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Spurs match reports

Spurs 1-2 Leicester: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. Maddison

Of course one likes to approach things with an open mind, but when I tell you that an hour before kick-off I was already letting loose some choice grumbles, you get the sense of the sort of afternoon that was in store.

The pre-match gripe centred around the omission from the entire squad of James Maddison. You might think there was enough fodder amongst those who actually took to the pitch, but on hearing the official reason for Maddison’s absence – “A bit sore” – I took to chuntering away like nobody’s business.

A bit sore? I mean, really. AANP has experienced a bit of soreness, after an hour of honest sweat on the 5-a-side pitch, for example, or after an evening of whiskey-based snifters at an obliging watering-hole, but I still have the decency to haul self out from under the covers and make at least a perfunctory stab at the next day. Being sore is no excuse.

One appreciates that young Maddison put in the full 90 minutes on Thursday, and a pretty decent 90 m. it was too. One of his better efforts, no doubt. And I genuinely do sympathise with the fact that there were not even 72 hours between the culmination of adventures on Thursday night and the start of the brand new episode on Sunday afternoon. If there were the option to cock the sympathetic head and offer the sympathetic shoulder-pat I’d have been front of the queue. Forget the business of these fellows being millionaire prima donnas, the human body can only take so much, and the scheduling of these games is pretty unforgiving.

Nevertheless, Maddison was not the only one dealt this rotten hand. Bar Reguilon and Kinsky, I think everyone on parade yesterday was involved on Thursday night. And while my medical expertise is pretty minimal, I’d hazard a guess that most of them were also sore in places after Thursday. The difference between the rest of them and Maddison is that the rest of them seemed to have rolled up their sleeves and dashed well got on with it, sore bodies or not.

If the official explanation had been that Maddison had a dead leg or scraped knee or dicky tummy, one would have bemoaned the luck about the wretched place, but accepted it and soldiered on. “Another blasted injury,” one might have muttered. However, when the party line been trotted out is that he is “A bit sore”, the conclusion seems to be that in the club’s hour of need, this chap didn’t fancy it. And against his former team, forsooth.

Even availing himself for 15 minutes off the bench in case of extreme circumstances would have been of use to the collective, because as it happened, when we hit the 15-to-go mark yesterday, the circumstances were about as extreme as it gets. At that point we were absolutely crying out for one of Maddison’s more useful cameos.

And aside from the principle of a footballer just deciding that not to bother, tactically our lot were absolutely screaming out for something different in midfield. Each of Bentancur, Sarr and Bergvall – and indeed young Master Gray, when he was eventually shoved there – are pretty much the same sort of midfield spade doing the same sort of midfield thing. The sort of egg who sits deep and nudges the ball left or right a few yards, in risk-free fashion. A ‘Number 6’, as I think the younger generation call it.

The point being that yesterday we had precious little attacking spark in midfield, every plan of note in this regard involving a pivot out to the wide positions and cracking on from there. Absence of course makes the heart grow fonder, and there’s a reasonable chance that if Maddison had been in operation he’d have spent his afternoon rolling his foot over the ball before giving up and passing backwards, but I’m still mightily irked that he slunk off into the shadows instead.

By all accounts Sarr was not fit enough for duty, but still obediently trooped up anyway. He had a stinker, as it happens, but 10 out of 10 for effort. Maddison has comleted 90 minutes on only two or three occasions this season, a record that in itself prompts a major arching of the eyebrow. It does make one ask a delicate question about the fitness of this chap, who every now and then ends up wearing the captain’s armband. His cheeks should burn with shame.

2. Porro

There’s a train of thought that all this time Pedro Porro has actually been a right winger, and is merely pretending to be a defender. Not really one of those revelations that will rock society to its very foundations, admittedly, but the case for the prosecution continued to stack up yesterday.

On the bright side there was his cross for our goal, which by anyone’s standards was an absolute doozy. It’s a strange quirk of the way our lot play, that if you take away set-pieces, we tend not to send in too many aerial crosses. Consider that we have in attack a sizeable unit such as Dominic Solanke, and it’s even stranger. Aside from that headed goal vs Newcastle a few weeks back, I can barely remember one all season.

Anyway, Porro set about correcting that towards the end of the first half yesterday, and a fine job he did of it too. No doubt about it, the chap’s forte is his attacking beans, and he gave rich evidence of it with that particular cross.

A brief tip of the cap I suppose to Richarlison as well, as he did have to contort the frame a fair bit to get all the relevant body-parts pointing in the right direction. Would have been easy to duff up the chance, is what I’m getting at. His movement to get there in the first place also merited a tick. He contributed precious little else, and being a pretty fragile sort had to be removed before the hour-mark, but at least he did the goalscoring bit, what?

Back to Porro, and just to emphasise that he’s happiest when lurking about the opposition area, he also fizzed in a shot that stung the relevant palms, late in the first half.

So no doubt there. Porro likes to attack. What remains as maddening as ever is his tendency to give the shoulders a bit of a shrug and indulge in a spot of motions-going-through when it comes to the defensive lark.

The point was rammed home at one point in the first half, when after arranging selves for a corner, the ball squirted out to the flank and young Gray, rather than Porro, found himself in the right-back spot. What happened next was instructive. As the Leicester chap embarked on a little dribble, Gray stuck to him, block the cross and then cleared up the line.

Not too much in that, you might suggest. ‘Defender Blocks Cross’ is hardly headline stuff. However, contrast it to the usual m.o. of Porro and it stands out like a flare in the night sky. Porro seems utterly incapable of preventing crosses, so much so that when someone else steps into his role and does exactly that, the jaw drops to the floor and the eyes are rubbed in disbelief.

As well as his chronic inability to defend in the conventional sense, Porro was also guilty of absolutely gifting possession to Leicester for their second goal. Lest you missed the detail, imagine a handsomely-paid professional footballer trying to pass the ball 5 yards but making a ricket of the operation, and you’ll be up to speed.

Mightily unimpressive stuff, but at least one was able to console oneself with the notion that when we tried to lather on a spot of pressure at the end, it would play to Porro’s attacking strengths. Even here, however, he took to misfiring. Too many attempted crosses sailed beyond the gaggle of willing takers, for a start.

Then, late on in the piece, he wriggled free and headed towards the byline, with Gray to aim at by the near post, and Mikey Moore unmarked at the far. For reasons best known to the man himself, Porro instead opted to thunder the ball as hard as he could into the side netting. It was an act of daring with which the South Stand failed to wholly buy into.

3. The Current Pickle

It says much about our performance that when preparing for Nature’s sweet restorer last night, and reflecting on the day’s events, my attempts to dwell on the positives draw a pretty firm blank.

Mikey Moore’s willingness to motor down either the outside or inside was vaguely encouraging, and I suppose one might argue that besides the goals Kinsky didn’t have much to do – but even that latter point is fairly brutally negated when one notes quite how easily Leicester were allowed to fashion those two goals.

It’s a pickle of the highest order. The eleven on the pitch would normally have been comfortably good enough to create 20 or so chances against this lot, and would just have needed a modicum of clinical finishing (as was the case in the reverse fixture at the start of the season, when we hammered away but contrived to miss every chance and draw).

Fast forward to the present day, however, and our heroes are no longer creating 20 chances. They are barely running 20 yards before pulling up lame, or at the very least needing a few restorative gulps of oxygen. I struggle to remember the last time we unfurled a press worthy of the name and won possession high up the pitch. Anyone left standing is completely out of steam.

Any goodwill left in the Postecoglou account is draining by the week, which is to be expected if the on-pitch luminaries roll over and have their tummies tickled by as wretched a mob as Leicester. For every triumph of a defensive tweak against Liverpool there’s a calamitous formation change against Everton. The man’s reputation is taking hits from all directions.

One appreciates that the inner corridors of N17 are strewn with mangled limbs and snapped hamstrings – and James Maddison feeling sore – all of which massively limits Our Glorious Leader’s options. AANP sympathises with him more than most, and is still keen to see a fully restored squad peddle Angeball once more and create 20+ chances per game.

However, it’s not enough for the manager simply to shrug the shoulders and write off all matches as lost causes until some time in late-Feb, when the A&E brigade bound back to life. It’s still the manager’s job to find a solution.

No signings are forthcoming, which suggests that the decision-makers no longer trust Our Glorious Leader, but they seem reluctant to dispense with him until our Carabao Semi-Final fate is known. This strikes me as equal parts cruel and thick-headed, seeing as it achieves neither one thing nor another, but I suppose the nuances of all this are above my pay-grade.

Sacking the chap at this stage and replacing him with some other well-meaning soul would not achieve much, as even Bill Nick would struggle to get a tune from the existing cast of eleven exhausted bodies.

So the current plan of action, as far as I can make out, is to trust that we sleepwalk to victory against Elfsborg; write off Brentford as a loss; and shove every available egg into the basket at Liverpool next week, praying for Romero and other members of the gang to be up to speed and eke us through. Dare and do, what?

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Spurs match reports

Everton 3-2 Spurs: Five Tottenham Talking Points

1. The New Formation’s Perks

With the infirmary tent now bursting at the seams, Our Glorious Leader had what by his standards was a fully-fledged breakdown, and tweaked his tactics. Out went the 4-3-3, and in came an intriguing get-up that had a 3-4-2-1 sort of look to it.

On paper it actually made perfect sense. Square pegs and whatnot, don’t you know?

Ben Davies has spent half his life on the left of three centre-backs. Any self-respecting taxonomist would take one look at Spence and Porro and classify the pair as wing-backs. Kulusevski and Maddison are both, in theory, the sorts of beans who are happiest honing their sights on the opposition goal. Dragusin has many, many defensive weaknesses and precious few strengths, so why not surround him with as much defensive-minded assistance as possible? And so on.

And actually, if you don’t mind me punctuating the doom and gloom with a spot of sunny, glass-half-full cheer, in an attacking sense it wasn’t too shabby at all. Sonny was presented on a silver platter with a couple of the more straightforward chances we’ve had all season – tips of the cap here to Davies and Porro, for the rather dapper long passes that set these up.

We also might reasonably enough have had a penalty. While AANP, as ever, accepts the referee’s decision with a stiffened upper lip and some stoical resolve, next time I need to submit a video application for the award of a foul, I may well use the clip of Sonny being unceremoniously bundled to terra firma inside the area by that Everton nib. It did appear at first – and indeed second, third and various further glances – to be a fairly straightforward little number.

So on the front-foot, whilst hardly the best we’ve played all season, there was enough in the first half-hour to suggest that the new formation had some shiny attacking components.

2. The New Formation’s Woes

Further back, however, it’s fair to say that our lot fashioned quite the pig’s ear. If you’ve ever drunk at this particular cabinet before you’ll know that the tactical side of things is not really the AANP forte, so take the following with a generous pinch of salt, or splash of bourbon, or just let the mind fog over for a few paragraphs; but it struck me that each of Gray, Dragusin and Sarr were playing their own individual matches, with nary a concern for the roles of those around them. Communications and teamwork was at a minimum.

Take the second goal conceded, for example. Everton were biffing the thing around inside their own half, as was their prerogative. Young Gray, seeing this and not taking too kindly to it, opted to leave his right-of-the-back-three post, and make a few brusque enquiries. Reasonable enough, one might have noted. One of the delights of a back-three, of course, is that any given member of it, at any given time, has the licence to stretch his legs further north, safe in the knowledge that the defensive cupboard will remain well-stocked behind him.

So off Gray toddled; but trouble began to brew when, alongside him, Sarr seemed gripped with a similar idea. Identical in fact. Actually, the pair came close to tinkering with the fabric of the universe by very nearly occupying exactly the same space at exactly the same time.

One could have advised that this would not end well. With Gray having rushed 20 or so yards out of position, our lot really needed someone to drop into the spot he had vacated, or at the very least station themselves within 10 yards of him, to mop up the mess.

The most obvious candidate would have been Sarr – but Sarr, as mentioned, had been gripped by precisely the same idea as Gray. Poor old Dragusin was the next to whom we all looked for a spot of useful input, but he was so far behind play one struggled to pick him out with the naked eye.

The Everton laddie set off around halfway and kept going, utterly unopposed. In fact he made it all the way to the penalty area, and even then young Dragusin was not really in the market for decisive interventions. He hovered in the vicinity, lost his bearings and I think almost fell over, but by then the Everton chap was already unveiling his celebration.

From what I could make out, the underlying problem here was absence of a basic level of communication between the protagonists. Idle chit-chat. Even just a pointed look, and knowing nod. Either way, the constituent members of the back-three seemed not to let each other know what they’d be doing.

3. Bergvall

With three goals having been shipped and Dragusin having been clouted about the loaf, one hardly batted an eyelid when Our Glorious Leader reverted to 4-3-3 type for the second half. One may have wanted to clear the throat and politely mention something about horses bolting, but nevertheless the switch back to the familiar seemed judicious.

Whether it was the formation, the fact that Everton already had three goals in the bag and eased up a tad or any other reason, our lot at least had the decency to look like they cared in the final 20 or so.

Young Bergvall, however, did not seem to mind which formation he was dropped into. He just set about doing one decent thing after another. It’s taken a couple of months, but the chap seems to have found his feet, and by my reckoning was amongst our best-performing squirts yesterday.

There was one fine sliding tackle early on in the piece, the sort that tends to prompt a nostalgic sigh as well as a nod of approval from this quarter; and halfway through the second half he pinged a dreamy 50-yard pass, up the right flank and perfectly weighted inside the full-back, to an onrushing winger.

And beyond these little highlights his overall contribution was neat and tidy as a minimum. Here is a chap fully aware of his responsibilities in chugging back to help out around his own penalty area, whilst also needing not too many invitations to pick up the ball and go wandering beyond halfway to see the sights.

4. Spence, Kinsky, Moore

As mentioned above, Spence was quite the attacking threat. As with Bergvall, one can imagine him impatiently waving away any instruction about formations and the like, preferring instead just to get his head down and gambol forward.

I’d suggest that he did not have his greatest day defensively, although plenty others also wore that particular badge yesterday. Going forward, however, Spence seemed to develop something of an obsession with the concept of weaving his way into the Everton penalty area and making merry.

A slight shame that his delivery for Sonny early on was not quite into the latter’s path, but if one can survey the entirety and conclude that we did not massively miss Udogie’s forward contributions, then there’s a feather for the Spence cap.

Young Kinsky once again did what could reasonably have been expected of him. Experts in the field might suggest that he went to ground a little early for the second goal, but that aside he produced more than his fair share of full-stretch, leaping saves.

This business of insisting on short passing from every goal-kick does, of course, drive to distraction most right-minded lilywhites, but it is presumably a tactic that is here to stay, and on instruction from above. Kinsky did foul up his record book with one particularly ghastly pass from the back, early in the second hlf, but by and large he seemed comfortable enough with the ball at his feet.

Nor is he a cove who sees the ball up beyond halfway and takes the opportunity to indulge in forty winks. Nice and alert throughout, he had to race from his post once or twice, to extinguish a couple of threats caused by those in front of him.

And in the latter stages we were treated to a cheery little cameo from young Mikey Moore. It’s a low bar, but he seemed to cram more into his 20 minutes than Sonny has produced in his last half-dozen games out on the left.

My Spurs-supporting chum Ian did note that Moore’s presence might actually have stifled Spence somewhat, the pair seeming to occupy the same lane if you get my drift, but on a day on which we made Everton look like Barcelona I’m hardly about to chide Moore for that.

He shows a directness of intent that is complemented by the trickery in his size eights, and as he demonstrated at the death, is well capable of delivering a cross of the delicious, convert-me variety.

5. Midfield Bite (Or Lack Thereof)

One can bang on until blue in face and coarse in voice about injuries and fatigue of course. One can find a way in which to voice the sentiment, preferably in a catchy, rhyming verse, that the manager ought to be removed.

However, the AANP gripe de jour is about our midfield. It’s actually a gripe that has bubbled away beneath the surface for a while now, but shot to prominence again yesterday as I observed various Everton bods amble unopposed from midway to our penalty area.

Expressed in the most basic Anglo-Saxon, our midfield desperately lacks a spot of back-door security. This could take the form of a tough tackler, although I’m not convinced we even need to make tackles. Someone who races around harassing and intercepting would suffice. Just to stop opponents waltzing straight through us, you understand.

Now credit where due, it seems that whichever lilywhites are picked in midfield will scurry urgently enough from Player A to Player B. No shortage of willing. The issue is that it’s all to no effect. Opponents simply pass around us and escape, without too many beads of perspiration spraying about the place.

By contrast, when, for example, Maddison takes possession for us, more often than not the opposition will close down the space and force him backwards. When I see such an episode play out, I do shoot a rather covetous glance at the opposition. That sort of thing would help our defence in spades. If our midfield can’t make tackles – and it’s always seemed a big ask at N17 – could they not at least prevent opponents advancing, and force them to pause and go backwards?

Each of Bergvall, Sarr, Maddison and Bentancur have their merits, but none seem particularly well sculpted for the aforementioned defensive roles, and I’m not sure it’s something that Bissouma on his own can carry out. It does seem to need a spot of collective effort.

Just another one for the Postecoglou in-tray I suppose, but this is an issue that has existed throughout his time around these parts, and frankly for most of the decades I’ve been watching our lot. Hoffenheim, Leicester and Elfsborg now become pretty seismic fixtures, which dulls the sense like you wouldn’t believe, but there we go.

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Spurs match reports

Forest 1-0 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. Not A Particularly Bad Showing

Due to my commitment with the other team in North London (Enfield Town, for avoidance of doubt), I found myself in the dubious position of sitting down to watch a recording of the Spurs game after the event, when already fully aware of the final score. Not really an approach I’d bang drums and blow whistles for, but a necessary evil from time to time. Happens to all of us occasionally, I suppose.

Being aware of the outcome, I therefore braced myself for something stodgy and insipid. The defeat away to Palace was the sort of template I had in mind, or the draw with Fulham perhaps. One of those bland shindigs, in which our heroes mooch around looking like a football match in the middle of their calendar is a most frightful inconvenience.

And while I suppose one might argue that this was a triumph for setting low bars, nevertheless as I watched the thing unfold, I was less underwhelmed than I’d expected to be, if you follow.

Now admittedly, it was hardly our finest hour. We did, after all, lose and fail to score. At the same time, this wasn’t one of those dreadful affairs that can prompt a spot of banging of fists down on tables and some meaningful finger-pointing.

I don’t doubt there are plenty in lilywhite who have spent the last day yelling into the nearest megaphone that they want the head of the manager and pronto, but as performances go I thought we merited a draw. It might not exactly have been title-winning stuff, but I thought our lot did well enough that if they had finished up with the takings, the wider world would have accepted it without too much complaint.

I suppose that on seeing we had lost one-nil I expected us barely to get out of our own half. Instead, with a bit more care in the final third we would have the usual handful goals. One might reasonably have expected young Johnson to strike oil with one of his two or three chances; while at the other end Fraser Forster might have been advised to pack a good book, such was his level of involvement.

Not that it will silence the Ange Out brigade, and on results alone there remains every reason to roll up the sleeves and crack on with some prime chuntering; but at AANP Towers the view remains that the wider context counts for more than the current, wild jumble of wins and losses. And by ‘wider context’ I mean injuries, and squad depth, and judging the style of play once a fit-for-purpose squad actually has a stab at it. It would be a bit thick to elbow out the fellow while the squad is falling apart at the seams with fresh maladies.

2. The Art of Midfield Tackling

It was pretty much in keeping with things yesterday that Forest scored their goal by interrupting when our lot when on the attack. One moment our heroes were busily scouting the final third for unguarded entry-points, the next they were picking the ball out from Forster’s net, and giving the old bean a bit of a scratch while at it.

The goal itself was pretty straightforward stuff, one delicious ball from Gibbs-White in between centre-back and full-back doing the trick. One doesn’t see Destiny Udogie outpaced too often, but there it was, in full technicolour. I don’t normally pass on an opportunity to furrow the brow and shove a couple of guilty defenders in the dock, but in this instance there was no wider catastrophe at play amongst our back-four. Udogie was outpaced, and that was that.

In the build-up to the goal, however, I was a little less generous. In this instance it was Djed Spence who erred, in muddling his feet, dwelling a second too long and having the ball spirited away from him. At the time it seemed harmless enough, he occupying coordinates only a few yards outside the Forest penalty area, but if life has taught me anything over the last few days, it is that there is a pretty strong causal link between Spurs losing the ball on the edge of the opposition area and finding themselves defending for their lives within the blink of an eye.

However, I don’t really point the finger at Spence. Even allowing for a couple of daft yellow cards, I thought he once again looked impressive enough (and he does a better job of the defending part of the job than Senor Porro).

The part that grates over here is this business of tackles in the middle third. More specifically, we seem susceptible to them ourselves, as Spence amongst several others demonstrated yesterday, but I’ll be absolutely dashed if I can remember any of our lot ever winning possession with a midfield tackle.

I don’t mean the high press, which our lot tend to execute like seasoned pros. A tip of the cap in that area.

I mean the good, old-fashioned tackle to win possession in midfield. When our lot bob about and try to tiptoe their way about the place, it seems as likely as not that the whole merry expedition will be brought to a shuddering halt by some beefy opposition leg, upending our player and hooking away the ball, leaving the inevitable writhing bag of limbs on the ground and outrage amongst teammates at the lack of free-kick.

But I ask you, when was the last time you saw anyone in lilywhite execute any sort of tackle of similar merit? Bissouma throws in one or two per game, and if I scrunch up the eyes and concentrate I can imagine Udogie bundling over an opponent within the confines of the law; but aside from those, it’s a pretty blank scoreboard. Of unsubtle ‘tactical’ fouls there’s a whole plethora. Solid, meaty, fair tackles, however, is a pretty bare cupboard.

As mentioned, Bissouma seems to have something along those lines on his Job Description, but none of the other midfield sorts seems really to go in for that sort of thing. Bentancur, Maddison, Begvall, Sarr, Kulusevski – they have various talents between them, and some rather topping. Tackling, alas, sits a long way down each of their lists.

And while one might suggest that tactical set-up and whatnot ought to negate the need for too much desperate lunging, the sight of Gibbs-White charging 50 yards utterly unopposed, from deep within his own half to deep within ours, before setting up their goal, had me slapping an exasperated thigh. ‘Tackle the man!’ was the delicate translation of my observations.

Perhaps this is one to lay at the door of Our Glorious Leader, because having thrown men forward, when Gibbs-White turned over possession and ran, each of Bentancur, Dragusin, Gray and Udogie turned and raced back towards their own goal rather than towards him, with no other colleagues available to scurry across and throw in a delaying boot. That is to say, the tactical setup seems to mean that when all jobs have been delegated, not one amongst our number is ever tasked with closing down an opponent running straight at our back-line with the ball.

Alternatively, though, the absence of any inclination to tackle seems utterly embedded within the fabric of the club. No matter what the era or who the personnel, there always seems to be a pretty open invitation for all-comers to stroll straight through the heart of our midfield.

3. Individuals

In keeping with a general performance that struck me as passable enough, the individual constituent parts were also, by and large, in 6 out of 10 territory.

Kulusevski seemed the font of most creativity, albeit he veered off to the right a bit too much for my liking. Gray again looked thoroughly competent in a position one keeps having to remind oneself is pretty alien to him; Dragusin marginally less so. Maddison seemed eager to make things happen when introduced, and Bergvall again reinforced the impression that he was created from the harvested DNA of Bentancur. And Sonny once more looked a little off-colour.

I yelped a few impatient oaths at the screen in the first half when our heroes repeatedly over-complicated things in the final third, particularly in the first half. Starting in the very first minute, in fact, when Kulusevski opted for a pass that was too clever by half, rather than putting his head down, shoving aside all interfering thoughts and having a crack at goal.

This particular irritation made itself felt at various points in the first half, but even despite that our lot still made enough chances to eke out a goal or two.

If the Liverpool defeat were something of a free hit, against the best team around, this was infinitely more vexing, make no mistake. Still, even with a decimated back-line I fancy our lot to score against most opponents, beginning with Wolves. Just a question of whether we outscore the other lot. Four goals ought to be enough, don’t you think?

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Spurs Books Uncategorized

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 match reports

Spurs 3-4 Chelsea: Four Tottenham Talking Points

Need a Christmas stocking-filler for the Spurs fan in your life? Within 24 hours, AANP’s new book “All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season” will be available to buy for just £7.99!

1. “It’s All Ange’s Fault”

You don’t need grey matter bulging from every seam to spot that there’s a bit of a grumble ongoing in N17 about Our Glorious Leader, nor does it require an IQ off the scale to pick up on the principal sticking-point. There’s set-pieces of course, and variations on the theme of late substitutions and whatnot, but what’s really rattling the masses seems to be the sticking to the principle of Thou Shalt Attack, no matter the time, place or – critically – situation.

Even as a fully signed up apologist for the man, I do squint a bit at seeing every outfield player hopping from foot to foot, desperate to be let off the leash and fly upfield when we’re 2-0 up. One does pause for a moment and consider whether someone out there might hang back, to add a layer of security at the rear. Well, if you’re actually playing in the match you obviously don’t consider any such thing at all, and Ange sure as heck isn’t interested in such topics, but for most other onlookers it’s a suggestion that at least seems to merit a spot of back-and-forth at the next committee meeting.

However, the on-pitch drill is just to keep flinging forward every fit and able man, with the inevitable sequel that there are wide open spaces everywhere one looks whenever the opposition pilfer the ball and scoot off back at us.

The whole thing is embellished by those moments when, having survived such counter-attacks by the skin of our teeth and kindly intervention of the gods, we then attempt rather casually to play out from the back, treating the whole thing as if it were against a combination of mannequins and pre-schoolers rather than hardened internationals. The result, peeled off numerous times yesterday, is that we lose possession outside our own area and pulse-rates quicken once again.

A tad vexing for sure, and an accusation that could be laid pretty squarely at the door of A. Postecoglou Esq. And bafflingly, rather than draw himself up in court to make the case for the defence, Our Glorious Leader would presumably vault over the bench and position himself alongside the those making the accusation, agreeing whole-heartedly that attacking-no-matter-the-situation is indeed precisely his approach.

Personally, I consider that we’re just a minor adjustment or two away from a pretty ripping balance of fizzing attack and hearty common-sense, but Ange is all-in and there we remain. Two-goal leads will continue to be blown. It is, so goes the argument, essentially all his fault. A 51% win percentage does not scream unparalleled success.

2. “It’s Not All Ange’s Fault”

As mentioned, I do think everyone concerned might benefit from a little adjustment of the settings, but for various reasons AANP does not really subscribe to the ‘All Ange’s Fault’ argument.

For a start there’s squad depth. I wittered on about this one a few days ago, following the Bournemouth loss, so if you’re rolling your eyes and begging me to get on with it, you’re welcome to skip a paragraph or two, or boil a kettle, or in some other way amuse yourself.

For those who remain, the post-Bournemouth summary was threefold, viz.

  1. Quality on the pitch is dropping because lack of squad depth means we’re having to use reserves regularly;
  2. No-one is getting a rest and injuries are therefore mounting, because we’re having to use reserves regularly;
  3. No-one is getting a rest so they’re not running as hard each game, which Angeball requires in order to work

Somebody somewhere in the offices of power therefore needs a stern word, for the inexcusable offence of leaving the manager with a squad not fit for the purpose of outrunning the opposition twice a week. A reserve list of Dragusin, Davies and Gray to cover the entire back-four in three different competitions was always likely to have a dubious smell emanating from it. (Young Spence is presumably deemed not quite good enough, but even if he were used I’d still suggest we require an additional reserve or two of higher quality at the back – and that’s before we look higher up the pitch)

If the three points blathered on about above were indeed true (and it’s debatable), it means a critical problem will just continue to dance away independently at least until the January transfer window opens.

(Taking a step back, I do wonder if Grandmaster Levy has been convinced, by Poch’s over-achievements on a shoestring, that success can be pinched by paying well below-the-odds, through a little managerial alchemy. Sack Ange, and I’m not sure much will change until Levy’s spending habits do.)

However, even if true, all of this wouldn’t explain why Dragusin lost his man against Bournemouth, or why Bissouma and Sarr clattered their men for the penalties yesterday, or why no-one saw fit to stick to Sancho and prevent his shot yesterday, or why Porro did not fling his entire frame in the way of Enzo Fernandez’s shot yesterday. Or, to paraphrase, I’m not sure there’s much Ange (or indeed Levy) can do about handsomely-remunerated footballers making utterly block-headed decisions.

I’m not suggesting that we lost purely because several idiots did idiotic things. One could reasonably suggest that the team’s mentality, which stems from the manager, of trying relentlessly to continue playing high-risk football, hindered rather than helped the cause yesterday.

Nevertheless, pulling aside the opposition players to dish out a few freebies, at critical points in the match, does make the head slowly droop into the hands, and prompt one to wonder what’s the bally point of it all.

Apparently a few weeks ago, young Kulusevski mentioned in an interview his frustration that our heroes do not behave like champions on the training pitch. This is all second-hand info, so I apologise if I give his actual words a mangling, but I understand he hammered home that our lot need to train like champions, talk like champions, walk around the premises like champions and so on, if standards are to rise the requisite number of notches come kick-off. Winning sentiments, if you ask me. Our lot sure as heck don’t conduct themselves like champions at present.

3. Romero, Van de Ven and the Injuries

Football being what it is, I suppose we all took the same traumatic journey from the pre-match high of seeing both Romero and VDV restored to the pitch, to the sudden punch to the gut after 20 or so, of seeing Romero hobble off. The mood obviously blackened further with VDV’s enforced removal, although the mutterings since at least suggest that his is just a flesh-wound.

A bit of yammering has naturally ensued about whether either, or both, were fit to start inb the first place, given that neither finished. On the one hand, one might argue that Romero was absent with one injury and departed yesterday with another, and as such the two events are unrelated and the whole is just dashed bad luck.

On the other hand, however, one might rather sniffily point out that had he been given more time to condition himself, he wouldn’t have picked up his fresh injury yesterday. And if one were to keep shoving that point towards its logical conclusion, one might swing the spotlight right back onto the manager, for making such a risk-laden call.

It’s difficult to opine really, and AANP not having an ounce of medical knowledge in his frame is steering well clear of that argument. Instead I’ll put my energies into general lamentation, about the fact that we were 2-0 up when Romero exited, and proceeded to concede four goals in the hour that followed.

4. Solanke

If you’re in the market for a silver lining, however, it was nice to see young Solanke get a brief moment in the spotlight. By virtue of doing all the donkey-work in deeper positions, and not really banging them away like a six-yard poacher might, the chap seems to be occasionally a little under-appreciated, by the wider public at least. Speak to the N17 regulars and they’ll give him a generous hand, but cast the net a little further and the inclination is generally to query whether he bangs them in like Haaland, and dismiss him if he doesn’t.

As it happened, his goal yesterday was an absolute triumph of six-yard poaching. It was a masterclass in directing a run in one direction, and appearing to disappear behind the back of the defender; before, at the vital moment, diverting off at an angle and reappearing in front of the defender, who by this time was pretty flummoxed in the matter of his whereabouts.

The reward, richly earned, was an opportunity to get to the ball first and poke it towards goal – a goal that, by this point, had been completely vacated by the goalkeeper, he also seemingly thrown by Solanke’s movement and not for one moment expecting a shot.

Solanke’s hard work continued, in a string of first-half dialogues with the burly Chelsea defender minding him, and that we were able to create – and miss – various presentable chances across the remainder of the match owed much to his behind-the-scenes beavering. So when Big Ange surveys the ever-mounting Inbox, he can at least allow his day to brighten with the cheery news that Solanke is still fighting the good fight pretty bobbishly.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 2-2 Roma: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. Who We Are, Mate

After losing at home to the bottom side and then tonking the champions away, I suppose it actually made perfect sense that our heroes spent the entirety of yesterday lurching wildly between rip-roaring attack and what you might call pretty vacant defending. In short, every time either side attacked – in fact, every time either side won possession – they looked like they might score, and once we’d got past all the VAR calls and shots off the woodwork and other-worldly saves, we might have had a scoreline of around 8-8.

To suggest that this approach is universally popular would seem to misread the mood about the place somewhat. Here at AANP Towers, naturally, we lap it up, but there are plenty who cross their arms in disgust and give tongue to a few choice complaints, in increasingly irate tones. No point entertaining if we’re not going to win anything, is, I understand, the gist of the objection.

Not that Our Glorious Leader is about to budge on the matter, judging by his post-match remarks, in which he essentially tossed into the nearest bin the very concept of grinding out some 0-0s and 1-0s to ensure qualification. Entertaining football remains very much the key ingredient where he is concerned, so we can expect last night’s madness to be bottled up and uncorked on a bi-weekly basis for the foreseeable. AANP will be at the front of the queue.

2. Forster

Poor old Vicario deserves to have a medal pinned to his chest at some point, for playing a full hour with a snapped ankle at the weekend, in what was quite the commendation of the virtues of adrenaline.

The upshot of it all was that Fraser Forster was shoved into the spotlight for his 90-plus yesterday. Forster, of course, is a lad who Nature started building but then got distracted and forgot to stop, with the result that he is about two persons’ worth shoved into one. This at least makes him a handy chap to have around at corners, with any dastardly opposition plans to buffet him à la Vicario unlikely to bring home much fruit.

The narrative doing the rounds was that being built like a small oak was all well and good, but Forster would come a cropper the moment he was required to rearrange the feet and do a spot of short-passing-from-the-back. The air was therefore thick with anticipation when the goal-kicks started flowing and Forster obediently played short, but anyone hoping to point a triumphant index finger at him and scream, “See? I knew it!” was to be left a little disappointed. We did butcher several of those play-out-from-the-back routines, no doubt about it, but in truth Forster was not really the culprit.

One would not say he was particularly inept in this field. Not particularly sensational either, for one must take the balanced view. But rumours of his inadequacy with ball at feet were evidently over-played. Forster popped the ball left and right (mostly left, actually), accurately and sensibly enough, and Davies and chums got on with things.

As mentioned, things went awry thereafter, on a pretty regular basis in the first half, but this seemed to be down to the infuriatingly flippant attitude of others in lilywhite, who seemed convinced that Roma players would obligingly look the other way and allow the ball to be played around them. Forster himself seemed accurate and sensible enough with his passing.

More of a pre-match concern to AANP had been Forster’s shot-stopping. Working on the rationale that an enormous oak, when sawn off at the base, will take a good, elongated second or two to fall to earth, I gnawed a slightly nervous fingernail at the prospect of Forster being called into lightning-quick reflex activity. Toss the ball high into the crowd and Forster is your man, went my thinking; fire a shot low to his sides, and things might get sticky.

Those fears were hardly assuaged by the first Roma goal. Although directed high rather than low, it nevertheless stood out as a moment of ignominy for our resident giant, as rather than skip across his line to engineer a position closer to the ball, he opted to leave his feet planted firmly where they were, and sought to remedy matters from a standing start. Well, it did not take an expert in the field to see that this approach was laced with difficulty, even for one standing at approximately nine foot eight. Forster’s leap amounted to little more than a footnote, he getting nowhere near the ball. Those pre-match concerns about his agility, or lack thereof, played on repeat and with some extra volume.

However, the strangest plot twist unfurled thereafter, for on the following occasions on which he was called into shot-stopping action, with activity requiring a far sharper grip on things than that goal, Forster suddenly donned a cape and revealed himself actually to be possessed of superhuman reflex-saving quality.

One shot towards the end of the first half seemed almost to be behind him, and travelling along the ground. And when I state it was travelling on the ground I do so not merely to pass the time. To move from the thinner parts of the atmosphere, which Forster’s upper parts inhabit, down to the floor, would require most of us to descend a flight or two of stairs, a procedure that would take some time to effect. By contrast, Forster somehow flung himself this great distance and direction in the absolute blink of an eye, shooting out an appendage whilst doing so, to pull off a save that any physics student would goggle at.

He was at it again, at the end of the second half, with a save that ought to have won us the game, only for the resulting corner to bring their goal. Whilst not so low down, this one was still a shot from close-range, and still of the ilk that one would expect to bypass such a large and cumbersome construction as Forster. He was equal to it though, again rattling off some of that faster-than-the-naked-eye-can-discern business, to produce one of those saves that is really worth a goal.

Numerous further tests await, of course, but for now I mark him down as competent with ball at feet, and jolly impressive in shot-stopping.

3. Ben Davies

As mentioned, there was plenty to admire about our work going forward, and frankly AANP was drooling over some of the speed and smoothness with which we motored along from nondescript midfield spots to goalscoring positions. Not for the first time, some slightly more accurate finishing would have had us comfortably ahead by the closing stages, but I suppose one can’t have it all.

Kulusevski was, at times, once again pretty majestic. It seemed sufficient for the likes of Son and Johnson simply to turn up at the appointed hour and location, because Kulusevski was pretty comfortably carving apart Roma single-handedly, at various points in the first half.

I also thought Sarr again buzzed about the place like a man possessed, patrolling high up the pitch to win possession seemingly at will, while Bentancur was similarly effective about 20 yards further south. Annoyingly, many of these positive traits rather faded from existence in the second half, as our lot stopped giving too many cares about retaining possession, and then constantly found themselves outnumbered at the back.

However, during the entirety, Ben Davies seemed to accept whatever the Fates through at him, stiffen the upper lip and crack right on. There were times, of course, that Roma poked and pried in what were not Designated Ben Davies Zones, and consequently got round the back of our defence to cause a spot of alarm. Quite a few times, in fact, this happening relentlessly in the final 20 or 30.

But when matters did more directly involve B.D., he seemed well up to it. All reassuring stuff, given the absences of the first-choice pair. Moreover, with Destiny Udogie given the night off, Ben Davies also had to juggle the day-job with a spot of babysitting, of young Gray alongside him (who fared a lot better than on his previous forays at full-back).

Davies was on hand to peddle a lot of timely interventions and blocks, and while the general structure creaked a bit it seemed to be despite, rather than because of, his efforts. There was also a useful charge upfield with ball at feet, for those who like that sort of thing, only terminated by having him uprooted right outside the opposition area.

Most eye-catching to AANP, however, was his pass from deep in the first half, which bypassed the entire Roma midfield and set Kulusevski off on the gallop that led to him hitting the post. It would have been a charming addendum to his evening’s defensive work; instead, the whole thing looks vastly less impressive due to a late goal conceded and couple of points dropped, in this whole curious Europa format.

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.

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.

Categories
Spurs match reports

Ferencvaros 1-2 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. Team Selection

AANP has prattled on a few times in recent weeks about the virtues of integrating up to a maximum of four non-regulars in a Starting XI, and conversely the vices of shoving in youths and extras until a Starting XI is bursting at the seams with lesser-seen faces, so I won’t bang on about it again.

Suffice to say, the eyebrow raised when news of yesterday’s Starting XI trickled through was not one of unrestrained gaiety and joy. Asking for trouble, was the gist of the rumbling over here.

As it turned out, Ferencvaros themselves made five changes, in a whopping endorsement of the new, endless, Europa format. And while, for the first half hour, our lot showed the usual sieve-like security of a defensive line stationed on halfway, we muddled through, by accident – and the impressive inputs of Vicario – rather than design.

One can only imagine the series of embarrassed and quizzical looks exchanged between Archie Gray and Ben Davies when informed that the former would start at centre-back and the latter at left-back. However, that was the curious defensive call made by The Brains Trust at the outset. To suggest it was a roaring success would be to inflict some pretty significant damage upon the English language.

I suppose part of the thinking may have been that if Gray could be found to include central defensive brilliance amongst his many talents then we would have an additional, ball-playing option for the fixture slog of coming months (and potentially one with a spot of pace about him, although I confess I’ve never observed the young tyke in a basic sprint). Anyway, it all turned out to be academic, because Gray showed himself to be as full of willing as he was bereft of expertise for the role, and having been caught out numerous times by fairly straightforward passes played behind the back-four and into space, the experiment was scrapped at half-time, presumably never to be seen again.

The midfield at least seemed appropriately fitted for the occasion. Bissouma, after an errant opening, made a pretty useful fist of things in front of the back-four, and Sarr seemed to enjoy the freedom to stretch his legs in the final third as the whim allowed, elevating himself, to the AANP gaze, to the heady heights of one of our two best performers.

Bergvall, frankly, had a slightly rotten game, happy enough to do all the running but regularly giving the ball away or tripping over himself. Hardly a crisis, as the young imp is evidently here for the long haul, but another Europa night on which he’s unlikely to dwell with too much fondness.

As mentioned, the midfield three were at least assigned appropriate roles, but not unexpectedly there was little rhythm or understanding between them, and one could almost see on one’s telly-box the looks of pleasant surprise whenever a little combination of passes clicked, betraying the fact that here was a group of young specimens who had never played with each other before.

The fact that beaverings in the final third slickened considerably once the cavalry arrived should be of little surprise to anyone. Off-the-ball the press was more intense, and in possession the various protagonists seemed to have an innate understanding of where to be and at which appointed hour, which helped chivvy things along. In short, the players who had played together regularly looked like a mob who had played together regularly.

As such, Our Glorious Leader, had he caught the AANP eye at the final whistle, would no doubt have directed a satisfied smirk in this direction. For all the naysaying emanating from my lips beforehand, he would be entitled to argue that he played his hand to perfection – blooding the younglings, giving minutes to fringe players, excusing the big guns from a full night’s work and then reaping a pretty solid harvest when he did eventually lob on the aforementioned BGs for a twenty-minute sweat.

2. Mikey Moore and Lankshear

Without doubt the biggest learning about Mikey Moore from last night was that, like Ben Davies, he is one of those coves whom one always addresses by their full combination of forename and surname. The next biggest learning was that he seems pretty capable of taking steps unaided in the big wide world.  

I mentioned above that I thought Sarr was amongst the top two performers, and alongside him I’d place Mikey Moore. Displaying a rather endearing fearlessness, every time he received the ball he seemed struck by the thoroughly commendable notion of doing something useful with it. As often as not this seemed to involve getting his head down and dribbling infield, to create a whole new world of options; but even when he stayed wide and was forced to use his right foot for something other than balance I thought he did a good job of things.

When ushered up on stage to receive his award and acclaim for yesterday’s work, I’ve no doubt that in listing all those to whom he gives thanks he’ll include Pedro Porro, for the slightly unhinged right-back seemed to do a good job of keeping an eye on him – giving him space to do his own thing but never straying so far away that he left the young pup completely marooned. Their combinations were amongst the more natural from our lot in the first half, and it was just a shame that when he was switched out to the left towards the end he didn’t gamble at the far post for what would have been a tap-in from a Johnson square ball.

As for young Lankshear, I suspect he might have a few self-inflicted welts on his own thigh today, from frustrated hand-slaps, but apart from not quite directing his chances within the frame I thought he made a good fist of things.

The fact that he was in the appropriate spot to miss a couple of chances was encouraging – a statement I appreciate might sound like lunacy of the first order, but my point is that, like any good striker, he took up the right positions, rather than watching from twenty yards south as the ball sailed harmlessly across goal.

He ought to have done better with the first half header from Werner’s cross, and he was unlucky that his scruffy second half effort from a corner bounced over rather than under then bar, but as Dominic Solanke can presumably attest, these things fall into place eventually.

Lankshear can also be mightily encouraged that he received a start in only the second game of this curious competition – with approximately eighty games left to play, presumably including one or two dead rubbers, there’s a good chance he’ll have more than just substitute cameos in the coming months.

3. Confidence, and Lack Thereof

I only studied German for one year at the old alma mater, so while I can pretty confidently assure you in that language that I’m fifteen years old, and can ask they way to the train station like the best of them, when it comes to screaming at Timo Werner to just bury the bally thing for heaven’s sake, adding that he’s supposed to be a professional footballer for the love of all things holy, I’m afraid I have to revert to the old mother-tongue, rather than conveniencing him with a spot of Deutsche.

As the hopeless young bean lay on the turf muttering oaths after his latest clanger, and then had the ignominy compounded by promptly being forced into a walk of shame around the pitch for substitution, I did muse – not for the first time – that he is both blessed and cursed by that turn of pace.

Blessed, of course, because it meant that when Mikey Moore set off on the right wing and looked up, there was nobody within a mile of Timo. And not for the first time. Only a Van de Ven would catch Werner, given a few yards headstart and clear path to goal.

Cursed, naturally, because here is a fellow who seemingly would be more at ease chewing off his own leg than finishing a one-on-one chance created by that pace. I’m actually inclined to suggest we re-purpose the chap as a centre-back, and see if we can put that speed to use in a sphere in which hitting a stationary target is not really a requirement.

Anyway, while I’ve never been anywhere near the professional game, the sages around me seem convinced that his do-anything-but-score approach to life stems from a lack of confidence, and as if to hammer home the point, Brennan Johnson then put his ten minutes to good use by cheerfully peppering the goal until he got one to stick.

The Johnson first-time effort that pinged off the crossbar was, lest we forget, inaccurate, but nevertheless spoke volumes – the audacity to see a ball rolled towards self, and greet this correspondence with a shrug of the shoulders and decision to forego all niceties and simply lamp the thing first time made crystal clear that here was a chappie who felt that he could do little wrong.

It was a conclusion emphasised by his goal a few minutes later, a chance that, on receipt of the ball, was hardly worth of the name, he receiving a bouncing ball when stepping backwards, and with a small line of defenders between him and the goal. To have the gumption to shift the ball onto his weaker foot and then place – this time with perfect accuracy – a shot off the post and in, essentially rubber-stamped the fact that he and poor old Werner sat at the extreme opposites on the scale of confidence.

I suppose if one had to raise the Werner spirits, one might yet point to his fine work in crossing for Lankshear’s first half header, and the fact that whenever he does decide to go outside his man and test him for pace, he generally wins. However, if Cheering Up Werner is the objective, probably best not to mention to him that young Mikey Moore prefers the left flank, what?