Tag: Europa League

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Europa League Final – Spurs 1-0 Man Utd: Four Tottenham Talking Points

It turns out that it’s not the easiest thing in the world to sit down and scribble a few hundred words when one has an ear-to-ear grin plastered across the face and is inclined to leap to one’s feet every thirty seconds and dance little jigs of joy about the place, but I’ll have a stab.

1. The Match Itself

The only thing better than winning a trophy with pure, glory glory, all-action-no-plot, unadulterated Angeball, is winning a trophy doing the exact opposite. Somehow, ending the 17 years of misery with one of the worst spectacles imaginable made it all the sweeter.

If anyone were in the market for a scrappy, nerve-riddled mess of a game, this was the place to be. Any hint of quality packed its bags and skipped out the door pretty much as soon as the opening toot sounded.

Ange set up the troops with the motto ringing in their ears “Just win the dashed thing, aesthetics be damned” – and AANP was all for it. After all, what good are second-placed finishes and semi-final exits, if we can’t ultimately enjoy moments such as Sonny lifting the glorious pot, as last night?  There is a time and a place to have the watching masses purr with satisfaction at whizzy, one-touch, irresistible football; but, crucially, there is also a time and a place not to. This was very much the latter.

From the off, our heroes made it clear that they would greet with a collective shrug of indifference any outraged squawks about the quality on show. Where previous iterations have reached a cup final and then frozen in the headlights, or gallantly attempted to outplay the opposition, or in some other way gloriously failed, last night’s vintage rolled up their sleeves, spat on their hands and set about winning the dashed thing by whatever means necessary – and with knowing nods and winks indicating that they were full cognizant of the fact that ‘whatever means necessary’ translated into the lowest-quality scrap imaginable.

If there were any hints of the thing being turned into a beauty contest, Bissouma or Romero or some other beast of a man would storm over and kick a lump out of someone before returning to their post. Players rolled on the ground, and called each other names, and racked up incalculable numbers of tackles and clearances without caring too much about their legality. Actual football was a long way down the agenda. It was the sort of stuff that would have protective parents shielding the eyes of their children.

And the whole thing worked out swimmingly. Our heroes scored a goal entirely in keeping with the quality of the evening, it involving miskicks and ricochets, various bodies stumbling in wrong directions, an inadvertent handball and ultimately the merest shaving of studs on ball. And thereafter, the drill was simply to use all means available to keep United at bay, although I rather fancy that bonus points were dished out on the basis that the uglier the intervention the better.

Oddly enough, on reflection United didn’t actually fashion anything too menacing, despite being allowed as much possession as their paws could manage. Fernandes missed the one clear chance they had, and Hojlund was rather gifted the headed opportunity that brought about the VDV clearance. That aside, however, this was an evening of countless crosses being swatted away, with all the necessary nerves one would expect, but actually without any real menace lurking.

2. The Goal

As mentioned, the goal that brought it home very evidently shared the DNA of the match that birthed it.

There is, however, a small asterisk to the above, because in the build-up to the goal, albeit slightly lost in the mists of the glory that comes with becoming European champions, our heroes did actually stumble upon possibly the only piece of top-quality football in the whole match. And just to slather an extra layer of absurdity upon it all, this moment of quality emanated from the clogs of Richarlison, an egg whose attracted his fair share of rotten fruit from this quarter.

Specifically, it was a neat diagonal pass from Mr R out on the left wing, infield and into the path of Bentancur, just outside the area. It would be rather stretching the truth to declare that this created the goal, for there followed a fair amount of admin, and ultimately it was Sarr who delivered the decisive cross, but if one were to assert that this little interplay occurred in the build-up to our goal, it would be as factually correct a statement as “I always win a trophy in my second season.”

Richarlison’s little input completed, as mentioned the ball was eventually relayed to Sarr, who wormed it into the area. This was the invitation for Brennan Johnson to join the pantheon of Cup-winning goalscorers, and rather splendidly, young Master J. was acutely aware that this invitation made no mention at all of the quality of strike required. Instead, clearly indicating himself to be a bit of a history buff, he took his cue from Grahm Roberts, Des Walker and Jonathan Woodgate, and reasoned that on these occasions one might as well write oneself into Tottenham Hotspur history with the scrappiest and least refined finish in the armoury.

Johnson initially mistimed his shot. The first outcome of this was that he looked like he  was attempting to flick the ball in the opposite direction to the goal, which was a novel way to approach the problem. However, when basking in the glory of being newly-crowned European champions, one learns to give the benefit of the doubt. Thus it seems that this initial manoeuvre was all just part of the Brennan Johnson masterplan.

Making sagacious use of the unwitting arm of Luke Shaw, and of course drawing upon a comically despairing flap from Andre Onana, who it seems is always wheeled out for these big European nights for Spurs, Johnson’s mere presence seemed to be the decisive factor. By the time everyone had rearranged their limbs and surveyed the scene, after the initial collision, events had moved on a bit, and the ball had started bobbling, a little uncertainly, towards goal.

At this point, events in the Johnson mind seemed to crystallize. His name appeared in lights ahead of him. All that was required, he seemed to reason, was to give the ball a little encouragement on its way. Accordingly, his basest instincts took over, and he took a swing at the thing.

He might have expected at this point to send the ball bursting the net from its moorings. But this being The Scrappiest (And Simultaneously Most Glorious) Game Ever, such a neat and emphatic finish was not part of the plan. Gravity at this point dragging Johnson to terra firma, his powerful swing of the leg resulted in only the most delicate brushing of the ball with the tip of his studs.

And marvellously enough, this was sufficient. Helpfully, the passage of time had not diminished Onana’s memory of how to play his part in these things, and six years on from being caught in a Lucas Moura whirlwind, he found himself staggering off in the wrong direction, and unable to do any more than swing a few despairing arms, to no avail.

Appropriately enough, Johnson then made a bit of a mess of the knee-slide too, and the whole thing became a part of Tottenham folklore. Not that I drank it in with too much clarity at the time, lost as I was in a sea of lilywhite limbs, but that all added to the fun of the thing.

3. The Goal-Line Clearance

The record books will proclaim Johnson as the winning goalscorer, but I suspect I capture a fairly popular sentiment when I cross the fingers and hope that Micky Van de Ven’s goal-saving contribution is revered in years to come as Tony Parks’ 1984 endeavours are today.

Not to dampen celebrations with anything too pedantic, but if we get into the weeds of that particular episode then one can only raise an eyebrow at the little interjection from Vicario. Famously bonkers, Vicario had already given notice of his intention to approach this match in the manner of an irate frog locked inside a box, and accordingly did not miss an opportunity to sprinkle his night’s work with a little hyperactivity.

Having only just attached fingertips to a cross for which he had set out in the first half, shortly past the hour mark there seemed little threat in the offing when United lobbed a pass straight up the centre of the pitch and down his throat. In textbook style Vicario leapt into the air and adopted a welcoming pose with his arms. If he had already begun congratulating himself at this point for extinguishing yet another United attack without any harm accruing, one would have understood.

At this point, however, matters went pretty seriously off-kilter. Vicario picked this moment to completely lose sense of spatial awareness. What ought to have been a basic game of ‘Catch’, the stuff of thrills for a three year-old, turned into a situation of considerable alarm and urgency.

In short, Vicario missed the ball with his hands, and allowed it instead to bounce off his face.

Well, even one of those thrilled three year-olds could have advised that this was the wrong approach. And not just that, but when a football bounces off a face, it becomes mightily difficult to predict where the devil it will go next. If a football lands within gloved hands, a degree of certainty can reign regarding its whereabouts; but bounce off the human face, and all bets are off.

As it happened, the dashed thing looped kindly for Hojlund, and he did not mess around, looping it straight back whence it came, and looking for all the world like he had nabbed the equaliser.

At this point, however, Micky Van de Ven burst onto the scene, to deliver both a presence of mind for which I will be eternally grateful, but also, astonishingly, a litheness of frame of which I had simply not thought the young bean capable.

Dealing with these things in order, and that presence of mind did much to make us champions of Europe. I am ashamed to confess that when Hojlund’s header looped goalwards, I froze. No action or alacrity from AANP, I simply gawped in horror, and may have clutched at the arm of my Spurs-supporting chum Mark, but not much more.

Master VDV, however, is evidently possessed of tougher mental fibre. No sooner had the danger started to accrue than his cogs had begun whirring, and a decision was swiftly made. Get back to the goal-line, and use every available to means to rescue the situation, seemed to be the summary of his analysis.

And this was where that aforementioned litheness came into play, because it was one thing opting to clear the danger, but quite another putting the plan into effect. A critical challenge was the fact that VDV is famously made of biscuits. Prod him and he snaps. Stretch him, and he again snaps. In fact, do anything to him, or have him do anything, and there’s a fair chance that he will fall apart at the seams.

When it became clear, therefore, that the only saving action was for VDV to contort himself into some extraordinary amalgamation of splayed limbs, I’d have dismissed the chances of success as negligible. A circus acrobat would struggle to raise his foot above his head, one might conclude, let alone one of Nature’s most brittly constructed footballers.

And yet, there he leapt, and contorted, in glorious technicolour, one leg above his head, another behind his back, and all performed while a good three feet up in the atmosphere. It was a sensational moment, and one every bit as deserving of its place in Tottenham history as Johnson’s goal.

4. Tottenham Have Won A Trophy!

Not that this game was decided by VDV, Johnson and no others. By the time the credits rolled and everyone began jumping and hugging, one couldn’t lob a brick onto the pitch without hitting an absolute hero clad in lilywhite.

Romero managed the commendable feat of combining a defensive performance of supreme discipline with aggression channelled in precisely the appropriate fashion – viz. into the face of Harry Maguire at every opportunity.

Sarr, about whose deployment at the tip of the midfield three AANP had had considerable doubts, drew upon every last bubble of oxygen in tearing about the pitch for the cause.

Bissouma and Bentancur provided exactly the screen that the back-four required, while Richarlison not only provided an attacking outlet, particularly in the first half, but also emerged as one of the few amongst our number who effected a clean tackle on that pesky Amad – a lad whose nuisance value considerably diminished in the second half as Udogie gradually got the measure of him.

So it’s the shiniest gold stars all round for the players. For the manager, debate on his future can be had another day – last night he nailed his tactics, delivered on his promise and brought a European trophy back to N17.

AANP has spent every waking hour since full-time milking this occasion until it bleeds, and why not? Input from media types and those who support other teams is, of course, all part of life’s rich tapestry, but by golly it is nevertheless satisfying to ram a European trophy down those throats.

The whole business of just getting the job done and actually finding a way to win a trophy had become quite the issue. Legions of psychologists and whatnot would have scratched their heads and shrugged their shoulders, as one Tottenham team after another found ways to bungle the operation. The current vintage, however, ride off into the sunset with a shiny pot. As such they deserve all the plaudits that come their way – and one hopes that it serves as a prompt to further silverware, some time sooner than 17 years hence.   

Tottenham Hotspur, Europa League winners – absolutely marvellous stuff!

AANP’s 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, covering our previous European triumphs, is also still available

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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!

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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

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 1-1 Frankfurt: Two Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. It’s The Hope That Kills

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. The Midfield Triumverate

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Categories
Spurs match reports

Spurs 3-1 AZ Alkmaar: Four Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. Son

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Angeball When It Works

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Van de Ven

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

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

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

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

4. Odobert

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Categories
Spurs match reports

AZ Alkmaar 1-0 Spurs: Four Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. The Fabulous Showing From The 87th Minute Onwards

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

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

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

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

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

2. Injuri-
Ah.

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

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

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

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

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

3. Our Glorious Leader

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

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

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

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

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

4. Bergvall

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

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

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

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

Categories
Spurs match reports

Spurs 3-0 Elfsborg: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. Young People

I don’t know if you feel the same way, or if you’ve even noticed – because it does slightly creep up – but generally when the credits roll on a THFC performance these days, I drag myself away feeling like someone who’s just witnessed the public beheading of a cherished friend. A tad gloomy about things, I mean. A twinge of regret about how things have panned out.

With all that in mind, I was as shocked as anyone else to find myself toddling off last night with a pretty satisfied smile across the map. Goodness knows we needed a lift – it’s all very well one bleating about taking the rough with the smooth, but that does require a little smoothness every now and then.

The surprise of it all, of course, was that the good news came in the form of three of the more junior members of the ensemble.

1.1 Scarlett

Scarlett seems to have been knocking around the place for an eternity, without ever having actually interrupted any conversations in order to announce himself. Just sort of lurked in the background. Truth be told, having learnt that he had left his teens behind, and noting that his various loan spells had underwhelmed, I’d gone in for a spot of the old Judge-Jury-Executioner and written off the poor squirt as biffing along where Parrott, Coulthirst and Mahorn had gone before.

Last night does not necessarily change that particular narrative I suppose, but irrespective of whatever happens next, seeing the young fish take to the air, make his connection and dash off for his knee-slide certainly made one rise from the seat and offer some pretty heartfelt congratulations. Impossible not to be delighted for the chap.

Amidst all the noise, I’d also hammer home that it was a pretty accomplished header too. Goodness knows there have been plenty in lilywhite over the years who have adopted that sort of location and then completely sloshed the coup de grâce, directing the thing upward or westward or anywhere else but the net. Scarlett did a nifty job of getting on top of the ball, and then putting a few more eggs in the ‘Direction’ basket than the ‘Power’ one.  

1.2 Ajayi

Young Ajayi was one whose name I knew, but beyond that drew a bit of a blank. I must confess that it was therefore with a bit of a shrug that I greeted his arrival, wishing him well of course, and all the other pleasantries, but devoting more effort to a brief analysis of Richarlison’s latest pitch.

I suppose if one were of stony heart and cantankerous nature one might opine that Ajayi failed to read the mood of the room by some distance, for his immediate decision to put his head down and weave straight through the heart of the Elfsborg defence was pretty significantly at odds with what had gone before.

It was pretty sensational stuff, and from a most unexpected source. The Swedish mob seemed to have settled into a rhythm by that point, evidently pretty confident that whatever we lobbed at them they’d happily enough catch and lob straight back out at us. The use of Kulusevski through the centre struck me as making a significant difference (oh that he might have played there more in recent weeks), but in general Elfsborg gave the impression of being capable of batting until close of play without too many scares.

So I suppose when the orators murmur about the fearlessness of youth, they have in mind specifically the mazy little dribble of Ajayi last night. I’m not really one for pyromania, preferring a whiskey and an improving book for my evening entertainment, but I imagine that if one were to sprinkle petroleum about the place and throw a lighted match, the effect amongst those in the vicinity would be pretty similar to that of Ajayi’s run at the Eflsborg defenders last night. In short, wild panic ensued.

Yet another tip of the cap to Scarlett, for knowing exactly how to deliver his lines, prodding the ball back to Ajayi in what turned out to be the perfect one-two. Ajayi’s adrenaline took care of the rest, and once again, that rather avuncular pride took hold of AANP. Another, I mused, who, until the day he dies, can always boast of having scored for Tottenham Hotspur, lucky blighter.

1.3 Mikey Moore

Mikey Moore’s effort was very much ‘icing on cake’ stuff, the returns by that point being pretty much in. Unlike the other two, MM’s involvement in first team affairs for the foreseeable seems a given, so if he hadn’t scored last night one would have batted it aside. Plenty more opportunities, would have been the gist.

Still, he seemed to enjoy the moment, and it was well worth the wait. It’s not a huge stretch to say the young bean has been threatening something of that ilk for a while now.

It was a goal that showcased numerous different impressive qualities. In the first place he displayed a spot of upper-body ballast of which I hadn’t thought him capable, in winning a brief, preliminary wrestling match just north of the centre-circle.

He then channelled his inner Ajayi to go tootling off past flailing Elfsborg lower limbs, and mercifully slathered enough precision on his finish that the slightly below-par power levels were but a footnote.

1.4 The Future?

Ajayi’s goal in particular was a real triumph for the virtues of fresh-faced sorts waltzing in and doing as they please. There was a distinct sense, as he set off, that here was a youthful sort happy to take a risk, without feeling weighed down by the prospect of lusty advice raining down from the South Stand should he soil the operation.

There will presumably now be a bit of a movement for binning the old guard and shoving all chips in with the young people. AANP, being an understanding cove, would patiently hear out this argument, whilst sipping from one of the older bourbons in the collection, before politely suggesting an alternative. Rather than swinging wildly to the extreme of a Moore-Scarlett-Ajayi front-line to see us through the upcoming February crunch, I’d probably advocate for throwing them on late on, initially at least. If, as seems to be the case with Mikey Moore, they seem able to cut a rug at the top level, then by all means shove them in at the deep end.

The case of Will Lankshear strikes me as the cautionary tale in amongst all this, in that the young egg is currently undercooked. I’m not sure anyone would benefit if, for example, in the absence of Solanke, he started every game; but using him, Scarlett or AN Other specifically as a late sub might be worth a whirl.

However, rather than bog oneself down in all that speculative muck, far better for now simply to bob along on the unexpected success of last night.

2. Van de Ven

The other roaring success, which has been rather elbowed off into the background, was the return of VDV.

And golly, what a return. It has, of course, been an absolute age since he roamed the corridors a robust picture of health, so the memory actually fogged over rather, when picking up the threads of his storyline. I therefore expected to see him bounding off in a whirr of legs every now and then, and not much else. Speed, the recesses of my memory informed me, was pretty much the essence of Micky Van de Ven.

So you could have knocked me down with a feather when young Master VDV started showcasing a whole reel of impressive character traits, none of which actually had anything to do with jet-heeled pace.

I simply had no idea, for a start, of quite how strapping and weighty a chap he is, but before he did anything else he could be seen trotting along towards an Elfsborg forward and administering a shove with sufficient meaning behind him to uproot the poor soul and leave him scrambling to stay upright. I suppose it might be that these were particularly lightweight forwards, but even so, I did widen the eyes a bit.

I was also rather taken by VDV’s penchant for sniffing out danger from about a mile off, and tearing up into midfield to add a layer of protection. If, for example, our forward mob over-egged things outside the Elfsborg area, and the ball was cleared up towards the middle third, where Ben Davies or Bentancur or someone were walking a bit of a tightrope, from nowhere VDV would hurtle into frame and clear things up pronto.

This might not sound so remarkable I suppose, particularly as it tended to amount to little more than throw-in, or a square pass infield; but the contrast with what happened after half-time, and indeed what has been happening for several weeks previously, was pretty stark.

Dragusin is an earnest enough fellow, but in the last three months or so I don’t really remember him reading danger from afar, and then doing the necessary mental arithmetic to arrive on time in midfield to intercept danger before it even begins. More of a one for hanging back and chewing furiously, is Dragusin.

The one time I do recall him trying to step up and usefully intervention, he rather butchered his lines, in the league game against Liverpool just before half-time, mistiming his forward charge and leaving a seismic hole behind him.

Another bonus of having VDV in situ was that Leicester-esque situations could be avoided – by which I mean the defence, lacking pace, stationing themselves so far back that the distance to the midfield mob required packing some supplies and factoring in a break for refreshment. When Porro and Bentancur muddled their passes on Sunday, the Leicester lad was able to stroll about 15 yards unopposed. No such risk of that when VDV is around, as his pace seemed to allow him to hover a bit closer to current events.

3. Son

Another element that could pretty easily fall between the cracks was that in the first half Sonny had an absolute blast against the poor old Elfsborg right-back. When I say that the young twig was twisted in every conceivable direction, and regularly deposited on his derriere, I’m not sure I even begin to cover the facts sufficiently.

If the score had not still been 0-0, and our lot not been in the middle of an almighty slump, one might have quietly tapped Sonny on the shoulder and asked him to dial things down a little. For the sake of dignity and whatnot. Few people on the planet could have been as relieved as that right-back to see Sonny removed at half-time.

The curious thing about Son’s performance was that one would hesitate to describe it as a return to form, per se. A return to form would, I fancy, carry the implication that at some point Son’s lightning pace was to the fore.

Last night, however, pace didn’t really enter into things. It is true that having twisted his man into a sackful of knots and left him on the ground, Son did then scuttle off towards the byline; but this tended just to be a burst over 5 yards, and with the defender already writhing cluelessly on the floor rather than setting off in hot pursuit.

And given that the whole game was played in the Elfsborg half, this was not a game in which Son raced from halfway onto a pass played into space, like the Son of old having been picked out by Kane.

That Son repeatedly skewered his man is true enough; but to suggest that it was a return of the good old Sonny of yesteryear slightly misses the target.

Either way, however, it was pretty riotous stuff to behold – and all before the cheering finale provided by the youth choir.

Categories
Spurs match reports

Hoffenheim 2-3 Spurs: Five 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. A Disclaimer: The Shonky Middle Period

Before we invite a dignitary to say polite words and spray champagne about the place, probably best to tap the mic and make one or two public service announcements. All in the name of context, you understand.

As such, any sparkling compliments thrown about the place for a job eventually well done and three points safely pocketed should exclude that 10 or so minutes leading up to half-time, and in particular that period after half-time that seemed never to end but which the official timekeepers clocked at about half an hour.

During that period our lot barely touched the ball, but spent the entirety stuck in and around their own area as if physically bound to it. If any member of the cast, upon blocking a shot or clearing the ball, felt inclined to turn to the nearest chum to slap hands and exchange congratulations on a defensive job well done, or even simply to rattle off the exhale-inhale routine a good half-dozen times to stock up depleted lungs, they were to be pretty swiftly interrupted and forced to wade straight back onto the front-line, for more shot-blocking and ball-clearing. It wasn’t so much that this happened repeatedly, as it became just one, uninterrupted, 30-minute sequence.

Moreover, if any of our number were looking to Richarlison for a spot of respite we could probably have told them they were in for a bit of a setback. I recall a while back my Spurs-supporting chum Dave, in one of those moments of exasperation that following Spurs will generate, once labelled Richarlison the least technically-gifted Brazilian ever, which although possibly a little dramatic certainly hits upon a notable point.

Richarlison ran the good race honestly enough yesterday, and had the occasional moment, but I suppose one might generously say he was a tad rusty in his first start after injury. The upshot was that if any of our number cleared to R9, the damn thing came straight back in less time than it takes to murmur “Hold it up this time and relieve the pressure, dash it”.

I’m not sure any amongst the massed ranks observing in person or via the telly-box were particularly surprised that the Hoffenheim assault led eventually to a goal. Nor will many of lilywhite persuasion have been in the slightest taken aback to note that at least one of the goals conceded came in the Pedro Porro Patrol Area. We might as well just chalk up a goal to the other lot pre-kick-off each game, to save everyone the bother, stipulating that it will be awarded to whomever is most likely to wander into the vicinity that Porro ought to be monitoring.

(Porro also might have made at least a token effort to prevent the cross for the first Hoffenheim goal, although the general blame for that one could be spread around a little more democratically.)

So while the AANP map was plastered with a coating of satisfaction and relief by 8pm yesterday, one probably has to acknowledge that slap bang in the middle of it all our lot spent a goodish amount of time up against the ropes and taking a pummelling. However, all the more credit to them for emerging from that period still ahead, and doing enough defensively to hang on to the win.

2. Maddison

While that middle third was a pretty ghastly spectacle, it should not be forgotten that back in the mists of time, our heroes started proceedings looking like they were having an absolute blast.

The German mob might not have been toughest of nuts to crack, but that hasn’t stopped our lot struggling in the past. Yesterday, however, they slid through the gears right from the off.

Maddison in particular caught the eye in the early exchanges, as is inevitable, I suppose, when one scores one goal and puts in a decent amount of spadework in construction of another.

I actually still re-watch his goal and then remove myself to a quiet corner, to try to understand how he ended up depositing the ball high in the net as he did, as it seemed the sort of shot that should either have floated back down to earth or ballooned off into the atmosphere.

That, however, says more about AANP’s shaky grasp of physics than anything else. More broadly, I was most taken by the more attacking post that Maddison seemed to have adopted. Whether upon instruction or just his own whim, he seemed to dip a toe into Dele-esque waters, and finding that it rather suited him, spent much of the remainder as an additional attacking bean, the sort who would make a late charge from midfield into the area, to sniff around for treats.

One such burst brought him his goal, and but for a better-timed final pass from his colleagues he might have had a richer harvest.

It was impressive (while it lasted at least – as mentioned, any such attacking considerations were emphatically binned for a good old stretch either side of half-time), not least because the blighter has spent much of the season struggling to impose himself upon games.

Traditionally he seems to station himself a lot further south, and content himself with just ferrying the thing from A to B in short-range deliveries of 5 to 10 yards, which do little to impact the game. The one exception to this slightly impotent sort of showing was away to Man City, when after popping up with 2 goals (in the Dele role), he then dropped all the way back to his own area to assist with passing out from the back.

Yesterday, however,as mentioned, he was more advanced, and far more impactful for it. One for Our Glorious Leader to frown and gruffle about in the coming days.

3. Brandon Austin

Cast your mind back a week or two, and young Brandon Austin found himself thrust from the shadows into the limelight at home to Newcastle, acquitting himself most competently, before being rather cruelly shoved straight back whence he came, to those same shadows, from where he could only watch proceedings wrapped up in a snood.

Well the neat little cocktail of injuries and red tape meant that he was granted a sequel yesterday, and I thought he once again did all that the self-respecting modern goalkeeper should.

From memory, he seemed competent enough under crosses. He may have fumbled one, I cannot quite recall, but the general sentiment as things pootled along was that if a cross were to be launched of vaguely claimable pedigree, then Austin would march out and do his claiming with minimal fuss.

It might not sound much, but dust off the archives and you’ll note that in the latter part of last season, every corner conceded prompted a surge in blood pressure across N17, as Vicario made an almighty drama of such circumstances. No such concerns with Austin. The chap knows his airborne onions.

His shot-stopping too seemed at least adequate. There was precious little he could do about the first Hoffenheim goal, and while a less forgiving scribe might don the monocle and subject to closer inspection his role in the second goal, I’m inclined to wave aside any criticism there. Generally, if a shot were aimed within his wingspan, he extended the appropriate appendage at the appropriate time, and kept it out.

And while I do recall at least one pass of his from the back that missed its mark and prompted a sounding of the alarm, by and large he seemed happy enough to distribute from his feet. All in all, it was just about everything one would hope and dream from one’s fourth-choice ‘keeper in a winnable European away day.

4. Son

The performance of the on-field lieutenant had me scratching the loaf a bit though, and needing a little sit-down to collect the thoughts.

On the one hand, take what one might term the ‘Match of the Day’ approach. By this I mean that if you simply drink in the headlines, you might conclude that our captain has returned to the peak of his powers. Two goals – the second of which featured a spot of trademark activity involving a stepover and pinpoint shot – in a 3-2 win seems unequivocally to indicate that here was the game’s outstanding contributor.

However, shout that one from the rooftops, and you might swiftly find yourself being tapped insistently on the shoulder by an AANP armed with a most enquiring eye. From the off, and frankly at all points except in execution of his second goal, Sonny did not seem his traditional effervescent self. Ask a fancy AI tool for a visual illustration of what ‘Sonny off the boil’ looks like, and nothing would be simpler than to churn out footage of his every involvement (bar that second goal) from yesterday.

While in an attacking sense, in general our lot appeared to have eaten their spinach and rediscovered some swash and buckle, a certain stodginess manifested each time Son was invited to partake.

The thrilling yard or two of pace that previously allowed him to scoot away from his opposing full-back was absent, as it seems to have been all season. As a result whenever he glimpsed the whites of the goalkeeper’s eyes in an inside-left channel, he checked back infield onto his right foot, and momentum leaked from the attack.  

That he scored his first and our second owed a lot to the kind deflection that ensured physics was on his side. A couple of further opportunities that might have given us the four-goal cushion seemingly necessary every time we play, were also muddled rather than aided by his input.

5. Credit to the Players; BUT WHAT THE DICKENS IS HAPPENING WITH TRANSFERS?

Depending on the side of bed from which one rolled out this morning, one may either bob along with quiet satisfaction at an important win, or chunter away a bit at another unnecessarily complicated struggle.

The AANP take is that this was a game played by a cohort of players either drained of all energy or yet to start shaving, and as such that they found a way to win at all was a small miracle in itself.

There was plenty about which to nod in approval in the opening half hour, and actually a degree of common sense and resilience in the latter stages. Now, to suggest that a corner has been turned and all is rosy once again in N17, is somewhat premature. However, the drill yesterday was simply to find a way to win. That this was achieved through contributions of attacking elan, good fortune and some bloody-minded resilience is absolutely the ticket at AANP Towers.

So to the players a warm hand; and to the Big Cheese a cheery enough shrug, accompanied by a reminder that plenty more work needs doing in the next must-win game, on Sunday.

However, to whomever is responsible for signing off on incomings and new personnel, the sternest possible glare of incandescence awaits. The failure to sign any outfield players at all, over three weeks into the January window, is bordering on negligence.

Even should half a dozen new players arrive today, they would be too late for the last six fixtures, in each of which we were simply unable to rotate as was necessary for performance levels and injury prevention.

Nor, at this point, do we even need the sort of elite-level players who will fit the fabric of the club for years to come, those we’d eye up in the summer. Right now, an extra few bodies on short-term loans would suffice, players of a Reguilon or Dragusin level who could simply come on at minute 60 or 70 to afford a breather to the incumbents, and help prevent six-week muscle strains.

The whole narrative about squad depth began weeks ago, long before the January window came into being, so those responsible for such things can hardly claim to have been caught by surprise.

Not really being privy to the inner workings of either transfer deals in general, nor the club’s policy in this area specifically, I have no idea which specific individuals are to blame further down the chain of command – although the buck presumably stops with Grandmaster Levy. Either way, the absence of a single outfield signing absolutely boggles the mind, and ratchets up the incandescence with each passing day.

Categories
Spurs match reports

Rangers 1-1 Spurs: Four Tottenham Talking Points

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1. Werner and Ange’s Comments

An early vox pops suggest that AANP is in a minority on this one, but I raised an eyebrow at Our Glorious Leader’s post-match critique of Timo Werner.

A bit of admin is probably needed here in the first place, just so that everyone knows where they stand. For a start, there’s Ange’s own take on it. From the horse’s mouth:

“He wasn’t playing at anywhere near the level he should be. Timo’s first-half performance was not acceptable to me. I told Timo that he’s a German international, that I need everyone to be trying to give their best and this wasn’t an acceptable example. I expect a lot more from the senior guys.”

And if you want a sense of the tone in which he soliloquyed, think Angry Bear Tries To Use Looks Alone To Kill Press Conference Attendees.

Next up there’s AANP’s own take on Werner’s 45 minutes’ worth last night. For clarity, I’m hardly defending the chap’s performance. If you close your eyes, block out the background hubbub and try to imagine literally any Timo Werner performance in our colours over the last 12 months, you’ve probably hit the bullseye. It was that.

More specifically, his finishing was poor and his crossing was poor, but he seemed as willing a runner as ever. He tried, as he always does; and his output was exasperatingly off, as it always is. (He also embellished things, if that’s really the word I want, with one moment in which he miscontrolled a whopping pass from Fraser Forster, which would have had us off and away, so that made for a conspicuous lowlight – but it hardly seems fair to throw him down the pan for a single doltish moment.)

The point I’m getting at is that this just struck me as standard Werner fare. By which I suppose I mean it was actually pretty sub-standard, but still exactly what we’re used to.

And precisely because it was all so normal, I’m slightly taken aback by Ange’s post-match sting. Not like him to single out a chappie and pour hot oil over them, what? If he’s going to indulge in a spot of Werner-bashing, why now? He’s had 25 appearances for our lot, most of which have been around the same level, after all.

On top of which, if he’s going to bash anyone, why Werner? Let’s face it, there have been no shortage of performances from various amongst our number that have stunk the place out over the past 18 months or so.

It might have been a carefully choreographed spiel, part of a wider plan to ensure that all squad members see a spot of public lashing and think to themselves, “Crikey, I’d better pull up my own socks”; or it might be that Ange’s patience with Werner’s constant butchering of his lines has finally run out. Either way, though, I gave the chin a bit of a stroke at that one.

2. Dragusin and Gray

It’s becoming a big day for AANP failing to read the mood in the room, for when I cheerily put it to my Spurs-supporting chum Dave that Dragusin was doing a bit better than normal (a low bar, admittedly, but let’s crack on), he hit back with some pretty scything patter, the gist of which seemed to be that last night was the straw that had broken the back of that particular camel, and that he had given up on the fellow.

Now I appreciate that Dragusin’s passing was somewhat errant. Indeed, he seemed to have decided to create his own entertainment for himself, in closing his eyes, picking a random direction and firing out the ball in said direction. Endless fun for him; a bit less thrilling for his teammates.

However, putting aside his curious distribution, when it came to the fundamentals of central defending, I chalked this up as one of his better days. There was none of the Romero-esque charges upfield to challenge for loose balls and thereby leave yawning gaps behind him. Instead, Dragusin adopted generally sensible positions, and did a solid enough job of blocking, intercepting and in some instances politely shoving.

Rangers at various periods gave us a bit of a hammering; Dragusin was generally there to help repel them.

And I thought that young Gray could be similarly marked, in terms of making a mess of things in possession (via the medium of dribbles from the back that were abruptly ended, rather than errant passing) but also putting in a pretty solid showing when it came to the basics of defending.

Gray probably merits a slightly extended wittering, being not only inexperienced as a player but completely new to the position. To be thrust into that sort of environment, in a role for which he has had precious little training over the years, and plough through the full 90 without any notable errors, merits a tip of the cap.

As mentioned, he did run into trouble pretty much every time he tried to bring the ball out of defence, but even there I’m inclined to turn him a kindly eye. If Romero, VDV, Dragusin etc peeled off that sort of thing I’d admittedly unleash both barrels. But, truth be told, I was actually rather impressed that Gray had the confidence to try carrying the ball forward from the back. He’ll perhaps need to learn when to finish sashaying and when to pass the thing; but he seems to have the ability to do it. All in all, a fairly impressive first stab in the role from the young imp.

3. Porro and the Same Old Goal

A few weeks ago some footage sprung up on the interweb of our lot conceding three or four different goals, in near-identical fashion. In each instance they were deliveries from the opposition right, which reached the far post, an area nominally the domain of one Pedro Porro – but the punchline here is that in each instance young P.P. was a long way off current events, and the relevant opposition bobbie was able to convert unopposed from a slightly-left-of-centre area.

Well of course, it happened again last night. One might point out that the detail around the edges was a little different – this one emanating from a cross from deep – but the principle dashed well remains. Whatever the hell goes on between the Porro ears, one can bet one’s mortgage on it not being anything about defending at the far post.

He might angrily wave a hand or two and complain that actually he was in the vicinity, closer than anyone else in fact. However, were he to do so, by way of riposte I’d remove a shoe, throw it at his head, and yell at him that being in the vicinity is no good at all if he’s going to let the opponent wander goal side of him, with a neat circumference around him of two or three yards that is exclusively his, in which to conduct himself as he pleases.

Porro, in common with most defenders in Ange-era Spurs, seems to consider that the principal role of a defender is to contribute to attacks, preferably by stationing himself north of halfway. It makes the forehead veins absolutely bulge to popping level to see him constantly five yards behind his opposing forward whenever they counter-attack.

This was all the more galling yesterday, given the considered efforts of Gray and Dragusin to put out fires more centrally. If Ange really did want to have a pop at those players gumming things up, he might have just as easily have picked on Porro.

4. Midfield Lack of Bite

As always seems to be the case, it felt that whichever team had the ball last night looked they would score within a pass or two.

When our lot purr they look capable of scoring against the best defences around, and our goal yesterday was lovely stuff – patience at the back before a few slick, one-touch passes to get us from A to B, and then a spot of smart decision-making around the edge of the area.

Equally, however, when having lost possession, alarm bells sound all over the place. And much of the reason for this is the wisp-like nature of our midfield. Slap bang on the five-minute mark, Bentancur was barged off the ball and into a different dimension by a Rangers sort (quite likely that Raskin chap, who made a habit of it all night), and it struck me as summing up not just the current Tottenham vintage but every Spurs side I’ve seen since first casting eyes upon them in the 80s.

Earnest beans like Johnson, Maddison, Son, Werner, Bentancur, Bergvall (who I thought gave his best performance so far last night, very Bentancur-esque) and so on will all bob about in the right places when we lose possession, and make a bit of a demonstration of trying to dip in an impeding foot, but it’s all pretty much decorative. They know, we know and the opposition know that our midfield really isn’t going to stop anything. The real business begins when the ball is shoved straight past them, and Forster and the back-four have to defend the penalty area.

Whether this is due to individuals just not winning their own personal duels, or something more structural, is beyond me. Whatever the reason, we remain alarmingly easy to attack, and end up simply rely upon scoring enough, rather than preventing the other lot.

Bissouma is the one chap upon whom much of the responsibility lies actually to prevent opposition attacks at source, and while he generally pops up two or three times per game with a useful enough tackle of some species, in general he’s not really demonstrated an ability to hold down the entire fort single-handedly.

So it’s a bit of a pickle, but that, I suppose, is why Our Glorious Leader is paid the fat envelope.

Credit to our lot nevertheless, for coming from behind, evidently not an easy thing to do in the circumstances. At full strength I’d have expected us to rock up and win against that lot, but given the current list of absentees, and the fact that we were second best for much of the night, a point represents pretty healthy stock. One hopes that those in the corridors of power are starting to take the hint, and will be dusting off their chequebooks this January.