Tag: James Maddison

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Spurs match reports

Southampton 0-5 Spurs: Four Tottenham Talking Points

OUT NOW! The new book ‘All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season’, is the perfect stocking-filler for any Spurs fan. Get yours now for just £7.99 from Amazon (ebook from £6.99)

1. Maddison

There are, of course, unwritten rules to be adhered to when it comes to the TV bods unveiling their Best Performing Actor from any given match, with ‘He Who Scored The Most Goals’ tending to get the nod, irrespective of any amount of honest toil delivered by others, in the less glamorous sectors. Last night’s on-camera gang weren’t about to break with tradition, so James Maddison duly had a yellow brick shoved into his lap.

And actually, although you may have detected a peevish tone that suggests that AANP has a grumble to uncork, on reflection it was a reasonable enough nomination.

Beginning with the headline stuff, Maddison took both his goals splendidly, the second in particular being the sort of work of art that deserves a spot of Lightning Seeds in the background, as one of the outstanding efforts of the season. The Cruyff-turn that outfoxed his opponent, to the extent that said opponent skidded off the perimeter and towards the hoardings, was of itself a triumph.

The finish that followed however, was deluxe stuff, tucked in from an angle that would have most of us shaking our heads and demanding a rethink of the whole scheme. For added garnish, he hit that impossible angle whilst himself being yanked off the pitch by the aforementioned stooge who had been dummied off in the direction of the hoardings. When he gets his bearings right, Maddison is capable of dishing up some mouth-watering produce.

As well as the goals he scored, Maddison was also embedded pretty deeply within the construction of a couple of others. If this realisation slightly creeps up on you, rather than being firmly embedded in the memory, it’s understandable enough, because frankly we scored so many and so quickly that one did have to keep the brain well-sharpened in order to monitor who was contributing to which goals.

For clarity, our second came about from a Maddison cross from the right, which skimmed off a Southampton head before Sonny popped up at the far post; and our third (Kulusevski’s tap-in) had its genesis in a Maddison spray from halfway inside our half to halfway inside theirs (for Son to run onto and square).

And having contributed so centrally to no fewer than four of our goals, Maddison could fairly reasonably have made the case that even if he had spent the rest of the game sitting cross-legged in a quiet spot near the edge of the pitch, neither interfering nor contributing any further, he’d still have merited recognition for his efforts.

Nevertheless, I’d venture that Maddison’s efforts around these four goal contributions were generally to be popped in the bucket marked ‘Kept Things Ticking Over’, rather than ‘Set The World Alight and Created An Endless Stream of Chances’. Maddison pootled about busily. His tail clearly up, he elbowed his way to the front of any queue going, and saw plenty of the ball, and against that clueless mob seemed to be enjoying himself pretty royally.

However, when I heard the telly bods trot out lines like, “When Maddison plays well, Tottenham play well”, I did cock the head, and wonder if they were just using a catchy tagline, rather than really getting to the heart of matters. To repeat, Maddison did not rustle up an endless stream of chances, nor pull did he pull every string going. He played perfectly well, but generally in more of a deep-lying, beaverish sort of way, helping to manage the game rather than constantly sparking attacks.

Still worthy enough of the Man of the Match gong I suppose, for those two finishes alone, so I’m not about to yank the yellow brick from his mitts and scream “Fraud!” at him; but the success of it all seemed to me to be down to the collective rather than Maddison and Maddison alone.

2. Djed Spence

In fact, when the conversation began about the game’s outstanding contributor, the first name that sprung to AANP’s mind was actually that of young Spence. Now, a second thought pretty swiftly followed, that to crown him thusly would probably be to over-egg things, but both the nature and the timing of his critical input was nevertheless of importance.

I refer to that collect-and-swivel routine he unveiled in the opening 20 seconds or so, receiving the ball just inside his own half, facing his own goal and with a Southampton cove crawling up his collar. Had he shoved the ball back whence it came and tooled off elsewhere for a bit of space and a quick, restorative gulp of O2, one would hardly have chided him.

Instead, however, and to his eternal credit, he used a spot of upper-body heft to hold off his opponent, and then, still using that u-b h., twirled the same opponent in a small circle, which resulted in Spence taking up new coordinates inside the Southampton half and facing their goal, with the opponent wondering quite how he had been elbowed to the back of the queue.

Nor did Spence stop to admire his work. Buoyed by his initial success, he kept right on marauding, before picking the perfect pass at the perfect moment, for Maddison to do the rest.

One might argue that, fine and noble work thought it was, such an inspired little burst hardly qualified Spence for consideration as player of the match. And it is true, this was one amongst many inspired moments of attacking nous rolled out by our heroes, in the first 45 in particular.

What arrested the AANP attention though, was the fact that a little earlier – about 20 seconds earlier, actually, at kick-off, but also for a good few days leading up to that – the mood amongst our lot was anything but joyful and triumphant. I suppose I speak only for the denizens of AANP Towers, but following the games against Galatasaray and Fulham and Bournemouth and Chelsea and Rangers, there were some furrowed brows and pretty angst-riddled deep-and-meaningfuls about the place.

Going into yesterday’s bash, I rather held my breath as proceedings got underway. Not quite sure where things were going, if you follow. And it’s in this context, that Spence’s little opening gambit made such an impression upon the AANP soul. Had he not spun his man and gone a-haring, but instead biffed the ball back to the centre-backs, to give back to Forster, to concede a throw inside our half, there’s no real knowing how things might have played out.

For Spence to give the shoulders and shrug and dive straight into the heart of the Southampton defence instead set a marvellous tone for the night. Of course it helped that they simply melted away in front of him, but nevertheless. Had he passed backwards, they might not have had the opportunity to start melting.

Spence turned up on the shores of N17 with rather a reputation for getting into the meat of things as an attacking full-back, so on seeing him finally selected I had certainly hoped to see a bit of that fabled swashbuckler – but by golly I didn’t expect it to be quite so immediate and effective.

3. Bergvall

I also doffed the cap towards young Bergvall for his efforts. Probably best to scatter a little context about the place for this one, actually.

Bergvall’s little cameos hither and thither have generally underwhelmed this particular observer. Jolly harsh, I suppose you might say, but the common thread I’d picked up from his occasional substitute appearances in the league, and some underwhelming bilge in Europe, has been of a young imp – of admittedly decent touch – who has nowhere near the requisite body mass to cope in a world of burly, grizzled professionals. Many an eyeroll has been delivered around these parts at the sight of Bergvall being tossed aside by opposing midfielders. “One for the future, I suppose,” has been the politest verdict.

Credit where due, he seemed vastly better equipped for his night’s work when brought on in midweek against Rangers, which was impressive stuff given the atmosphere and whatnot. He peddled a neat line in intelligent touches, and it seemed appropriate that our equaliser came within 15 minutes of his introduction.

One nevertheless emitted a bit of a gulp at seeing his name scrawled into the Starting XI yesterday, but as it turned out he simply picked up at Southampton where he had left off at Rangers, and trotted out a most accomplished performance. The moral of the story is evidently not to judge an 18 year-old on the basis of a dozen substitute appearances dotted around the place and a couple of dubious Europa League showings.

Nor, I suppose, should I hail him as the new incarnation of Modric on the basis of one neat-and-tidy against the league’s bottom side. Nevertheless, that combo of neat passing, excellent touch and sensible decision-making did make me think that we have a ready-made Bentancur reserve in situ.

4. Archie Gray, But With an Asterisk

And frankly, if I’m going to witter on about Spence and Bergvall, it hardly seems fair to scrawl “The End”, and beetle off for a splash or two of bourbon, without acknowledging that young Archie Gray has had his head dunked underwater for two successive games now, and has shrugged it all off with barely a flicker of concern. For any midfielder to fill in at centre-back is a bit thick; for an 18 year-old to do so without any prior experience, new to the club and in a team that, at any given point in any given match, is likely to be almightily outnumbered on the counter-attack, borders on child cruelty.

Gray, however, has twice now negotiated the task like a seasoned pro. Let’s face it, here at Spurs we have suffered through our fair share of calamitous centre-backs, capable of – and seemingly intent on – unleashing disaster with their every involvement. Gray is none of the above. Gray seems the sort of young bean whose idea of a good night at centre-back is one in which he fades into the background such that one barely realises he’s been playing. AANP approves.

He was a bit more circumspect in possession last night than against Rangers on Thursday, which was no bad thing, but also made one mightily impressive last-ditch tackle late in the game yesterday, to preserve the clean sheet. One doesn’t really know quite what the plan is with his development and position and so on, but frankly I feel more assured with him at the back than with several other of our more experienced sorts.

Having said all that, however, and amidst all the backslaps, our lot did allow Southampton two absolute dollies right in front of goal, in the first half. Both from crosses from the right, both of which found two strikers given the freedom of the penalty area. Not really being cut out for the defensive game I struggle to name the guilty party in our colours, but Dragusin seemed to be the man with the best view of proceedings, and one would expect him to have been doing the organising of the defensive line.

It’s probably a grumble for another day, though. I’ve lost track of the official, designated mood amongst the faithful, and quite who we’re meant to be grumbling about now, but last night was proof if ever it were needed (and that hilarious goal difference further hammers home the point) that when on song our lot can absolutely tear to pieces an opponent.

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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.

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New Spurs Book Out Now – “All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season”

“One could hardly suggest that when Son crept into view the coast was clear. The coast was crowded, and in fact fast becoming something of a claustrophobe’s nightmare. Bodies were advancing upon the poor lad like vultures getting right down to it for their daily spot of carcass.”

All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season is based loosely on the weekly chronicles of the Tottenham Hotspur blog All Action, No Plot, during 2023-24. That season will live long in the memory, as the beginning of an extraordinary, exhilarating new era under Ange Postecoglou – and no writer captured the madness as wittily as the AANP blogger, Michael Lacquiere. His combination of eloquent prose and ludicrous humour made for matchday reflections as compelling as the games themselves.

From the heady success of Postecoglou’s opening months in charge, which saw Spurs’ relentless attacking style take them to the top of the Premier League and dreaming of glory, to the turning-point of the season in an incredible nine-man defeat in November, through to a finale in which European qualification was secured while fans cheered on a home defeat, no team in the country was as entertaining as Tottenham. Relive Ange’s wild first season at Spurs with this match-by-match account from the pen of one of English football’s finest comic writers.

Out now for just £7.99, order your paperbook copy now from Amazon, in time for Christmas (ebook from £6.99).

All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season – the perfect stocking-filler for any Spurs fan.

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Spurs 1-1 Fulham: Three Tottenham Talking Points

Need a Christmas stocking-filler for the Spurs fan in your life? Keep your eyes peeled, because AANP’s new book “All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season” will soon be appearing on this site.

1. Dragusin

Radu Dragusin reminds me a little of Eric Dier. Now I suppose if you’re a particularly kindly soul, you may clasp your hands together in joy, a beaming smile across your map, and murmur, “Oh, how charming!” or something similar.

Unfortunately, if this were the case I’d have to step right in and cut you off mid-flow. The Dier-esque epithets I toss at Dragusin are hardly complimentary. Quite the opposite, in fact. This is not to suggest that Dragusin stank the place out from first bell to last. It’s more to suggest that so far in his lilywhite career he seems more brawn than brain, and specifically brawn of the slow-moving, slightly lumbering brand. Dier-esque, one might suggest.

And if you’re stroking the chin at that, I’d direct you towards yesterday’s offerings to ram home the point. In fact, I could direct you towards any one of Dragusin’s recent string of four or five games. Perhaps generously waving aside that Galatasaray game as an exceptionally off-night, his outputs have generally failed to inspire confidence. Admittedly he has, without fail, puffed out his chest, chewed his gum and certainly looked like one who considers himself master of all he surveys. But when it actually comes to the delivering as pledged, one does scrunch the face a little, and politely point out that he’s messing up some of the basics.

The early signs yesterday were promising enough, as his first major involvement was to shove out of possession some Fulham scamp who was trying to beat him for pace on the flank. In the appropriate context, Dragusin is clearly capable of applying some upper-body mass to lend force to an argument.

Not long afterwards, however, his Eric Dier Tribute Act really gathered momentum when he made a bit of a lunge around halfway. It was the sort of challenge which is fine in principle, but in practice does require a certain sharpness from the blocks. Dragusin, however, is not really the sort who can spring in lightning quick fashion from a standing start. I’m not sure he can spring in lightning quick fashion from a running start either, to be honest. Anyway, for whatever reason, the Fulham lad’s nipping away of the ball was carried out at a far quicker speed than Dragusin’s lunge, and Fulham were away.

I also noted that the two clear-cut chances Fulham made in the first half, were presented to the man who Dragusin, along with the ever-vacant Porro, was supposed to be monitoring.

So far, so Dier. What then emphasised the likeness in my eyes was a couple of his attempts to distribute the ball further north. These, quite simply, missed their target, gifting possession to Fulham around halfway and thereby prompting an about-turn from all in lilywhite.

Now it’s worth emphasising here that in criminally misdirecting passes of between 5 and 15 yards, Dragusin was by no means the sole culprit. It was indicative of a generally horrendous performance amongst the entire outfield mob that seemed utterly incapable of stringing a few basic passes together without the radar shutting down and the ball hitting a red shirt.

Nevertheless, this hardly excused Dragusin. Neither did it do much to instil confidence.

As mentioned above, this was not unadulterated filth from the chap throughout. He had good moments as well as bad, I simply noted a bit too much in the Debit column for my liking. He ended up with a big thick tick in the Credit column, however, with that stoppage-time clearance off the line after Ben Davies’ solid, retreating trundle saw him beaten for pace. As such, I suppose that as third or fourth-choice centre-back he’s competent enough. Moreover, it can take a good year or so for these foreign fellows to find their feet in the Premier League, so he might yet improve considerably. I just found myself shaking my head at him once too often yesterday, and recalling a former member of the parish.

2. Forster

AANP occasionally watches a spot of tennis to pass an idle hour, and one notion that occurred to me on seeing Andy Murray recently call time on his career, was that it was rotten luck for him to be born when he was. Not much he could have done about it of course. In my experience babies will often delay things for a week or two, for sport, but there’s not much scope for them to press pause for a whole decade. Not the done thing.

So Murray was stuck with the era in which popped up, and as such had to look on a little forlornly as three of the best players ever hoovered up most of the gongs. And in a roundabout way, having watched Fraser Forster pull off  a number of goal-worthy reflex saves that kept us in the game yesterday, the thought occurred that, in a different era, he too might have been feted one of the very best in the business.

Certainly his shot-stopping, in his couple of engagements so far, has been of the highest quality. In general too, being of sturdy construction and about fourteen feet tall, he deals with crosses in pretty dominant fashion. With such qualities to his name, had he sprung up in the 80s, 90s or 00s, for example, he might well have been regarded as one of the elite.

These days, however, the standard goalkeeper plucked from the street is expected first and foremost to pass from feet. From the back, and over short distances. Show composure and accuracy with the ball at your feet, seems to be the instruction, and the stuff with the hands can be tacked on later.

Gone are the days when the goalkeeper’s work was done upon having grasped the ball, and they could simply kick from their hands over halfway, and lean back against the goalpost for a snooze. If they can’t pass ten yards to their nearby colleagues, and occasionally bypass half the opposition with a 20-yarder through the lines, then they won’t get a look in.

When it comes to passing from feet, Forster actually competent enough, from what we see, but one wouldn’t really grade him any more highly than that. One or two of his passes yesterday did go a bit rogue and land at Fulham feet. I suppose one might argue that that can happen to the best of us from time to time, but the point is that he does not really come across as one whose greatest forte is as a ball-player.

To repeat, however, his saves won us a point yesterday. Due to a general air of incompetence from those around him, Fulham were allowed far too many efforts on goal, several of which were of the clear-cut variety, and at least two required Forster to churn out some point-blank stuff. And let’s face it, point-blank saves are as close as goalkeepers will get to scoring themselves.

3. Quite the Off-Day

Forster and his shot-stopping aside, it is difficult to muster up too much enthusiasm about any other individuals. Maddison beavered, and picked one or two passes that quickened the pulse, but one would only describe him as a constant menace, or something similar, if one had fingers crossed behind one’s back and a pretty guilty-looking expression etched across the face.

There some extenuating circumstances, for Solanke soldiers away like an absolute trooper when available – and one of those troopers who delights in getting covered with filth if it helps the collective – so his absence, and the unavailability of Richarlison, hamstrung us like nobody’s business. It might have been a day to start young Lankshear, but that’s not a grumble into which I’m going to put much lung-power. The lad still looks a tad undercooked.

Without a dominant focal point our lot were unable to hold up the ball, and generally seemed a bit lost as to what the point of the whole thing was once they gained possession. As front-threes go, it is difficult to imagine a more soft and delicate combo than Son, Werner and Johnson. One understands the decision to give Kulusevski a bit of a breather, but no Solanke or Richarlison about the place either, it left us frightfully lightweight in attack.

AANP has generally been pretty forgiving of Angeball and Our Glorious Leader. When we lose games having had 20 shots on goal, I’ll tend to shrug it off, on the grounds that, by and large, playing that way we’ll win (and handsomely so) more than we’ll lose/draw. Indeed, hearty batterings of various half-decent sides this season seem to bear that out.

Where the mood darkens, however, is when a general insipidity washes over the collective from start to finish. The fact that Fulham can beetle up to our place and conjure up more shots on target,  and slope off feeling aggrieved not to have won, is pretty troubling. As mentioned, generally when we fail to win it’s just because a stream of shots failed to find the net; but yesterday (and against Palace a month or two ago), darker forces were at work.

Bizarrely, we remain only 5 points off second, but if anything this hammers home the frustration of having dropped more eminently winnable points.

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Spurs match reports

Man City 0-4 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. Kulusevski

If you ever spot Dejan Kulusevski sloping about the place, and you notice he looks a bit down on himself – gloomy expression, dragging his feet, that sort of thing – it turns out there is one thing absolutely guaranteed to buck him right up and set him skipping gaily down the street. You simply have to tell him that his next opponent will be Man City, and watch him burst into life like a firework that’s just been lit.

Quite what it is about that mob that puts the joys of spring into him is anyone’s guess. They’re one of the last teams I’d want to spend 90 minutes chasing around a field, but there we go. Once Kuluseski clocked whom it was he was up against, he went into absolute overdrive.

There have been times this season when one has speculated that the only thing that might stop Kulusevski in full flow is if he himself decides to stop. Certainly the opposition don’t get much say in it. Yesterday was an absolute prime case in point. If Kulusevski decided to put his head down and barrel his way across half the City team, they were powerless to intervene. Essentially, they were reduced to the role of decorative ornaments, scattered about the place for him to dance around.

Take that first goal. Dragusin began things by lofting a pass in his general direction, and there was not a great deal about it to arrest the attention. Nothing particularly wrong with it, mind. It was perfectly acceptable stuff. Neither, however, did it seem to be of much consequence. City had hardly been carved open. It was essentially a waft. Kulusevski, upon gathering the thing in, one suspected, would have to put in some elbow-grease if he wanted to generate any mileage from it.

But in the blink of an eye, this season’s new, supercharged iteration of the Swede had not just generated mileage, he’d set up an opportunity for Maddison that, if not quite on a plate, was about nine-tenths of the way there. In the first place he niftily turned infield, and then gave that Gvardiol fellow a friendly shove to clear the paths.

That might not sound like much, but if you’ve ever had the honour of drinking in the full dimensions of Gvardiol from close quarters, you’ll be aware that his physique has much about it of a sturdy tree trunk. To illustrate the point, if I were to try similarly attempt to hand off Gvardiol, I’d wager that I’d quite likely sprain a wrist, and possibly also bounce off him and over the advertising hoardings.  Kulusevski however, shoved him aside, and aside he remained. And this highlights one of the principal merits of the fellow: he’s a meaty young blighter.

We then benefited from a timely dart from Pedro Porro, up the right flank. While Kulusevski deemed this offer of assistance beneath him, that Gvardiol lump was sufficiently distracted to take a step or two to track the run. Kulusevski did not stop to enquire how that detour was treating him, but instead beavered infield into the vacant space.

At this point, one might report that he swung in a cross, and such an observation would, I suppose, hold up in court. Factually correct, I mean to say. Not a syllable of untruth contained therein.

And yet, simply to say this and no more would be to understate the thing like the dickens. It would be like stating that Van Gogh painted flowers. No denying it, but by golly you’d shoot an enquiring look and wonder when the juicy detail would kick in. So it was with Kulusevski’s cross, for it was a specimen of the highest order. One ought really to cart it at the next awards ceremony and give a short speech in its honour.

To give it its due acclaim, all the key mechanical elements could be ticked off for a start. That is to say it was of the appropriate height, and weight, and so forth. Layered upon all these, though, were what you might call the standout features. The cross was flighted perfectly over the head of the patrolling central defender, for example, removing from him the option of simply standing and heading clear, or even of leaping a foot or two and heading clear. It was one of those crosses that to all intents and purposes wiped the p.c.d. briefly from existence.

And having had requisite height to do what might be termed Part One of the operation, the cross then similarly ticked off Part Two, by dipping sufficiently so as to allow Maddison to meet it with a well-timed foot. Not too high, not bouncing awkwardly, not too far in front of him; but weighted just so.

On top of which, this was one of that eye-catching class of crosses that does not simply drop to someone’s feet, but is whipped into a vacant space. Now while further applause can be directed Kulusevski’s way, this aspect also requires a partner in the operation, who is tuned into the same wavelength, and is willing to gallop into the vacant space. And this was where Maddison chimed in so sensibly.

All these elements neatly flowed together, both Maddison and Kulusevski timing thing as if they’d been rehearsing for weeks. As will be expanded upon below, Maddison deserves top marks for his role in the drama, but the genesis of the goal, and frankly the whole victory, was brought by Kulusevski.

Thereafter, the chap simply would not be silenced. It was an odd sort of game, in that we could hardly be said to have had control of things, particularly in the first half and particularly when out of possession. We largely relied upon City to mangle their opportunities, rather than preventing them from having any. However, similarly, when we were in possession, we led City a pretty merry dance, and Kulusevski was at hub of most of our incisive work.

The third goal was another example of this. It should be emphasised that the goals lend themselves as rather obvious illustrations of his evening’s work, but his contribution was not limited to these and these alone. It was not the case that he bobbed up on these two occasions and clocked off for the remainder, content to loiter in the background and shirk his duties. Kulusevski was menace to City every time he gathered the ball.

The goals do stick in the memory though. The third started with the Swede embracing in his inner Maradona, and twisting the living daylights out of every City player in his path. The naked eye could barely follow what was happening, such was the twinkle-toed nature of his burst. His little dribble was all the more pleasing for leading eventually to a goal, for when such moments of trickery lead to naught they can sometimes be lost in the mists of time. On this occasion, however, having danced his way past several flummoxed opponents, Kulusevski then played a delicate one-two with Sonny before haring off down the left.

His pass for Solanke thereafter was actually probably a little overhit, but the latter did a solid job of recycling things, before Porro applied the finishing touch.

A couple of standout moments then, in an altogether rip-roaring outing from the chap. Once he gets going, there really is no stopping him.

2. Maddison

The other outstanding performance was posted by young Maddison, which I must admit surprised me a little. It was just about a year ago that the young imp hobbled off against Chelsea on that fateful nine-men-on-halfway evening, and since then he has looked decidedly short of the old pep. Bit of a shadow of his former self. Always happy enough to muck in, to his credit, but rarely doing too much to stop the casual observer in their tracks and have them mouthing, “By golly” or something similar.

Yesterday, however, Maddison returned to form; or, more accurately, it seemed to me, discovered two new and hitherto untapped areas of form, which he claimed as his own. What I mean is that previously, and in the first few months of his Tottenham career, back in the summer of 2023, Maddison seemed to strut about the place creating opportunities for others. He’d collect the ball in advanced positions and thread, this way and that, some passes of the exceptionally cunning variety. Creator-in-chief, one might say, and well we needed him.

Quite a different beast on show yesterday though. His goals, for a start, had about them much of the Scholes, Platt or Dele. The first in particular was a triumph for the fine but oft-neglected art of surging forward from midfield, reaching the edge of the area and then carrying right on with the surging. In a system such as ours, in which poor old Solanke can quite often be found knee-deep in build-up muck, a goodish distance from goal, all manner of bribes and incentives ought to be flung at the midfield posse to elevate to the top of their To-Do List the essential role of arriving in the area for scraps.

And Maddison did that yesterday like a pro. As elaborated upon above, Kulusevski played his part in that opening goal with aplomb, but it would have resulted in a sigh, a little pirouette on the spot and some further sideways and backwards rot, if Maddison had not carpe’d the diem.

Having bust a gut to get there, Maddison also deserves credit for controlling his volley, which I think is the technical term for those moments when one avoids lashing the ball over the bar and off into the thinner part of the atmosphere.

His role in the second goal was even better. When the press exerted by various chums brought about an errant City pass, Maddison seized upon it like a hyena who’s spotted one of the slower members of the Serengeti gang loping his way. In a trice Maddison had collected the ball, nor did he dawdle in shoving it at Sonny. Importantly, having shoved, Maddison did not stop to admire his work either, but was struck with the winning notion that he might as well race off to the other side of the area.

One exquisite Son flick later, and Maddison was in on goal; but if one were to sit back in one’s seat and opine that all he had left to do was tap the thing home and welcome the acclaim, one would need a pretty sharp correction.

For a start, travelling at pace, Maddison’s first touch needed to be top-tier stuff. Too soft and the ball would be left behind; too hard and it would bounce off him and away. He therefore did an impressive job of dragging it along with him, even while on the gallop. The sequel that immediately followed was even more impressive, for who amongst us does not enjoy a dinked finish over an onrushing goalkeeper? Credit, then, by the bucketful. I did not know he had such things in his armoury.

These goals having been despatched, Maddison then devoted the rest of his evening to produce from an entirely different genre altogether. He seemed to dust away all his attacking gear, and lock it in the attic for another day. The focus of the remainder of his evening was to collect the ball from Vicario and chums, in his own defensive third.

If you’ve regularly passed by this corner of the interweb you may know that AANP is not too hot on this business of playing out from the back. And when I say ‘not too hot’, I add a thick layer of scorn, and a pretty evil eye. Dashed nuisance, if you ask me. It regularly leads to us ceding possession in dangerous areas; and even when it does work, it rarely gets us as far as the halfway line.

Anyway, we were at it again yesterday, of course, so I took a deep breath and duly braced myself. However, what unfurled was arguably our finest hour and a half of peddling this building-from-the-back gubbins. It actually worked, pretty well and on repeated occasions. And there at the heart of it all was Maddison.

His juices presumably flowing like nobody’s business after his goals, every time we had a goal kick he availed himself of possession in the most precarious positions conceivable, right on the edge of his own area, and seemingly unfazed by the close attentions of City bods lurking on his shoulder. And I’ll be dashed if each and every time he did not successfully hold onto possession. He dipped his shoulder as appropriate and swerved away from danger, protecting the ball and finding a chum. It was an approach that absolutely dripped with risk, and yet Maddison pulled it off every time.

This was remarkable in itself, but it also meant that, having bobbed and weaved past the City press, he was able to set us off on our way, over halfway and on the counter-attack.

Whether or not he can do this every week we’ll have to wait and see I suppose, but yesterday he orchestrated things from deep like it was the role for which he had been preparing since birth.

3. Our Defence

With VDV and Romero still poorly, we had to make do with Davies and Dragusin at centre-back, and I suppose the record books will now show for eternity that the pair of them kept a clean-sheet, so well done them. However, that they did so, especially in the first 10 minutes or so, seemed to defy physics.

I touched earlier upon the peculiarity of this one, in terms of our lack of control in the first half in particular. If you happened to grab the Sunday morning papers and cast an eye over the score-line, you might well have cheerily assumed that City failed to lay a glove, given it not a moment’s further thought and duly flicked over to the Sudoku puzzle, a cheery whistle on your lips.

This, while understandable enough, would have been a wild misdiagnosis of events. City most certainly did lay gloves upon us. In fact, several of their punches landed and left us staggering drunkenly about the canvas – as, it should be pointed out, ours did them. Essentially, whichever team had the ball looked like they would score within two shakes of a lamb’s tail. That City didn’t owed a lot to some off-colour finishing, as well as an exceptional display of limb-extension (and at one point, torso-existence) from young Vicario.

Credit where due, in the second half our midfield five rolled up their sleeves and formed a tight unit in front of the defence. This seemed to cheese off the City mob sufficiently, forcing them off into all sorts of scenic routes on the peripheries. They still eked out a fair number of close-range chances, mind, any one of which, if converted, would have had the nervous glances firing in all directions. However, as the game wore on, and our goal tally racked upon, the light in their eyes rather died.

Few would have predicted that, after an opening 10 or so in which they trampled all over us. And while Davies and Dragusin undoubtedly drew short straws in having to face up to Haaland, Foden et al for this one, they didn’t exactly help themselves in those opening exchanges.

Haaland missed two pretty straightforward knockings early on. The first of which emanated from Davies darting forward to win the ball high up, missing the ball, and duly finding himself out of position while City went on the charge. When the ball eventually squirted out to Haaland he had the freedom of the penalty area, but oddly decided to pause and reflect on things, in which time Davies was able to scamper back and effect a block.

Full marks for scampering back and blocking, of course, but the whole episode might have been avoided with better judgement earlier on in the piece. (A quiet chiding here, too, for Bissouma, for not having the presence of mind to step back into Davies’ vacant spot and fill in for him when he disappeared a-wandering.)

Not to be outdone, a minute or two later Dragusin pulled an identical trick, lunging for the ball and finding himself kicking at thin air as Savio tootled away. Again, no ill transpired, but the omens hardly filled one to the gills with confidence.

Thereafter, at least, the pair had the decency to keep their noses clean. It is only fair to applaud them for sticking to the task for the remainder, and without huge alarm. As mentioned, we did still rely on Vicario an awful lot, but one imagines the pair of them will feel a heck of lot better for having a clean-sheet to their name, against that lot of all lots.

And ultimately, with a tip of the cap to Herr Werner for doing what very few have ever done before, and skinning Kyle Walker, we rode off into the sunset with one of the finest score-lines of the Postecoglou era.

Of course, none of it counts, as Rodri was injured, and that simply is not fair on City; but is there anything more maddeningly Spurs-esque, than to lose at home to Ipswich, before travelling to City and hammering them? Marvellously entertaining, of course, and if we ever stumble upon some consistency we’ll be a heck of a force to be reckoned with, but for now I try not to think of whatever shock defeat is forthcoming, and simply enjoy the moment.

Need a Christmas stocking-filler for the Spurs-supporter in your life? Keep your eyes peeled, for a new AANP book will soon be arriving on this site.

Categories
Spurs match reports

Galatasary 3-2 Spurs: Three(ish) Tottenham Talking Points

1. Dragusin

When gathered in the smoking-room to pick over the bones of the weekend jolly vs Villa, a sentiment seemed to surface that young Dragusin might be a bit of a one. A defender with something to him, was the gist. Thrust into the thick of battle shorn of first VDV and then Romero, he emerged with half-shaven-half-man-bunned head held high, was the sentiment.

AANP contented himself to nod along at all that, rather than wade into the discourse. In my private moments I confided that there was a fair old slab of rough, as well as smooth, when it came to Dragusin, but I thought then – as now – that it is a bit early to really measure the dear boy for size.

To bang home the point, it still strikes me as too early to judge either way. That said, put politely, last night he had a bit of a stinker. No doubt about that one. If there were a mistake to be made, Dragusin was front of the queue. He was like one of those fellows one sees in the black and white slapstick comedies, who places a hand on a door and the whole edifice comes crashing down around him.

It says much about his night’s work that there are simply too many mistakes to catalogue. Not that he was alone on this front – Forster’s distribution was often the stuff of nightmares, Bergvall and Maddison offered no assistance whatsoever, the other members of the back-four had turned off the ‘Accuracy’ settings on their passing dials for the evening – but Dragusin seemed keen to make himself the poster-boy for all the calamity unfolding about the place.

To summarise, from top to bottom, his attempts to dribble from the back almost always saw him tackled; his passing was often errant; and on more than one occasion he allowed too much space to whichever forward he was marking. Again, to re-emphasise, he was no doubt dealt a duff hand, being partnered with the earnest-limited Davies, B. and in front of the enormous-but-far-from-sprightly Forster, F. And seeing Dragusin occasionally put that sizeable frame to half-decent use in the second half, by bouncing away Galatasaray forwards, one could at least wrap the old grey cells around the concept that he and VDV might make a useful combo.

Last night, however, was not his night. That is acceptable enough; the broader concern over here is that Angeball is not his system. The requirement of being a pretty competent ball-player, in order to get on board with playing out from the back, currently seems one heck of a stretch for the man. Nor is he exceptionally quick, which would be a bonus in our high line, and on last night’s showing there is nothing in particular about his defending that would have you rushing to the beds of your nearest and dearest to wake them up and excitedly prattle about how we might have stumbled upon a gem. Let’s see how he gets on this Sunday, I suppose.

2. The Youth

For the avoidance of doubt, any game that Spurs lose rather ruins the mood at AANP Towers for the remainder of the evening; but that said, on this occasion the atmosphere around here come the final whistle last night was a lot more philosophical than would ordinarily be the case after a 3-2 reverse. And I suppose the reason for this was that last night’s game had the distinct air about it of a free hit. That is to say, if you lined up every Spurs game you’ve ever watched on a scale of importance, with the ’91 FA Cup Final and 2019 CL Final up at one end, then this would probably be tucked away at the other.

One doesn’t really make any effort to master the mechanics of this Europa League drivel, but the word around the campfire seemed to be that with three wins from three already banked, for one night only our heroes could afford to take their eye off things yesterday. The Europa League as a whole has been seen as a chance to give minutes to squad players and unleash the kids, and Our Glorious Leader made clear yesterday that he was fully signed up to this policy.

2.2 The Youth: Bergvall

In this context, I considered young Bergvall an almighty let-down. One might reasonably exercise a bit of The Dragusin Disclaimer here, and point out that these are early days and limited viewings, and therefore urge a spot of caution before ejecting the blighter from the premises. Such an approach would be entirely reasonable. The point of these Europa and Carabao outings is not really for armchair fans like your current scribe to act out the roles of judge, jury and executioner, but for the young pups to gain experience and improve.

And by golly, judging by his starts so far this season, Bergvall has a heck of a lot of improving to get through. His touch and talent seem present and correct, no real concerns there. The problem, rather, seems to be that he has a touch of the old Bryan Gil about him. Featherweight, I mean, and that puts it kindly. Every time he was in possession last night he duly received a gentle buffeting that near enough knocked him from his moorings; while his attempts to scurry back and lend some muscle when chasing their midfield were akin to watching a kitten tyring to interfere with a passing elephant. As mentioned, both he and Maddison were woefully low on useful input, and the contrast once Bentancur, Sarr and Kulusevski arrived was enormous.

2.3 The Youth: Gray

Of the other whippersnappers, Archie Gray gave the impression that while he’ll obediently play the game at left-back or right-back or wherever, what he really wants is to be let off the leash to go roam about the midfield.

His contribution to our first goal was outstanding. The alacrity to pick up pieces when Sonny tumbled to ground might not sound like much, but it was a heck of a lot more than Maddison achieved all night; however what really drew the admiring gasp was his pass to Johnson. Lest it go unmentioned, there were simpler options available, not least the sideways pass, so beloved of Spurs midfielders from generation to generation, just shuttling the ball from left to right, neatly and tidily but without the merest whiff of penetration.

Gray, however, spotted a vastly more exciting option, and then executed it to perfection, flighting a cross that turned harmless midfielding into threatening attack, for Johnson to set up Lankshear. I’ve heard it recently said that teams seem to take far more risks in defence than attack these days, but in this little scene Gray demonstrated the virtues of taking a risk in attack, and frankly that output alone put to shame the watching Maddison.

2.4 The Youth: Lankshear

Another who looks a bit too light of frame just yet, this was probably an ideal experience for young Lankshear to develop from boy to man. One of course stiffens the upper lip at moments of heightened emotion, so his goal was greeted with little more than an approving nod, but deep within the AANP bosom the heart fairly bulged with pride at seeing him tuck away his chance.

However, when the grandchildren gather round to hear him narrate the tale, I’d imagine he’ll gloss over the sub-plots. Had our defence and midfield been fully stocked I actually fancy he might have had a few more dishes from which to choose, as Galatasaray looked far from watertight at the back, as befits a team whose cornerstone is Davinson Sanchez, and there were a few occasions on which a more accurate through-ball would have had Lankshear in on goal.

Gallingly for him, our defence and midfield spent much of the game on a different planet, unable to string together the requisite passes to progress beyond halfway, and Lankshear’s was largely a watching brief. When the ball was tossed up to him with a distant yelp of “Good luck!” that sentiment about his bulk, or lack thereof, sprung again to mind, and all the more so when Solanke arrived to illustrate the contrast more pointedly.

His two yellows were the other notable events of his night, and while most about the place seem to be rather forgiving of the young cheese on this front, invoking his age and whatnot, AANP is a little less forgiving here. Green behind the ears or not, he ought to have displayed a bit more sense with both cautions.

3. The Cavalry

I mentioned that with a stronger selection I’d have fancied us to make a goodish bit of hay against this lot, and the changes in the latter part of the second half seemed to bear this out to an extent.

Bentancur looked a few classes above all around him in midfield when he took to the stage, and Sarr and Kulusevski similarly helped to wrest the initiative our way.

Watching the first half seemed to provide an answer to anyone who had ever wondered how a one-man midfield might fare against Galatasaray, as Bergvall and Maddison’s gentle melting into the background allowed Bissouma to take on all-comers single-handedly, and I thought he accordingly rattled off his best performance of the season. Where all around him our players were turning themselves in little troublesome knots and ultimately looking up to find the ball had been spirited away from them, Bissouma peddled an impressive line in shielding the ball and shimmying away from trouble.

Once his more experienced chums rocked up, he was able to switch roles from trying to throw water from a fast-sinking ship, to providing the base upon which a spirited comeback might be built. It said much about the upturn in performance brought about by the cavalry that we were on top in the final 20 or so, even when a man light.

Solanke, as mentioned, offered a heck of a lot more muscle at the apex than young Lankshear, and also executed his goal mightily impressively. All in all, I fancied there was enough evidence in that final quarter of the match – a man down, and against one of the more fancied teams – to vindicate the notion that we are amongst the favourites for this particular pot.

So while, to repeat, a defeat is always rather unpleasant, one gets the impression that Our Glorious Leader will have been pretty happy with the night’s work. The regulars received a break – and then made a noticeable difference when introduced; those on the fringes were given the chance to work up a sweat; Lankshear nabbed a goal; Gray assisted an assist; and the whole thing was effected without too much lasting damage. On we bob.

Categories
Spurs match reports

Spurs 4-1 Villa: Three(ish) Tottenham Talking Points

1. Some Lovely Goals

You’ll have to excuse AANP for adopting all the subtlety of a tabloid rag, but I’ll start the wittering today with the headline stuff. No doubt there are reams to be written about all the tactical minutiae and subtle dialogue that bubbled away beneath the surface for the first 45, but when one is treated to four goals as humdinging in their own special ways as ours were today, one has to pause and ask oneself, where else could one possibly start?

1.1 Our First Goal

Although Brennan Johnson deserves to have his hair ruffled for sneaking his way to the front of the queue while the doormen weren’t looking, and duly hoovering up from the platter in front of him (an act almost certainly designed to ram back down AANP’s throat the decision to expel him from my Fantasy Team), the real hero of our opening goal was Sonny.

Any cross from the flank is generally a means to an end, very much playing a supporting role in the great scheme of attacking things. Every once in a while, however, one is treated to a cross so dripping in quality that the eyes bulge from their moorings and a spontaneous soundtrack of gasps breaks out to accompany it. Sonny’s delivery for our first goal was of this ilk.

Oddly enough, it seemed to spring into existence from nowhere. I vaguely recall Son having received the ball out wide on the left on numerous occasions in the first half, without having really given any indication that a cross for the ages was on the cards. But in keeping with the general post-break uptick in intensity, in minute 49 he did not dwell too long on the potential implications, and instead, as soon as allowed a yard of space, put his head down and wrapped his foot around the ball.

As mentioned, that Johnson eventually scrawled his signature on the bottom of the thing to make it official was almost incidental. The quality of the inbound delivery, in this instance, was everything. Curl, pace, optimal height – whatever a striker of sound mind would add to their wish-list for a delivery from out wide, this cross had it. Not to have converted it would have been a travesty bordering on the criminal.

1.2 Our Second Goal

The highlight of our second goal was undoubtedly the finish. I had been muttering to my Spurs-supporting chum Ian that Solanke, as far as I can remember, has yet to have benefitted from a straightforward one-on-one during his time in lilywhite. He’s poked in a few close-range rebounds, and been crowded out while trying to fashion a chance from the edge of the area, but I can’t quite recall one of those Werner-esque opportunities when the striker eyeballs the goalkeeper, time stands still and it’s just the two of them locking horns.

Well thanks to some whizz-popping outside the area by Johnson and Kulusevski, Solanke had his big moment, and by golly the finish he produced was a doozy.

With the spotlight on Solanke, and a couple of games in his rear-view mirror in which he’d not had so much as a sniff of goal, when the ball broke for him inside the area one might have feared a lack of confidence. Not a bit of it. With AANP baying for him to lash the thing, Solanke unwrapped a manoeuvre that only those pumped to the gills with confidence can dare to attempt, and, allowing Martinez to spread himself about the place like a prime chump, dinked the ball over him to nestle almost nonchalantly in the net.

If Sonny’s earlier assist merited a commemorative mural somewhere off the High Road, then this finish from Solanke merits similar consideration. It doesn’t matter how they go in, I suppose, but that finish had me viewing the man with awe etched across my features for the remainder.

And within the generally approving din, one ought not to neglect the build-up to that goal. I’m not sure that Johnson necessarily intended his first-time pass to Kulusevski just outside the area, but there can be no doubt that Kulusevski meant the short diagonal pass that cut to ribbons the Villa back-line. Kulusevski’s pass practically tore in half the defender tasked with monitoring Solanke as he tried in vain to keep tabs both on the striker on his eastern wing and the ball rolling westwards.

1.3 Our Third Goal

No doubt about it, a quizzical ripple echoed around N17 when, in the aftermath of our equaliser, Our Glorious Leader decided that Sonny’s race was run. And the volume on that ripple was turned up a notch or two, at least at AANP Towers, when the cunning plan to fill the Son-shaped hole was revealed to constitute one primed and ready Richarlison, as Mikey Moorer and Timo Werner no doubt exchanged quizzical looks on the bench.

Big Ange, to his credit, has made some reasonably sound mid-game switches in recent weeks, the replacement of Maddison with Sarr vs West Ham being the most notable; and moreover I consider myself one of the most loyal supporters of the man; but every now and then there comes a time in one’s life when one’s only course of action is to survey events and unleash a deeply disturbed sigh. When Richarlison replaced Son that is precisely the severe course of action I undertook.

For a few minutes it seemed that Ange might have bungled things somewhat, Richarlison certainly bounding about enthusiastically in his defensive duties, but not really fulfilling the attacking terms of the contract.

However, if Ange wanted to direct a look of vindication towards me in the immediate aftermath of the third goal he’d have had my blessing, because Richarlison absolutely nailed his big moment. Released by Sarr and within sight of goal, he (and big Dom Solanke to his right) would not doubt have been unsurprised to have heard the now familiar sound of AANP baying at him to lash the thing. It is to his enormous credit therefore that he waved away this option, and instead somehow located through an absolute forest of legs the onrushing Solanke for a tap-in (rich reward for another afternoon of non-stop running on his part).

So, reading left to right, credit was duly bestowed upon Richarlison, Solanke and Postecoglou, the only blot on the landscape being that Richarlison is made of biscuits, and as such, managed to do himself a mischief in the act of gently delivering a six-yard pass.

1.4 Our Fourth Goal

We Spurs-supporting folk have been rather starved of goals from free-kicks over the years. Kieran Trippier twanged in a couple in his time, Harry Kane leathered them everywhere but the goal and Christian Eriksen may have struck oil once or twice, but in the post-Bale era it feels like these were very much the exceptions rather than the norms.

The sight of Maddison delivering one into the top corner was therefore a rare old treat. Moreover, there is something particularly becoming about a well-executed free-kick. It has a certain flawless quality to it, don’t you think? No deflections, or scrambles amongst the riff-raff, just a single, honest strike, and an unfettered pathway from turf to net.

By that point it was turning into a hot day for murals on the little side-roads, as this was yet another of those goals that oozed good, wholesome aesthetic value. It had the additional benefit of finally allowing those of us of a more nervous disposition when watching Spurs, finally to exhale. 3-1 going into ten additional minutes felt fraught with risk; 4-1 with three minutes to go felt just about secure.

2. Sarr

In detailing our second and third goals I rather ignored the starters and nibbles, and in each case ploughed straight into the main course. With some reason, for as mentioned, Solanke’s finish and Richarlison’s presence of mind, had about them much to commend.

But the notable omission in each case was the healthy shift put in by Pape Sarr, and while it is a little tedious simply to direct the spotlight on goal involvements and ignore everything else, in this instance it seems acceptable enough, as Sarr’s contribution to those two goals neatly encapsulated so much that was good about him today.

While I thought he was busy without necessarily stamping authority upon proceedings in the first half (Bentancur arguably outshining him in central midfield, with a neat combo of tidy passing and forthright tackling), Sarr’s ability to keep charging about the place, while all others run out of puff and wheezily pause for breath, motored us along in the second session.

In the build-up to our second goal it was Sarr who collected the scraps won by Davies, and then played the ball forward for Johnson and Kulusevski to begin treading the measure together, before sliding in Solanke. Admittedly there was plenty of legwork still to do after Sarr’s contribution – I hardly present the case that Sarr and Sarr alone created the goal, and as noted above Kulusevski and then Solanke were the standout performers in that little scene.

But that Sarr should have collected the ball in the first place said much about his spirit of defensive willing, in having tracked back. Moreover, while it might not seem particularly momentous that he then walked the ball forward fifteen yards and drilled it forward another ten, it was precisely what the situation demanded, and, at 1-1, it was the sort of signal of positive intent that I suspect would have been rejected by such recent N17 luminaries as Hojbjerg, Skipp et al.

If Sarr’s contribution to our second was adequate enough, his input into our third was vastly more significant. It began with him pouncing on a loose pass from a Villa cheese, which in itself merited the approving nod, it demonstrating a sprightly awareness of current affairs and the energy levels required to make Angeball tick.

Having intervened thusly in the centre circle, however, there was still plenty of honest toil through which to plough. The situation was promising no doubt, Sarr receiving assistance from three on his right and one on his left, but a few key tasks required ticking off before the collective roar of approval sounded. The odds were beginning to favour Sarr, particularly as he worked up a head of steam and headed towards the area, but some clear thinking would imminently be required.

He played his part to perfection. Having taken receipt of the ball on the white of the centre circle, he dragged it with him at a healthy lick until 20 yards from goal. At this point, with options to his right and even the potential for a shot, he wisely identified that Richarlison, to his left, as the most profitable route, and for added value he rolled the ball such that no break of stride was required. As detailed above, Richarlison then played his part, and Solanke his.

For Sarr, these contributions captured in two microcosms much of what was good about his performance – indefatigable energy, married with intelligent and attack-minded decision-making.

3. What Romero Might Learn From Ben Davies

I suspect not even the wildest optimists amongst us would have hoped for this scoreline when wiping the Sunday roast from our lips an hour or two earlier, so it was just a shame that the triumph was not achieved without casualties.

Richarlison, as mentioned, is cursed with a constitution that dictates that nature will simply find a way to hobble him before the night is out; but Romero’s latest mishap appeared to be entirely self-afflicted, and brought about by yet another demonstration of a yawning vacancy between his ears.

I can understand that there are some for whom a meaty challenge is the pinnacle of an afternoon’s on-pitch entertainment, and if well-timed and properly executed I suppose I’m accepting enough of such things. I’d always be inclined to have a think about the immediate fallout myself – where the ball lands, who is covering the prone defender, and so forth – but if the idea is simply to shut down an attack, shovel the ball out of play and make sure the attacker is felled like an oak, then I can lend my vote. Bentancur ticked all of the above boxes in one such episode in the first half, and AANP was happy enough to chip in with some polite applause.

But when Romero decided to wipe out his man midway through the second half, the reaction over here was markedly less sunny. One learns to curb the tongue, of course, but if I had thickened the air with the foulest discourse it would have been with some justification.

Put squarely, there was just no need. Villa were piecing together the beginnings of an attack, of that there can be no doubt, but this was no goal-saving moment. They were on halfway, for goodness’ sake. The Villa scally had just ridden two other challenges, and Pedro Porro was hoving into view to keep him company during his upfield progression – all of which suggested that the attacker could simply have been monitored as he advanced, and escorted off towards the side of the pitch if necessary. In short, Romero could have stayed on his feet.

By flying in on halfway, Romero was effectively removing himself from the defensive line-up in the immediate aftermath – at a point in the game at which the score was 1-1, close enough to require the avoidance of oaf-like defensive risks. Why he could not simply have stayed on his feet and kept abreast of things at a gallop is beyond me. The clueless berk seems obsessed with the notion that full-stretch diving challenges in the middle of the pitch constitute good defending.

Not only did he pick up a pretty obvious yellow card for his troubles, he also inflicted sufficient damage upon his own frame to require his removal – at a time when we are already shorn of Micky Van de Ven. The thoughtlessness of the whole episode was maddening.

Clearly in need of a spot of instruction on the basics, Romero would have done well to have observed from the treatment room the conduct of Ben Davies fifteen minutes later, in what turned out to be the build-up to our second goal. I mentioned previously that Sarr picked up the scraps to set in motion events for this goal; those aforementioned scraps were earned by Davies.

Villa had nabbed possession on the edge of their own area, and played the ball up to halfway, and with Watkins in possession might have been away on the counter with one deft touch. Enter Davies, who rather than channelling his inner Romero and lunging in horizontally, instead stayed on his feet to extend a single well-judged leg. This was comfortably sufficient to win the ball (and, as events transpired, turned into the pass from which Sarr created our goal), but also had the useful side-effect of keeping Davies upright and able to deal with any untoward consequences. Not a yellow card, or self-inflicted injury, in sight.

For all Romero’s handy passing from the back, his approach to defending strikes me each week as absolutely laden with unnecessary risk and error.

The consequences of all that might be felt in the coming weeks; but for tonight at least, this was quite the win. It seems that all too often we stream home at the conclusion chuntering away about an inability to take chances, and how we really ought to have scored at least four and wrapped up the thing – so one is entitled to dance a pretty satisfied jig after having done exactly that, on the back of plenty of good, honest endeavour, and against one of the division’s tougher nuts.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 2-1 Man City: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. A Tip of the Cap Towards the Team Selection

You may be surprised to know that prior to this one AANP was feeling pretty sanguine about our prospects. Those who encountered me pre-kick-off would have gasped at the air of quiet confidence that I radiated. Not so much on account of anything going on at N17, mind, as much as being due to the previous declaration from Pep that he considered the Carabao Cup beneath him and was only going to sit through it because contractually obliged. I paraphrase somewhat, but that’s the gist, and as such I went into this one thinking we might oil our way through in credit.

And we did precisely that, which is pretty ripping. The fact that our heroes, to a man, saw fit to input every last drop of perspiration was simultaneously warming and mildly depressing. Warming, for obvious reasons. One wants to win. One wants to beat Man City. One wants some dashed silverware in one’s mitts. Working off one’s socks helps bring to fruition such heady projects.

The depressing aspect was that all this honest industry was so conspicuously absent on Sunday. Far be it from me to cast aspersions, but it was almost as if our lot were infinitely more motivated for a match against the reigning champions of the land than against some winless mob in the relegation zone. Slanderous stuff I know, but I’d be deceiving my public if I swore that such a thought had not crossed my mind.

However, experience has taught me that nobody likes the chap who punctuates a merry shindig with a gloomy anecdote or two about life’s ills, so I’ll let that particular topic lie. The hot topic of discussion is that last night we triumphed, and thanks in no small part to the ceaseless endeavour of all involved.

One striking aspect was that this was one of those rarely-spotted binges in which our lot were largely starved of possession. Not by design, I’d suggest, Our Glorious Leader never knowingly advocating an approach of surrendering the ball and sitting deep, but such was the ability of the City mob that from about the half-hour mark onwards, Mother Nature seemed to shrug her shoulders and decide that that was how life was to be.

So a different sort of assignment for our heroes, but in this respect I rather thought that Ange nailed his team selection. Game by game I imagine he does a spot of the old inner monologuing on the topic of James Maddison, and in this instance the decision to leave him in the pews and start with more defensive-minded crows about the place was a sound one. Pretty obvious, granted, but sound nevertheless.

I also liked the idea of Johnson, Kulusevski and Werner being unsheathed for battle from the off. I possibly pay Ange too much credit here again, for I’m not sure there was a massive abundance of alternatives, but the pace of these two – rather than, for example, the gentler bobbing of Richarlison – seemed another of those moves that one greets with a sage tap of the nose. For if this were indeed to be a game in which we were to be forced deep and starved somewhat of possession, then pairs of legs as quick as the wind itself were a pretty essential piece of kit to pack.

And thus it transpired. Angeball is not traditionally a system designed for counter-attacks, but when need arises Messrs J., K. and W. can whizz away up the pitch like the best of them, and that opening goal was a triumph for all disciples of the art. There should have been a couple more in the second half too, the strategy of soaking up pressure and then haring away like the wind proving a dolly of a scheme. 

While we rode our luck at times at the back, both the setup and the attitude were spot-on, and if there were a few self-satisfied back-pats and smirks in the changing room afterwards then they’d have had the AANP blessing.

2. Timo Werner

To describe Timo Werner as ‘Much-maligned’ is to undercook things so severely one risks a salmonella outbreak. The honest fellow remains admirably backed by manager, players and fans, but the groans that accompany each duffed finish are pretty audible, as is the exasperated chatter in the immediate aftermath, as the dust settles and we all vent to our neighbour.

And in that context, Werner’s performance in general, and goal in particular, gave the insides a pretty warming glow. One would have needed to possess a particularly stony heart not to have wanted to serve oneself a generous splash and toasted his moment of success.

Starting with his goal, there has been not so much a mere train of thought as one of those lightning quick contraptions that whizzes through Japan, suggesting that part of Werner’s problem is that he has too much time to think in front of goal. And here AANP empathises. Click the fingers at AANP and ask him to pick A or B, and it’s a done deal, lickety-split; suggest to AANP that he can take a second or two to mull it over and he’ll crack open a spreadsheet and overthink like the dickens.

Werner’s recent history of goalscoring opportunities is choc-full of examples of him sticking data in spreadsheets rather than simply making a choice and pulling the trigger. Yesterday’s opportunity, however, seemed almost to straddle the line between the two scenarios.

On the one hand it could be argued that he did not have time to take more than one touch. The ball arrived, a defender hove into view – if an orchestra had been present they’d have skipped the gentle build-up and gone straight to the roaring crescendo. In such circumstances, the decisions were largely made for Werner, and he cracked the thing home with aplomb.

On the other hand, though, the delivery from Kulusevski took just about long enough to reach Werner that the latter did have time for a few disturbing scenarios to flit to mind and torment him a bit. There was just sufficient time for him to have considered shooting at the near post, or even to have considered taking an additional touch to see what new adventure would follow.

In short, this was not entirely in the realm of the instinctive tap-in. Werner had his opportunity to overthink things, and it is to his credit that he used that time rather more productively – specifically to adjust his body-shape – before finishing like a consummate professional.

And thereafter, for his remaining hour or so, I thought he did a decent enough job of things. The chance he missed in the second half, when he sprinted from halfway, was only a couple of inches off target, although admittedly he also put another one a lot further wide, and stuck one down the ‘keeper’s gullet in the first half.

But in other respects he pootled about handily, putting some height and whip on his crosses, making good use of his pace and certainly indicating some smart thinking when it came to linking up with colleagues, even if his execution was at times slightly off.

Man of the match stuff it was not, but within a counter-attacking unit this was pretty solid fare, and arguably more than Johnson offered on the right. One hopes that the goal might settle him down a tad for any similar upcoming scenarios, and given that that particular demon has for now been exorcised one also rather hopes that his injury is nothing too severe, not least with Sonny and Odobert similarly bandaged up.

3. Archie Gray

Another midweek game, another viewing of the Archie-Gray-at-Right-Back experiment, and, not wanting to be too damning, I’m struggling to see where this is all leading. The most useful conclusion I could draw was that the medical gang ought to give Djed Spence a couple of extra rehab sessions each week to get him back up and running, because whatever commendations one showers upon young Gray, “Masterful right-back” is unlikely to be amongst them.

The left-winger against whom Gray was pitting his wits was known in the registry office as Matheus Nunes, and while apparently not in the running for the recent Ballon d’Or, he was nevertheless evidently the sort of chump who knew his beans. A good test for any aspiring right-back, one would suggest. I dare say that even Pedro Porro would have had a task on his hands keeping the blighter under wraps, so in many ways this was the perfect way to check up on the nous of young Gray in this position.

Alas, for the most part, Nunes had Gray on toast. No aspersions whatsoever cast upon young Gray for effort, the lad hitting a solid 10 on that front. And there were occasional, fleeting moments in possession, particularly in the second half, when he demonstrated the sound touch and technique that have marked him out as a bit of a one for the central midfield positions.

But on this day of all days young Gray needed to be on his mettle defensively, and even with Brennan Johnson dutifully doubling up, that Nunes creature seemed to have the measure of the left wing, happy to waltz through and get up to mischief whenever the whim seized him.

I’m not sure which of Gray and Johnson deserves the Jabbing Finger of Blame for the goal conceded, but even aside from that, this was pretty inauspicious stuff from the former. Staple it together with the recent Europa displays, and the body of evidence begins to take a bit of shape, like a liquid metal terminator going through its reforming motions. Something begins to emerge, and early indications are that it’s not overwhelmingly encouraging.

I suppose for the purposes of early-stage Cup jousts we can probably get away with the ultimate Square Peg at right-back, but if this is the option to consider in the eventuality of a significant Pedro Porro injury, then I fancy I’ll emit a pretty audible gulp and start looking frantically about the place for alternatives.

4. Richarlison

I probably ought to pay a little tribute to Kulusevski for his incessant beavering; or tip the cap towards Bentancur for a display as useful as it was busy; or use far more words than are necessary to make the point that Dragusin has yet to convince me as first reserve at centre-back; or note that Johnson’s flick in the build-up to the opening goal was exquisite, but that that aside his distribution was pretty unremarkable – but I won’t.

And in large part the reason is that no matter how hard I tried to concentrate on matters elsewhere, the gaze was repeatedly drawn back to Richarlison.

I should emphasise that, in a pretty thrilling turn of events, I come to praise Mr R., not to bury him. Well, ‘praise’ might be a bit heavy, as it’s difficult to get past that late miss of his, but when I mentioned I was not here to bury him I spoke sooth. I suppose my sentiment towards him last night was one of fascination. I couldn’t quite make up my mind about him.

For a start, I’m not sure left wing is really the role for which he was knitted while forming in the womb; but then when one sees the calamitous mess he makes of finishing, one is hardly inclined to advocate he patrols the centre-forward position.

However, all that said, he actually took to the task of being representative of the left side of attack with surprisingly good humour last night. At one point he produced a trick of the feet of which I would not have believed him capable in a thousand years of trying, to skip past an opponent and set us on the counter – and nor was this an isolated incident, he turning into quite the useful conduit for transforming defence into attack out on the left, as well as taking every opportunity to muck in with the lads at the back, chasing down City players like a canine who’d spotted a particularly enticing stick.

All of which might sound pretty encouraging stuff to the uninitiated, but rather irritatingly several of Richarlison’s best-laid plans slightly nose-dived when it came to the end-product, he more than once spotting the perfect pass but then failing to execute just so.

Ad then there was the miss, from the opportunity gifted to him by a most errant throw from City. With the goalkeeper as taken aback as everyone else in the arena, and therefore a little slow to dash from his line, it’s not too great an exaggeration to suggest that the entire goal was gaping. Left and Right seemed the key options, looming large ahead of Richarlison. They appeared to be the safe zones. Either of those rough ball-parks, and the ‘keeper was out of the game. Basically, the only thing to avoid doing, to guarantee a goal and safe passage to the next round, was to jab the ball straight at the goalkeeper.

So of course, Richarlison, being Richarlison, ignored all of the above, snatched at the chance and struck the ball at the feet of the goalkeeper like a cricketer shying at the stumps. It should not detract completely from the fact that his was a bright and breezy cameo, contributing in defence as well as attack, but nevertheless. When you’re a forward, and in the dying moments you have presented to you on a platter a chance to win the game and be the hero, conventional wisdom dictates that you don’t mess around.

Merrily, it did not cost, and nor did any of the other misses scattered about the place. This whole business of failing to bury eminently presentable chances is an absolute nuisance – and may ultimately end up as the epitaph on the managerial gravestone of Ange – but in a pleasing break from tradition, this time at least, it did not rob us of the win.

Categories
Spurs match reports

Palace 1-0 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. A Rotten Performance

I’m not inclined to believe too many of George Orwell’s footballing opinions, he having been a fan of the Woolwich, but he certainly stumbled upon one truth when he rambled on about all defeats being equal but some being more equal than others (or something close to that). For AANP will accept some losses with a pretty casual shrug of the shoulders – the 2-1 defeat at Newcastle for example, or the 1-1 at Leicester (which no doubt pedants will point out wasn’t a defeat, letting technicalities get in the way of a good argument).

And the reason for such equanimity in the face of defeat is that if it’s the sort of game in which our heroes could reasonably have expected to score four or five, but somehow only managed one, then AANP will not be too concerned, as more often than not those sort of performances will bring wins.

Yesterday’s, however, was a different kettle of fish altogether, and as a result the usual sunny AANP disposition has clouded over like the dickens. Had we hammered away at the Palace goal only to be sucker-punched against the run of play, there would have been merely a philosophical rumination or two over the evening bourbon. “Onwards”, would have been the gist of the dialogue. Not the end of the world. Not too many adjustments needed.

But this was not one of those occasions.

I thought that by and large, our lot stank the place out yesterday. There may have been a token show of resistance in the final 20, but anything other than a Palace would win would have been quite the misrepresentation of events. The energy of their attacking mob in pressing us in and around our own penalty area frankly put us to shame. The Palace players simply seemed infinitely more motivated.

By contrast, the approach of most in lilywhite smacked of a dubious concoction that, from my vantage point, appeared to be approximately one third complacency and two thirds absence of interest. This calculating of the proportions occurred as I watched our defensive cohort dozily gift the ball to Palace before reaching the halfway line for about the hundredth time in that dreadful first half, the mindset seeming to be that it was simply too much like hard work on a sunny Sunday afternoon to get the head down and buzz about the place with any semblance of diligence. Far easier, was the impression given, simply to waft a pass into the loose vicinity of a teammate, and let the two clubs’ respective league positions take care of the rest.

In order to make this point crystal clear, our heroes conceded a goal that exemplified in one neat take all that was wrong about their performance. Romero dwelt on the ball inside his own area for an age despite the looming presence of two Palace forwards, before declaring that this sort of fare was beneath him, and casually floating a pass across his own area and into the loose radius of VDV.

In mitigation, VDV did not give the air of one who was delighted to be in receipt of a pass bouncing across his body inside his own area, but even he then passed on the opportunity simply to clear the thing, instead allowing the ball to continue bouncing and then deciding that this was as good a moment as any to stop focusing on the game and instead start dwelling on some of life’s other, unrelated mysteries.

The Palace laddie in attendance was only too pleased to let VDV have his quiet time, and generously relieved him of the ball so he could really crack on without distraction. The next stage in the disaster was the input of the cross from the right, Messrs Romero and Porro admirably deciding that this was an appropriate cue for them to give some semblance of concern, but without checking on what the other was doing, or indeed on the whereabouts of the most prolific Palace striker on the pitch (Mateta). Instead, both rushed towards the ball and young Eze, who promptly took both of them out of the game with a flick towards the aforementioned Mateta, who himself then took advantage of the freedom of the six-yard box to score.

As mentioned, if the self-inflicted genesis of all this had been anomalous and out of keeping with general proceedings I’d have done a quick tour of the place with rallying cries of “Chin up, gents, what?” and encouraging ruffles of the hair. But instead I folded the arms and adopted the unamused expression of a bulldog that’s just chewed a wasp. AANP was deeply unamused.

The incompetence in playing out from the back continued religiously, laced with our chronic inability to win a 50-50 challenge, and by the second half Palace were shooting from all angles, and really ought to have added to their lead.

Oddly enough we nevertheless fashioned two or three presentable chances of our own in each half, but the rhythm of the piece was firmly established long before the credits rolled, and even had we slunk out of South London with a point the AANP mood would have been one best avoided.

At whom the finger of blame should point is therefore the next question, and while the players undoubtedly deserve a docking of extortionate wages and some brief but memorable physical admonishment to boot, Our Glorious Leader also needs a few stern words aimed in his direction.

I’m firmly in the Postecoglou camp, as there has been enough to suggest we should handsomely beat most teams, and do so entertainingly, but the mentality about the place emanates from the top, and if the players on the pitch are simply mooching their way through 90 minutes without urgency or care then a jabbing of an angry towards the manager is only right. Win another seven of our next eight and AANP will be content enough, but frequent displays of this impotence and the disapproving eyebrow will be well and truly arched.

2. Mikey Moore: The Sequel

I don’t know if you’ve ever experienced the talkies, but AANP finds them a most riveting form of entertainment, and if there happens to be an evening without football will quite often seek one out to pass the time. And one aspect of these motion pictures that I’ve noticed is that if one of them constitutes a thoroughly entertaining two-or-so hours, the boffins behind such fare will sure enough paste together another one for general consumption, but – and here’s the rub – more often than not, the sequel will not match the original for quality.

There are, of course, exceptions. Terminator 2 and Aliens, I would suggest, stand peerlessly in the AANP pantheon of greats, and both are sequels that arguably top the original. But for every Terminator 2 there’s a Die Hard 2 – or, come to think of it a Terminator 3, 4, 5 or 6 – viz. a sequel that comes nowhere near the thrilling quality of the first.

And it was armed with this knowledge that AANP peered cautiously over the teamsheet and drank in the inclusion of Mikey Moore as a starter. Because, for the benefit of those who have been living under an N17 rock the last four or five days, young Master M’s left-wing bow against AZ in midweek had been about as spiffing as this sort of thing gets, all youthful exuberance and slaloming runs, and a decent amount of end-product too for good measure.

It would have been pretty tempting therefore, to expect the same and more yesterday, from the off. Make oneself comfortable and feast the eyes upon another Mikey Moore highlights reel, would go the narrative.

Knowing what I know about sequels, however, I demonstrated what generations hence will respectfully term admirable restraint, and duly convinced myself that perhaps only nineteen of every twenty attempted dribbles by the lad would result in havoc in the Palace defence and wild applause from the travelling lilywhite continent.

It would be easy to castigate MM’s performance, it having failed to bear fruit and having ended with his unceremonious abstraction on 60 minutes, but despite one pointed concession of possession in the first half that almost brought Palace some joy down their right, I thought he was one of our best performers in the first half. The bar here is admittedly so low that passing earthworms would pause and consider the odds, but nevertheless, I maintain that he fared pretty well when opportunity allowed.

On a couple of occasions he set off infield and beat a two or three players before being hacked to earth; and on a couple of other occasions he played well weighted passes into space on the left for Udogie and Maddison to race onto. That was admittedly pretty much it in terms of his highlights reel, but with everyone else in lilywhite generally misfiring I thought that this constituted a decent enough contribution. Nowhere near the level of the original, but taken on its own it had some memorable moments. Predator 2, if you will.

As a curious aside, and in the interests of fairness, I also thought that Herr Werner made a decent stab of things once he emerged from exile. While not exactly rip-roaring he did cause his opposing full-back a few problems, and also swung in a couple of crosses that arguably deserved better than simply disappearing down the gullet of the ‘keeper. I mention this purely because I bang on about the chap every time he stuffs things up in front of goal. Only fair, what?

3. Richarlison

There were not too many other notable contributions, most individuals fitting neatly within the stale, all-encompassing headline of the dreary team performance. Pedro Porro showed his attacking chops, in the second half in particular, reminding me that deep within his Angeball-moulded, inverted model there lies a traditional, touchline-hugging full-back. Solanke continues to show more value around halfway than in the opposition area. Any good that Bissouma did with ball at his feet seemed to me to be negated by his inability to provide useful protection when we were out of possession (in marked contrast to that Wharton lad for Palace, who would be advised to make a living out of snuffing out opposition attacks at source).

But one depressing thought that sprung to mind was that Richarlison is simply not up to the level we require. Why this thought chose yesterday to worm its way into my consciousness is anyone’s guess – yesterday’s was hardly his worst showing in lilywhite, and the unfortunate young chestnut is still short of match fitness and whatnot. More pertinently, there were at least a dozen others who underwhelmed massively and have had far more chances to prove themselves good enough.

But watching him scurry enthusiastically before finally missing his kick, or overhitting his kick, or in some other way failing to execute effectively the kicking part of football, just made me realise that we’ve persevered with him for quite some time now, and he’s not really improved a jot since Day One.

At some point last season – I think the point at which he inadvertently trod on the ball on halfway and fell over – it was suggested to me that he might have the worst technique of any Brazilian footballer in history. Now I must confess to having lacked the willpower to conduct the research necessary to verify that claim; but the gist has stuck with me. His touch is pretty off, what?

I have in the past peddled the line that one Harry Kane has an oddly poor touch – by which I mean that if you subject him to inspection you’ll note that the ball regularly bounces off him as if it were being thrown against a wall – but this is more than compensated for by his extraordinary goalscoring, range of passing, ability to shield the ball, winning of free-kicks, ability with both feet, ability with head, penalty-taking and various other assets. Richarlison, however, seems to possess much of the wall, but precious few of those redeeming features.

It certainly made sense to throw on a second striker yesterday, one understood the logic inside and out. And Richarlison does have physical presence, and fits neatly within the prescribed system of pressing high and expending bundles of energy. But give him the ball, or ask him to go fetch, and things start to break down. And amidst everything else that went wrong yesterday, I became aware of the notion that I had had rather enough of the wretched fellow.

Categories
Spurs match reports

Spurs 4-1 West Ham: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. Kulusevski

One of those knowledgeable sorts once told me, “There’s no ‘i’ in ‘team’”, which I suppose is true enough if you’re going to be linguistically pedantic about these things, and looking back I suspect that if I’d bothered to hear any more of what they had to say they may well have continued, “And there’s a dashed sight less creativity and energy in that same team if there’s no Dejan Kulusevski contained therein”.

This seemed to be an epithet taken to heart by the magnificent Swede himself yesterday, for he swanned about the place with all the majesty of a man upon whom has been the thrust the personal responsibility to conduct the afternoon’s entertainment.

Apart from what one might call his measurable outputs – goals, assists, chances created and so forth – I was particularly taken by the sheer joy with which Kulusevski seemed to oil about the place. Here was a big kid in the playground, who, upon receiving the ball, simply wanted to dribble towards goal (and, if at all possible, round the ‘keeper before stopping the ball on the goal-line, crouching down and heading it in along the ground).

If an opponent were in his way then all the better, or so seemed the Kulusevski mantra, as this merely presented an opportunity for him to reach into his box of tricks in order first to bamboozle and then to remove from consideration said opponent. Accordingly, he could be spotted dipping a shoulder, shimmying in between flailing opposition legs or simply using what I suppose you could call his trademark combo of pace and strength to bulldoze his way through trouble and off into space.

While there were decent contributions from the supporting cast – Sonny and Johnson certainly got into the spirit of things and played the game, in terms of contributions to the build-up or attempts to finish off the manoeuvres – Kulusevski was the pulse that beat at a merry old pace throughout.

Too often over the years a well-meaning lilywhite has received the ball just over halfway, with opportunity spreading itself in front of him, only for him to put his foot on the ball, have a bit of a think and play a neat but meaningless pass that does little to speed things along. By contrast, the present iteration of Kulusevski seems inhabited by a spirit of adventure that dictates that on receiving the ball he’ll charge towards goal, all else be damned. And who amongst us cannot cheer to the rafters such a cavalier approach?

A tip of the cap to the man as well, for the precision of his strike for our equaliser. I don’t doubt that there are some who would scoff, and label him lucky for having utilised both posts in striking gold; as one who regularly berates our heroes for missing the target rather than sympathising with them for lack of luck whenever they hit a post (I’m looking at you, Sonny – hit the target and I’ll laud you), I’m happy to lavish praise upon anyone whose shot has such precision as to strike first the left upright and then the right-hand one too before trickling in.

2. All Hail The Great Half-Time Tactical Switch

Much has been made of Our Glorious Leader’s half-time toggling of the knobs, with Maddison yanked from the stage and young P. M. Sarr shoved on in his stead. In fact, the adulation for this move has been pretty startling. To say that the corridors of the shiny THFC Stadium are still strewn with yesterday’s garlands is not to overstate things too dramatically. One could not jab a finger in the phonebook without it pointing towards someone queueing up to praise Big Ange for that Maddison-off-Sarr-on routine.

Truth be told, however, the AANP eyebrow has being raised skyward on a surge of bemusement and surprise at this particular element of the post mortem. I should probably whisper it, but I thought we were doing pretty well in the first half anyway, and was fairly confident that we would score more in the second half if the personnel had remained the same. Conventional wisdom over the last 24 or so hours seems to be that Kulusevski was practically impotent until Sarr was introduced to sit (I use the term loosely, as Sarr is the sort of young twig whose energy levels mean he can go about 48 hours non-stop without needing a sit-down) alongside Bissouma, and it was only thereafter that the Swede was able to cast aside his shackles and really impose himself.

Now this is a pretty violent desecration of history. Kulusevski was having an absolute whale of a time from the off, and didn’t seem to mind or care too much whether he had stationed to the rear James Maddison, Pape Sarr or Steve Sedgley. In fact, the entire attacking mob were on their mettle in that first half. Sonny, Johnson, Solanke, the so-called full-backs – everyone who could, was, if you follow my gist.

Come to think of it, the only member of the attack who wasn’t scooping up great armfuls of attacking goodies in that first half was possibly Maddison himself – not a particular criticism of him, as last time out at Brighton he dovetailed quite neatly with Kulusevski, as the deeper of the two attacking midfielders, but yesterday he seemed slightly neutered in what was presumably supposed to be a deep-lying creative role.

Anyway, all of the above makes me wonder if the fables of Sarr’s arrival releasing Kulusevski’s inner Maradona were actually just dubious media constructs, given a spot of the old polish in order to fit the narrative of three second half goals. The AANP theory is that Sarr’s great virtue was actually in helping to ensure that the back-door was kept firmly shut in the second half.

Within the opening 20 of the first half, the all-swinging-all-kicking Kudus had been allowed two unopposed shots from inside the area, despite West Ham barely having had a sniff of the ball in that period. The whole thing rather stank of that constant flaw in the Angeball set-up, that of being too open defensively. As has been harped on about relentlessly for about fifteen months now, with Porro and Udogie so fond of life in the final third, we regularly find ourselves desperately undermanned at the back, all of which has a tendency to undo all that attacking potential.

And given that Maddison was having a quieter time of things, the logic of replacing him with a chap whose defensive instincts register a bit more clearly on the grid made some sense. Sarr came on; the aforementioned attacking mob continued to attack just as they had in the first half; but, crucially, when out of possession our lot then had a bit more protection at the back. The gap between the two centre-backs and the midfield supporting cast was not quite as seismic as we’d been used to. In layman’s terms, Kudus did not fire off any more shots unopposed from just inside our area.

So I suppose I can allow a grudging word or two of commendation to escape my lips and fete the big boss, but as a matter of principle I emphasise that his achievement was in adding a layer of defensive security rather than in unleashing Kulusevski.

3. Porro (In The First Half)

Amidst all the chatter about Sarr, and the wholesome goodness of the second half, it seemed that the first half and its contents were rather banished to the vaults of history, never to be revisited. Fair enough, I suppose, but rather harsh on young Senor Porro, who I thought was contributing quite usefully in that opening 45, in his own unique way.

This is not to suggest that he was the standout performer amongst the general rabble; far from it. I was just rather taken by his contributions.

I suppose it stems from the fact that while all around him – and particularly those on the left – were trying to fashion increasingly intricate approaches into the penalty area, involving one-twos of ever decreasing distances, and feints and nifty footwork and so on, Porro seemed to see the value in the more rudimentary method of getting the ball out of his feet and whipping in a cross.

AANP was all for it. It gave the West Ham mob something different to get their heads around, and provided Solanke and the back-post mob some scraps to fight over. Moreover, peculiar though it is for me to fathom, the art of the cross from wide is one that precious few elite-level footballers seem able to master these days, but it is most certainly a string to the Porro bow, so if he is at all inclined to line one up then he has a fully signed-up supporter over here.

On top of which, as early as the first minute Porro also slid a delightful ball around the back of a defender for Solanke to chase – the sort of pass one rather hopes Maddison will churn out once or twice a game. He also very nearly scored one of the goals of the season when he arrived to meet an airborne cross from the left and decided, as any slightly unhinged sort would, that the best option to pick would be a mid-air karate kick. His choice having been made he did not hold back, and made a contact so sweet that the ball was almost scythed in half, shooting off like a rocket but unfortunately missing its mark.

A quieter second half followed, and as mentioned, we all focused on other things thereafter, but I did like the options he added on the right in that first half.

4. Sonny

Of course, it won’t be long now until Timo Werner races onto a through-ball and buries his one-on-one chance, leading to the confidence coursing back through his body and the emergence of a credible, menacing left-wing alternative.

Until then, however, we can all slaughter a small animal as an offering of thanks to the footballing gods for returning Son to the starting line-up. He did plenty of well-intentioned scurrying in the first half, and notably produced a gorgeous swivel of the hips and shoulder-drop that sent Wan-Bissaka out of the stadium, resulting in a curled shot just wide of the post; but it was in the second half that he really hit his stride.

In the sort of display that would be lapped up by mathematicians the world over, his contributions to each of the second half goals steadily increased in quality. The pass for Udogie, in the build-up to Bissouma’s goal, was expertly-weighted, and while there was still plenty of shovel-work to be undertaken (for which Udogie in particular deserves credit), the presence of mind and delivery of foot that Son demonstrated did much to create that initial crack through which the West Ham defence was pried open.  

Sonny then raised the bar a few inches with a similarly well-weighted pass in the build-up to the second. One would have to carry a heart of stone to fail to purr a little at a pass delivered with the outside of the foot, inside a defender and into the path of a speeding colleague, so that alone would earned a spot of the good stuff; but as befits any attacker worth his salt Sonny was then seized by the potential for glory at the other end of the production, and sped away in search of a return pass, benefiting no doubt from a spot of fine visual slapstick but still doing enough to earn the acclaim as the scoreline ticked over to 3-1.

As for the fourth goal, there are few finer sights – or, I suppose, few more terrifying sights, depending on one’s perspective – than Son Heung-Min at full pace and with ball at feet, throwing in no fewer than three mesmeric stepovers without breaking stride, before lashing the thing into the net. As well the ability and stamina and everything else, the fellow seems in those moments to be blessed with an exceptional sense of theatre, for the aesthetic value of that type of goal is sky-high.

One eagerly awaits the day when Timo Werner produces similar – surely only a matter of time now – but until then a Son Heung-Min fast getting back up to speed will, I suppose, suffice.