1. Some First Half
As the fellow once put it, the only problems were an inability to bat, bowl or field. Put another way, it was not until the 30th minute that we constructed what anyone of sound mind would term a half-decent move that actually got us into the opposition area, by which point we were already 2-0 down.
As lifelong lilywhites we really should have known better, of course. A summer transfer window comfortably beyond wildest dreams it might have been, but we probably ought to have realised that once the whistle blew and the little white orb started pinging around, then the wheels would come off, and by golly they did so in spectacular fashion.
Our lot only seemed to cotton onto the fact that the match had started after conceding the penalty, at which point we were lucky to be just the three goals down. Prior to that, pretty much to a man they managed to miss just about every tackle and misplace every pass, which even by the dubious standards of our recent history took some doing.
One didn’t have to look too far for guilty parties. Young Bergvall has established himself as an AANP favourite during his short N17 career, and he will no doubt have vastly more thrilling afternoons in our colours (if he sticks around the place, that is) but by golly, if there was a bad decision to be made yesterday he made it alright.
Back in that glorious era before we started conceding, Bergvall was putting in a spot of practice in the art of conceding possession in dangerous areas. He tried to slalom past an opponent or two about 5 yards outside our own area, in a manner vastly too casual for such an occasion, and looked suitably stunned when the ball was pinched from his possession and spirited away to trouble. Nothing became of that particular occasion, but he was less fortunate minutes later when possession was snaffled from him again and Brentford tootled off for their celebrations.
I’d have preferred to see Bergvall in a position more similar to that bafflingly occupied by Gallagher. High up the pitch, I presume the point of Gallagher in that Number 10 role was to apply the high press. It has a certain logic to it I suppose, but I like my Number 10s to be blessed with a spot of guile – some trickery and stepovers – not the capacity simply to run ad infinitum and sweat profusely. Bergvall’s love of carrying the ball, it struck me, might have worked out more successfully had he done so from north of the halfway line, rather than just outside his own area.
Not that the first half mess was the fault of Bergvall and Gallagher alone, even if they were lambs sacrificed on the altar of half-time. Every cast member, major and minor, was stuffing up their lines; these things just looked rather worse when the blighter in question had just cost £100m.
2. Kinsky
Having delighted in the departure of Vicario, and the promotion of young Kinsky, it was a somewhat red-faced AANP who observed as the latter made a solid pig’s ear of things for that second goal.
Admittedly I pontificate from a position of minimal goalkeeping experience, but even so. Simply batting the ball straight into the path of the nearest onrushing attacker did not strike me as one from the textbook.
Moreover, the young nib did the hard work of bouncing straight back up, as per all those countless drills one sees pre-match and in training and whatnot; but then simply stood and watched as the rebound was rolled past him. Forsooth. It summoned up the very worst of Hugo Lloris, and did little for the AANP mood.
As with Bergvall, young Master Kinsky will no doubt have numerous fine occasions to relate to his grandchildren in years to come, but when the chap does bungle them he does so pretty spectacularly, what?
3. Gray as Captain
Now the main point about the choice of captain should of course be that it makes not the slightest jot of difference to things. One really ought not to need one specific chappie to have an armband on his bicep; the whole dashed gang ought to be vocal and responsible and whatever else.
However, if one takes the view that a team is built in the image of its captain, then the good ship lilywhite was in trouble right from the centre circle preliminaries yesterday. Archie Gray strikes me as the sort one wouldn’t mind one’s daughter inviting over for Sunday lunch, he seeming a pleasant, clean-living sort. When it comes to wearing the armband for Spurs however, I want my captains to be the species of man who sweats blood and staggers on come hell or high water. Archie Gray, for all his merits, looks rather like he might burst into tears if he finds he’s forgotten bring his lunchbox along for the day.
There is a wider context to this. Bafflingly, Our Glorious Leader selected no fewer than five captains, pre-match. While not exactly De Zerbi’s first mis-step, this did strike me as one of the more pointless gambits of the his tenure. Might as well tell all eleven that they’re captains, what?
Anyway, select five captains he did, and this being Spurs the first four were all injured. Rudimentary maths therefore dictated that Archie Gray take the honour, but I spent a goodish amount of time chuntering that it ought to have been Andy Robertson.
When he signed, a month or two back, I was absolutely delighted. Here was a chap, famed for chewing glass and taking all-comers with his bare hands, arrived to toughen up our notoriously feeble and brittle band of toothless kittens. I’d have thought the first job of those in the corridors of power would have been to slap a captain’s armband on him and tell him, “Ho for the hills.”
Make no mistake, while still vaguely capable, Robertson is past his pomp. He was signed as much for the attitude he instils as for any playing ability that can still be eked from his frame. So when the principals were absent, the decision to make Archie Gray the standard bearer, and elbow Robertson off into the shadows, struck me as a tad rummy. Put another way, I know who I’d have preferred screaming his Henry V in my ear pre-match.
4. Silver Linings
On the bright side, once 3-0-and-a-post down, our lot bucked up somewhat.
I was quite taken by the boy Senesi, in the second half at least. He struck me as what Romero might have been, had he been possessed of even half an ounce of sense in that vacant skull of his. Senesi seemed aggressive without been an absolute dolt. A tough sort of cookie, but not the T.S.O.C. who thought he had to clatter someone abaft the knees in order to prove the point.
Pleasingly, I also noted that van Hecke did not shirk the opportunity to take a hearty boot flush in the face, in the midst of the first half collapse. As a pair they did, understandably, come across as strangers acquainted for the first time; but as individuals, each seems a chap well versed in the art of centre backery.
Also in the debit column, Matheus Fernandes was pretty neat and tidy. Which is not saying much, but having witnessed Bergvall gift away possession like it was a competition, and Tonali doing his best to convince us all it’s an elaborate ruse involving a pub-team doppelganger, I took what small wins I could, and Fernandes’ performance was one of them.
I’d like to say that Tel had his moments in the second half; but in truth the underwhelming probably outweighed the half-decent from him. There wasn’t much to brighten the soul, the sounding of the final whistle probably constituting the only real highlight.
All that said, however, after one or two games last season we had beaten the champions, were near enough at the top of the table and that Reijnders fellow was being feted far and wide as the best midfielder ever. The point being that the opening weeks of the season are mysterious times that can make us do daft things. Let’s see how we fare in the coming weeks, before we commit ourselves to 17th again.