Connor Gallagher – All Action, No Plot

Spurs 2-2 Man City: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. Solanke

My Spurs-supporting chum Ian can be an emotional sort of egg when it comes to all matters lilywhite, but even so, I’ve always found it a tad odd that he harbours a deep dislike of Dominic Solanke. In fact, so intense is this aversion to the chap that he typically refers to him as the English Dirk Kuyt – and let’s face it, there is really no interpretation of that particular moniker that can be seen as a compliment.

Anyway, I’ve personally always been rather fond of Solanke myself, probably to a greater extent than he’s ever actually merited, primarily on the grounds that, in terms of build, he strikes me as resembling a sturdy tree trunk. Some may shoot the unconvinced glass at that one, but AANP’s mind is made up. This is the quality to which all self-respecting centre-forwards should aspire, and it was on display yesterday for the first of his double.

Now every spare column inch going has been stuffed to the gills with praise for his second, and while I’m as happy as the next man to offer a generous hand for anyone who can backheel a volley mid-air on a Sunday afternoon, in truth it has made little lastingimpression upon me. It was all a bit improvised, and owed far too much to closing one’s eyes and blindly wafting. A Van de Ven length-of-the-pitch effort it was not. In fact, I consider Palhinha’s overhead the other week to have had more juice to it, that having been very clearly intended, having been a recognised technique and having been illustrated by history to have been a dashed difficult routine to execute.

Whereas Solanke’s was the footballing equivalent of closing the eyes and swinging the bat. All good wholesome fun of course, but I suppose I just prefer my football to be a bit more obviously football-related. Solanke’s finish, while perfectly legal, seemed more something born of interpretative dance.

Over in this quarter, I was far more taken by his man-handling of the Khusanov chap, during the construction phase of his first goal. To remind, young Simons popped over one of those little outside-of-the-boot numbers, and Solanke set about gathering it in, with Khusanov dutifully trotting over to poke his nose in and try to interfere.

And it was at this point that AANP swooned somewhat, because Solanke proceeded simply to swat Khusanov aside like he was an annoying younger brother in the back garden. It may have lacked the finesse and gymnastics of the second, and been considerably more brutish and unrefined, but the ability to manhandle an opponent out of the way is one of the qualities I most deeply cherish in a striker.

Frankly, Solanke is so often absent that one rather forgets what qualities he does and does not possess, but there was certainly a warm reassurance about this display of brawn. I’m of the opinion that any striker worth his salt ought really to be able to muscle opponents out of the way and generally be a bit of a physical nuisance in the penalty area.

He had much to do thereafter, of course, and funnily enough I considered that his actual finish ought to have been flagged as a very 21^st century transgression, and disallowed. Certainly, if roles had been reversed and Guehi had lunged through the back of his calf, I’d have howled for a penalty long into the night. But the goal stood, and a certain smugness descended onto the AANP features and camped in for the night, for as mentioned, I’ve a fondness for Solanke, and this brief combination of brawn and technique seemed to demonstrate what we’ve been missing atop the tree so far this season.

Of course, however, this being Spurs, Solanke’s evening ended with him traipsing off injured.

2. Simons

I mentioned above that he created our first goal with a little sprinkling of elan, and Simons generally bobbed about the place pretty usefully last night.

He deserves a tip of the cap in the first place for being the only one of our number who showed any particular lust for the occasion in the first half, but in the second, as everyone else bucked up their ideas, he put on another of those showings that does seem to emanate from his size sevens when the mood grips him and the stars align.

Being of slender build and not yet sufficiently ripened for the rough and tumble world of English top-flight jousting, Simons does still have a tendency to be knocked from his moorings and sent hurtling up into the air. As well as requiring a considerable amount more meat on his bones, I sometimes wonder if he might also adjust his mindset, perhaps to ready himself for incoming boots and elbows, and evade them as appropriate.

However, one can rarely fault his eagerness. Simons is certainly not one to seek out a quiet corner of the pitch and fade into the background. If the ball is in play, he will generally wave an arm or two requesting it be posted his way, and once it arrives he seems to brim with positive intent, being one of those nibs blessed with the bright idea that the best thing to do with a ball at one’s feet is start haring off towards the opposition goal.

There have been a few mixed reviews for the fellow so far, and I suppose one of those tough old beaks with inscrutable stares would judge that some days he’s been effective and other days entirely not so; but there seems to be enough about Simons to hope that in time he can bed in and become a useful sort of cog.

3. Dragusin

We probably ought really to give young Dragusin a hearty round of applause for having the gumption to pull on the shirt and trot out there to take on Erling Haaland of all people, in his first match in a year or so.

But we lilywhites are unforgiving folk, and at AANP Towers we’re the least forgiving of the lot, so the groans were sounding bright and early in proceedings once Dragusin got involved, and frankly it all felt like he’d never been away.

With Cherki bearing down on goal for the opener, one might have hoped our man could have imposed himself upon the situation to some extent, or at least dangled a meaningful limb in the way of the incoming shot. Instead, the chap opted to try drifting out of existence altogether, and in a move that surprised precisely none of the gathered masses, Cherki belted the ball through him as if he weren’t there.

Shortly afterwards Haaland shoved him aside, in a neat precursor to Solanke’s Khusanov moment, before lobbing the ball onto the roof of the net; and our man then compounded things by spooning the ball straight to Silva, deep inside our half, for the City second.

To repeat, the whole sorry affair can probably be excused on the grounds that here was a vehicle clearly not yet ready for public performance; I suppose the worry is that even at peak fitness, he rarely seems suited for the rigours of the Premier League. Frustrating, because I recall Dragusin putting in a decent turn for Romania in the last Euros; and rather alarming, because the infirmary is spilling over with the walking wounded, at the latest count three of whom were centre-backs.

4. An Odd Second Half Turnaround

If you’ve reached this far down the page and are now licking your lips in anticipation of a forensic going-over of our second half transformation, I’m afraid I have bad news to impart. Fun though it was to watch our lot claw their way back into things, I couldn’t for the life of me tell you what specifically prompted it all.

It’s certainly not the first time this season that our heroes have waited until the opposition have run away with things, and the devoted followers have vented a decent amount of spleen, before sparking into life and belting out a few rousing numbers. I’m not sure I entirely endorse the approach, but I suppose a spot of second half vim is better than no vim at all.

The swapping of Romero for Sarr was the obvious tactical tweak, as we switched to a pleasingly old-fashioned 4-4-2, but frankly I’m not sure that this new-fangled formation was the driving force behind the comeback. This seemed more a case of our lot just racing about the pitch like their lives depended on it, and in a manner completely at odds with the first half.

There was much to admire about Connor Gallagher chasing down two City players and emerging with the ball, before doing some more haring – towards the area – until he could hare no more, and pinged his cross Solanke-wards, for our second. If you excuse me once again glossing over the Solanke acrobatics, the revving up of the Gallagher engine seemed to capture the essence of our second half performance. From nowhere, our lot just seemed to apply themselves rather more.

And while one wants therefore to applaud them all, and bottle that second half to uncork it afresh next weekend, the lingering poser does remain, of why they have to wait until half-time – and until trailing by two – before bothering to compete. I can’t help thinking that Thomas Frank is as clueless as I am about all this, but it’s another stay of execution.

Frankfurt 0-2 Spurs: Three (Tardy) Tottenham Talking Points

1. European Joys vs Domestic Woes

As distracting sub-plots go, this business of Sauntering-Through-The-CL-While-Falling-Off-A-Cliff-In-The-PL is rapidly gaining in intrigue.

First things first, and it should be meaningful handshakes and measured eye contact all round – both for the players who went out and ticked all the required boxes, and, I suppose, for Our Glorious Leader, who politely presents himself for the hurling of rotten fruit when things go awry, so probably deserves a nod of acknowledgement when we somehow emerge as fourth best in the whole continent, if you can rub your eyes and believe that.

The next thing to do would be to deal with the resident grumps who wander the joint tutting and shaking their heads at AANP as he tries to enjoy a long-awaited celebratory drink. This mob, last seen complaining that winning a European trophy didn’t count because the Final was a dull watch, have now piped up to moan that all the sides we played in this season’s European jaunt were rubbish, so really we should shut down the whole operation and hang our heads in shame.

With that out the way, we can try tackling square on the issue of why we stink in domestic competition, but shine pretty brightly overseas. For while Frankfurt and Dortmund are hardly tearing up the Bundesliga, one would think that if we can swat them aside gently enough then we ought to be able to find a way past Burnley, Wolves et al.

And the consensus here seems to be some rambling about the physicality of the Premier League. Whereas in the Champions League the loose gist is to make pretty patterns and then pop the ball in the net when the mood takes, the Premier League these days seems to resemble more closely one of those dreadful military workout sessions one hears about, in which burly men slog away at all manner of perspiration-drenched physical activities, with fun at an absolute minimum and the winner being whichever dull sap makes it to the end without dying. And our lot, bless their cotton socks, seem rather less inclined towards the rigours of the latter than the former.

It probably also helps that the CL gangs tend not to be so preoccupied with setting up in defensive formation and bedding in for the evening, but generally seem a tad more expansive in their outlook on life. Provides a bit more operating space once we are in possession, so the sages say.

This is all just fanciful, whiskey-fuelled conjecture from an amateur of course, and greater minds than mine have no doubt pored over the performances domestically and abroad, but the point is that the last couple of European jollies could not have been in greater contradistinction to the domestic ploddings. Night and day about sums it up.

2. Palhinha (and Others)

No shortage of bright and breezy performances on Wednesday night, what?

Young Spence’s impression of Gareth Bale continues in earnest if imperfect fashion. To be quite honest, the fellow seems to me to need to put in a bit more time studying his Substance-to-Style ratio, but with Frankfurt defenders obligingly missing their tackles and careering off in the wrong directions, Spence was generally able to enjoy himself, and that’s not something we say too often about our heroes these days.

Messrs Odobert and Simons similarly seemed to clock pretty swiftly that this was a night to make merry, so it was the care-free versions of both who scampered hither and thither. I did shoot a pretty withering glance in Simons’ direction for that curious dance, after the early, disallowed goal, his rhythmic swayings suggesting that he was putting a dashed sight more time and effort into celebrating goals than creating them. However, he gets a pass from AANP for spending the rest of the night displaying his better traits.

You knew that it was all a bit of a stroll when a persona non grata like Pape Sarr could be hauled back into action and generally looked not too far out of place. A little rusty around the edges perhaps, but he didn’t lack any of that traditional boyish enthusiasm, and on a day on which all but one of the subs were younglings, it was pretty dashed handy to be able to summon him back from whichever storage unit has housed him for the last six months or so.

Oddly enough, the chappie who caught my eye was João Palhinha of all people. Not that he was particularly exceptional (and indeed, he blotted an otherwise clean copybook with his late chopping of Frankfurt legs to earn himself a yellow card), or in any way more eye-catching than the rest of the troupe.

Rather, it was the fact that he drew the short straw and had to square peg his way into the right of the centre-back three that earned the approving AANP nod. Crucially, one wouldn’t really have known that this was not his natural habitat. One rather hopes not to notice one’s centre-backs over the course of a game, this generally being a useful indicator of the dirty work being done with minimal fuss; and thus it transpired.

When the occasional wobble did occur, it seemed if anything to happen closer to the Danso-Romero corner of the defence (such as the random one-on-one before half-time that hit the bar). Palhinha simply put his head down and neat-and-tidied the night away.

3. Transfers (Or Lack Thereof)

So top marks to all concerned, particularly given that we were essentially down to the last 12 first teamers; but with the dust having settled – and indeed, even when the dust was still airborne and dancing about the place – the nagging question sprung to mind of how we had let it come to this.

And by ‘this’ I refer specifically to the situation of going into a match with only 12 first teamers to call upon. A charming throwback to the early ‘80s it might have been, but if another one or two of our lot had limped off stage early on in the piece we might have found ourselves in almighty pickle.

Injuries happen, of course, but I seem to recall that Vinai chap – our CEO, don’t you know – and perhaps one or two of cronies, suggesting at some point in the summer/autumn months, the general notion that wads of cash were going to be squirted at the squad as required. Indeed, I’m absolutely certain I heard talk, at one stage, of “competing on four fronts”.

This being the first January window of the new (or post-Levy) regime, I had peered with some curiosity towards the back pages, to see what this new approach would mean in practice. And while Connor Gallagher seems a decent sort of bobbie, who will constantly run if awake; and the 17 year-old left-back from Brazil presumably has a heartwarming personal tale to tell; I’m not sure that these two signings and an unsuccessful chat with Andy Robertson are really transforming the place as Vinai’s early-season witterings had hinted. Probably best for now just to bask in the Champions League glow for another day or two.