1. Ballon D’OR
Only one place to start, what? In honour of Savio changing his name and promptly bagging himself the Ballon d’Or, AANP ought probably to change his name to AA, out of respect.
Of course, one must insert the usual dreary caveats about the quality of the opposition and all that guff, but nevertheless this was probably the best cameo I’ve seen since Tom Cruise in Tropic Thunder. Arriving circa minute 70 to decent fanfare, I’d have settled for Savio simply not getting injured. What we were treated to instead was a couple of goals of the mazy-slaloming-dribble variety.
I’m fully aware that the second goal is officially the property of Davies, B. but if you think I’m about to let a minor detail let factual evidence get in the way of a damn fine narrative you’ve got another think coming. Produce a moment like that every week or two and Savio will be the toast of the town.
The rather turgid first half itself formed part of the narrative, creating the useful context of precisely why we need a character like Savio in the ranks, capable of whistling some magic out of nowhere and turning three or four opponents inside out before landing them on the deck.
Mikey Moore helpfully gave us all a sense of precisely what we need on nights like this, when it’s all plot and no action, by taking matters into his own hands and slicing through the Charlton defence. Savio, however, raised the level by another notch or two.
As a result I’m actually rather looking forward to whatever Saturday brings, which was not a phrase I’ve muttered too often since the Brentford debacle.
2. The All Plot, No Action First Half
The human psyche is a peculiar old kettle of fish. Finish 5-1, and irrespective of the rather bland first half slop, the natives all skip out of the stadium relatively content.
But that first half was not quite the rip-roaring response to the weekend for which we all hoped. Plenty of the ball, which I suppose was the bare minimum, but those in attendance seemed content that possession and possession alone was sufficient. As a result, nary an attacking pass was played, and despite the welcome presence of a great, hulking Solanke prowling the penalty area, not one cross was sent his way.
Instead we were treated to the sight of Moore and Gray tying themselves in knots out on the right flank, obsessed with short passes between themselves rather than the lobbing of anything penetrative into the area; while Tel – presumably now on borrowed time with the arrivals of our Ballon d’Or winner and Marmoush to contend with – peddled his usual routine of scuttling busily in what might be termed ‘build-up’ without ever exploring the concept of ‘end-product’.
On the plus side, Bentancur absolutely purred away in the centre, and M. Fernandes appeared to be getting the hang of things, while Solanke took his goal with generous helpings of aplomb.
Less pleasingly, Bergvall still seems convinced that the game is too easy for him, even though evidence still suggests plenty to the contrary; and the disconnect between life outside the area and life inside the area remained a little too prominent.
Mercifully, however, we pootled around in the second half with a degree of control that is pretty unusual for our lot. Additional goals helped, there were welcome returns for various of the walking wounded and of course our new man did his thing. All of which meant that by the time the final whistle tootled I was able to quote a spot of Sarah Connor:
“The unknown future rolls toward us. I face it, for the first time, with a sense of hope.”