Tag: Pedro Porro

Categories
Spurs match reports

Eintracht Frankfurt 0-1 Spurs: Four Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. An Actually Impressive, Disciplined Performance

I have to admit that prior to kick-off, the AANP who surveyed the scene and weighed up the odds was not a genial and bonhomous soul. Think Macbeth in the latter stages, when he’s a bit down on life with one thing and another, and starts a gloomy solo about his despair, and you’re pretty much up to speed.

It was those rotten league showings that did it (ignoring the Southampton win on the grounds of pointless mismatch). That Wolves defeat in particular sapped the will to live, and even though these recent Europa jollies have shown a more sunny interpretation of things, it’s dashed hard simply to swat aside the woeful league performances when they stack up on all sides, popping up, as they do, every couple of days.

So when the curtain went up and the whistle sounded, I took my place with a sense of duty rather than the slightest hint of optimism. “If it were done when ‘tis done then best get a wriggle on,” was the sentiment, continuing the Macbeth theme.

But lo, imagine if you will the AANP eyes gradually widening, as the outlook unfolded before me in increasingly upbeat fashion. Admittedly, that one early ball played straight over the top and down the middle, absolutely scything apart our defence, had an ominous quality to it, but that aside, for about 80 or so minutes this was as accomplished a defensive performance as I’d seen from our lot in the Postecoglou era.

It’s a low bar, admittedly. Historically, opponents have not exactly had to over-exert themselves to fashion chances against our heroes. Simply ambling up from halfway whenever the fancy takes them has generally proved sufficient. They may encounter some waving arms and stern looks from various retreating lilywhites, but nothing that will actually inconvenience them, let alone block their path. “Drop in whenever you like!” has generally been the rallying cry from the Tottenham defence.

Yesterday, however, events played out in pretty sharp contradistinction. For a start, our midfield three of Bentancur, Bergvall and Maddison seemed particularly attuned to the notion that intercepting passes in the midfield third would save a heck of a lot of trouble further down the line. Rather than simply watching short passes whizz about them, these three were on their toes and ready to spring into action, and as a result, transporting from Middle Third to Final Third wasn’t quite the procession that Frankfurt might have expected.

(As an aside, with these three evidently now the preferred midfield combo of Our Glorious Leader, I’m inclined to give them an approving nod. A pleasing balance, wouldn’t you say? What with Bentancur patrolling the rear; Bergvall either carrying the ball at a hot scurry or passing quickly; and Maddison – when the urge grabs – seeking out a creative pass.)

The key to the tightened defence, however, seemed to be Van de Ven. His presence, and specifically his pace, seemed to my uncouth eye to allow our lot to play a relatively high line for much of the game, rather than defending the edge of our own area, and also meant that midfield and defence were in close proximity. Having VDV in attendance also meant that when Udogie was gripped by the urge to motor forward, calamity did not immediately ensue if and when he lost possession.

In general, this seemed to be a day on which, mercifully enough, the entire back-four appreciated the merits of wearing proudly their defensive hats, rather than seeing themselves as attacking sorts whose main remit was to do exciting things in possession.

Another pretty critical element was that the whole business of playing out from the back was quietly eased off the agenda until, by the business end of the second half we dealt almost exclusively in long kicks from Vicario. Whether or not it was by coincidence, for about 75 minutes I’m not sure Frankfurt were allowed a clean shot at goal.

The final 15 was a little fraught, and while I suppose it could have gone horribly wrong, on balance of play and chances made over the two legs, our lot seemed jolly good value for the win. Not only was the defence oddly compact, but we still managed to pose enough threat to have Frankfurt scrambling – and without the need for any suicidal pouring forward of every man in lilywhite. Attackers attacked, defenders defended and in general the balance was pretty solid.

2. Romero

Van de Ven’s mere presence might have instilled some much-needed calm about the defence, but by golly Romero alongside him picked a smashing time to deliver one of his better performances.

Much like his midfield chums, his reading of things was good enough to enable multiple timely interceptions, and whenever that Ekitike chap unveiled his dancing feet and started sniffing out a shooting opportunity, Romero was on him like Mary’s little lamb, close enough to whisper sweet nothings in his ear, whilst avoiding what was presumably, given the Argentine’s history, an almighty urge to kick a few lumps out of him.

Indeed, even when Romero did break ranks and stride up the pitch, he had the good sense to stay on his feet rather than go lunging in. In a moment of realisation so unlikely it made me feel quite dizzy, it dawned on. Me in the second half that Romero’s side of the defence was pretty much under lock and key.

In possession he was his usual eager self, happy to look for passes of a more progressive ilk when he deemed the occasion appropriate. Indeed, it was his flighted pass that resulted in Maddison having his head knocked off and our lot winning the penalty. However, as mentioned earlier, it was also a relief to see the realisation dawn upon the chap that he was there primarily to defend, and this he did almost flawlessly throughout.

I say ‘almost flawlessly’, because in the final knockings he could not really help himself, after a good 90 minutes of discipline. Some pent-up mindlessness eventually came flowing out when he went flying out of position and into a sliding challenge, that left his opponent spiralling off into the air, earned him a yellow and conceded an unnecessary free-kick in a dangerous spot. I understand that to err is human, but to abandon one’s senses and go hunting for blood seems a mite excessive. Romero ought to have known better; but by and large this was a humdinger of a performance from him.

3. A Quick Word on Maddison

There were cracking performances all round, in truth. Tel offered a threat throughout, and while he never actually delivered on it, one got the impression that the Frankfurt coves tasked with minding him did so with considerable caution. Brennan Johnson famously doesn’t really offer a great deal in possession, but for the second consecutive game he actually produced a spot of end-product to go with his pace, picking out a decent first half cross that Tel duly scuppered. Porro and Udogie found a pretty useful balance between defence and the occasional foray forward. Solanke only stopped running in order to pause before that expertly-despatched penalty. Kulusevski frankly did not look fit, but still gave a few pleasing reminders of how happy he is to assert a spot of upper bodyweight when the situation demands.

Maddison beavered away, in slightly peripheral fashion at times, not necessarily cutting to ribbons the Frankfurt back-line but not shirking the challenge either. However, where he really earned his corn was in that penalty incident, when, as alluded to, the goalkeeper well and truly mangled his timing, and rather mangled Maddison’s frame in so-doing.

Replays suggest that Maddison had enough of a peek, while the ball was airborne, to be fully up-to-date with current affairs, and well apprised of the circumstance that a great oak of a man was rapidly approaching from the north, to flatten him. And where some – and I name no names, but hint at our club captain – have regularly been spotted ducking out of any challenges with a hint of rough-and-tumble about them, Maddison was undeterred.

Having hatched a plan to deliver a pretty subtle header past the onrushing goalkeeper, he executed the first part as far as he was able, and for his troubles appeared to have every functioning part of him snapped in two. Little wonder that he wobbled off shortly after, but he earned the penalty, and frankly kept our season alive. If we do raise the shiny pot come late-May, look carefully and you’ll spot AANP giving him an understated but meaningful salute of appreciation.

4. Why The Hell Can’t We Play Like This Every Game, Eh?

Not wanting to take the sheen off things, but it was a sentiment that kept repeating in my mind as I watched last night unfold with ever-growing admiration.

I appreciate the mentality of wrapping VDV in cotton wool in between Europa dates, he being so critical to the whole operation, and without him the apparatus is arranged rather differently. Nevertheless, even sans VDV, approaching each league game with yesterday’s level of discipline and determination could not conceivably do anything other than bring about better league results. Wolves would not have stood a chance if we had unleashed last night’s fare upon them.

One would, of course, settle for winning the trophy – one would trade lesser-used limbs for it, in truth – but the nagging thought remains that we would be a dashed sight better off (and Ange a lot more secure in his post) if we mustered this level of performance every week.

Still, hats off to the lot of them. This was jolly impressive muck.

If you fancy a spot of Good Friday non-league football, AANP’s regular stint behind the mic takes in a relegation six-pointer at 3pm, between Enfield Town and St Albans City in the Vanarama National League South – feel free to listen in on https://mjl99.mixlr.com/

Categories
Spurs match reports

Spurs 1-1 Frankfurt: Two Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. It’s The Hope That Kills

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. The Midfield Triumverate

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Categories
Spurs match reports

Spurs 3-1 Southampton: Four Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. The Caveat

I vaguely recall that my valedictory note after the Chelsea defeat was along the lines that results would be the ultimate currency deciding the fate of Our Glorious Leader. Given that sentiment, you might have expected to find AANP engaging in rhythmic dances of celebration once the whistle brought an end to proceedings yesterday afternoon. After all, if one can tuck their bat under their arm and march off to the pavilion with ‘3-1’ against their name in the scorebook, the masses will pretty likely buy into it sooner or later.

Enter, however, The Caveat. A thankless line of work, caveating, adding as it does a layer of bureaucracy and quite often sucking the joy out of life while it’s there. And bang on cue, any revels can be pretty abruptly interrupted by the pointed reminder that this Southampton team barely knew in which direction to point.

I suppose we Spurs sorts ought not to take too much for granted, bearing in mind that no so long ago our heroes were making an almighty pickle of things against Tamworth for goodness sake – but nevertheless, anyone suggesting that one home win against Southampton represents a corner turned and a new beginning might want to consider a lie-down in a darkened room with just a choice bourbon for company.

So it’s generous pinches of salt all round, and the words ‘Don’t Get Too Carried Away’ stamped everywhere in sizeable font.  With that cleared up, it was nevertheless a rather pleasant surprise to sail through the first half in a serene manner I’d forgotten could exist at HQ.

Admittedly, Eintracht Frankfurt are unlikely to quake in their boots when poring over the footage, but if opponents are simply going to melt into the background one would expect our lot to make a few bundles of hay, and the produce wheeled out was suitably satisfactory, at least in the first half.

Spence once again served notice of that most peculiar phenomenon, that he is secretly happier at left-back than right-. The midfield triumvirate (of Maddison, Bentancur and Bergvall) actually gave the impression of knowing what the hell they were supposed to do, which I suppose when spelt out like that in plain English might seem painfully obvious, but which nevertheless has seemed to confuse the living daylights out of every combo trialled in those positions on a bi-weekly basis for approximately the last six months.

Even Sonny, although once again giving a sharp reminder of his dwindling powers in the pace department (with that opportunity in the second half), was able to make merry in the more restrained way becoming of elder statesmen, by combining with Maddison and Spence on the left to construct little triangular overloads that, from my vantage point, appeared to make the brains explode of the Southampton patrol stationed in that area.

Having seen everything go so swimmingly in that first half, I rather foolishly settled in for the second with a lick of the lips and a gleeful rub of the hands, fully expecting our heroes to carry out their duties with the professionalism of a team focused on putting Southampton to the sword, and grinding them down with goal upon ruthless goal.

 Well I suppose any old blighter could have told me that that was a howler of the ripest order. After all, the heady days of our lot dishing out goal upon goal are long gone – and when I stop and think about it, the days of them carrying out duties with professionalism and focus never really began.

So instead, we were treated to the sort of meandering second half that was perfect for those amongst us who like to pull out hats over our eyes on a sunny Sunday afternoon, slump back in our seat and take in 40-odd minutes of Nature’s sweet restorer. Our lot went through the motions, Southampton did likewise and for about half an hour one could not shake the suspicion that both sides were only still out there because contractually obliged to be.

Southampton then seemed to renege on whatever gentleman’s agreement had been shaken on over the half-time brew, by nabbing a late goal, and threatening to eke out a draw that I suspect might have prompted a riot to spill out onto the High Road.

Mercifully, they could not shake that From-the-Championship-they-came-and-to-the-Championship-they-shalt-return stuff, and it all ended well enough. Even in victory, however, our lot showed in that second half what a distance they remain from being the sort of top-tier side that grinds into the dust inferior opponents.

2. Romero’s Headers

However, as mentioned, all concerned were at least pretty bobbish in that first half, so a tip of the hat, and the two goals were rather pleasing on the eye; but if there were standout moments that made me pinch myself and give the eyes an ever-so-slightly disbelieving rub, it was the sight of two attacking headers that seemed to have been lifted from a bygone age.

The eighties, specifically. One simply doesn’t see the diving header these days. One barely sees a bona fide cross any more in truth, the modern winger seemingly more concerned with checking back infield, and posting on social media, and unveiling new body art.

AANP’s first footballing memory was that Keith Houchen perpendicular leap in the ’87 Cup Final against our lot, and if I trawl the mental archives the most recent I can recall was from the bonce of Christian Eriksen of all people, at Old Trafford about 10 years ago.

No doubt the mists of time have done their thing there, and a few fleet-fingered taps on the keyboard will presumably reveal a whole slew of more recent diving headers; but as far as AANP is concerned, the diving header is a dying art, so when I see one I dashed well note the time and date, and start contacting friends and family to share the good news.

To be dished up one of these morsels, therefore, I regarded as something of an event; to witness two within about 20 minutes of each other had me clutching at the nearest steadying object, and questioning the lucidity of my own senses.

The first came after around 10 minutes, from a Porro corner, which at first glance had little to recommend it beyond most other corners Porro takes. A bit of height, various elbows and whatnot, and ultimately the ball squirting off towards the sidelines in anti-climactic fashion – this was pretty much the size and shape of what I was expecting. And even when Porro’s delivery winged its way to the edge of the 6-yard box, earning a little salute of commendation from this onlooker, I would hardly have expected a moment for the annals to follow.

But Romero, in his infinite wisdom, opted against the conventional approach of ambling forward the necessary extra step or two that would have allowed him to head the thing from an upright berth. Instead, he hoisted himself until horizontal, some three or four feet of the floor, in the manner that I believe is popularized by magicians’ assistants who are about to have hoops passed over their bodies, or be fed to lions, or other such pursuits.

And having hoisted himself thus, Romero then made pretty punchy contact with the ball too. This, in a way, is part of the magic of a diving header, for in propelling oneself to the appropriate stance – horizontal – thereafter, if one does indeed make headed contact, one cannot help but propel the ball with the force of a bullet. Physics, I suppose.

Anyway, the scandalous handballing Ramsdale spoiled the fun by beating the ball away; but as far as AANP was concerned, the whole manoeuvre was a triumph. The outcome was a mere footnote.

2.1 Romero’s Second Header

And that, frankly, would have sufficed; but Romero was not done there. Evidently of the opinion that he was onto a good thing, on around the half hour mark he had another pop, in the manner of a small child who has been treated to a new toy and simply cannot get enough of it.

There are precious few sequels out there that match – or indeed better – the splendour of the original, but to such illustrious entries as Aliens and Terminator 2 can now be added ‘Cristian Romero’s second diving header against Southampton that time’, because that second was a doozy.

Impressively, it came from open play, albeit Pedro Porro again playing the role of Instigator-in-Chief with aplomb. Opting to impress the masses with a demonstration of what he could do with his weaker foot, Porro delivered with his left towards the back post, and if you had happened to remark to me that he’d overhit it, dash it, you may have caught me gently nodding in agreement.

However, motivated by the glories of 15 minute earlier, Romero lurked at the back post, and as all about him watched the ball sail over their heads, he sensed the moment to lurk no longer, but to unleash another diving header. I rather thought that the connoisseur of this sort of thing might look even more kindly upon his second effort, because it involved a bit more momentum, Romero taking a running start to get fully into the leap.

In terms of pure aesthetics, it belonged in a gallery, boasting as it did a fully-focused footballer sailing horizontally through the atmosphere and making sweeter contact than the average bystander could manage with his foot.

Irritatingly, the scandalous h-balling Ramsdale once again popped up to bat the thing away, but the AANP heartstrings had already been tugged. ‘Long live the diving header’, I may or may not have muttered out loud.

None of which is to say that Romero has suddenly transformed from ‘Hot-Headed Liability Upon Whom We Ought to Cash In’ to ‘Darling of AANP Towers’. Two absolute highlights of the modern era those headers may have been, but the Argentine can still be a prime chump when it comes to the meat and veg, as he demonstrated early in the second half, when needlessly charging 10 yards north from his post and flying feet first into a challenge he failed to win.

With the cornerstone of the back-four thus removed from the scene, and Southampton in possession, we were in the dickens of a spot, with poor old Porro – not a chap for whom defending is much of a delight – left in the awkward position of having to try to cover both his right-back spot and Romero’s vacated central berth.

A better team than Southampton would presumably have made more of the opportunity, but it’s that sort of lunacy, springing up out of the blue, that counteracts Romero’s impressive passing range (or indeed his heading). And at this stage of his career, he is hardly likely to experience any sort of road-to-Damascus conversion and suddenly opt to rein it all in.

However, as and when he does eventually wave his final goodbye to N17, this wide-eyed spectator will always remember those two diving headers.

3. Brennan Johnson

If there is an odder fish in our ranks than young Brennan Johnson I’m yet to cast eyes upon him. Enigmatic might be the word? He certainly is, in some unspecified way, perplexing. What I’m driving at is that, as right wingers go, the young cove seems to me to be pretty severely lacking in several crucial respects.

He’s been at the club two years now, and while I suppose still a bit of a pup in the grand scheme of things, one would hope that by now he might have seen fit to pack a few belongings and make the leap from ‘Potential’ to ‘Established’.

In the Credit column he does have a burst of pace that becomes well a winger. On top of which, I noted Our Glorious Leader croaking away last night that Johnson is one of the more positionally-disciplined amongst the troupe.

Now this business of maintaining positional rigidity at any given point does make me sigh one of the gloomy sighs that you read about in 19th century British literature, when the heroine discovers her chap of choice has taken off with a neighbouring maid and poof goes her fortune. Positional rigidity seems to have sucked the spontaneity from football, and – if you pardon the digression – I cannot wait for the day when Pep removes himself from the scene and we can go back to a world of mazy dribbles and 40-yard shots.

However, be that as it may, young Johnson apparently is a bit of a whizz when it comes to following positional instructions to the letter, so well done him. Personally, I find that the first order of business when looking a winger up and down is to enquire whether he can deliver a decent cross or five each game; and here, Johnson comes up far too short for my liking. Every now and then he sends in a cross that beats the first man, but in general he does not fill me with much confidence.

I confess that I’ve yet to bend the ear of Dominic Solanke, but if I were privy to his mid-match reflections I suspect that if he looked up and saw young Johnson steaming off on the right, he might advance towards the penalty area and wave a hopeful hand, but inwardly let slip one of those gloomy 19th century sighs. Johnson is not a reliable source of delivery.

Of course, the unavoidable, and frankly massive, counter-argument to all of this is that Johnson scores goals. His second yesterday was an absolute peach, that delicate touch reminding me of Dele Alli in his pomp (I think specifically of the Cup goal he scored at the Emirates, when he, like Johnson yesterday, caught the ‘keeper by surprise by his shot first time as the ball dropped).

One understands Postecoglou’s praise of Johnson’s positional sense, because like or loathe the approach, he certainly gets the memo to arrive at the back-post when we attack down the left flank, and has reaped himself a rich old harvest as a result.

And, the argument continues, if Johnson is racking up the goals at a healthy lick by timing his arrival into the area as a supplementary forward, who the hell cares if all of his attempted crosses keep bouncing off opposing legs?

4. Bergvall

It’s almost taken for granted these days, but Bergvall struck me as the standout performer. Here’s a chap who takes seriously his responsibilities, and gives the impression that when he returns to Casa B., as day turns into night on matchday, he does not simply retire to bed, but pauses to reflect deeply on every facet of his performance.

Oh that our designated captain could lead with that sort of example, chasing down every loose ball as if his life depended on it.

Moreover, someone or other from Bergvall’s formative years deserves a back-slap for the instruction they bestowed, because the chap rarely messes about once he’s gained possession. None of this cheesing about taking umpteen touches and pondering the options. When he gets the ball, he uses it, and pronto. Either a pass is played quickly to a chum, or he’s off on a forward gallop and eating up the yards.

As an aside, I thought yesterday also demonstrated how effective Maddison can be when he channels his inner Bergvall and releases the ball quickly. The fellow has it in him to pick a gorgeous pass, but I suspect that every time he receives the thing he is overcome by the urge to pick precisely that, and consequently dithers far too long looking for that g.p., rather than biffing a pass simply but quickly.

To finish on Bergvall however, and, particularly in the absence of Kulusevski, if we are to have the slightest chance of progressing against Frankfurt, we’ll need him fit and bronzed.

Categories
Spurs match reports

Spurs 3-1 AZ Alkmaar: Four Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. Son

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Angeball When It Works

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Van de Ven

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

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

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

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

4. Odobert

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Categories
Spurs match reports

Spurs 2-2 Bournemouth: 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. The Utter Rot That Is Playing Out From The Back Every Blasted Time, Dash It

Forgive me if you’ve heard this before, but insistently playing out from the back at every bally opportunity is so utterly bonkers that those in the streets around AANP Towers may imminently be treated to the unbecoming sight of a one-man riot.

Honestly, someone make it stop. To peddle a few well-worn lines: the exercise requires at least three – and typically five or six – passes to be delivered, faultlessly, from locations of considerable peril, else the opposition don’t just have possession but they have possession within one pass of our goal; and the return on this riskiest of investments is generally negligible, as on most of those times we do successfully play beyond the initial press we then simply duff the ball up aimlessly around halfway and lose it anyway.

While I can accept that if executed well it can lead to our heroes suddenly tearing off over halfway in some variation of a three-on-three scenario, the aforementioned conditional “if” is doing so much legwork in that statement that it ought really to sit down in the boss’s office and negotiate a pay-rise.

Put another way I can barely remember playing-out-from-the-back resulting in a goalscoring chance for our lot; by contrast within the first five minutes today it had resulted in three goalscoring chances for the other lot. The legs weaken, and the hand automatically reaches for the beaker of bourbon-based life-giver, simply at the recollection.

Now I don’t really know how the assembled geniuses make decisions about these things, but if they gather around a laptop and pore over the stats, then ‘3 chances conceded in the first 5 minutes’ ought to make for an eye-catching, dual-axis bar chart.

Alternatively, if they simply sit back and drink in the live action unfolding before them, a few undecided voters ought to have been swayed by the sight of Vicario saving at point-blank range straight from kick-off (and then making several more last-ditch saves, whilst also scrambling to clear a miscontrolled pass from off his own line – all of which sandwiched repeated instances of those in front of him bungling their passes on the edge of our own area); while at the other end our lot mustered barely a shot on goal in the first hour of play.

The dashed thing does not work! Scrunch it into a ball, bung it into the nearest bin and let’s just restart each episode by slapping the ball forward, to a distance that at least precludes the instant return of danger.

2. Urgency (Or Lack Thereof)

Naturally, this being Tottenham, the return of Romero as much-heralded saviour of our defensive ills immediately brought about calamity.

Of course, passing out from the back was prominent in this hideous unravelling, but what also arrested the attention was the care-free attitude with which Romero kept stuffing up his lines.

There’s a sense in which I rather admire the casual approach to life. Breezing through the daily routines, without allowing any crosses and burdens to weigh upon the shoulders, is probably right up there amongst the experts’ suggestions for making it to the late eighties and beyond, alongside a brisk daily walk and plenty of olive oil. So in one respect, Romero ought to be applauded. Four-score and ten beckon.

However, while sixty or so years hence I might look back and think the fellow made a winning choice, by around 2.10pm this afternoon the mood within the AANP breast was simmering towards volcanic levels. The sight of Romero pausing to light a cigar and reminisce on the good old days every time he received possession fired up the passions of the invested onlooker.

Our Glorious Leader spoke after The Alkmaar Disaster about the need for an improved mindset, and greater aggression. Whether he simply forgot to pass on such crucial nuggets to his players or wilfully misled in his press conference, there was nary a whiff of either of the above on show.

Instead, where Romero trod, all others in lilywhite followed. And when I say ‘lilywhite’ I include yellow, because in a touching show of loyalty towards his on-field captain, Vicario gave evidence of having similarly committed to taking an age over each of his in-game contributions.

They all did, in fact. Anyone who received the ball seemed alarmingly content to suck all life out of proceedings, dwelling in possession as if the very aim of the exercise were to run down the clock in the most nondescript and incident-free manner possible. The option of bursting into life and initiating thrusts at the Bournemouth defence seemed to have been shoved a long way down the agenda.

If this is the template for the Europa parley on Thursday then that bourbon-filled beaker might need generous re-charging, because on present form we are sleep-walking to our doom.

3. Bergvall and One or Two Others

In casually tarring the collective with the Romero-coated brush I actually did a considerable disservice to one or two of the principals.

As seems to be the case every time he laces his boots and bounds into view, young Bergvall rather arrested the senses and didn’t let them go. The bounder rasped about the place with energy and intent throughout, and if Romero and chums were not observing his attitude and taking copious notes then they should blush with shame.

If one wanted to know what urgency looked like, or were curious as to what Postecoglou’s much-vaunted ‘improved mindset’ would comprise, they need only have cast they eye over Bergvall for five minutes. Every time he received the ball, he either looked up and ahead for an immediate passing option, or – more impressively – called upon the ghost of Mousa Dembele and took to wriggling betwixt a pair of Bournemouth’s finest. AANP was, again, charmed. If the lad does not start on Thursday, someone in the corridors of power will need their brain pickled.

More controversially, I actually gave the approving nod to Bissouma on a couple of occasions. Now, to be clear, he was as guilty as anyone else of treating the whole affair like a gentle afternoon stroll, designed to work off a sizeable Sunday roast without actually rushing to get anywhere.

However, where I did pause and scribble a complimentary word was when the thought struck him that it would be rather good fun to inject a meaty tackle into proceedings. If you’ve sipped at this watering-hole before, you’ll know that once the AANP juices are flowing I like nothing more than to berate our lot for their complete absence of commitment to the lost art of The Tackle. Bissouma, at least, had the decency to take useful steps in this respect.

Another who escaped the AANP Naughty List was that Odobert bean. A tricky little ferret, what? Admittedly sometimes so wrapped up in his tricks that he forgot how many feet he had and got himself into a tangle, and at one point I think I saw him literally turn inside out; but by and large one got the impression that the opposing full-back was enjoying his duties less and less because of him.

Odobert caused numerous problems, and even when not causing problems the very concept of him seemed to alarm those in opposition. Crucially, as well as the aforementioned trickery, Odobert was also in the market for a spot of end-product. His crosses might not always have struck oil, but they were at least delivered, and I came away with the notion that here was a chap who might grow into his role.

Young Spence was the other who stood out amidst the dross. Ironically enough, he is a fish about whom it was regularly whispered that the lax attitude was too prevalent, back in the days when he was persona non grata.

Clearly all rot, as he demonstrated again today. While those in other areas of the pitch seemed content to go through the motions, not caring too much whether their passes hit their mark or not (Senor Porro, I look, scathingly, at you), Spence at least seemed to understand that attacks would not build themselves, and accordingly scurried hither and thither as appropriate.

A shame, then that he was amongst the chief culprits for the Bournemouth opener (alongside, of course, Master Porro), but that aside I thought he displayed a determination not to be bested when defending that actually reminded me of Benny Assou-Ekotto, once a cherished member of this parish. I refer to the sense that, irrespective of anything else, he took it as a personal slight upon his character if someone bested him in one-on-one combat.

Vicario, to give him his dues, made the standard handful of point-blanks saves that rescued us from humiliation, and I suppose one might point to the fact that we came back from a two-goal deficit and give their hands a gleeful clap or two; but AANP was not having any of it. This was another dire showing, and the sunny optimism that I had not so long ago radiated about our Europa prospects is fizzling into a state of considerable alarm.

Categories
Spurs match reports

Man City 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. Defenders Who’d Rather Not Defend. Again.

One of those peculiar assemblies this one, the sort after which everyone oozes out struggling to make sense of what they witnessed. Head swimming like I’d just watched an arty European film in which the leading man changes into a beetle halfway through, I came away last night asking myself all sorts of pretty deep questions. Had we done well or badly? Ought I to have been disappointed? Did any of this actually matter, or was it all just pointless fluff to keep us busy until Thursday nights roll around and we shove all chips into the Europa pot?

In the first half our heroes laboured away pretty busily, without ever actually getting anywhere. So top marks for labouring I suppose. However, when the sum of it all is an about-turn on halfway and a pass south to the centre-backs, the kindly observer does don a puzzled look and politely wonder what the hell is the point of it all.

We actually had a chance to begin things in a blaze of glory, ferreting away into the City area as early as the first minute. Unfortunately, at this point both Johnson and Odobert became strangely reticent, and dallied shyly rather than striking at goal with all the fury they could muster.

And that was the last anyone was to see of our attacking routines for about an hour or so. The remainder of the first half was the usual rotten sauce, as our midfield simply melted away whenever City turned their attention to attack. Our defenders, themselves hardly the sorts to step in with authority and resolve all life’s ills, seemed somehow to take up stations everywhere except the most obvious and useful positions. Hot knives slicing through butter would have looked on enviously at City, as they advanced to zero resistance, time and time again.

It’s a familiar failing. Not the more palatable for its familiarity, but I suppose at least lacking any element of surprise or shock. “Death, taxes and a flimsy Spurs midfield”, was the chorus on the AANP lips throughout most of that first half.

And it’s a pretty regularly-banged drum around these parts, but as each cast member popped up to do their bit, I noted with a certain weariness that they all seemed so much more comfortable attacking than defending.

Here I don’t really blame them, actually. Whenever I donned the boots and got down to it, my interest was always primarily in the fun to be had when haring down on the opposition goal. There isn’t much glory to be had marking an opponent at a corner after all.

However, it’s one thing to indulge the attacking tendencies on a Powerleague pitch after work; but a pretty significant leap to be employed full-time as a Premier League defender. In the latter case, any urges towards attacking frivolity ought really to be dismissed from the mind. The priority surely ought to be to focus on one’s defensive eggs. What tricks might best be deployed to shimmy away from opponents and scuttle toward the opposition goal, is surely a matter that belongs a long way down the agenda, when one’s job title reads “Centre-Back” or something similar.

And yet, if one were to scrawl a list of ‘Strengths’ and ‘Weaknesses’ for our defenders, more often than not, under S. one would find such qualities as “Bursting forward from the back, with or without ball”.

Take young Danso, upon whom I’d been particularly eager to cast the hawk-like eye, AANP still gathering evidence on the chap at this stage. He certainly doesn’t want for enthusiasm, but seems to leap to the fore primarily when the opportunity arises to burst forward. Looking something like a young rabbit that has spent all day pent up in its hutch and suddenly had the door opened , there was little stopping the man when the ball was cleared up our left. He was off like a rocket, either carrying the ball himself or feverishly signalling to those in possession that he was advancing towards halfway and available for hire.

Porro was another, rather obvious example. In the opening minutes, when our lot dozed off and left Haaland of all people free to have a swipe from within the area (straight at Vicario), a brief once-over of the crime-scene revealed that it was Porro who had drifted off. As the City winger hit the byline, and Haaland took a sneaky step back, Porro, whose babysitting duties at that point pretty obviously included the giant Norwegian, was drawn to the ball like a moth to a flame, and ambled towards the goal-line, completely abandoning Haaland to the Fates.

It was not the first dereliction of duty on the Porro showreel, and presumably not the last. Fast forward an hour or so, however, and when our lot upped the general intensity and started banging away on the City door, there was little stopping Porro. Regularly to be seen flying up the right, barely had the door been opened to him and the butler cleared his throat to make formal announcements before Porro was barging his way in and lining up his crosses.

Marvellous crosses they were too, no denying that. Absolute pearlers, some of them, and had we eked out a goal there would not have been too many tuts of injustice about the place. So all hail Porro’s attacking onions; but that’s exactly the point. It’s not his attacking o. that we should be hailing. Nice to have, no doubt about it – but hardly the essence of his role as, lest we forget, right-back.

All rather futile moaning of course, Angeball is as Angeball does – which seems to mean that defensive work is rather optional, and the priority is for just about everyone to contribute to attacks as best they can. As my Spurs-supporting barber, Doug, put it this week, ours is a system that relies upon the goalkeeper to play out of his skin each week.

2. Vicario

On which note, Vicario played if not exactly out of his skin, then stretching his skin to its limits. There is of course far more to the ancient and noble art of goalkeeping than simply leaping about the place making saves – but that element does rather help, and Vicario was evidently well up on current events yesterday.

Not a great deal he might have done about the goal, so one waves the forgiving hand (while noting that Udogie, so prominent on the front-foot, was responsible for allowing Haaland the freedom of the 6-yard box at the crucial moment). In just about all other instances, however, when full-body extensions were required, and soft or firm hands as necessary, Vicario was very much the man with the answers.

And while one would not necessarily look back on last night as a masterclass in Passing From the Instep of the Goalkeeper, I do think one ought to offer the chap a small salute, simply for not putting a foot wrong in this discipline. Recently, young Kinsky has deputised, reasonably well I thought, but still showing an occasional tendency to shove his foot in his mouth when it came to short-passing, if you follow.

It was therefore comforting not to have to worry about any such mishaps befalling the crew members last night. Operation Pass Out From The Back is still ludicrous stuff, make no mistake, the sort of horrific fare one can only watch with heart in mouth and eyes peeping from behind the hands; but at least Vicario plays his part with the calm assurance of a man well drilled in the art.

3. Bergvall (In The First Half At Least)

The other fellow who caught the AANP eye was young Bergvall, or at least he did so until he didn’t, so to speak.

In the first half he conducted himself in a manner that suggested he did not simply consider that he belonged on this stage, but that in fact he held ownership rights to the thing, and consequently was master of all he surveyed. Every time he wandered toward the action for a spot of investigation and enquiry, he seemed to emerge from it with the ball attached to his feet, and a small legion of City sorts flailing at his fast-departing shadow.

It was terrific stuff, sullied only, as far as I could tell, by him occasionally losing his footing and finding himself unable then to prevent whatever disaster immediately befell – a City weevil gathering up the loose goods, most typically. In those moments, however, the forgiving hand was once again waved. The pre-eminent point was that Bergvall was damn near running the midfield show, at least in possession.

I thought this narrative took a bit of a swivel in the second half, at about the time our lot generally upped their game, oddly enough. What with substitutes entering from all angles and a spot of urgency sprinkled about the place, one slightly lost track of the various sub-plots. The general message, however, had already been communicated: Bergvall is as capable as the next man of puffing out his chest and directing traffic on a big occasion.

This is probably a useful juncture at which also to tip the cap at Archie Gray, who not for the first time seemed visibly to learn from mistakes and make adjustments as the game progressed. Come the final curtain however, being unsure of whether we’d done well or badly, or whether or not I ought to have been disappointed, I found it best to shrug off the whole thing as pointless fluff until the real business begins next Thursday in the Europa.

Categories
Spurs match reports

Brentford 0-2 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. Angeball

Had you been otherwise engaged yesterday, and happened casually to catch the final score without having cast eye upon the ceremony itself, you’d be forgiven to leaping to the conclusion that Angeball had re-engaged. 20-plus shots, might have been the thinking of the educated non-observer, with possession monopolised and perhaps a bravura goalkeeping performance to keep a sheen on things at the back.

Well – and this might surprise you like the dickens – as it turned out it was nothing of the sort. Precisely none of the above applied. Rather than being one of those rip-roaring binges in which we rain in shots from all angles, this was what you might politely call a more traditional away win, fashioned from hard graft and focused defending.

If it was laugh-a-minute entertainment you were after, the Tottenham Starting XI yesterday was not the place to be. Serious expressions and deep concentration were the order of the day.

Frankly, it was most peculiar stuff. Utterly marvellous, of course, and precisely the tonic, but as I observed Pedro Porro watching his attacker like a hawk, and our back-four repelling one cross after another, and various other visual anomalies, I did have to rub my eyes to make sure that it was indeed A. Postecoglou Esq. lurking on the touchline.

I should actually backtrack a few steps, because when I warbled earlier that the gag about monopolising possession did not apply, I did stretch the truth a tad. In the opening stages our lot actually had plenty of the ball. If you want the precise stats you’ll have to beetle off elsewhere, but sometimes the evidence of the eyes is enough, and as the first half sparring played out yesterday, the ‘Give’ and ‘Take’ columns seemed fairly equally matched.

The AANP take on this, by the way, is that it was down to Kulusevski. It usually is. Stick him in one of the central midfield roles and the effect is that of a switch being flicked. Things buzz into life and it’s not long before everyone around him is humming and whirring. With Bentancur and Bissouma doing a nice line in neat-and-tidy slightly south of him in midfield, Kulusevski was able to spend his afternoon collecting possession and dragging it forward, throwing in a couple of eye-catching little combos with young Mikey Moore for good measure.

With MM withdrawn at half-time and Kulusevski shoved out wide, it struck me as no major coincidence that our attacking verve dialled down a few notches in the second half, but by golly we defended well.

I don’t know about you, but I often find the commentary babble rather irritating, particularly when the chappies in question adopt a certain viewpoint as their opinion de jour and take to hammering it over and over again. It’s like having a mosquito buzz about one’s ear. Anyway, I muted the noise, as one would, but not before I had heard the assorted geniuses bang on a dozen or so times about how many crosses Brentford were tossing our way. It was as if they thought that this alone seemed to merit more than the zero goals they chalked up. There was a faint sense of moral outrage that they could bombard our area so, and still not score.

Anyway, that they failed to do so was an absolute credit to our heroes, particularly the four strung out across the back. Too often this season I have bemoaned one or other of our defensive unit switching off and failing to register some opposition sort tiptoeing into position just behind them; but yesterday there were no such failings.

As mentioned above, and to my continued surprise, Pedro Porro was fully signed up to the defensive drill, winning all manner of aerial challenges at the back-post, an area so frequently open for business for opposing forwards who fancy sauntering by for a goal bonus, that Porro ought really to have begun charging for the privilege.

You will hardly be shocked to know that the AANP spirits sank to irretrievable depths pre-kick-off, upon learning that VDV was nowhere to be seen and instead Ben Davies would be in the hot-seat at the back. Credit where due however, and gallons of the stuff, because Davies, alongside young Gray, was note-perfect all afternoon.

I suppose the back-four, Kinsky and one or two others might spontaneously have taken it upon themselves to pool resources and trot out our finest, most organised defensive performance of the season; but I’m rather inclined to think that The Brains Trust may have played a part in there too. I wouldn’t be surprised to find that there were some deep-rooted tactical approach underpinning things.

They certainly knew their onions when it came to batting away crosses, but on the floor too the cupboard seemed always to be stocked with sufficient pairs of legs to prevent Brentford having too many clear shots on goal. Nor was it solely the back-four, as all in natty light blue seemed pretty committed to the cause, the usual devil-may-care approach to ball retention and defensive responsibilities replaced by a commitment to the basics that I would scarcely have believed possible from the current vintage.

More of the same on Thursday night would be just the ticket, don’t you think?

2. Our Second Goal

As well as all the good and honest blood, sweat and blocked shots in defence, another feature that came to the fore yesterday, and that has hardly been a historical trademark of Angeball, was the game management displayed by our heroes in the latter stages.

Specifically I refer to a couple of mightily impressive passages of play in the last ten or so minutes, during which our heroes seemed driven by the impulse simply to keep hold of possession, without slapping too much custard on the whole business of bombing forward towards the opposition goal.

Just to drive home my point, the counter-example of this would be if our lot, having been starved of possession and forced to defend for much of the second half, upon finally winning possession immediately raced up the pitch as fast as their little legs could carry them, in a frenzied dash to score as quickly as possible.

There was not too much of that in evidence yesterday, however. It did happen from time to time of course – only human, after all – but, eye-catchingly, our lot also took the opportunity to knock the ball about amongst themselves. Upon reaching the middle third, rather than trying to force killer passes through gaps that just didn’t exist, they were just as likely to pivot and play short, square pass.

‘And why the devil not?’ I found myself murmuring, after something of a double-take, followed by a moment’s deep consideration. ‘We are, after all,’ continued the line of thought, ‘ahead on the scoreboard, so the priority is as much to retain possession as to go sniffing out another goal’.

Bentancur was to the fore in this respect. He seemed to see the value in pirouetting past opposing midfield legs in any direction, as happy to dance his way backwards as to scamper his way frontwards.

Another well kitted out by nature for this sort of lark was young Bergvall. I mentioned how his half-time arrival meant the shoving-to-the-right of Kulusevski, which robbed us of much of our attacking thrust. However, where we benefited from the change, as well as in the defensive energy of Bergvall, was in his cool head in possession. Seeing him tootle over halfway, note that all around him – both friend and foe – seemed rather drained of energy, and accordingly put his foot on the ball and drink in the surroundings for a while made me think that here was a lad wise beyond his years.

Ironically enough, perhaps the best example of the game management on display ultimately resulted in our lot applying boot to neck and actually creating a goal. The one or two minutes prior to the ball hitting the net, however, involved a lengthy spell of keep-ball at its finest. My spies tell me that no fewer than 16 uninterrupted passes were booked in during this spell, involving every outfield player bar Spence. Watch it back in real time and you may well emit a satisfied purr or two.

As mentioned, its critical feature seemed to be the decided absence of hurry to force a route to goal. In its early stages, finding all such routes closed off, our heroes simply pivoted and sought out sunnier climes, waving aside the option of a further goal, in favour of simply hanging on to the merchandise a little while longer.

And the rummy thing is, having prioritised possession over everything else, after a while gaps in the Brentford defence simply started to appear anyway, organically, if you will. Bentancur chose wisely his moment to play a more aggressive pass, and while Sonny’s best days may be behind him, he still had enough going on upstairs to spot a goal-making-pass-into-the-path-of-an-attacking-midfield-burst when he saw one. In this age of social media and attention-seeking I suspect that goal and its 90-second, 16-pass genesis won’t attract too much outside noise, but at AANP Towers we’re playing it on a loop.

3. Spence

I complimented both Sonny and Bentancur for their roles in the goal, and Sarr obviously merits his post-match glass of something celebratory for bobbing from the halfway line to the six-yard box in order to apply the critical touch.

From my vantage point, however, much of the critical spadework was done by Djed Spence. As mentioned above, he was the only shrimp out there who didn’t apply boot to ball during the entirety of the episode, but I suppose as Barry Davies might put it, Sonny used him by not using him.

By which I mean that  when Son was weighing up his options having received the ball, Spence handily went off on the gallop up the left wing. It was a sprint of sufficient pace to attract the eye of the Brentford right-back, who understandably enough thought he had better tick that particular box, and accordingly retreated alongside Spence – crucially, in a rather wide area. This defensive adjustment meant that the gap in front of Sarr gave a considerable yawn. While it is debatable whether one might have driven a bus through it, one could certainly fit within its confines a sprinting Sarr.

Officially, therefore, the assist goes down as Sonny’s, but the small-print really ought to capture the contribution of young Spence.

This particular input occurred only a couple of minutes after Spence had also right-place-right-timed his way to a goal-line clearance, and as such neatly topped off what was, all round, a particularly impressive performance.

Moreover, while it would be understandable if it slipped from the memory, way back in the first half Spence was also proving a pretty key cog in the attacking mechanism. Within these environs he could be spotted not just lopping forward but drifting infield too, to pretty good effect. One would have to ask those on the high pay-grades whose bright idea that was, but it was certainly effective, providing a most useful additional outlet.

However, it was his defensive chops that really caught the eye. As he did a few weeks back with Mo Salah, so yesterday Spence kept his beady eye on the effervescent Mbeumo throughout. I recall one first half moment in which Mbuemo wriggled free, but that aside Spence seemed more or less to have his number, which takes some doing.

As mentioned above, the entire back-four brought their A-game, but Spence in particular ticked all his relevant boxes.

Categories
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?

Categories
Spurs match reports

Hoffenheim 2-3 Spurs: Five Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. A Disclaimer: The Shonky Middle Period

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Maddison

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Brandon Austin

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

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

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

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

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

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

4. Son

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Categories
Spurs match reports

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.