1. The Tudor Reign
It would be a stretch to say that AANP went into this one feeling positively optimistic, that term being officially defined by the dictionary as “Feeling bobbish, to the extent that when asked for a score prediction one tips the cap at a jaunty angle and smiles a particularly devilish smile”. This was most certainly not AANP pre-match. After all, new manager or not, it was still the same clueless rabble tasked with going out onto the pitch.
Nevertheless, if anything were going to put a little pep into the AANP step, the replacement of that last chap by literally anyone else was a sure-fire bet. It could have been you, it could have been me – as it happened, it was this Igor Tudor chap, and while I don’t know much about his history, the one thing I do know is that he is not, and never has been, Thomas Frank. This represented a definite and sizeable tick against his name.
As hinted at above, there was of course, a limit to what Gospodin Tudor could do ahead of this one. An available manager with a spot of experience in fighting short-term fires he might be, but he’s not a bally magician. Expecting him to plot a way of running rings around the other lot was probably a bit much. Realistically, if he had learnt everyone’s names he had probably hit the acceptable target for week one.
So when our heroes came bounding onto the pitch, AANP’s expectations were suitably limited. To their credit, they certainly did not lack for enthusiasm. Word had evidently got around that North London expected, as a minimum, a demonstration that this occasion mattered; and accordingly, to a man, they tore about the place in the early knockings, racing after the ball like cheetahs spotting some lesser beasts in the Serengeti.
However, what added an odd, and slightly comical edge to proceedings, was that for all their gusto, our lot couldn’t actually get near the ball. For the opening half hour we barely made it into the Woolwich half. In fact, in that opening half hour I’m not sure we touched the ball at all more than half a dozen times.
Every now and then, Bissouma or VDV or whoever it happened to be would successfully get a toe onto the ball to ram it out of play, and the place would erupt. And swept up in the matter, I happily piped up with a throaty roar of approval too. But on catching my breath, the awkward realisation dawned that while we treating every stumbling half-tackle to a standing ovation and a general slapping of each other’s backs, for the other 99 per cent of the time the other lot were running rings around us.
Team Lilywhite, by contrast, could barely find time to gasp for breath before being dragged beneath the surface again. Of a neat, one-touch triangle there was no sign. Actual sustained pressure and creation of chances was the stuff of fantasy. In that first half, for all the good, honest beads of perspiration, the only real triumphs were the occasional tackles that sent the ball out of touch. As brave new eras go, it was fair to say that this one had yet to build up a head of steam.
Still, we snaffled a goal out of nothing, and made it to half-time battered and bloodied but with a faint pulse still registering. Given that the other lot know how to duff up a good thing better than most, there seemed to be a sliver of hope. Moreover, our eleven heroes out on the pitch seemed not to have registered how obviously second-best they were, and were still gamely charging after every loose ball, which was rather charming.
Alas, that was as good as it got, as Woolwich forgot how to choke, the tight margins went against us, the absence of so many from the bench loomed rather starkly into view and what challenge we had offered rather seeped away.
Despite the incessant crowing from my Woolwich-supporting chums over the last 24 hours, AANP won’t be losing too much sleep over this particular reverse, it having been against one of the more organised and efficient mobs around; but with a full week ahead to roll up the sleeves and bark out instruction in not-quite-perfect English, I would jolly well expect a Tudor-inspired uptick to commence from next weekend at Fulham.
2. Irritating Mistakes
Expectations having been dutifully managed, even at half-time it seemed that a solid hammering was the likeliest outcome, but I was nevertheless rather miffed that in the second half we rather gifted the other lot their goals.
The third – which struck me as the mortal blow – may have ended up in our net via a circuitous route, replete with ricochets and stumbles at every turn, but the dashed thing came about because of a pretty gormless piece of play in the first place from young Dragusin.
A shame, because in the first half, the chap seemed to understand the assignment, and by and large did what was required. While I doubt I will ever back in him a foot-race, and his distribution always prompts a sharp intake of AANP breath, he is the sort of lumbering unit who seems to enjoy a spot of last-ditching in his own penalty area, and in the first half he took the opportunity to demonstrate this capacity with a handful of timely headers, blocks and general inserting of self into the sort of cramped positions that prevented Woolwich sorts from shooting freely.
He gummed up operations considerably for that third though. Pape Sarr, just inside his own half, had the bright idea to send the ball back to Dragusin, outside his own area and under no pressure, but – and as it turned out, critically – at head-height. This was admittedly a complicating factor. One would have hoped that, seasoned international that he is, Dragusin might have been able to bring the thing under a degree of control, perhaps pulling it down closer to earth before sending it off into the heavens.
Instead, he chose the rather dubious option of sending forward a header at an equally awkward height, towards Bissouma. While I suppose one might half-heartedly applaud the fact that he found his own teammate, any further praise rather sticks in the throat, because there are players a dashed sight better than Bissouma who would have treated such an unhelpful pass with a wobble and a murderous glare back at him.
Anyway, Bissouma, having expended all his useful energy in the first half, was not about to battle for a sub-standard pass in his direction, and before you could murmur “Dash it, one good pass and they’re in on goal”, that horrible lot were in on goal.
Similarly, already in a state of significant disgruntlement by the time the 94th minute rolled around, the pompous dallying of young Spence did little to gruntle me. That Spence is a pest. He undoubtedly has a trick or two in his locker, and one is gripped by the urge to yelp “Ole!” whenever his elastic limbs bamboozle an opponent and magic the ball the other side of them – but the ability to drag the ball around an opponent dost not a Pele make.
High up on the Tudor To-Do List should be the task of shaking Spence violently by the shoulders and drilling into him that he has not half as good as he thinks he is, and should just focus on the basics until we are at least three goals up in any given match.
Being far too convinced of his own abilities, Spence attempted to slalom his way around a couple of the opposition rotters when inside his own area, and not for the first time when attempting such ill-advised tomfoolery was left with a whole omlette’s worth on his face. Woolwich emerged with the ball, and before you could murmur “Dash it, one good pass and they’re in on goal again”, that horrible lot were in on goal again.
This is not to suggest that had every individual error been removed we would have gone toe-to-toe and emerged triumphant – but no need to roll out the red carpet for them, what?
I do sympathise to an extent – willing nibs like Palhinha and Archie Gray did their damnedest, but made the sort of positional mistake (for the second) that one might expect of a central midfield being asked to slot in at the back and hope no-one notices; while for the fourth poor old Archie Gray put in the sort of challenge that one might expect from a boy in a man’s world, and was more or less shoved out of the way without a second thought by that Gyokeres rotter.
So while these shortcomings are hardly the faults of Messrs P. and G., the more block-headed errors detailed previously were entirely avoidable.
3. A Forlorn Grumble
For the avoidance of doubt, even had we eked out a surreptitious draw, it would have been quite the act of larceny. Defeat by a three-goal margin sounded about right.
Nevertheless, had the disallowed Kolo-Muani goal been allowed to stand, many a neutral onlooker would have rubbed their hands and licked their lips in anticipation of Woolwich imploding once more. No knowing how events might have panned out of course, but in the absence of any hint of attacking patterns, one has to cling to whatever passing wreckage presents itself.
One understands why the goal was disallowed – two hands to the back does have a pretty incriminating look about it. And a standard AANP motto at this point is “Don’t give the referee the option”. Put another away, if R.K-M had kept his hands to himself, we might have jigged off down the High Road with a point in the bag.
However, even the two-handed contact, such as it was, was hardly enough to send Gabriel flailing off in the air like that. If you don’t mind a spot of top-level physiology, when one unexpectedly takes a bump or stumble, and finds themselves off-balance, the instinct is to shoot the hands downwards, to prevent the fall. Cushion the blow, as it were. It’s what might call Nature’s Way.
Closer inspection of that bounder Gabriel, however, reveals that on receiving his pat on the back he flung his arms upwards, a sure sign of a spot of the old Hollywood. And not just his arms in fact. The irritating drip flung out every available limb and fairly propelled himself through the air, just to make sure that he made the highlights reel. It was actually a pretty risky manoeuvre, for he would have looked quite the dimwit if the ref had rolled his eyes and waved matters on.
As it turns out, the Match of the Day hawks were also onto this, pointing out that earlier this season a similar push by Liverpool’s Ekitike on our very own Cristian Romero went unpunished, to the tune of a goal conceded, so there’s certainly a precedent for this sort of thing being allowed to fly. (Another moan about this might be to ask whether a penalty would have been awarded had a similar push been effected upon a striker – one assumes not).
To repeat, that moment is by no means the reason we lost yesterday. Our latest Glorious Leader did at least seem to spark some life and willing into the troops; next up he simply needs to instil at least the faintest hint of tactical strategy.