Tag: Dominic Solanke

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Spurs match reports

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 21st 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.  

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 2-0 Dortmund: Five Tottenham Talking Points

1. What The Devil Just Happened?

Spurs could be accused of many things – and goodness knows so far this season there have been all manner of unrepeatables from this particular quarter – but I certainly did not expect to sit here today scratching the head and digesting a rip-snorter of a performance (or half a performance, I suppose).

But there it was, for all the world to see. The defensive bods pottered about with a collective, calm reassurance of which few would have though them capable; and further north just about every cast member tore about the place with gusto, fully getting into the spirit of things with a whole range of slick passes, intelligent runs and, when occasion demanded, quick-footed trickery. If you rubbed your eyes, and gazed around in wonder, and ultimately poured yourself a dram because how else to react to such unexpected revelry, then you weren’t alone.

So a tip of the hat, no doubt – but towards whom, exactly? Well the players were marvellous, in that first half, so they can have all the backslaps going. Absolute blighters like Pedro Porro, who have studiously been slamming their crosses anywhere but the appropriate spot, suddenly started delivering the goods like billy-o. With every one of the ten outfield mob hitting their own respective heights (alas, my only first half memory of Vicario was his panicked little tap-dance inside his own area), the net result was that a pretty bricks-and-mortar Dortmund outfit was absolutely blown away by the shock and awe of it all.

2. Our Glorious Leader

The question I toss this way and that in my mind, therefore, regards the extent to which rose petals can be strewn in the direction of our resident Commander-in-Chief. Poor old T. Frank Esq. comes across as one of the nicest men around, which would please his parents no doubt, but in the field of Overseeing Affairs at the Great Madhouse of N17 he has to date been pretty seriously wanting, delivering on that early promise that we would definitely lose matches, and not much beyond that.

As such I’ve been scouring last night’s performance (or, more accurately, desperately trying to recall the various constituent parts) for traces of the Frank DNA.

For a start there was what looked suspiciously like a switch to three at the back, with Udogie surreptitiously tucking in alongside the more bona fide centre-back sorts, and Djed Spence running riot up the left flank, the moniker “Wing-Back” etched all over him.

And atop the tree, a spot of gravitas was added by the sight of half-man, half-machine Dominic Solanke bludgeoning aside those in front of him.

Whether or not Herre Frank can take credit for these tactical masterstrokes is subject to red-hot debate. The sight of a substitutes’ bench rammed choc-full of chappies plucked from the playground of the nearest secondary school gave a spot of hard evidence to the injury crisis about the place. As such, a lot of the decision-making conundrum was presumably removed from the Frank loaf. One might argue that as the rules stipulated he had to field eleven, and he had at his disposal only twelve recognised protagonists, the selection process rather took care of itself.

Similarly, whole dissertations could be penned on the extent to which Djed Spence’s left-wing gallops, or the immaculately timed one-two between Odobert and Porro for our second, were born of direct instruction from on high.

The official AANP verdict is titled ‘This is Not Frank’s Masterpiece Yet, Sonny Jimbo’, followed by the explanatory sub-heading, ‘One Swallow Doth Not a Summer Make’. And when a fellow sums up his thinking as well as that, I think he’s entitled to a quiet smile and a congratulatory splash of liquid gold; but lest there still be any confusion, I’ll add that I’d want to see a bit more evidence of a turnaround than one single half of top-notch football, especially as the mentality became oddly muted in the second half.

3. Spence

Depending on whose opinion you drink in, last night’s stand-out performer could have been Xavi Simons or could have been Pedro Porro, but the AANP eye was undoubtedly caught by Djed Spence and has numerous sashays down the left.

If you wear boots of different colours, and meet with triumph and disaster with the same languid shrug of the shoulders, you dashed well need to churn out left-wingery of the highest order, and Spence duly unveiled some of his finest work yet. It may be that detailed analysis reveals that the diverting runs of supporting cast members either side of him were crucial in creating space for him – but in real-time I allowed myself the pleasure of simply sitting back and being entertained, and in this respect the Spence cup overflowed splendidly.

Some of the more over-eager and enjoyment-starved amongst our number wasted little time in comparing Spence’s little left-wing recital to that of Gareth Bale a decade or so back, and while we can probably all be forgiven for a little giddiness of the head in reaction to last night,  it was nevertheless a treat to witness one of our number causing havoc in opposition ranks seemingly at will.

Whether or not Spence gets to peddle his wares again from that particular station remains to be seen (and similarly, a sliver of intrigue has been added to our weekend engagement at Burnley, to see whether the tweaked formation is cleaned, pressed and re-used), but either way, and intriguing string appears to have been added to the Spence bow.

4. Solanke

I mentioned above that Solanke gave the Dortmund defence a bit of a buffeting, and personally I was all for it. Richarlison may be our top-scorer, and Kolo Muani’s star continues to burn brighter than it probably should at AANP Towers due to that fabulous brace against PSG, but Solanke is the man who tugs at AANP’s attacking heartstrings.

When Solanke leads the press, he gives the impression of doing so with meaning. I watch him hare off towards whichever centre-back is in possession and am struck by the thought that here strides a man fully invested in his task. On top of which, on a more practical level, any defender possessed of sound mind, on seeing 6 feet and 15 stone of pure Solanke come hurtling towards him, will presumably know what’s good for him and ship out the ball elsewhere pronto.

I’ve heard it said by the sages who’ve been around a bit that the only thing better than a good manager is a lucky manager, and if that pearl of wisdom is roughly copy-pasted towards a striker one can applaud Solanke for finding a way to deposit the ball into the net last night.

Well might he have chortled in the aftermath, for it was a manoeuvre that displayed all the poise and grace of a newborn foal with a deep suspicion of its own limbs. Nevertheless, I have seen enough great strikers in lilywhite to appreciate that if one simply arrives at the appropriate coordinates and at the appointed hour, then much of the battle is already won. Who knows, with Solanke at the apex, perhaps Thomas Frank’s cross-dependent approach might have some mileage in it yet.

5. Danso

And before signing off, a gentle word of commendation for young Master Danso, who quietly slotted into defence, did everything asked of him with all the unfussy assurance of a seasoned regular, and will presumably slot back out again at the weekend.

It was the sort of performance that might easily have gone entirely unnoticed, particularly in the first half, when all the excitement was focused on matters 30 or 40 yards up the pitch.

But if Dortmund started to gain ideas above their station, and give an exploratory poke at our half of the pitch, Danso was happy to give a polite cough and step in to put an end to any dissent. He might not necessarily be blessed with VDV’s pace or Romero’s lust for high-speed collisions, but as first reserve centre-backs go, the chap is starting to win me over.

As mentioned at the outset, a collective performance like that might well prompt a whole range of fresh questions about the immediate future at N17 – but perhaps it is best for now simply to enjoy the good times while they last.

RIP AANP Senior – first-hand witness of the Double-winners, Jimmy Greaves fanboy and lifelong lilywhite.

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Spurs match reports

Monaco 0-0 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. Not The Finest Hour of Our Glorious Leader

I don’t know if you’re one of those sorts who goes in for karmic retribution – which I believe is the concept that if rotten luck befalls you then it’s just a spot of cosmic justice being meted out that you jolly well deserved in the first place – but with my eyes glazing over and my will to leave departing my soul last night, I did wonder what the hell I’d done, in this life or a previous one, to deserve the dreadful dirge on offer.

This apparently was our first nil-nil in well over 100 games, since that wretched night when our heroes collectively gave up against AC Milan, so it took some doing. In fact, I thought that nil-nil flattered us. Just plain ‘nil’ on its own would have summed up this garbage just as well.

Our Glorious Leader, as ever, was his usual, relentlessly sunny self when it came to the post-match waffle. He’s a likeable sort of egg – not that that is either here nor there – and after just 12 games one still ought to just wave him along and let him get on with things. Moreover, we remain without a couple of key personnel, and it’s on nights like this that the absence stings particularly, of Solanke up top to hold up the ball and drag his chums up the pitch, or Romero at the back to get the ball rolling from the back, as it were.

All that said, however, some of his selections do verge on the squiffy. I suppose he would justify Gray at left-back on the grounds that he’s a versatile young thing, and Spence needed a rest; but this insistence on both Bentancur and Palhinha sitting deep as a non-committal twosome is a tad wearying.

Either way, we failed to land a glove upon a Monaco defence that had yet to keep a clean sheet this season, and that relies upon Eric Dier of all people to hold the back-line together. Another of the likeable contingent, no doubt, but when Dier’s the big defensive absence one ought to lick the lips and rub the hands at the prospect.

Anyway, we somehow snuck out with a clean sheet and a point, and this slightly misleading statistical entry was in keeping with events so far this season, in which we haven’t been particularly good at any point, but continue to rack up reasonable-looking takeaways.

2. Vicario

No doubt about the standout performer last night, Vicario earning the full monthly envelope in the space of one 90-minute display. A timely innings it was too, as the chap has started to attract some pointed looks and uncensored critique in recent weeks.

His early weeks of this season have seen him pat a few too many efforts back into the path of trouble; and then on Sunday he provided a bit more ammunition for the naysayers, leading with his wrong hand for the Rogers goal, and then not bothering to go with either hand for the Buendia goal but instead giving it his best Lloris impression and watching the ball fly past him.

Anyway, last night he decided that he would deign to move in the direction of incoming shots after all, and evidently bitten by the bug couldn’t stop doing it once he’d started. Nine saves in total, apparently, and while I suppose one or two might have been of the gentler variety, I greeted numerous of them with that mixture of relief and pleasant surprise that indicates that these were not all run-of-the-mill numbers, but involved a fair amount of nifty reflex and full-body extension.

These days goalkeepers seem to be judged by just about every metric except their ability to save incoming shots, so there was a certain satisfaction in brushing away thoughts about his distribution and conduct at corners and so forth, and simply applauding the fellow for diving hither and thither to keep the ball out.

3. Slip Pickings Elsewhere On The Pitch

At this point in proceedings I generally like to pour myself an additional splash of the old nectar, think back to some of the other highlights and prattle on a bit about whichever members of the troop caught the eye. A certain impediment hoves into view this time, however, namely that the entire collective was in ghastly form last night.

I suppose in the first half one could engineer a spot of positivity. Odobert, for example, looked as threatening as he has done for us since arriving, at least until it came to adding a finishing touch to the build-up.

That left side of attack remains an elusive sort of spot, with gumboils like Johnson and Simons going through the motions but giving the distinct impression that whatever the question, they are not the answer. Odobert still ought to have the words “Work In Progress” stamped in sizeable red font across his frame, but in the first half at least he looked promising.

Also in the first half, Archie Gray initially seemed to be setting himself up for an eye-catching night’s work. He was pretty diligent when it came to popping up conveniently in the background to politely clear his throat and bail out a chum in trouble; and he put his heart and soul into a number of supporting dashes up the left flank, each of which were rather cruelly ignored by Odobert but which nevertheless served some purpose in creating space.

However, as and when he got down to the actual meaty business of applying boot to ball, his evening slightly fell apart, as he started dishing out errant passes. He was no worse than anyone else clad in dreamy black, but having looked the part in those early moments I cast him some hurt looks thereafter, like those of a jilted ex, upon seeing him fail to live up to the billing.

Early days, I suppose, both in the Champions League and more broadly, but while one imagines that the produce will improve in quality in the long-term, as all concerned learn each others’ names and begin to feel more comfortable in the Tottenham garb, in the short-term I do tense up somewhat and wonder where the hell any improvement will come from by the weekend.

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Aston Villa 2-0 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.

Apologies for the tardiness, you know how life is. However, even two sleeps later, one struggles to nail down the silver linings from this one.

Admittedly, this was another fixture quite unashamedly shoved into the “Doesn’t Matter, Don’t Care” pot by Our Glorious Leader – and after the Dejan Kulusevski Episode against Palace the previous week, one did understand his thinking.

Now it is true that our players don’t actually need to be playing competitive matches to pick up their injuries. For instance, our newly-minted Player of the Season, young Bergvall, apparently rolled his ankle on the training pitch. A few months back Solanke’s knee fell off whilst similarly scampering about the roomy pitches of Hotspur Way. One might therefore argue that it was all well and good slapping Romero and VDV in cryo-chambers during the Villa game, and sealing closed the lids, just to make absolutely sure, but merely removing them from the Premier League arena is no guarantee that a piano won’t fall from the sky and onto one of their heads between now and Wednesday night in Bilbao.

However, one still understood Ange’s mentality, having seen the Kulusevski frame irreparably damaged 20 minutes into a meaningless fixture last weekend. With all eggs firmly wedged in the Europa basket there was no way he was going to risk his most prized – and brittle – assets in the final meaningless fixture before Wednesday. Any slightest inclination he might have had towards giving Romero and VDV a chance to break sweat on Friday night would have gone up in a puff of smoke the moment Kulusevski limped off.

Thus it transpired that Mikey Moore was ushered back into the first team changing room. If anyone amongst us had ever taken a look at a new-born foal clambering gingerly to its legs, and immediately written off its chances of surviving more than five minutes in the unforgiving surrounds of the Serengeti, they would have known how to feel when watching young M.M. take to the pitch for kick-off.

Similarly, Sergio Reguilon was reawakened from hibernation, dragged back into the sunlight and told to lace up his boots and blend in with the others as best he could for an hour. Ange could not have made it more obvious that he was fielding the reserves if he had taken out a double-page spread in The Times to advertise the fact.

As it happened, in the first half this assorted crew of outcasts and reserves muddle through. Note the absence of adverb, mind – it would be a stretch to suggest that they muddle through ‘with elan’, or ‘exceptionally well’. One might suggest that they held up an end, if you don’t mind a spot of cricketing parlance. They spat on their hands and toiled away.

To their credit they carried out instructions about as well as could have been hoped, preventing Villa from scoring, albeit this also owed something to some errant finishing and one or two smart-ish stops from young Kinsky. But if the last words ringing in their ears prior to kick-off had been “Try to avoid complete humiliation” then they could probably have patted one another’s backs at half-time on a box emphatically ticked.

In fact, if anything we looked slightly likelier than Villa to score in that first half, in one of those quirks of football that come about when you defend deep for 10 minutes at a time. Every now and then when we cleared our lines it transpired that the Villa mob had inadvertently wandered so high up the pitch that there were actually inviting counter-attack opportunities. Our attacking mob being nothing if not blessed with a spot of pace, this caused a spot of panic for Villa as they rushed back and our heroes came within one well-picked pass of taking the lead.

In a nutshell, that first half struck me as the sort of thing one would get if Nuno were back in charge and had the troops well drilled. Rather a far cry from Angeball, but this is where we find ourselves, what?

The wheels came off somewhat in the second half, as some rather basic defensive lapses let Villa pinch their goals and kill things off. One can wheeze on a little longer about the performance, but it would be pretty redundant because this was never really about the performance itself, but about the wider context – viz. injuries, and, frankly, the general passage of time until Wednesday night.

2. Son

I alluded above to the sense that there were so few silver linings that one could count them on the fingers of one hand and still have surplus. However, AANP is the sort of chap who likes to dwell on the positives, and in the extended cameo from Son one could probably puff out the cheeks with a bit of relief.

For a start, when exiting the stage he was able to do so of his own means and without the need for any medical interjection. ‘Sportsman Leaves Pitch Unaided’ might not sound like the most gripping headline to hook the masses, but at N17 these days it is a bit of an event, and given that this was only his second match back the odds on him emerging unscathed were short enough to have onlookers holding their breath.

And frankly, simply making it that far without slumping to the turf with some unspecified ailment would have sufficed. He need not have touched the ball at all throughout his innings. Walking off unaided having scampered around for an hour would have been marked down as a firm win by the club’s data analysts and medical team.  

As it happened though, Sonny delivered far more than this. He actually displayed a burst of pace that had the opposing full-back regularly panicking – and if that statement has a slightly retro feel to it, it will be because it’s one of the phrases I pulled from the attic and had to blow the dust off before using, having last written it some time back in the 2024/25 season.

And yet there it was, in glorious technicolour, and on more than one occasion. Son would be released around the halfway line, and in rather charming, nostalgic manner, swiftly went through the gears until he was tearing away towards the Villa penalty area.

Admittedly, he tended to make the wrong decision once he reached his destination, his attempts to crown proceedings with an appropriate coup de grace tending to result in a pass behind the accompanying strikers and a lot of arms flung in the air from all concerned – but one thing at a time, what? Having spent all season moaning that the chap’s inner fires have diminished alarmingly, and that he seemed barely able to accelerate beyond a trot, the sight of him whizzing up the flank again was as encouraging as it as startling.

3. The Formation

Beyond the healthy return of Son, however, there was precious little else about which to register signs of life, let alone enthusiasm. Kinsky, I suppose, performed reasonably enough, which is to say that he made saves one would expect a sentient goalkeeper to make. Danso, although hardly the second coming of Toby or Jan, seemed at least to understand the basic requirements of the role.

As mentioned above, poor old Mikey Moore had a tough time of things as the realisation quickly dawned that being a boy in a man’s world is not all japes and frolics. Moore’s struggles to make any sort of imprint on the game without being promptly swatted away by a burly Villa sort struck me as a useful salutary lesson, not just for those amongst us who have called for his regular inclusion (a group amongst whom I often number), but also those who, in a fit of pique and despair, stamp their feet a bit and call for the regular mob to be jettisoned and the kids to be given a chance.

As much as anything else, casting the beady eye over Friday’s proceedings had me wondering quite what formation will be adopted on Wednesday night. Ange seems to have struck oil in Europe with the deployment of two holding midfielders in front of the back-four, roles performed with surprising authority by Messrs Bentancur and Bissouma.

The problems begin, however, further north. With Maddison and Kulusevski out of the picture, the question of who else to throw in there has the brightest minds chewing the lip and scratching the old loaf. Sarr is presumably the next cab on the rank, but an attacking, Number 10 sort of fish he most decidedly is not; so if he played, what would this do to the formation?

A case could be made for dropping Sarr deeper and deploying Bentancur in the more attacking spot, as I recall he did reasonably well in the last World Cup for Uruguay; but this would represent a rather sudden and experimental deviation from the norm.

At times against Villa we appeared to morph gently towards a rather old-fashioned 4-4-2, with Tel supporting Odobert in attack. While this has a certain charm, it again would represent one heck of a gamble. I mean, unveiling a shiny new formation, barely tried and expected to produce the goods in a Cup Final, seems a bit rich, don’t you think? Moreover, donning the tactical hat, a 4-4-2 could potentially leave our heroes outnumbered in midfield – and let’s face it, our midfield has not exactly been Fort Knox even when manned by a trio.

And yet, in terms of personnel, we seem best stocked for some such Two-Upfront jamboree, with either Richarlison, Odobert or Tel at least available to support Solanke. Put another way, the cup overfloweth with forwards, whilst in the realm of attacking midfielders we are decidedly less well equipped.

I don’t really envy Our Glorious Leader having to rearrange the pieces for this one, as whatever he chooses it seems likely that he won’t be able to avoid having to gamble with someone or other in an unfamiliar role. The post-semi final optimism at AANP Towers took a bit of a battering with the injuries to Maddison and then Kulusevski. It’s hope rather than expectation over here.

All pretty dashed exciting though. A European final, and against an eminently-beatable – if challenging – opponent cannot fail to get the juices flowing. For the next few days at least, we can all wave away the League concerns and managerial grumbling, and instead rub the hands in glee and do a spot of dreaming.

COYS!

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Bodo Glimt 0-2 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

It seems the Postecoglou era could be coming to an end – and possibly even with a trophy, egads! Relive the start of the Ange era with AANP’s latest book ‘All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season’, out now for just £7.99 from Amazon (ebook from £6.99) – while Spurs’ Cult Heroes is also still available

1. The Strange Case of Spurs’ Europa League and Premier League Performances

AANP likes to pass the occasional hour reading the odd spot of make-believe don’t you know, and has previously cast the eye over a corking story in which a respectable chappie called Dr Jekyll – you know the literary sort, one of those fine, upstanding, pillars of the community – drinks one of those elixirs that only ever seems to pop up in works of fiction, and finds that it transforms him into a less savoury egg – more the murderous and rampaging type of soul – who’d be found in the electoral register under ‘Hyde’.

I mention this because each time I witness our heroes switch from Premier League mode to Europa League mode, and then revert back again, I am reminded of the old Jekyll-Hyde switcheroo, albeit with fewer mysterious elixirs splashing about the place. As with Dr J. and Mr H., the performances of our lot on Thursday nights and then at weekends would have Scotland Yard’s finest scratching heads and chewing pencils like nobody’s business.

Take last night. As in the away leg to Frankfurt, there seemed to be an executive decision, made at the top level and bought into unconditionally by all about the place, to shrug off the whole Dominating Possession lark. Week after week, our lot have hogged the ball and invited everyone on the pitch to don their attacking hats, but ultimately fouled up the op. Last night, however, the gist of things seemed loosely to be let the attackers do the bulk of the attacking, and have other members of the squadron take up their own, separate projects, in more cerebral manner.

And frankly, seeing that level of good sense and prudence from a Tottenham Hotspur team made me feel light-headed. It was all most peculiar. If four decades of supporting our lot have taught me anything, it is that success is not sensibly earned, but stumbled upon, by virtue of somehow emerging better off after 90 minutes of chaos. Call it the ‘All Action No Plot’ way, if you will.

For some reason, last night and in general when off on the European jollies, this decision not to try dominating possession became the crux of the whole thing. Rather than having everyone tear up the pitch, leaving the sole remaining defenders (typically two centre-backs and a hapless midfielder) manning the rear with a cheery “What’s the worst that can happen?”, when in Europe all concerned are invited to think deeply about the connotations of losing possession, and take all manner of precautions as a result.

Solanke charged off on the press like a bloodhound with a specified scent in his nostrils, and those nearest him dutifully followed his lead, but if that initial press failed then those stationed further south had the barricades up and planks of wood nailed across the doors for good measure. “If you want to score”, seemed to be the lilywhite chorus, “you’re going to have to work dashed hard to do so.”

Not that this was Jose-, Conte- or Nuno-era football that made the eyes bleed and had me begging to be put out of my misery. A tad more sensible, certainly; but gnaw-off-your-own-arm-because-of-the-dull-defensiveness-of-it-all this was not.

Last night, as against Frankfurt, the finest eyes and steadiest hands on the planet could not have created a better balance. In fact, the balance last night was decidedly better than at Frankfurt, when we rather lived on the edge in the final 15 or so. Last night we didn’t give Bodo a sniff, and what goalmouth chatter there was happened up at their end.

Why those gentle tweaks cannot be implemented in the Premier League hurly-burly does make one scratch the bean a bit, but 19 defeats later here we are. A case has been made that domestic opponents are rather less generous in their on-pitch approach to life than Europa teams. English teams, goes the narrative, will approach each innings in more rough-and-tumble style – aided by referees who prefer to live and let live – whereas on the continent both the conduct of opponents and those who oversee matters is all a tad more genteel, meaning that a more considered approach can be adopted.

Of course, the counter-argument here is that AANP might be spouting gubbins, and I’d have to admit that history at least sits pretty firmly in this camp. The whole thing does make me stare off thoughtfully into the mid-distance though.

2. The Curious Media Narrative Ahead of This One

Another punchy number to emerge last night was that Bodo’s much-vaunted home record went poof! and disappeared. Here, however, I’m not so much staggering about the place in a joyous daze, as wondering what the hell all the fuss was about in the first place.

It all started when we let in their goal at our place a week ago. The media narrative that accompanied that goal was so morbid that one would have thought the dissolution of the club had been announced. I suppose telly bods have to drum up a spot of excitement, so the chorus was parroted away with increasing urgency that a mere 3-1 lead was basically worthless because the Norwegians would crush us as soon as they set eyes upon us.

I wasn’t entirely convinced. If the narrative had been more along the lines of “It doesn’t matter who the opponents are or what the scoreline was – this is Spurs, we’re perfectly capable of making things go wrong on our own” I’d have bought into it with far more understanding. One didn’t really need to carp on about plastic pitches and Norwegian togetherness to bring out the pessimism in a Spurs fan – simply repeating the name of our club back to us, slowly and with a bit of meaning, would do the trick.

Instead, however, the crescendo built that this Bodo group were actually the second coming of Brazil 1970. They had, after all, beaten Lazio at home, so we would be well advised to regard them as the T-1000 of European football. AANP continued to raise the dubious eyebrow, wondering why, if they were so all-conquering, they weren’t in the Champions League, but as long as our lot didn’t stroll out with complacency coursing through the veins I supposed that all these prognostications of doom might not be so bad.

Anyway, whether the occasion got to them, or our lot set up with a little too much savvy and cunning, or they simply weren’t very good to start with, Bodo barely registered. They failed to lay a glove on us. Right at the death when Vicario pretty comfortably manoeuvred his frame behind the ball and gobbled it up, I wondered aloud if that was the first shot on goal they’d had all night. As with Frankfurt in the previous round, it turned out that a recent history of sparkling results isn’t much help if you’re just not good enough on the day.

3. Sum of the Parts and Whatnot

I’d normally by now have prattled on a fair bit about the various individual heroes who pottered about the place. And indeed, one could squarely make the case that Udogie judged to perfection when to go hurtling up the left to monstrous effect, whilst also maintaining his solemn oath to prioritise his defensive duties in all circumstances.

One could similarly point to a Romero performance heavy on well-judged interventions at appropriate times and places, whilst oddly light on the traditional mindless charge up the pitch and into the back of an opponent’s calves. (One probably ought also dreamily to recall how he hoisted himself to quite such a height in the atmosphere, in winning the header for our opener, and rattle off a spot of applause accordingly.)

One could give the usual doff of the cap to Mickey Van de Ven and his ability to whizz from A to B so rapidly that the opposing striker just gives up halfway through the chase and decides that the whole ‘Commendable Work-Rate’ angle is actually pretty pointless in these particular circumstances.

I also thought that Bissouma, for a third consecutive game, gave a bit of a throwback performance to his Brighton days. To remind, those were the times when he looked like he would be the answer to a hefty wad of our prayers, by virtue of his ability to snuff out opposition attacks before they’d really built a head of steam. Had he played like this week in and week out in lilywhite, he’d be amongst the first names on the teamsheet and the sort of chappie around whom one could sculpt the whole dashed operation. Instead, his is amongst those names being touted for a shove out the door and a half-decent transfer fee. Funny how life pans out, but if he can eke out one last tour de force in Bilbao, I’ll lob a garland around his neck as he empties his locker.

This, however, was one of those marvellous bashes in which one doesn’t really pinpoint any particular individuals, and waves away those who try, shouting them down if necessary by advising that that they’ve missed the point. This was more a triumph for all concerned keeping their heads down and carrying out their own specific instructions to the letter, so that when one stood back and drank it all in from afar, the collective effort turned out to be an absolute doozy.

It was rather like those sneaky mosaics one sometimes sees, in which hundreds of pictures of dogs or flowers or some such are shoved next to each other, and one finds it all nice enough but a bit meaningless, until one steps back and finds that actually they all combine to create a perfect likeness of B.A. Baracus, and one rather swoons accordingly. Last night, the whole was greater than the sum of its parts, as I once heard it put.

In a move calculated to go down well with the masses, I’ll also direct an unspoken but meaningful nod towards Our Glorious Leader. When operations fall apart at the seams he takes the projectiles, rightly enough, so when the plan comes together – and particularly when the tactical tinkerings are judged to perfection – it seems only fair to lob some good tidings his way.

But however one wants to appraise last night’s showing, there was no mistaking the wild fist-pump that accompanied the final whistle at AANP Towers. Another European Final, after everything that’s gone on this season. Golly. On we roll to Bilbao!

AANP tweets and Blueskies

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 3-1 Bodo Glimt: 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. Richarlison

Well I think the first order of business is to park myself at the desk and start penning a few heartfelt apologies. There are a several in our number I’ve not missed an opportunity to stick the knife into over the course of this and previous seasons, and they were all queueing up last night to ram various choice words straight back down my throat.

Richarlison is a good case in point. One might delicately say that AANP has not always been entirely enamoured of the honest fellow’s outputs. “Least technically gifted Brazilian ever” springs to mind as a phrase I once tossed in his direction, and although we can playfully punch each other’s shoulders and talk about jokes amongst the boys, there’s no getting away from the fact that that one was meant to sting.

Yesterday however, the honest fellow took to the pitch like a Brazilian intent on letting remarks about his technique wash over him like water. In fact it would not be a stretch to say that he set the tone for the whole humdinging display. 

I don’t mind admitting that when I saw the teamsheet I reacted to his name with a pretty stunned silence. Truth be told, I hadn’t even considered him as an option on the left. Tel or Odobert seemed the obvious choices, Mikey Moore at a stretch. And if The Brains Trust really wanted to embrace their experimental selves, it seemed likelier that Kulusevski, Johnson or Maddison would pop up on the west flank to fill the Sonny-shaped hole. Richarlison simply didn’t cross my mind. 

But selected he was, and if Ange wanted to fix me with one of those inscrutable stares and croak something about hindsight proving it a tactical masterstroke, I’d probably hold up my hands and grant him that.

Having digested the news of his selection, I did spend a goodish while mulling away as to what Richarlison’s remit would be. Would he try to emulate the Son of yesteryear, by breaking at pace from halfway; or channel his inner Odobert, Tel of Mikey Moore, by throwing in stepovers and trickery until the full-back had twisted blood?

As it turns out, Richarlison gave evidence that in his younger days he may have been a boy scout or something similar, because he went about his business with the motto “Just be yourself” clearly ringing in his ears. Rather than trying to throw in an impression of Sonny or Odobert, he set about the task by asking himself “What would Richarlison do?”, and being better placed than most to answer this, he rolled up his sleeves and immediately started providing real-time answers.

Within about ten seconds of kick-off, he flung in an aerial cross from the left, and a dashed effective one it was too. Rarely-sighted beasts these days, aerial crosses from the left. Porro on t’other side occasionally dabbles, but generally whomever is stationed on the left tends more often to be in the market for lower deliveries that fizz across the area for Brennan Johnson to tap in at the far post. I can barely remember us flinging in a left-footed, aerial cross from the left, and inviting those assembled to make of it what they will.

Richarlison, however, seemed of the opinion that there was no better way to start the day than to do precisely that, and a gratifying degree of bedlam it caused too. The forehead of Dominic Solanke has been criminally underused this season, but his eyes lit up at that cross, and with Johnson lurking at the far post as Johnson does, we were surprisingly well-stocked for takers. The cross may have been scrambled clear, but a vigorous nod of approval from AANP was in the mail.

Richarlison demonstrated a further commendable trait moments later, when the ball was recycled and Porro delivered one of his aforementioned aerial crosses from the right. This being aimed towards the back post, Richarlison was again in business – and again, it struck me that he was adding an element to our game that none of Son, Tel or Odobert can really provide, viz. the back-post header.

Son seems literally scared of the ball if it leaves the ground, and the either two are a bit too happy to excuse themselves from consideration on the grounds of height or build or some such. Richarlison though was pretty game. I think he fancies himself as a bit of a one when it comes the airborne muck. He might not have been able to direct it towards goal himself, but the option he chose was comfortably as effective, looping the thing over to the unmarked Johnson (who to his credit made his finish look very straightforward, when such things are easy to pickle).

This all occurred within the first 40 seconds or so, but for the remainder of the half Richarlison continued to run a pretty good race. He beavered in midfield, linked up play, delivered a good variety of short and slightly longer passes, and kept the opposing full-back on his toes. No huge surprise that he was hooked after 45, given his lack of match-practice and the general puffing and panting he put into that first half, but as remarked at the outset, something of an apology is due from this quarter. Quite the innings.

2. Bissouma

Another who wormed his way back into the AANP good books most unexpectedly was Bissouma. If one wanted to ignore all the positives and mope about the place professing gloom and disaster, one might moan that the fellow ought to play like that every bally game.

There would be a degree of validity to such a point, I suppose. He was brought into the fold precisely on the basis of performances like that in his former life at Brighton – all discipline and energy. But frankly one glosses over the fact that his two or three seasons in lilywhite have been more miss than hit, because last night, when it mattered more than usual, he delivered of his best.

Frankly, the goal aside, Bodo Glimt had nary a sniff, and while the collective takes credit, Bissouma’s repeated Seek-and-Destroy routines played a huge part. It was all the more impressive given the absence of Bergvall, news of which I must confess froze me in my tracks and prompted the skipping of a heartbeat or two that I’ll never get back.

But Bissouma filled the void like a trooper. One appreciates the farcical nature of praising a seasoned international for deputising for a newly-hatched teen who’s only been a few months in the Starting XI, but it was still a vital role to play, and Bissouma played it with a few plombs.

3. Solanke and the Concern Around His Absence

Words of commendation too for Destiny Udogie and James Maddison. In fact, one could take a deep breath and spew out words of commendation for the entire regiment, this being one of those performances in which all in lilywhite burst to the seams with their A-games. Even in this context, however, I thought that both Udogie and Maddison were particularly impressive.

Much of what was good about our play emanated from the size nines of Udogie, they being employed for the dual purposes of snuffling possession from the other lot, and then immediately redirecting operations to Attack Mode.

Maddison too was at the heart of a lot of our better moments. Having spent much of his evening in the role of string-puller-in-chief, it was rather impressive to see him pop up in goalscoring peep-holes too – and not for the first time on the big occasion.

The manner in which he took his goal was Dele-esque, boasting as it did exquisite control in the first place. I was particularly taken by the little hesitation he then inserted – pausing to travel another yard rather than shooting immediately, a manoeuvre that was pretty subtle to the naked eye but had the most satisfactory effect of dragging the goalkeeper from his moorings and depositing him on the floor, when really he wanted to be leaping full length. Marvellous stuff.

However, if absence makes the heart grow fonder, it struck me that Solanke’s might have been the really critical contribution. A slightly controversial take amongst the masses, I’m sure. If you were to goggle a bit, and re-read the sentence with a narrow eye, I can’t say I’d blame you.

In fact, while he was on the pitch, I thought Solanke was mucking in well, as they all were, but not necessarily any better than his nearby chums.

However, once he hobbled off stage left, I started to appreciate a bit more the wholesome content he brought to proceedings. Put simply, we rather lost our attacking edge once he went off. None of the reserve lieutenants seem able to lead the line – and, specifically, the press – quite like he does. Nor do they put in the off-the-ball graft in the less fashionable areas, or provide a beacon towards which to aim at the top end of the pitch; but it was the abandonment of the press after his removal that rather nagged over here.

As such, the medical bods ought to work every available hour to patch him up and glue him back together in time for next week. Listening back after the event, the chatter I heard after we’d conceded seemed rather over-the-top in truth. The telly sorts gave the impression that we’d taken a 5-0 drubbing and were so doomed in the second leg that it was barely worth our turning up; but while I fancy our European alter egos to do what’s necessary next week, the task will be infinitely harder minus Solanke.

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Spurs match reports

Liverpool 5-1 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. A New The Same Old Low

Our ongoing rotten form throws up an interesting linguistic challenge, because as each fresh shower of absolute tripe is unleashed upon our eyes, I’m tempted to mutter something to the effect that we have plumbed fresh new depths. It seems the appropriate thing to say, accompanied perhaps by a weary sigh and general drooping of the soul.

The thing is, though, we haven’t plumbed new depths. That is to say, these depths aren’t actually new. Rock bottom? Absolutely. An embarrassment to the club? Without doubt. But plumbing new depths? Well there I politely clear the throat, raise an objecting forefinger and point out that while we reached our lowest ebb probably about six months ago, we just keep revisiting the same dashed ebb over and over, on a weekly basis. We repeatedly plumb the same depth. It’s the lowest of the low, but it’s been the same one for weeks. These finer points in life matter.

Anyway, yesterday’s rot was every inch as bad as we all anticipated. As my Spurs-supporting chum Mark put it to me before kick-off, “What is even the point of this game?” The other lot had some meaning attached to this – and I noted with a few eyerolls and impatient clicks of the tongue that the assorted commentary mob couldn’t contain their joy at that particular narrative playing out – but our heroes, true to form, seemed to resent being there, dash it.  

Now admittedly I don’t speak entirely without bias, but I’m inclined to suggest that we fans are entitled to approach each fixture with increasing apathy. Feeding, as we do, off whatever fare is served up for us on the pitch, most kind-hearted bystanders would understand the weary shrug with which matchday is now greeted. The sentiment mentioned above, of poor old Mark, would be appreciated.

For the players, however, to down tools and give up on things when initial pleasantries have only just been exchanged absolutely stinks the place out. The problem at this stage is that these apathetic sleepwalks have become the norm. A few months back the management gang might have taken one look at that performance and locked them in the changing room for a good couple of hours, spewing some bile and quite possibly flinging one or two blunt instruments about the place.

Now, however, this level of dross is just the norm. Unless it’s the Europa, whichever eleven is selected will mooch about the place with all the quiet solemnity of a team of pallbearers, and patiently wait for the other lot to do as they please before slinking off quietly at the end.

2. The Brief Light of Hope

Oddly enough, our heroes actually began things with a spot of buck and vim yesterday. Maddison, to his credit, seemed to take seriously the whole armband business, and for the opening ten or so minutes appeared determined to leave his mark on proceedings with some contribution or other.

Solanke too appeared rather taken by the prospect of a few rounds with van Dijk. When he popped up with his goal I doubt that any lilywhite in their right mind expected that it would last, but it at least gave our lot something to cling onto. Some defensive discipline, I caught myself thinking, and a bit of grit and whatnot, and we might make an event of this.

Looking back, I can see the futility of that particular thought process. I’m not sure I’ve ever witnessed a Spurs side display defensive discipline, or grit, in the last four decades, so there wasn’t much reason to expect we’d suddenly unearth it yesterday, but there we were. One early goal, and the light of hope flickered away like the dickens.

Naturally, it all fell apart pretty swiftly, but as ever it was the manner of the collapse that irked. I suppose one might point out that for several of the goals (and near misses) we did at least have healthy numbers stationed about the place. That at least reflects a degree of willing amongst the cast members.

But by golly they were a directionless rabble. Looking suspiciously like they’d never undertaken a defensive drill in their lives, and also raising the question of whether they’d ever actually met each other before, they crashed about it into each other and spun on their axes a few times, and generally scurried this way and that to precisely zero effect.

Liverpool passed around them whenever they felt the urge, and if they felt particularly perky they even popped the ball into the net, so that they could go back and start again from a different angle. It all bore a lot of similarity to those lows of previous weeks.

The whole process was so numbing that I can barely muster the energy to prattle on about how, somehow, the players do seem capable of raising themselves for Europa games, and how these appalling league performances are therefore all the more galling to drink in.

Given that the standard surges upwards a few notches for the Europa games, Our Glorious Leader is squandering chance after chance to stock up on some goodwill in these league games. A bit of the old We’ll-Fight-For-This-If-It’s-The-Last-Thing-We-Do might not necessarily have stopped Liverpool winning yesterday, but it would have gone down well with the paying public. “Bested though we were,” the patrons might have remarked on the way home, “that Liverpool bunch at least knew they were in a scrap”.

Instead, as with just about every other League game since early autumn, down we went with little more than an apologetic shrug and a stifled yawn. Ben Davies waved his arms. Djed Spence tried a shot from 40 yards. Brennan Johnson was, apparently, there. Ange’s repeated inability to get a tune out of this lot week after week does currently suggest that a life-size cardboard cut-out of him would fare just as well. Europa trophy or not, he’s currently managing himself out of the job.

3. A Musing or Two on Archie Gray

I’m tempted to pack up the writing materials, pour myself a bourbon and stare aimlessly into the mid-distance until Thursday night. One point of note did dolefully emerge above the rest of the dirge, however. The starting XI included the intriguing sight of young Archie Gray in midfield.

Now of course, the young bean won us all over pre-Christmas by taking the plunge – or, rather being shoved in without much say in the matter – in central defence, and there he did one heck of a job. One of those thoughtful eggs, it turned out, who does his defending by reading the game and quietly inserting himself in appropriate stations, rather than crashing about the place with Romero-esque lunacy, AANP took rather a shine to him, and I was not in a minority.

Buoyed by the earnest young fellow’s performances at the base of defence, much excited chatter followed about how he might therefore fare when in his preferred position, in midfield.

As it happens, I was – and remain – a little dubious about the prospect of Gray midfielding away. The way I see it, he is no midfield enforcer, having already demonstrated at centre-back that he prefers the subtly timed interception to the crunching tackle. Neat and tidy he undoubtedly is in possession, but as we already have approximately umpteen of those exact models beetling about the place, I’d actually prefer he stays at centre-back, where he can mop up defensively and then distribute with a spot of vision and technique. We have numerous problems in midfield, but Archie Gray does not really strike me as the solution.

Anyway, yesterday he was given 45 minutes in midfield, and while half a game is nowhere near enough to pass judgement on a young man making his way in life in a new position, this was nevertheless the dampest of squibs.

Put bluntly, I don’t actually recall Gray even being present amongst the rabble. I recall Liverpool slicing straight through us at will, typically in those precise positions that Gray was presumably tasked with patrolling, but of Gray himself I remember precious little. A midfield terrier who prowled and snapped, yesterday he most definitely was not. I don’t particularly remember him contributing in possession either. In fact, if it weren’t for the pre-match graphic stating emphatically that he was amongst those present, I wouldn’t have believed he played at all.

To repeat, half a match in a new role is no amount of time to judge a chap. To hammer home this particular point, I cast the mind back to Bergvall, who for his first half-dozen or so Europa appearances gave every indication of floundering wildly, before finding his feet to such an extent that he is now first choice. Gray, therefore, has plenty of time on his side to ease himself into things. For now, however, we presumably revert back to Bentancur on Thursday night.

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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

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

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.