of the shot, an attempted block so half-hearted it barely merited the name.

As mentioned, at that stage one felt obliged to watch out of a sense of duty rather than anything else. What followed, however, put the spark right back into things.

It wasn’t so much the result, you understand (which, if anything, felt like an opportunity missed), or the mind-boggling nature of Porro’s goal, but rather the performance. If the first half was a pretty spirited illustration of tapping UEFA on the shoulder to demand that our name not be crossed off the guestlist just yet, the second half randomly produced some of our best football in months. A low bar, admittedly, but by any metric, that second half was wholesome fare.

The five-minute salvo early on, in which Bergvall, Son, Bentancur and Maddison took turns at peppering the goal, set a pleasingly upbeat tone, and in a turn of events that would have had even the most optimistic amongst us squinting in disbelief, our heroes generally kept up the pressure throughout the half, almost as if the message had penetrated even the thickest of skulls that this was a matter of considerable urgency.

Nor was it one of those gung-ho-to-the-point-of-suicidal knockings, in which every fit and available member bombs as high up the pitch as possible and we are left repeatedly and desperately outnumbered every time possession is lost.

Admittedly there was precisely one such moment right at the end of the first half, in which we were left 2 vs 4 at the back (and when Pedro Porro is the only one with the good sense to hang back cautiously you know that the rest have blundered pretty spectacularly), but otherwise, even when Frankfurt did counter, there was not quite the usual sense of gloomy inevitability about things.

Most pleasing to the AANP eye was the general sense of urgency. Both in possession (in terms of shuttling the ball quickly and movement of the ball), and out of possession. It might not have been perfect but one got the impression that all involved were treating this as a bit of an event. It was a far cry from pretty much every Premier League game of the past six months, in which the overall attitude has been of one, giant, collective shrug.

Well of course, having done the hard work of convincing the cast members that this was one for which it was well worth shedding every available bead of sweat, and creating a solid collection of presentable chances, the disappointment was that we didn’t carve out a win. A 3-1 lead would have given a bit of breathing space, and 2-1 would at least have felt like a challenge officially presented.

Level-pegging, however, is far from ideal. One assumes that the atmosphere in Germany will be ramped up considerably, and if our heroes have demonstrated anything in recent months it is that they possess the sort of soft underbelly that can cause them all to wilt under pressure and surrender meekly.

Chances, one assumes, will be a dashed sight harder to come by in Germany than in the sunny environs of N17. If we were going to stock up on goals in this tie, last night was the time to have done it.

2. The Midfield Triumverate

Not a moment too soon, each one of the midfield three stumbled upon the bright idea of showcasing the very finest they had to offer.

Of course, one expects nothing less of Bergvall these days – an observation that is simultaneously both joyous and rather crushing. On the one hand, marvellous stuff. That this young pup of a lad can stick out his chest and motor about the place from opening to closing credits is ripping stuff. Even if he never progresses another jot in his career, he’ll have already proven himself a key cog. That second half salvo only gained its head of steam once Bergvall have muttered ‘Enough of these preliminaries’, and burst at their defence to hit the post.

And it’s all rather crushing because it doesn’t really say much about the more experienced luminaries around him that we’re relying on this fresh-faced teen to roll up his sleeves and inspire those around him.

Such a sentiment is probably a little harsh on Maddison and Bentancur, however, both of whom I thought were close to the peak of their powers.

Maddison has repeatedly frustrated this season. No shortage of willing there, but I suppose one might politely say he’s been prone to dithering a little too long in possession and then making a few passive decisions.

Last night, though, he evidently decided that what the place was needed was energy, creativity and an intrepid sort stationed pretty centrally to chivvy things along at a rapid lick. Having admittedly played his own sorry part in the goal conceded, thereafter he set about doing his damnedest to get the operation back on track.

His role in our goal will presumably make the headlines, but I was encouraged by the fact that that dart into the area and smart use of the ball was the norm rather than the exception. I was actually a mite surprised he was hooked off with ten or fifteen left, but folk will do such things I suppose.

And further south, Bentancur was pretty diligent. Tasked largely with filling in when Romero, Porro and chums took it upon themselves to break ranks and gallop forward, his was a performance full of knowing nods and well-judged looks over his shoulder. If a gap needed covering, Bentancur tended to spot the need in good time and make suitable arrangements accordingly. (Credit also here to Bergvall, particularly for one second half interception when Frankfurt seemed to have picked their way to shooting range.)

Bentancur was very nearly the hero of the hour too, being a handy sort of nib to have around the place at corners and free-kicks and the like. I suppose one doesn’t win any awards for hitting the woodwork, so one is reluctant to shower too much praise upon the man for near-misses, but it was handy to have him posing that threat.

In the absence of Kulusevski (who may well end up back on the right anyway), this felt like the first time in bally ages that we actually had a midfield capable of operating smoothly as a unit. That unit-operating will need to go into overdrive in the return leg next week if the season is not to fizzle out.

Categories
Spurs match reports

Spurs 3-1 Southampton: Four Tottenham Talking Points

AANP’s new book ‘All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season’, is out now for just £7.99 from Amazon (ebook from £6.99)

1. The Caveat

I vaguely recall that my valedictory note after the Chelsea defeat was along the lines that results would be the ultimate currency deciding the fate of Our Glorious Leader. Given that sentiment, you might have expected to find AANP engaging in rhythmic dances of celebration once the whistle brought an end to proceedings yesterday afternoon. After all, if one can tuck their bat under their arm and march off to the pavilion with ‘3-1’ against their name in the scorebook, the masses will pretty likely buy into it sooner or later.

Enter, however, The Caveat. A thankless line of work, caveating, adding as it does a layer of bureaucracy and quite often sucking the joy out of life while it’s there. And bang on cue, any revels can be pretty abruptly interrupted by the pointed reminder that this Southampton team barely knew in which direction to point.

I suppose we Spurs sorts ought not to take too much for granted, bearing in mind that no so long ago our heroes were making an almighty pickle of things against Tamworth for goodness sake – but nevertheless, anyone suggesting that one home win against Southampton represents a corner turned and a new beginning might want to consider a lie-down in a darkened room with just a choice bourbon for company.

So it’s generous pinches of salt all round, and the words ‘Don’t Get Too Carried Away’ stamped everywhere in sizeable font.  With that cleared up, it was nevertheless a rather pleasant surprise to sail through the first half in a serene manner I’d forgotten could exist at HQ.

Admittedly, Eintracht Frankfurt are unlikely to quake in their boots when poring over the footage, but if opponents are simply going to melt into the background one would expect our lot to make a few bundles of hay, and the produce wheeled out was suitably satisfactory, at least in the first half.

Spence once again served notice of that most peculiar phenomenon, that he is secretly happier at left-back than right-. The midfield triumvirate (of Maddison, Bentancur and Bergvall) actually gave the impression of knowing what the hell they were supposed to do, which I suppose when spelt out like that in plain English might seem painfully obvious, but which nevertheless has seemed to confuse the living daylights out of every combo trialled in those positions on a bi-weekly basis for approximately the last six months.

Even Sonny, although once again giving a sharp reminder of his dwindling powers in the pace department (with that opportunity in the second half), was able to make merry in the more restrained way becoming of elder statesmen, by combining with Maddison and Spence on the left to construct little triangular overloads that, from my vantage point, appeared to make the brains explode of the Southampton patrol stationed in that area.

Having seen everything go so swimmingly in that first half, I rather foolishly settled in for the second with a lick of the lips and a gleeful rub of the hands, fully expecting our heroes to carry out their duties with the professionalism of a team focused on putting Southampton to the sword, and grinding them down with goal upon ruthless goal.

 Well I suppose any old blighter could have told me that that was a howler of the ripest order. After all, the heady days of our lot dishing out goal upon goal are long gone – and when I stop and think about it, the days of them carrying out duties with professionalism and focus never really began.

So instead, we were treated to the sort of meandering second half that was perfect for those amongst us who like to pull out hats over our eyes on a sunny Sunday afternoon, slump back in our seat and take in 40-odd minutes of Nature’s sweet restorer. Our lot went through the motions, Southampton did likewise and for about half an hour one could not shake the suspicion that both sides were only still out there because contractually obliged to be.

Southampton then seemed to renege on whatever gentleman’s agreement had been shaken on over the half-time brew, by nabbing a late goal, and threatening to eke out a draw that I suspect might have prompted a riot to spill out onto the High Road.

Mercifully, they could not shake that From-the-Championship-they-came-and-to-the-Championship-they-shalt-return stuff, and it all ended well enough. Even in victory, however, our lot showed in that second half what a distance they remain from being the sort of top-tier side that grinds into the dust inferior opponents.

2. Romero’s Headers

However, as mentioned, all concerned were at least pretty bobbish in that first half, so a tip of the hat, and the two goals were rather pleasing on the eye; but if there were standout moments that made me pinch myself and give the eyes an ever-so-slightly disbelieving rub, it was the sight of two attacking headers that seemed to have been lifted from a bygone age.

The eighties, specifically. One simply doesn’t see the diving header these days. One barely sees a bona fide cross any more in truth, the modern winger seemingly more concerned with checking back infield, and posting on social media, and unveiling new body art.

AANP’s first footballing memory was that Keith Houchen perpendicular leap in the ’87 Cup Final against our lot, and if I trawl the mental archives the most recent I can recall was from the bonce of Christian Eriksen of all people, at Old Trafford about 10 years ago.

No doubt the mists of time have done their thing there, and a few fleet-fingered taps on the keyboard will presumably reveal a whole slew of more recent diving headers; but as far as AANP is concerned, the diving header is a dying art, so when I see one I dashed well note the time and date, and start contacting friends and family to share the good news.

To be dished up one of these morsels, therefore, I regarded as something of an event; to witness two within about 20 minutes of each other had me clutching at the nearest steadying object, and questioning the lucidity of my own senses.

The first came after around 10 minutes, from a Porro corner, which at first glance had little to recommend it beyond most other corners Porro takes. A bit of height, various elbows and whatnot, and ultimately the ball squirting off towards the sidelines in anti-climactic fashion – this was pretty much the size and shape of what I was expecting. And even when Porro’s delivery winged its way to the edge of the 6-yard box, earning a little salute of commendation from this onlooker, I would hardly have expected a moment for the annals to follow.

But Romero, in his infinite wisdom, opted against the conventional approach of ambling forward the necessary extra step or two that would have allowed him to head the thing from an upright berth. Instead, he hoisted himself until horizontal, some three or four feet of the floor, in the manner that I believe is popularized by magicians’ assistants who are about to have hoops passed over their bodies, or be fed to lions, or other such pursuits.

And having hoisted himself thus, Romero then made pretty punchy contact with the ball too. This, in a way, is part of the magic of a diving header, for in propelling oneself to the appropriate stance – horizontal – thereafter, if one does indeed make headed contact, one cannot help but propel the ball with the force of a bullet. Physics, I suppose.

Anyway, the scandalous handballing Ramsdale spoiled the fun by beating the ball away; but as far as AANP was concerned, the whole manoeuvre was a triumph. The outcome was a mere footnote.

2.1 Romero’s Second Header

And that, frankly, would have sufficed; but Romero was not done there. Evidently of the opinion that he was onto a good thing, on around the half hour mark he had another pop, in the manner of a small child who has been treated to a new toy and simply cannot get enough of it.

There are precious few sequels out there that match – or indeed better – the splendour of the original, but to such illustrious entries as Aliens and Terminator 2 can now be added ‘Cristian Romero’s second diving header against Southampton that time’, because that second was a doozy.

Impressively, it came from open play, albeit Pedro Porro again playing the role of Instigator-in-Chief with aplomb. Opting to impress the masses with a demonstration of what he could do with his weaker foot, Porro delivered with his left towards the back post, and if you had happened to remark to me that he’d overhit it, dash it, you may have caught me gently nodding in agreement.

However, motivated by the glories of 15 minute earlier, Romero lurked at the back post, and as all about him watched the ball sail over their heads, he sensed the moment to lurk no longer, but to unleash another diving header. I rather thought that the connoisseur of this sort of thing might look even more kindly upon his second effort, because it involved a bit more momentum, Romero taking a running start to get fully into the leap.

In terms of pure aesthetics, it belonged in a gallery, boasting as it did a fully-focused footballer sailing horizontally through the atmosphere and making sweeter contact than the average bystander could manage with his foot.

Irritatingly, the scandalous h-balling Ramsdale once again popped up to bat the thing away, but the AANP heartstrings had already been tugged. ‘Long live the diving header’, I may or may not have muttered out loud.

None of which is to say that Romero has suddenly transformed from ‘Hot-Headed Liability Upon Whom We Ought to Cash In’ to ‘Darling of AANP Towers’. Two absolute highlights of the modern era those headers may have been, but the Argentine can still be a prime chump when it comes to the meat and veg, as he demonstrated early in the second half, when needlessly charging 10 yards north from his post and flying feet first into a challenge he failed to win.

With the cornerstone of the back-four thus removed from the scene, and Southampton in possession, we were in the dickens of a spot, with poor old Porro – not a chap for whom defending is much of a delight – left in the awkward position of having to try to cover both his right-back spot and Romero’s vacated central berth.

A better team than Southampton would presumably have made more of the opportunity, but it’s that sort of lunacy, springing up out of the blue, that counteracts Romero’s impressive passing range (or indeed his heading). And at this stage of his career, he is hardly likely to experience any sort of road-to-Damascus conversion and suddenly opt to rein it all in.

However, as and when he does eventually wave his final goodbye to N17, this wide-eyed spectator will always remember those two diving headers.

3. Brennan Johnson

If there is an odder fish in our ranks than young Brennan Johnson I’m yet to cast eyes upon him. Enigmatic might be the word? He certainly is, in some unspecified way, perplexing. What I’m driving at is that, as right wingers go, the young cove seems to me to be pretty severely lacking in several crucial respects.

He’s been at the club two years now, and while I suppose still a bit of a pup in the grand scheme of things, one would hope that by now he might have seen fit to pack a few belongings and make the leap from ‘Potential’ to ‘Established’.

In the Credit column he does have a burst of pace that becomes well a winger. On top of which, I noted Our Glorious Leader croaking away last night that Johnson is one of the more positionally-disciplined amongst the troupe.

Now this business of maintaining positional rigidity at any given point does make me sigh one of the gloomy sighs that you read about in 19th century British literature, when the heroine discovers her chap of choice has taken off with a neighbouring maid and poof goes her fortune. Positional rigidity seems to have sucked the spontaneity from football, and – if you pardon the digression – I cannot wait for the day when Pep removes himself from the scene and we can go back to a world of mazy dribbles and 40-yard shots.

However, be that as it may, young Johnson apparently is a bit of a whizz when it comes to following positional instructions to the letter, so well done him. Personally, I find that the first order of business when looking a winger up and down is to enquire whether he can deliver a decent cross or five each game; and here, Johnson comes up far too short for my liking. Every now and then he sends in a cross that beats the first man, but in general he does not fill me with much confidence.

I confess that I’ve yet to bend the ear of Dominic Solanke, but if I were privy to his mid-match reflections I suspect that if he looked up and saw young Johnson steaming off on the right, he might advance towards the penalty area and wave a hopeful hand, but inwardly let slip one of those gloomy 19th century sighs. Johnson is not a reliable source of delivery.

Of course, the unavoidable, and frankly massive, counter-argument to all of this is that Johnson scores goals. His second yesterday was an absolute peach, that delicate touch reminding me of Dele Alli in his pomp (I think specifically of the Cup goal he scored at the Emirates, when he, like Johnson yesterday, caught the ‘keeper by surprise by his shot first time as the ball dropped).

One understands Postecoglou’s praise of Johnson’s positional sense, because like or loathe the approach, he certainly gets the memo to arrive at the back-post when we attack down the left flank, and has reaped himself a rich old harvest as a result.

And, the argument continues, if Johnson is racking up the goals at a healthy lick by timing his arrival into the area as a supplementary forward, who the hell cares if all of his attempted crosses keep bouncing off opposing legs?

4. Bergvall

It’s almost taken for granted these days, but Bergvall struck me as the standout performer. Here’s a chap who takes seriously his responsibilities, and gives the impression that when he returns to Casa B., as day turns into night on matchday, he does not simply retire to bed, but pauses to reflect deeply on every facet of his performance.

Oh that our designated captain could lead with that sort of example, chasing down every loose ball as if his life depended on it.

Moreover, someone or other from Bergvall’s formative years deserves a back-slap for the instruction they bestowed, because the chap rarely messes about once he’s gained possession. None of this cheesing about taking umpteen touches and pondering the options. When he gets the ball, he uses it, and pronto. Either a pass is played quickly to a chum, or he’s off on a forward gallop and eating up the yards.

As an aside, I thought yesterday also demonstrated how effective Maddison can be when he channels his inner Bergvall and releases the ball quickly. The fellow has it in him to pick a gorgeous pass, but I suspect that every time he receives the thing he is overcome by the urge to pick precisely that, and consequently dithers far too long looking for that g.p., rather than biffing a pass simply but quickly.

To finish on Bergvall however, and, particularly in the absence of Kulusevski, if we are to have the slightest chance of progressing against Frankfurt, we’ll need him fit and bronzed.

Categories
Spurs match reports

Chelsea 1-0 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

AANP’s new book ‘All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season’, is out now for just £7.99 from Amazon (ebook from £6.99)

1. Vicario

I suppose the purists amongst us might beeline towards the nearest champagne cork and get popping after Vicario’s latest offering, because when it came to the fundamentals of the art – viz. keeping the cherished cargo out of the net – our resident last-line of defence provided everything promised by the brochure.

Well, not quite everything, because he did concede the game’s only goal. However, at that point the stands were awash with forgiving lilywhite hands being waved towards him, because while glaring errors abounded amongst Romero, VDV, Bergvall (I think?), Spence, Udogie etc, even Vicario’s fiercest critic would struggle to lob any blame his way.

That aside, however, he by my reckoning had one critical save to make, and he made it an absolute corker. As seemed to happen whenever Chelsea were struck by the urge, they ambled up their right and swung in a cross without too much objection from any of our lot. Naturally enough, once the ball had bypassed the centre of the penalty area the various Tottenham folk stationed nearby simply clocked off, leaving those at the far post (in this instance both Cucurella and his hair, and that Sancho lad), to do as they pleased, and taking as long as they wished too.

When Sancho eventually got his shot away it was from close range and with the velocity of a missile, so one would have bestowed the sympathetic pat upon the upper portion of Vicario if the ball had bypassed him before he could blink.

To his immense credit, however, Vicario flung himself off to his left, extending the appropriate paw the appropriate length and – critically – at the appropriate speed. It is fair to say that that right arm of his shot out like a coiled spring upon release. The overall effect was an outstanding save, the ilk of which is the preserve of only the most accomplished in the field. Top marks, Vicario, one was tempted to murmur.

And as mentioned, that struck me as the critical element of the role. For what is a goalkeeper, one might ask, if not the nib tasked with making saves? Take that away and the whole concept, one might claim, shimmers gently out of existence.

Well evidently that last argument is pure gubbins, because the primary remit of the modern goalkeeper is apparently to stroke the ball hither and thither from within his six-yard box, like a particularly deep-lying Modric. And in this respect, Vicario bungled his performance like a court jester being handed a tidy sum to provide entertainment to the masses.

In the first half in particular, if there were a seemingly harmless, unencumbered pass of 5-10 yards to be played, Vicario seemed pretty determined to make a shambles of it. Had it happened once, one might have chortled with relief and swept it aside. ‘A lucky escape, what?’ might have been the refrain.

But by the third and fourth times, AANP was shooting troubled looks about the place like nobody’s business, and wondering aloud if the chap was beset by some sort of fever-induced hallucinations, causing him to beetle the ball off in any old direction and to any old passer-by, convinced it was all for the greater good.

That we survived unscathed suggested the kindly intercession of a higher power, but while the scoreline remained respectable enough, the broader impact on those involved was rather dubious.

Matters were already at a pretty low ebb in the defensive third, after that opening-minute farce involving the complete undoing of our fabled central defensive giants, via the medium of one hopeful ball lobbed straight down the middle, and given this, we might well have benefited from a steadying performance from the gloved one behind them – but it was not to be. Still, he did make that one cracking save.

2. Another Dreadful Showing

As mentioned, the foundations started to give way last night from Minute 1, and the tone having been set thusly, there wasn’t really much deviation thereafter (apart, of course, from the usual, rather infuriating salvo – in the final minute or two of added time, forsooth – when our heroes suddenly decided to roll up sleeves and inject some urgency).

At the risk of subjecting myself to an ad hoc bombardment of rotten tomatoes and whatnot, from irate Spurs fans determined that their fury should be universally shared, I rustled up an extenuating circumstance for the latest debacle. The latest AANP wheeze, you see, is that given four or five games together, last night’s XI would probably click into gear and start purring about the place. One hesitates to add, “steamrolling all-comers with cavalier football from a bygone age”, but the gist remains.

In short, I thought our lot suffered last night for having been tossed together for the first time in months, and instructed to make merry from the off. There is, of course, a pretty robust train of thought that last night’s XI could have played together for another six months and failed to get anywhere. One would appreciate this point. We did make a frightful pig’s ear of just about every aspect of the game, after all. Nevertheless, I don’t think the novelty of the setup really helped in any way to chivvy things along.

Immediately prior to the international break, Our Glorious Leader received some criticism (which I suppose by this point is much like saying he breathed in and then breathed out), specifically around his decision to bin the XI that put Alkmaar to the sword a few days earlier, and instead rearrange every available deck-chair.

It did seem a deliberate sabotaging of some precious momentum, but at the same time, being a forgiving soul, AANP did sympathise. Ange made clear that with fit-again players appearing from every crevice he wanted to bring up to speed as many of them as possible.

A fairly noble sentiment, given the potential for twice-weekly matches, but it undoubtedly scuppered at birth any hope of a settled XI. Thus we ended up yesterday with an assortment who, to a man, never quite seemed abreast of current affairs.

3. Our Glorious Leader’s Fast-Approaching Last Hurrah

Never having been handed a death penalty myself I couldn’t say with any certainty, but I imagine that when pacing up and down the gloomy cell, those who find themselves in the aforementioned pickle, as they await news of any potential stay of execution, might well resemble in general demeanour Our Glorious Leader just about any time he appears on stage these days.

If Big Ange were wondering pre-match yesterday how he might torch one of the last remaining bridges between himself and the faithful, he hit upon an absolute doozy an hour into last night’s spread. One doesn’t need to be an expert in the field of ear-cupping to know that such a performance is not an act of cordial and bonhomous collaboration. It is anything but. In fact I’m not sure it could be further from c. and b. c.

It was spectacularly ill-judged stuff. Had he been coasting on the back of 20 consecutive wins it would have been ill-judged stuff; to uncork that moment when presiding over our worst vintage in decades would have had any self-respecting PR advisor diving head-first into the nearest woodchipper.

All that said, the Oddly Sensitive Man Ill-Advisedly Taunts Own Fanbase is hardly the line of dialogue that has a character fired from the show. What’s condemning the chap is that things just keep lurching downwards under the current regime, and the absence of barely a flicker of improvement makes it harder for the loyalists – amongst whom AANP has long numbered –  to stick up for the fellow.

I am inclined to maintain that with a squad fully of his making, and equipped for twice-weekly repartee, he might deliver at least one of swashbuckling performances or positive results – but with each passing week that argument takes the dickens of a pummelling. Whereas at the start of the season the bad results were delivered in s-buckling style, now the only recognisable stylistic chestunt is a complete absence of cogency, with or without the ball.

In fact, we seem to have reached the stage that even winning the shiny European pot is hardly a guarantee that he’ll be clearing his throat in the N17 corridors next season. One heck of an upturn in performances is in order, and at double-quick speed.

Categories
Spurs match reports

Fulham 2-0 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

AANP’s new book ‘All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season’, is out now for just £7.99 from Amazon (ebook from £6.99)

1. Romero

I’ve heard it said that a picture is worth a thousand words, and if you’d caught sight of AANP watching on as yesterday’s mess unwrapped itself, the first six of those thousand might well have been, “Golly, there’s an unamused soul, what?”

However, while it’s true enough that, taken as a whole, the latest fiasco rather hollowed out the insides, I did draw a spot of comfort from a pretty unusual source. If you’ve dipped into these pages before you may be aware that while clucking and cooing over the returning VDV like a doting mother over a favoured child, AANP regards Cristian Romero with decidedly less warmth. Those bursts forward to lunge wildly at ball, player and anything else in sight are a dash too maniacal for my conservative tastes in defending; and his tendency to blot from his consciousness  the whole business of monitoring opposing forwards sneaking in at the back post is pretty maddening stuff.

Safe to say that the fellow does not feature too highly on the roster of feted heroes at AANP Towers. If the club decide that there’s a quick buck to be made from pawning off the chap in the summer – and let’s face it, Grandmaster Levy can scent a quick b. from a mile off – then they’ll have my blessing.

Given all this back-story, you may shoot a pretty suspicious glance when I tell you that by the time he was withdrawn in one of those heavily choreographed moves, on the hour, I was pretty firmly of the opinion that Romero had been our star performer.

Admittedly there might be an embarrassed cough from the stalls at this point, as someone tactfully points out that the place was hardly flooded with contenders for that particular rosette. It would be a fair point. The bar for star performers was low. Bergvall injected his usual youthful vim; Sonny too, oddly enough, seemed to conduct himself with a determination to leave an imprint; and young Tel gave evidence that he’s better fitted to life as a flank-based whippet than a centrally-positioned beast of brawn and muscle. However, Son and Bergvall only entered the fray at half-time, and two useful gambols from Tel did not a match-winning performance make.

No, it was Romero who seemed to catch the eye. Not so much cream rising to the top, as the only packet of milk in the batch that had yet to curdle, he at least did all that centre-back should do and with a few extras thrown in.

He may have erred once or twice, but not so badly that one would notice, and he generally he did a decent job of blocking incoming crosses, and keeping his particular quarters under lock and key.

Moverover, while I’ve lamented pretty regularly that tendency to fly off on personal vendettas of ill-judged aggression on halfway, yesterday he actually judged them pretty well. Credit where due. Every time Romero was struck by the urge to leave the back-four behind and upend a Fulham player higher up the pitch, a Fulham player would indeed end up pleasingly splayed across the turf, and apparently within the regulations of the game.

Romero also seemed to have his radar well set when it came to picking forward passes. This made a welcome change from the endless cycle of fairly empty sideways passing that tends to infect our lot for long periods each week. On a few occasions Romero directed a pretty useful pass through the midfield, bypassing various Fulham bobbies in one fell swoop.

All of which was useful enough, but to repeat, most importantly he ticked the basic defensive boxes, and this was pretty welcome stuff.

2. Ben Davies

By contrast, Ben Davies seemed not to know what sport he was playing. To be outmuscled, as he was for the second goal, by, of all people, Ryan Sessegnon – a poor sap whose frame seems comprised of biscuits held together by elastic bands – is a pretty damning indictment of one’s capacity for the physical battle.

And yet, having initially observed a straightforwardly bouncing ball with the sort of horror normally reserved for a dropping atomic bomb, Davies managed first to fail to clear it, then allow to Sessegnon to hold him at arm’s length and toss him this way and that like a ragdoll, before finally watching on with a pretty depressing impotence as Sessegnon picked out the top corner of all things.

Nor was this the extent of Davies’ ignominy. That first goal from Fulham, while owing much to the misjudgement of Odobert on the right, and the half-hearted flapping of various cast members inside the penalty area, had at its genesis another Ben Davies moment – albeit rather more excusable – when in attempting to win a header from a goal-kick he was resoundingly bested in the air by that Muniz chap.

On top of which, it’s easy to forget that back in the first half, a period one might easily expunge from the memory on account of nothing of note happening at all between its first and last whistles, Ben Davies contrived to gift Fulham the only real chance of the half.

To fill in the loose plot, such as it was, a Fulham sort aimlessly chipped a pass into the area just after the half-hour mark, with not a teammate in sight. Now here, in Davies’ defence, he might reasonably have expected a guttural roar from his goalkeeper, giving clear instruction. Whether or not such vocalisation was forthcoming I couldn’t say.

What was beyond doubt was that at this point, and under no pressure, Davies took to the edge of the six-yard box and rearranged his limbs into what appeared a mid-air yoga pose, arms pointing in one direction, legs in another and overall balance pretty seriously lacking. This done, and still airborne, Davies then attempted an ungainly hack at the ball.

One could have advised him by this point that the plan was stinker. No good could come of it. He’d have been infinitely better off in every conceivable respect if he’d just given up the thing – as everyone else in the area had done – and let the ball drift the necessary yard or so into the arms of Vicario.

He didn’t however, and instead made contact with the ball, succeeding only in presenting it neatly into the path of Castagne, while Davies himself concluded his input by sprawling along the ground.

As mentioned, the sorry affair may well have been resolved by Vicario laying claim to the thing; but having made up his mind to take action, Davies’ pickling of it may have been disastrous. As it turned out, there was plenty of time for disaster at the death, with the Sessegnon goal.

I suppose everyone has a bad day now and then, but I struggle to remember Archie Gray, for example, making quite as many ghastly – and costly – errors at centre-back.

3. Broader Problems

There are, of course, more pressing concerns at play than an off-day from our possibly sixth-choice centre-back. The lack of urgency in possession (particularly in the first half), lack of precision in simple passes, complete disappearance of an effective high-press and general failure to give two hoots about winning back possession in midfield all struck me as indicative of a team whose motion-going-through antics were pretty polished.

I recall back in the mists of August or perhaps September, our heroes drew with Leicester and lost to Newcastle, on both occasions have given these sides a bit of a leathering. On those occasions I shrugged the forgiving shrug. Play peak Angeball and create 20 or so chances, ran the theory, and the goods will more often than not be delivered.

The forgiving shrug was shrugged once more over the winter months, as the squad was decimated and staggered their way through games. Extenuating circs, and so forth.

Yesterday, however, one rather struggled to find reasons to explain away the dirge. Individual players not putting their heart and soul into matters is a tough one at which to aim the forgiving shrug. One appreciates that all eggs are now neatly arranged in the Europa basket, but it undoubtedly lies upon Our Glorious Leader to motivate the players for such events as ‘Fulham (away)’, even when there is little to be gained in the remaining league games. An uptick in performance will be needed after the international jollies.

Categories
Spurs match reports

Spurs 3-1 AZ Alkmaar: Four Tottenham Talking Points

AANP’s new book ‘All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season’, is out now for just £7.99 from Amazon (ebook from £6.99)

1. Son

I must confess to having rubbed the eyes a couple of times at seeing various esteemed Spurs-watchers opine along the lines that Sonny had put in a ‘captain’s performance’ (by which I presume they meant stroking some glorious cover drives on his way to a century, rather than honourably going down with a sinking ship).

Now credit where due, Son had a hand in all three goals, and this I acknowledge and applaud. There are some forwards who are praised to the rafters for popping up with a couple of goal contributions, when they’ve spent the remainder simply mooching around without any additional engagement at all. Chipping in with – or towards – goals ought not to be dismissed too airily, and especially not in order to bang on about deficiencies in other areas.  

However, watching events play in real-time, the white-hot AANP take was that once again, the Son on view last night was not the Son of yesteryear. Son 2.0 seemed not to have battery power of the previous incarnation.

Going into technical detail, when awaiting receipt of the ball, for example when Spence and VDV were busy trying to play out from the back, if Son were gripped by the urge to scamper into space in a frenzied fashion that would be hard for an opponent to keep up with, he hid it well. In fact, he hid this urge so well that he looked for all the world like he didn’t have any interest at all in scampering into space. “No scampering for me, tonight,” he seemed to be saying. His prerogative of course, but this struck me as not adding much bang to proceedings.

Similarly, when he did receive the ball, the punchline seemed rather off, particularly in the first half. Until the opening goal, in fact, he seemed to have little interest in attacking the AZ goal at all.

Here, I should point out, he was not alone, for the collective arrangement amongst our lot seemed to be that the urgent laying of siege to the AZ goal was a mug’s game, and what the evening really needed was a dirge-like procession of sideways and backwards passes. Only Bergvall showed any enthusiasm for actually addressing the deficit.

Back to Son, and at one point in that opening 25 minutes, a pretty firm difference of opinion was voiced between our captain and around 20,000 souls in the South Stand. Son, still firmly of the view that the road to Bilbao was paved with backwards passes, received the ball on around halfway, took in the sights – including a few progressive options further north – and then poked it backwards again. The South Stand, as one, voiced a bit of discontent, which is not unheard of these days, but what followed did make one buck up and take notice: for Son did not receive this critique too well, and responded with a wave of a pretty irritated arm back at them. It was not the exchange of a harmonious marriage. Trouble appeared to be brewing in paradise.

AANP doesn’t actually mind or even care too much for such lovers’ tiffs. Of more concern to me was the fact that even when Son finally did decide to run at the AZ defence, he seemed time and again to go carting off into dead ends – specifically by cutting inside onto his right foot every time, dash it.

The initial spadework was generally promising enough, in that he’d edge forward towards the AZ penalty area. Come the second part of the routine, however, Son seemed to fumble his lines pretty badly. This whole business of him cutting inside onto his right was about as predictable as night following day, and as such, when he tried then to finish things off by having a right-footed shot, it was no particular shock to discover that the AZ ramparts had already been constructed.

Another feature of Son’s night was repeatedly lapsing back into that most unbecoming habit of his, of slowing to a halt, standing over the ball and shimmying as if to move this way and that, without actually putting his foot on the pedal and going anywhere.

In common with all around him, he improved in the second half. The Son-Spence Double Act, which had threatened to become one of the great missed opportunities of our time in that first half, finally clicked into gear in the second, not least through the well-timed overlapping runs of Spence. Son, to his credit, timed to perfection on repeated occasions the simple but devastatingly effective flick into the path of Spence, and it brought a rich old harvest, not least in that glorious third goal.

There was still time for Son to bungle an opportunity in the second half when he wormed his way through to the byline pretty effectively, but then completely lost all sense of geography, and gently dribbled the ball over the goal-line and out of play.  

As mentioned, he certainly contributed to all three goals, and when his head hit the pillow last night I imagine he’d have presumably reflected on his day’s work with some satisfaction, blissfuly unaware of the growing discontent at AANP Towers. I’ll be withholding the backslaps and bear-hugs though, and instead delivering a well-chosen word in his ear, should our paths cross before the next engagement.

2. Angeball When It Works

There were times in the second half when the stars aligned like the dickens, and our heroes produced football so dreamy one felt it ought to be accompanied by some angelic choir rattling off a bit of Bach in the background.

If our first goal owed much to Sonny going through the it’s-in-my-contract-so-I’ll-chase-down-this-laddie motions, our second and third had the grizzled features of Out Glorious Leader etched all over them.

It was the attack-minded content for which we’d be pining in the first half, and, indeed, first leg. And the last few months too, frankly.  But when it arrived, by golly it was like a few drops of celestial oil seeping through from the heavens.

I’d been giving Maddison a bit of lip for his pause-and-pivot-backwards routines of the first half, but in the build-up to our third, the manner in which he dipped the shoulder and rolled away from two flailing AZ types was positively Bergvall-esque – and praise doesn’t come much higher than that these days.

What was striking about both our first and second goals, and in such rich contrast to the first half garbage, was that in both instances our lot seemed oddly struck by the potential benefits of jimmying off in attack immediately, and at a rate of knots. Not a concept that had previously occurred, the difference made was considerable when they opted immediately to attack, either through The Swift Forward Pass, or the more individualistic art of Running With The Ball.

One acknowledges that the circumstances need to be right in order for any of this to work. No good trying the Running With The B. gambit, after all, when there’s a mass of congregated AZ bodies in one’s immediate path, hellbent on snuffing out whatever comes their way.

However, with the early second half goal, our lot seemed collectively to realise the manifold benefits to be had by unveiling a spot of top-notch Angeball. It felt like a glimpse of a ripping, if somewhat distant past – and potentially a glimpse into a brighter short-term future.

3. Van de Ven

Spiffing to have the old boy back, what? Seeing VDV rattle off his greatest hits – the covering, sliding tackle; the burst of pace to catch and dispossess an opposing forward who foolishly considered himself clean through on goal with nary a defender in sight; the bulldozing forward burst with ball at feet and not a cat in hell’s chance of anyone shrugging him off it – was enough to crack open smiles on even the maps of even the bitterest of Spurs fans.

Romero I can take or leave. Preferable to Dragusin of course, and he no doubt has a cunning forward pass in him, as evinced once or twice last night; but he also doesn’t mind fouling up operations by pinging the ball miles away from his own trusted allies and straight down opposition gullets. To say nothing of his defending, which while generally solid enough still leaves me clutching at the nearest bystander in alarm when his juices flow and he decides that the reckless lunges are the better part of valour.

Van de Ven on the other hand, could do no wrong in my eyes. I fancy I sleep more soundly at night, knowing that he is prowling the rear, engine revved and limbs poised for the sprint.

His withdrawal on the stroke of the hour-mark and not a moment later may have had a whiff of Cinderella about it, but that was fine by AANP. If the earnest squid is only just getting back to fitness then I’m all for yanking him out of harm’s way and treating him with the most delicate care until Sunday.

4. Odobert

For clarity, Bergvall was far and away the elite performer on parade from the AANP vantage point last night, but as I these days do him homage on a bi-weekly basis, a little variety might go down well, and last night young Odobert seemed to show signs of getting the gist.

I was rather taken by the fact that he operated from the right last night. Easily pleased, I suppose you might reasonably retort, but in a world in which Son and now potentially Tel already block the route of young Mikey Moore, the sight of Odobert putting in the willing dash from the right was a pleasant surprise.

He certainly adds a different certain something. Around 20 minutes in, when AANP was studiously tearing out clumps of hair at our lack of adventure, Odobert seemed unable to contain himself any longer, and set off on a mazy dribble infield that bought him four victims. It didn’t ultimately get very far, end-product lacking as I recall, but the very impudence involved in undertaking this act was a pretty welcome jolt to the senses.

While he did not quite hit such heights again, the AZ mob seemed to have got the memo, and accordingly reacted with a spot of concern each time Odobert got hold off the ball and surveyed his options thereafter.

One suspends full judgement, as I don’t remember him slinging in too many crosses, but with Porro in support I suppose last night there wasn’t too much need, from the right. However, simply for the capacity to take on and beat a man, I eye the chap with a frisson of excitement.

Moreover, he took his goals – and particularly the first – with a becoming assuredness, which is, of course, the whole point of the thing when you think about it. If his second were a triumph for popping up in the right place – itself a triumph for Angeball, which does rather rely upon one winger finishing off the crosses of the other winger – then his first was a welcome act of not messing around in front of goal.

As seems to be the case for a good half-dozen of our current vintage, a bright future seems to loom. More immediately, any suggestions of a resurgence still strike me as massively ahead of time, but there are at least a few shoots of recovery over which to goggle and chirrup.

Categories
Spurs match reports

Spurs 2-2 Bournemouth: Three Tottenham Talking Points

AANP’s new book ‘All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season’, is out now for just £7.99 from Amazon (ebook from £6.99)

1. The Utter Rot That Is Playing Out From The Back Every Blasted Time, Dash It

Forgive me if you’ve heard this before, but insistently playing out from the back at every bally opportunity is so utterly bonkers that those in the streets around AANP Towers may imminently be treated to the unbecoming sight of a one-man riot.

Honestly, someone make it stop. To peddle a few well-worn lines: the exercise requires at least three – and typically five or six – passes to be delivered, faultlessly, from locations of considerable peril, else the opposition don’t just have possession but they have possession within one pass of our goal; and the return on this riskiest of investments is generally negligible, as on most of those times we do successfully play beyond the initial press we then simply duff the ball up aimlessly around halfway and lose it anyway.

While I can accept that if executed well it can lead to our heroes suddenly tearing off over halfway in some variation of a three-on-three scenario, the aforementioned conditional “if” is doing so much legwork in that statement that it ought really to sit down in the boss’s office and negotiate a pay-rise.

Put another way I can barely remember playing-out-from-the-back resulting in a goalscoring chance for our lot; by contrast within the first five minutes today it had resulted in three goalscoring chances for the other lot. The legs weaken, and the hand automatically reaches for the beaker of bourbon-based life-giver, simply at the recollection.

Now I don’t really know how the assembled geniuses make decisions about these things, but if they gather around a laptop and pore over the stats, then ‘3 chances conceded in the first 5 minutes’ ought to make for an eye-catching, dual-axis bar chart.

Alternatively, if they simply sit back and drink in the live action unfolding before them, a few undecided voters ought to have been swayed by the sight of Vicario saving at point-blank range straight from kick-off (and then making several more last-ditch saves, whilst also scrambling to clear a miscontrolled pass from off his own line – all of which sandwiched repeated instances of those in front of him bungling their passes on the edge of our own area); while at the other end our lot mustered barely a shot on goal in the first hour of play.

The dashed thing does not work! Scrunch it into a ball, bung it into the nearest bin and let’s just restart each episode by slapping the ball forward, to a distance that at least precludes the instant return of danger.

2. Urgency (Or Lack Thereof)

Naturally, this being Tottenham, the return of Romero as much-heralded saviour of our defensive ills immediately brought about calamity.

Of course, passing out from the back was prominent in this hideous unravelling, but what also arrested the attention was the care-free attitude with which Romero kept stuffing up his lines.

There’s a sense in which I rather admire the casual approach to life. Breezing through the daily routines, without allowing any crosses and burdens to weigh upon the shoulders, is probably right up there amongst the experts’ suggestions for making it to the late eighties and beyond, alongside a brisk daily walk and plenty of olive oil. So in one respect, Romero ought to be applauded. Four-score and ten beckon.

However, while sixty or so years hence I might look back and think the fellow made a winning choice, by around 2.10pm this afternoon the mood within the AANP breast was simmering towards volcanic levels. The sight of Romero pausing to light a cigar and reminisce on the good old days every time he received possession fired up the passions of the invested onlooker.

Our Glorious Leader spoke after The Alkmaar Disaster about the need for an improved mindset, and greater aggression. Whether he simply forgot to pass on such crucial nuggets to his players or wilfully misled in his press conference, there was nary a whiff of either of the above on show.

Instead, where Romero trod, all others in lilywhite followed. And when I say ‘lilywhite’ I include yellow, because in a touching show of loyalty towards his on-field captain, Vicario gave evidence of having similarly committed to taking an age over each of his in-game contributions.

They all did, in fact. Anyone who received the ball seemed alarmingly content to suck all life out of proceedings, dwelling in possession as if the very aim of the exercise were to run down the clock in the most nondescript and incident-free manner possible. The option of bursting into life and initiating thrusts at the Bournemouth defence seemed to have been shoved a long way down the agenda.

If this is the template for the Europa parley on Thursday then that bourbon-filled beaker might need generous re-charging, because on present form we are sleep-walking to our doom.

3. Bergvall and One or Two Others

In casually tarring the collective with the Romero-coated brush I actually did a considerable disservice to one or two of the principals.

As seems to be the case every time he laces his boots and bounds into view, young Bergvall rather arrested the senses and didn’t let them go. The bounder rasped about the place with energy and intent throughout, and if Romero and chums were not observing his attitude and taking copious notes then they should blush with shame.

If one wanted to know what urgency looked like, or were curious as to what Postecoglou’s much-vaunted ‘improved mindset’ would comprise, they need only have cast they eye over Bergvall for five minutes. Every time he received the ball, he either looked up and ahead for an immediate passing option, or – more impressively – called upon the ghost of Mousa Dembele and took to wriggling betwixt a pair of Bournemouth’s finest. AANP was, again, charmed. If the lad does not start on Thursday, someone in the corridors of power will need their brain pickled.

More controversially, I actually gave the approving nod to Bissouma on a couple of occasions. Now, to be clear, he was as guilty as anyone else of treating the whole affair like a gentle afternoon stroll, designed to work off a sizeable Sunday roast without actually rushing to get anywhere.

However, where I did pause and scribble a complimentary word was when the thought struck him that it would be rather good fun to inject a meaty tackle into proceedings. If you’ve sipped at this watering-hole before, you’ll know that once the AANP juices are flowing I like nothing more than to berate our lot for their complete absence of commitment to the lost art of The Tackle. Bissouma, at least, had the decency to take useful steps in this respect.

Another who escaped the AANP Naughty List was that Odobert bean. A tricky little ferret, what? Admittedly sometimes so wrapped up in his tricks that he forgot how many feet he had and got himself into a tangle, and at one point I think I saw him literally turn inside out; but by and large one got the impression that the opposing full-back was enjoying his duties less and less because of him.

Odobert caused numerous problems, and even when not causing problems the very concept of him seemed to alarm those in opposition. Crucially, as well as the aforementioned trickery, Odobert was also in the market for a spot of end-product. His crosses might not always have struck oil, but they were at least delivered, and I came away with the notion that here was a chap who might grow into his role.

Young Spence was the other who stood out amidst the dross. Ironically enough, he is a fish about whom it was regularly whispered that the lax attitude was too prevalent, back in the days when he was persona non grata.

Clearly all rot, as he demonstrated again today. While those in other areas of the pitch seemed content to go through the motions, not caring too much whether their passes hit their mark or not (Senor Porro, I look, scathingly, at you), Spence at least seemed to understand that attacks would not build themselves, and accordingly scurried hither and thither as appropriate.

A shame, then that he was amongst the chief culprits for the Bournemouth opener (alongside, of course, Master Porro), but that aside I thought he displayed a determination not to be bested when defending that actually reminded me of Benny Assou-Ekotto, once a cherished member of this parish. I refer to the sense that, irrespective of anything else, he took it as a personal slight upon his character if someone bested him in one-on-one combat.

Vicario, to give him his dues, made the standard handful of point-blanks saves that rescued us from humiliation, and I suppose one might point to the fact that we came back from a two-goal deficit and give their hands a gleeful clap or two; but AANP was not having any of it. This was another dire showing, and the sunny optimism that I had not so long ago radiated about our Europa prospects is fizzling into a state of considerable alarm.

Categories
Spurs match reports

AZ Alkmaar 1-0 Spurs: Four Tottenham Talking Points

AANP’s new book ‘All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season’, is out now for just £7.99 from Amazon (ebook from £6.99)

1. The Fabulous Showing From The 87th Minute Onwards

There’s a moderate-to-good chance I suppose that by minute 87 of last night’s binge you might have considered that you’d had enough of this turgid claptrap and removed yourself to a favoured watering-hole for some more reliable entertainment in liquid form. Never a bad move of course, so you’d have had the AANP blessing; but had you done such a thing at such a time you’d have missed a pretty rousing three minutes plus-four-or-so-of-added-time. For at the 87-minute mark our heroes roused themselves like a fire crew hearing the alarm, and suddenly went at it hammer and tongs, almost as if suddenly deciding to give a damn.

And what a three minutes plus f.o.s. it was. Passes were passed swiftly and with intensity; there was some neat interchange that actually resulted in forward progress into the AZ penalty area; and Pedro Porro slung in a couple of pretty tasty crosses. We even created a chance! Admittedly we didn’t score, and poor old Solanke was on the receiving end of what is presumably known in medical circles as a back-snapping, but still. It was a pretty tasty three plus four.

Now some of a gloomy disposition would presumably fail to see the joy in all this. Such folk would no doubt sniffily ask what the hell is the point of turning up the wattage in the 87th minute instead of starting proceedings in exactly that way, pointing out that such an attitude if applied for say 90, or even 45 minutes, would bring a much greater chance of mission success than when applied for three (or seven) minutes.

And actually, when one thinks about it, such an argument is pretty difficult to counter. What was the point of waiting until min. 87 to uncork the finest wines? What stopped them unleashing the good stuff in the preceding 86?

Still, it was a pretty tasty last three plus stoppage time.

2. Injuri-
Ah.

When the credits rolled and I finished slapping my thigh and spewing out some choice words of disgust, I immediately intoned that Our Glorious Leader can hardly be judged while the squad is decimated, adding automatically that things will improve once the injured return.

But then I stopped in my tracks. The capacity for speech rather fell from my lips. For of course, the realisation dawned that the squad is no longer decimated and that the injured, more or less, have now all returned. Admittedly there remain three notable absentees from the starting eleven (and as an aside, the impact made by Solanke in his cameo threatened even in that short time to turn matters on their head and shake them about fairly meaningfully).

However, the default line about our troops being flogged to within their final few breaths no longer holds water. The troupe out there last night were fit and bronzed, having been rested for a full week and reinforced by multiple returnees. I do not consider myself too presumptuous in opining that I’d expected our lot to surge forward like one of those unstoppable forces of nature that one goggles at in documentaries.

I suppose one might waggle a mocking finger at me and accuse me of complacency and entitlement and such things, but my haughty response would be well dash it, whyever not? All the pieces had fallen into place (bar Romero, VDV and Solanke – but comfortably enough pieces even so). There was talent oozing from every corner of the pitch, and all concerned were now fit and healthy.

Given these circs, it naturally drained the sunny optimism to see our lot bob about in the middle third playing lots of neat-and-tidies but then pickling the killer-pass at the end of it all. That slapstick free-kick routine from Sonny and Maddison neatly summed up the way of things: good intent no doubt, but utterly knuckle-brained execution, which betrayed a sense that our lot don’t treat these things as if their lives absolutely depend on it. I mean, if told that failure to get a shot on target would mean death by firing squad, I suspect that neither Messrs S. nor M. would have dithered thusly, but instead put every ounce of their being into the finest strike they had at their disposal.

3. Our Glorious Leader

With all that in mind AANP paid a bit more interest than usual to the post-match grufflings of The Big Cheese, the thrust of my enquiry being on what would he lay the blame this time, now that the injury sub-plot had been neatly wrapped up.

Unsurprisingly, Ange wasn’t in particularly accommodating mood. “Not aggressive enough in or out of possession,” and “Not the right mindset for a European away tie,” were the headlines, which struck me as a fairly empty species of fluff. The sort of pourparlers one bandies about the place at the water-cooler while making polite small-talk, before the doors close and the bigwigs get down to business. Symptoms, rather than causes, was the AANP take, continuing that medical theme.

Even so, taking Ange-speak at face value, it struck me that there were two elements to the above business of aggression and mindset. One was the aforementioned notion of doing the necessaries on pain of death by firing squad. Put simply, our lot don’t set about their business like their lives depend on it. They don’t have that aggression and that isn’t their mindset.

As was mentioned to me last night, while our heroes do tend to challenge for 50-50 balls in midfield, they rarely do so with serious intent to accept nothing less than victory. The term ‘challenge’ as applied by our lot is the sort of term reserved for polite company, in which one submits a written request in advance to be allowed to raise their hand and ask a non-threatening question. Whereas the sort of challenge AANP would like to see is that of an enraged mother rhinoceros demanding to know who the hell has been messing with her offspring.

The other element of all this is the role of the manager himself. If A. Postecoglou Esq. can spot that the troops have adopted the ‘Day out at a circus’ mindset instead of the ‘European knockout away leg’ mindset then it’s time for him book a room, call an emergency meeting and hammer home in no uncertain terms that the day’s objectives have changed. Or indeed, send them out with the correct mindset in the first place, thus removing the need for any mid-game alterations – either way, the last thing he should be doing is waiting until full-time to lament it. Not to be too indelicate, but this, surely, is his job.

4. Bergvall

 Before signing off, a word on young Bergvall, who struck me as one of the few who did indeed channel his inner enraged rhino in midfield.

Not faultless, for he did occasionally take one liberty too many and stumble into the occasional minefield, but if any 50-50s were won by our lot it seemed more often than not that the victorious emergent was of floppy blonde persuasion. And he was as similarly engaged when in possession as when trying to secure it, buzzing around and trying to carry the thing as earnestly as anyone lese in lilywhite.

Strange to think that within the space of four or five months the young prawn has flown through the ranks to go from 80-something minute sub to key component in the operation.

No real admonition about the own goal of course. A sharp tap on the shoulder and reminder to stiffen the upper lip would suffice there. Should his progress continue at this rate over the next year or two, he’ll be one heck of a player.

Categories
Spurs match reports

Man City 1-0 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

AANP’s new book ‘All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season’, is out now for just £7.99 from Amazon (ebook from £6.99)

1. Defenders Who’d Rather Not Defend. Again.

One of those peculiar assemblies this one, the sort after which everyone oozes out struggling to make sense of what they witnessed. Head swimming like I’d just watched an arty European film in which the leading man changes into a beetle halfway through, I came away last night asking myself all sorts of pretty deep questions. Had we done well or badly? Ought I to have been disappointed? Did any of this actually matter, or was it all just pointless fluff to keep us busy until Thursday nights roll around and we shove all chips into the Europa pot?

In the first half our heroes laboured away pretty busily, without ever actually getting anywhere. So top marks for labouring I suppose. However, when the sum of it all is an about-turn on halfway and a pass south to the centre-backs, the kindly observer does don a puzzled look and politely wonder what the hell is the point of it all.

We actually had a chance to begin things in a blaze of glory, ferreting away into the City area as early as the first minute. Unfortunately, at this point both Johnson and Odobert became strangely reticent, and dallied shyly rather than striking at goal with all the fury they could muster.

And that was the last anyone was to see of our attacking routines for about an hour or so. The remainder of the first half was the usual rotten sauce, as our midfield simply melted away whenever City turned their attention to attack. Our defenders, themselves hardly the sorts to step in with authority and resolve all life’s ills, seemed somehow to take up stations everywhere except the most obvious and useful positions. Hot knives slicing through butter would have looked on enviously at City, as they advanced to zero resistance, time and time again.

It’s a familiar failing. Not the more palatable for its familiarity, but I suppose at least lacking any element of surprise or shock. “Death, taxes and a flimsy Spurs midfield”, was the chorus on the AANP lips throughout most of that first half.

And it’s a pretty regularly-banged drum around these parts, but as each cast member popped up to do their bit, I noted with a certain weariness that they all seemed so much more comfortable attacking than defending.

Here I don’t really blame them, actually. Whenever I donned the boots and got down to it, my interest was always primarily in the fun to be had when haring down on the opposition goal. There isn’t much glory to be had marking an opponent at a corner after all.

However, it’s one thing to indulge the attacking tendencies on a Powerleague pitch after work; but a pretty significant leap to be employed full-time as a Premier League defender. In the latter case, any urges towards attacking frivolity ought really to be dismissed from the mind. The priority surely ought to be to focus on one’s defensive eggs. What tricks might best be deployed to shimmy away from opponents and scuttle toward the opposition goal, is surely a matter that belongs a long way down the agenda, when one’s job title reads “Centre-Back” or something similar.

And yet, if one were to scrawl a list of ‘Strengths’ and ‘Weaknesses’ for our defenders, more often than not, under S. one would find such qualities as “Bursting forward from the back, with or without ball”.

Take young Danso, upon whom I’d been particularly eager to cast the hawk-like eye, AANP still gathering evidence on the chap at this stage. He certainly doesn’t want for enthusiasm, but seems to leap to the fore primarily when the opportunity arises to burst forward. Looking something like a young rabbit that has spent all day pent up in its hutch and suddenly had the door opened , there was little stopping the man when the ball was cleared up our left. He was off like a rocket, either carrying the ball himself or feverishly signalling to those in possession that he was advancing towards halfway and available for hire.

Porro was another, rather obvious example. In the opening minutes, when our lot dozed off and left Haaland of all people free to have a swipe from within the area (straight at Vicario), a brief once-over of the crime-scene revealed that it was Porro who had drifted off. As the City winger hit the byline, and Haaland took a sneaky step back, Porro, whose babysitting duties at that point pretty obviously included the giant Norwegian, was drawn to the ball like a moth to a flame, and ambled towards the goal-line, completely abandoning Haaland to the Fates.

It was not the first dereliction of duty on the Porro showreel, and presumably not the last. Fast forward an hour or so, however, and when our lot upped the general intensity and started banging away on the City door, there was little stopping Porro. Regularly to be seen flying up the right, barely had the door been opened to him and the butler cleared his throat to make formal announcements before Porro was barging his way in and lining up his crosses.

Marvellous crosses they were too, no denying that. Absolute pearlers, some of them, and had we eked out a goal there would not have been too many tuts of injustice about the place. So all hail Porro’s attacking onions; but that’s exactly the point. It’s not his attacking o. that we should be hailing. Nice to have, no doubt about it – but hardly the essence of his role as, lest we forget, right-back.

All rather futile moaning of course, Angeball is as Angeball does – which seems to mean that defensive work is rather optional, and the priority is for just about everyone to contribute to attacks as best they can. As my Spurs-supporting barber, Doug, put it this week, ours is a system that relies upon the goalkeeper to play out of his skin each week.

2. Vicario

On which note, Vicario played if not exactly out of his skin, then stretching his skin to its limits. There is of course far more to the ancient and noble art of goalkeeping than simply leaping about the place making saves – but that element does rather help, and Vicario was evidently well up on current events yesterday.

Not a great deal he might have done about the goal, so one waves the forgiving hand (while noting that Udogie, so prominent on the front-foot, was responsible for allowing Haaland the freedom of the 6-yard box at the crucial moment). In just about all other instances, however, when full-body extensions were required, and soft or firm hands as necessary, Vicario was very much the man with the answers.

And while one would not necessarily look back on last night as a masterclass in Passing From the Instep of the Goalkeeper, I do think one ought to offer the chap a small salute, simply for not putting a foot wrong in this discipline. Recently, young Kinsky has deputised, reasonably well I thought, but still showing an occasional tendency to shove his foot in his mouth when it came to short-passing, if you follow.

It was therefore comforting not to have to worry about any such mishaps befalling the crew members last night. Operation Pass Out From The Back is still ludicrous stuff, make no mistake, the sort of horrific fare one can only watch with heart in mouth and eyes peeping from behind the hands; but at least Vicario plays his part with the calm assurance of a man well drilled in the art.

3. Bergvall (In The First Half At Least)

The other fellow who caught the AANP eye was young Bergvall, or at least he did so until he didn’t, so to speak.

In the first half he conducted himself in a manner that suggested he did not simply consider that he belonged on this stage, but that in fact he held ownership rights to the thing, and consequently was master of all he surveyed. Every time he wandered toward the action for a spot of investigation and enquiry, he seemed to emerge from it with the ball attached to his feet, and a small legion of City sorts flailing at his fast-departing shadow.

It was terrific stuff, sullied only, as far as I could tell, by him occasionally losing his footing and finding himself unable then to prevent whatever disaster immediately befell – a City weevil gathering up the loose goods, most typically. In those moments, however, the forgiving hand was once again waved. The pre-eminent point was that Bergvall was damn near running the midfield show, at least in possession.

I thought this narrative took a bit of a swivel in the second half, at about the time our lot generally upped their game, oddly enough. What with substitutes entering from all angles and a spot of urgency sprinkled about the place, one slightly lost track of the various sub-plots. The general message, however, had already been communicated: Bergvall is as capable as the next man of puffing out his chest and directing traffic on a big occasion.

This is probably a useful juncture at which also to tip the cap at Archie Gray, who not for the first time seemed visibly to learn from mistakes and make adjustments as the game progressed. Come the final curtain however, being unsure of whether we’d done well or badly, or whether or not I ought to have been disappointed, I found it best to shrug off the whole thing as pointless fluff until the real business begins next Thursday in the Europa.