Tag: Thomas Frank

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Spurs match reports

Everton 0-3 Spurs: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. The Formation

If you had caught a glimpse of AANP during the opening exchanges of this one,  you’d have spotted him viewing proceedings with eyes narrowed and brow furrowed; and if on the basis of the narrowed e. and furrowed b. you’d inferred that he was having a dickens of a time trying to work out the formation adopted by our heroes, you’d have been bang on the money. Which, ironically enough, is precisely what AANP was not bang on when trying to decipher that set-up.

The first thought that floated between the AANP ears was that Our Glorious Leader had gone with two right wingers at the same time. Which, if true, would have been Thomas Frank’s prerogative, of course. He’s the shot-caller, after all. If he wanted to go down the Not-Typically-Done route then he had every right. As long as it works, went the AANP take, then do your damnedest.

But while I was lustily supporting this little tactical quirk, it dawned on me that whatever our formation was, it wasn’t one featuring two right wingers. The next notion to spring to mind was wing-backs, but this did not seem quite right either. Spence, perhaps, was adopting wing-back-like poses on the left; but out on the right, Johnson didn’t really appear to be signing up to the “back” part of the wing-back arrangement.

And what, I asked myself, was Kudus? Or perhaps more pertinently, where was Kudus? Because for what I assumed was a Number 10 sort of role, he seemed to be drifting out to the right an awful lot.

Anyway, the main takeaway of all this was that it’s a good job I’m not a manager, as I’d have spent most of that first half simply goggling at the lilywhite formation rather than doing anything useful.

With the dust settled, I guess it was a 3-2-4-1 sort of get-up, in possession at least – with Spence and Johnson up the flanks, and Simons and Kudus inside them. Frankly, the label matters little at this point, for the gist is that it ought to have provided a few more passing options whenever we advanced up the pitch, as well as the standard defensive stability of the Palhinha-Bentancur double-act.

I suggest that it “ought” to have provided more passing options going forward, because in practice the quick passing routines didn’t really register. Not that it mattered too much today, given that our set-piece sequences were immaculately choreographed, and all defensive parts in fine working order at the other end. But I nevertheless noted, with a sigh that was two parts patience and one part disappointment, that despite a Spence-Simons-Kudus-Johnson line supporting Kolo Muani, we remained a little light on the old whizz-bang when trundling forward.

2. Set-Pieces

One can’t have it all, however, and to criticise in the slightest a 3-0 away win at a mighty imposing estate would be pretty off. With two goals nodded in from set-pieces this had the Frank fingerprints all over it.

I view set-pieces much as I view technology, in that it ought to supplement rather than replace the honest sweat and endeavour of the good souls involved, and our heroes used it marvellously today, supplementing things like billy-o.

There was the delivery, for a start. The Porro corner for our second contained a level of spite that ought really not to be allowed before the watershed. It absolutely fizzed into the area, to such an extent that had it not been converted one would really have had no option but to launch an independent enquiry to understand why not. Mercifully, Van de Ven had the good sense to give the ‘keeper a knowing shove and then angle his head appropriately, but while it was the Dutchman who drank in the plaudits, the AANP glass was raised to Porro.

While the delivery for the opening goal (courtesy of Kudus) did not necessarily carry quite the same level of menace, it being swung a tad more gently towards the far post for Bentancur, I did nevertheless applaud its accuracy. A yard higher or lower and the whole operation would have crumbled in its infancy. Kudus, to his credit, dropped the thing at the designated coordinates, and at the designated time and – critically – at the designated height.

Interestingly, although that aforementioned D.H. was, specifically, head height, Bentancur took it upon himself to improvise a little. And there was no harm in that at all. If a little innovation was good enough for Thomas Frank when doodling his formations, then it was good enough for Bentancur when arriving at the back-post. One might well have spotted Bentancur mouthing the words, as he shimmered towards the back post, “Just because it’s called ‘Head height’ does not preclude me from using my shoulder, what?”

The moment of improv. worked swimmingly, and VDV’s head-angling got its first taste of action. And let’s face it, if the t’s are crossed and i’s dotted on set-pieces as meticulously as that, then there is a little less pressure on the front five to string together too many slick passes.  

3. Danso

As mentioned, VDV knew a good thing from approximately two yards out when he saw one, and full credit to him, but with Romero again missing – that innocuous pre-match ‘knock’ of last week proving a dashed sight more sinister than we had initially been led to believe – I once again adjusted the monocle and subjected young Master Danso to feverish scrutiny throughout.

And once again – for the third time in a week, in fact – the fellow emerged with a laudable report card. One doesn’t have to search too hard to find a fish of lilywhite persuasion who will fold their arms, tilt their head and remark sadly that the absence of Romero deprives us of some incisive passing from the back, the undertone being that we might as well all pack up and go home in the absence of such line-breaking gold. AANP, however, is a more traditional sort of egg, brought up to believe that a defender’s purpose in life is to defend, and it was with this anthem on my lips that I meted out the approving nod and slapped the approving thigh each time Danso unveiled another of the defensive basics.

I think I heard within the post-match burble that Danso rattled off more clearances than anyone else in the vicinity, and while I couldn’t put a hand on the Bible and swear to it, I certainly would not be surprised. He seemed fully committed throughout to the basic notion that Ball Near Goal was Bad, and Ball Away From Goal was Good – and frankly it was an attitude that I could get on board with.

He might not necessarily be the sort of fish we want manning the helm when Europe’s elite come to town, but for an hour and a half in the pouring rain in Everton, he put the fevered mind at ease.

4. Vicario

A congratulatory word also for our resident back-stop, who had seemingly been convinced that the final whistle at Monaco still had not sounded, and consequently just carried on where he left off there.

Two second half saves in particular were of the absolute highest order. Admittedly I say that from a position of general ignorance when it comes to this goalkeeping lark, but to stick out a paw from point-blank range when the opposition chappie is pulling off an overhead kick seemed to take some doing; while the save from a shot that took two deflections really did have me purring in admiration. Reflexes, one was inclined to murmur, maketh the top-notch save.  

My views on Vicario at corners remain a little more mixed – for every successful punch to the edge of the area there seemed also to be one rather sorry attempt to propel himself forward that was aborted midway through when he ran into a jungle of bodies. However, this was a day to salute, again, the fellow’s fine shot-stopping, and those two second half saves were essentially worth goals.

A second clean sheet, on the road, within three days, is not to be sniffed at, and certainly provides a useful base upon which to build a hale and hearty future; concerns about creativity can wait for another day.

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Spurs match reports

Monaco 0-0 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. Not The Finest Hour of Our Glorious Leader

I don’t know if you’re one of those sorts who goes in for karmic retribution – which I believe is the concept that if rotten luck befalls you then it’s just a spot of cosmic justice being meted out that you jolly well deserved in the first place – but with my eyes glazing over and my will to leave departing my soul last night, I did wonder what the hell I’d done, in this life or a previous one, to deserve the dreadful dirge on offer.

This apparently was our first nil-nil in well over 100 games, since that wretched night when our heroes collectively gave up against AC Milan, so it took some doing. In fact, I thought that nil-nil flattered us. Just plain ‘nil’ on its own would have summed up this garbage just as well.

Our Glorious Leader, as ever, was his usual, relentlessly sunny self when it came to the post-match waffle. He’s a likeable sort of egg – not that that is either here nor there – and after just 12 games one still ought to just wave him along and let him get on with things. Moreover, we remain without a couple of key personnel, and it’s on nights like this that the absence stings particularly, of Solanke up top to hold up the ball and drag his chums up the pitch, or Romero at the back to get the ball rolling from the back, as it were.

All that said, however, some of his selections do verge on the squiffy. I suppose he would justify Gray at left-back on the grounds that he’s a versatile young thing, and Spence needed a rest; but this insistence on both Bentancur and Palhinha sitting deep as a non-committal twosome is a tad wearying.

Either way, we failed to land a glove upon a Monaco defence that had yet to keep a clean sheet this season, and that relies upon Eric Dier of all people to hold the back-line together. Another of the likeable contingent, no doubt, but when Dier’s the big defensive absence one ought to lick the lips and rub the hands at the prospect.

Anyway, we somehow snuck out with a clean sheet and a point, and this slightly misleading statistical entry was in keeping with events so far this season, in which we haven’t been particularly good at any point, but continue to rack up reasonable-looking takeaways.

2. Vicario

No doubt about the standout performer last night, Vicario earning the full monthly envelope in the space of one 90-minute display. A timely innings it was too, as the chap has started to attract some pointed looks and uncensored critique in recent weeks.

His early weeks of this season have seen him pat a few too many efforts back into the path of trouble; and then on Sunday he provided a bit more ammunition for the naysayers, leading with his wrong hand for the Rogers goal, and then not bothering to go with either hand for the Buendia goal but instead giving it his best Lloris impression and watching the ball fly past him.

Anyway, last night he decided that he would deign to move in the direction of incoming shots after all, and evidently bitten by the bug couldn’t stop doing it once he’d started. Nine saves in total, apparently, and while I suppose one or two might have been of the gentler variety, I greeted numerous of them with that mixture of relief and pleasant surprise that indicates that these were not all run-of-the-mill numbers, but involved a fair amount of nifty reflex and full-body extension.

These days goalkeepers seem to be judged by just about every metric except their ability to save incoming shots, so there was a certain satisfaction in brushing away thoughts about his distribution and conduct at corners and so forth, and simply applauding the fellow for diving hither and thither to keep the ball out.

3. Slip Pickings Elsewhere On The Pitch

At this point in proceedings I generally like to pour myself an additional splash of the old nectar, think back to some of the other highlights and prattle on a bit about whichever members of the troop caught the eye. A certain impediment hoves into view this time, however, namely that the entire collective was in ghastly form last night.

I suppose in the first half one could engineer a spot of positivity. Odobert, for example, looked as threatening as he has done for us since arriving, at least until it came to adding a finishing touch to the build-up.

That left side of attack remains an elusive sort of spot, with gumboils like Johnson and Simons going through the motions but giving the distinct impression that whatever the question, they are not the answer. Odobert still ought to have the words “Work In Progress” stamped in sizeable red font across his frame, but in the first half at least he looked promising.

Also in the first half, Archie Gray initially seemed to be setting himself up for an eye-catching night’s work. He was pretty diligent when it came to popping up conveniently in the background to politely clear his throat and bail out a chum in trouble; and he put his heart and soul into a number of supporting dashes up the left flank, each of which were rather cruelly ignored by Odobert but which nevertheless served some purpose in creating space.

However, as and when he got down to the actual meaty business of applying boot to ball, his evening slightly fell apart, as he started dishing out errant passes. He was no worse than anyone else clad in dreamy black, but having looked the part in those early moments I cast him some hurt looks thereafter, like those of a jilted ex, upon seeing him fail to live up to the billing.

Early days, I suppose, both in the Champions League and more broadly, but while one imagines that the produce will improve in quality in the long-term, as all concerned learn each others’ names and begin to feel more comfortable in the Tottenham garb, in the short-term I do tense up somewhat and wonder where the hell any improvement will come from by the weekend.

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Spurs match reports

Bodo-Glimt 2-2 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. General Guff About “Character”

Now you can call me a massively ungrateful wretch who should be thankful for what he’s got – and you wouldn’t be the first – but when I hear the Big Cheese, and various other luminaries clad in official Team Hotspur training gear, banging on about the “character” shown last night, I do rather get the urge to pickle my own head.

The nub of my grievance is that we should not have to keep needing late, late rallies in order to salvage a point against teams that are decent but hardly world-beating. And a delicate nuance attached to that same nub is that banging on about character seems a little too conveniently to sweep aside the glaring issue de jour, with an innocent whistle and the hope that everyone forgets it ever happened at all.

So while I grudgingly offer a brief round of applause – one of those perfunctory numbers, utterly devoid of sincerity – it’s only a precursor to a spot of prime finger-jabbing.

The real issue I took back to AANP Towers last night is that we should not be two bally goals down to Bodo-Glimt in the first place, in any circumstance. Nor for that matter should we be two down to Brighton or trailing to Wolves at home in added time. Never mind that we manage to slink our way out of these scrapes – why the devil are we in them in the first place?

However, if there is one thing said about AANP it is that he is an absolute model of fairness, calm and sunny optimism, and as such I can rein in the vitriol for 20 seconds or so, and give our lot their dues. And in this spirit of acceptance I acknowledge that a Champions League draw is better than a Champions League defeat, and that many a previous vintage has simply accepted their fate with a resigned shrug when faced with a 2-0 deficit away from home. So well done Spurs, for drawing with a team worth £50m.

2. A Spot of Porro-Bashing

The niceties concluded, we can get down to brass tacks, and interrogate why our heroes were second best to that mob, almost throughout.

Consistently failing, to a man, to string 10-yard passes together was a pretty core element here; and out of possession, while there seemed a pretty firm understanding that packing seven or eight across our own area would help prevent unwanted intrusion, the tendency of our midfield simply to melt away rather played into Bodo’s hands.

This is one of those occasions on which I could jab a finger at just about any of the eleven and launch into a bit of a rant, so one ought not to read too much into the choice of Senor Porro for the initial blast of both barrels. Nevertheless, the thought does spring to mind, time and again, that for a defender he’s really not so hot in the defending department.

The chap’s tendency to dangle the most ineffective leg whenever an opponent attempts a cross has been well documented on these very pages previously. Last night he took that same principle of waggling a limb without the slightest conviction, and applied it when the opposition nib was lining up a shot.

I struggle to remember a time when Porro actually did block a shot. I certainly remember countless moments when he has dropped to one knee to create that cricket-style long-barrier approach. He does that every game, pretty regularly, and it looks terrifically neat and tidy, quite the feat of construction and aesthetics. Unfortunately, it’s useless.

The Bodo fellow wandered into the area for yesterday’s second goal, so Porro instinctively dropped to his knee, in response to which the Bodo f. promptly danced around him – as one would when presented with an inanimate and entirely superfluous object in one’s path – and lashed the thing in.

And this, lest we forget, followed the opener, in which Porro when faced with one attacker in possession plus his overlapping chum, wandered the way of the overlapping sort, neglecting to communicate any of this to the assisting Johnson, with the result that the attacker in possession did not even have to dip into his bag of tricks in order to find room for the shot. He simply wandered straight into the space vacated by Porro and BJ and let fly. The AANP mood darkened.

Porro, of course, played a critical role in our comeback, his absolutely gorgeous delivery presenting on a plate the goal for Micky van de Ven. A particular word of approbation to PP for striking the ball so sweetly when it had been rolled backwards to him, and as such would have been a strong contender for scooping upwards and off into the gods.

So no real complaints about the fellow’s attacking onions. But to repeat the intro line – he appears to be a defender who cannot defend, and as such is at least one of the causes of our lot needing to resort to “character” to do that skin-of-the-teeth routine at the death.

3. Danso. And Spence. And All The Rest If I Had Time.

AANP reserved a special eye or two for young Herr Danso for this one, this being his first start of the season and whatnot. While there has generally been a whiff of optimism accompanying the reports of my Spurs-supporting chums when opining on the fellow since his arrival last season, I’ve been a bit less convinced to date, still waiting for his big signature tune, if you know what I mean.

And given the platform yesterday to stride out and blow us all away, I thought he spent his 90 minutes resembling a balloon from which air was slowly escaping throughout. His actual defending was fairly unremarkable – not quite Porro-esque levels of negligence, but neither did he come across as some heaving colossus towards whom opponents took one look and instinctively back off a yard or two to ask their commander if there were any alternative routes to goal. On spying Danso, one got the impression that the Bodo lot turned to one another and murmured “Sure, I’ll have a crack at this one.”

But what really irked the AANP soul was the sight of Danso on the front-foot, seemingly convinced that his inner Beckenbauer was ripe and ready for channelling. We all flung up our hands and yelled a choice curse or two at Bentancur for his runaway-plough routine that conceded the penalty, but Bodo had possession in the first place because Danso had gone galloping up the pitch, only to dwell too long and be robbed inside halfway.

This was an act he repeated a few times, either getting caught in possession or launching a flurry of the most aimless forward passes conceivable, the sort that rather apologetically slow down near the opposition corner flag, leaving even the opposition a little irritated at having to fetch the thing from no man’s land.

It was a tough gig for Danso, I suppose, being dropped into the frontline without any meaningful football behind him and on a plastic pitch and whatnot – but the above errors were nevertheless avoidable fare. We may have two pretty high calibre centre-backs in situ, but the first reserve does seem to represent a dip in quality. Covetous glances continue to be glanced in the direction of Selhurst Park.

And as mentioned, there are plenty others who deserve a fair amount of opprobrium for last night’s bilge. Spence might be an excellent one-on-one defender, and doubtless boasts a few tricks when on the forward march, but yesterday he was regularly to be spotted miles out of position while all around him retreated at breakneck speed back into position (or rather he was not spotted – if you get my drift).

On top of which, that lackadaisical air of his, which seems to lurk never too far from the surface, was on show again for the Bodo second, for which he rather carelessly miscontrolled on the corner of his own area to gift possession their way.

It was that sort of night, errant behaviour on show from those in natty black shirts everywhere one looked. Late comebacks are all well and good, but midfield creativity and general sharpness have been sorely lacking from our mob in recent games, and it’s one Our Glorious Leader will need to un-muddle pronto.

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Spurs 1-1 Wolves: Three Tottenham Talking Points

(With apologies for recent radio silence – a lot going on at AANP Towers)

1. Misdirected First Half Optimism, Featuring Bergvall and Kudus

Hindsight, as a rather wise old egg once put it, is 20-20, so I suppose I look a bit of a chump admitting it now, but back in the first half of this binge there were one or two moments when I nestled in my seat rather smugly, a look of satisfaction etched across the map, as if to say “I’m rather enjoying watching our lot go at it.”

Back in that halcyon age, while it would be a stretch to say we were running riot and biffing the other lot from all angles with gay abandon, once settled in (i.e. after about a quarter of an hour or so), I did get the impression that the key question de jour was “When?” rather than “If?” if you get my gist.

And this sunny rationale was based largely upon the plans and deeds of Messrs Bergvall and Kudus, both of whom, in their own unique ways, seemed to be having rather a time of things. Indeed, for the disallowed goal they even crossed the streams, so to speak, interacting and exchanging pro tips on how to go about carving up an opposition back-line to pretty impressive effect.

Bergvall was very much on brand in that first half. If there were any beavering to be done, in an attacking sense in particular, he was generally at the front of the queue, both in and out of possession. Busily scurrying about the place, he had the air of a young man who looked ahead of him and saw nothing but opportunity. The chap has fast become an essential cog in the machine.

Kudus, of course, is a pretty different beast, being the robust sort of chappie who puts a bit more emphasis on meaty brawn and upper-body strength than young Bergvall. In his own way though, he’s equally effective, and having racked up that early header that was pushed onto the bar, as well as the disallowed goal, I was inclined to murmur a prognostication that when we did eventually take the lead, the fingerprints of Kudus would be all over the critical item.

And had that first half never ended, I’m still inclined to think that Kudus and Bergvall between them would have rustled up a goal or two from somewhere, and we’d have all swanned off down the High Road pipped to the gills with the night’s work.

2. The Oddly Lacklustre Second Half

Alas, all such sunny optimism rather went up in smoke as soon as the second half started, our lot becoming oddly reticent about the evening’s activities.

With the stunning insight that marks out AANP as a fan rather than a coach, I struggle to put my finger on what exactly went wrong, but the symptoms were fairly clearly demarked. Every loose ball seemed to be won by Wolves, and when they took possession of the thing they seemed oddly to have an extra man on the field, everywhere one looked. Had this happened against PSG back in August, one might have waved the forgiving hand; but to find ourselves comprehensively bested in one duel after another against the mob that sit bottom of the pile, and boasting a record of five defeats from five, was bothersome to say the very least. Had

It was not so much that there was a lack of effort from our heroes. They seemed sufficiently motivated. They just ended up being second-best in almost every matter that required on-pitch thrashing out – as was particularly neatly encapsulated by the Wolves goal.

I suppose one or two of our number can probably be excused – Palhinha seems convinced that the point of a football match is to flatten as many opponents as possible; and Romero’s adoption of the captain’s armband continues to translate into him charging about the pitch like a man possessed.

But seeing the more featherweight sorts – Tel, Odobert et al – hare towards the ball only to reach it a moment too late, or find themselves bouncing off a lusty opponent, left me harumphing discontentedly in my seat, and occasionally flinging a frustrated arm into the air, like nobody’s business.

Coming as this did, not too long after the dreadful, toothless production against Bournemouth, this served as another sharp poke in the Thomas Frank ribs, to urge him to find ongoing ways to get the best out of his charges.

3. Vicario’s Role in the Goal (With A Wary Eye on Spence)

Now AANP can hardly claim to have canvassed opinion of all sixty-odd thousand in the shiny bowl last night, much less the watching millions drinking it all in from their sofas, but nevertheless a murmur of discontent did reach my ears regarding the conduct of our resident last-line-of-defence, in particular regarding his handling of the goal we conceded.

The charge, as I understand, is that in saving the initial header directed towards him he might have invested in a longer-term solution than simply shoving it straight into a bundle of waiting limbs to his right, the result of which action was a ricochet that fell kindly to the Wolves shyster S. Bueno.

Well. Here I really do I have to draw myself up to my full height and clear my throat with a bit of meaning. Now I’ve historically been as happy as the next man to lay it on a bit thick towards Vicario at the appropriate moment – a flap at a corner, or knuckle-headed distribution, or whatever – but in this instance I stand shoulder to shoulder with the chap. As far as I could make out, Vicario pretty much ticked the essential boxes with that save.

In the first place, he got there. Full stretch, and levering himself off the ground, it was one I suppose you’d expect an international goalkeeper to pull off, but nevertheless, it required a spot of the basic mechanics, and he did that well enough – particularly given that the principal protagonist, Bueno S, was swinging a boot at the ball from a yard away.

Having reached the ball, where Vicario seems to have attracted opprobrium was in then shovelling it to his right, and into the legs of Palhinha. Here again, however, I side with the case for the defence. Vicario’s second objective, having already stopped the ball from hitting the net, would have been to push it away from the centre of the goal – and this he did. That there was an onrushing Wolves sort arriving at a rate of knots stage right was slightly rotten luck, and an element that ought to have been the responsibility of one of the outfield mob, rather than Vicario. (Although I repeat, the ball actually bounced of Palhinha rather than the incoming Wolve).

Either way, I thought Vicario did all that could reasonably have been expected of him in that particular chapter. If I were to point an accusing finger and yell a spot of invective, it would be directed at young Djed Spence. This might seem a tad leftfield to the casual bystander, but look again, closely, at the details, and you’ll note that as the corner was initially delivered, Spence’s defensive responsibility consisted of chaperoning the Wolves number 4 – one Santiago Bueno.

Spence, however, seemed to shrug off this responsibility as soon as the corner was taken, immediately losing sight of his quarry and instead becoming distracted by the prospect of a header. He lost both the header and Bueno, allowing the latter to swing an initial boot at the ball as Vicario made his save, and then to poke in the rebound as it fell neatly into his path.

This level of defending drives me absolutely mad. It should not be so difficult to keep tabs on an opponent at a corner. One understands if a run is blocked off or a spot of wrestling ensues – but none of the above applied to Spence in this instance. He simply forgot his raison d’etre, and let Bueno have the freedom of the 6-yard box, forsooth.

Not that the two dropped points were the sole responsibility of Spence, of course, but those scowling and muttering about Vicario’s antics might adjust their aim.

A draw is, of course, vastly preferable to a defeat, but AANP is in no doubt that these are two dropped points that we’ll look back upon with regret come May. I’m not entirely sure that Palhinha read the mood in the camp either, whipping off his shirt and flying off in a frenzy after an equaliser against Wolves of all teams, when the drill was surely to return to stations and search for a winner, but I suppose for now we should simply be grateful for what we salvaged.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 3-0 Burnley: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. The Exuberance of Youth

Young people, eh? A pretty unfathomable species at the best of times, the evidence of Saturday also did much to confirm that they are blessed with absolutely boundless energy.

Being a pessimistic sort when it comes to all matters lilywhite, I’d have pursed a brooding lip or two if our newest Glorious Leader had run by me pre-match his plan to stock our line-up to the gills with youthful sorts. A midfield of Sarr, Gray and Bergvall struck me as a little too green behind the ears.

Not for the first time already in his nascent reign however, Herre Frank proved himself a dashed sight more knowledgeable about these things than AANP, for the Sarr-Gray-Bergvall arrangement proved most effective, and chief amongst its attributes was a pretty eye-watering indefatigability amongst the protagonists.

One could probably sum up their contributions by noting that if the final whistle had not sounded around 5pm on Saturday they’d probably still be scampering about the pitch now.

Sarr had spent much of pre-season getting to know the sights and sounds of the upper end of the pitch, having been slightly curiously deployed as a Number 10; but on Saturday it was the more familiar environs of the middle third, and a general instruction to hover busily on the lookout for any loose balls carelessly deposited about the place.

He proved something of a master of the art. There was a long-ish period before half-time when our overall play stagnated somewhat, as we tried and failed repeatedly to pass from the back over halfway, but that aside, and when we were a little mor front-footed, Sarr was exactly the right man for the role of tidying up behind his more illustrious colleagues.

As an added bonus, he also delivered a doozy of a pass for our third.  AANP does love a perfectly-weighted pass inside a full-back, and Sarr’s offering on Saturday was one I’ll happily replay in the mind’s eye in the coming weeks.

As for Gray, it would be no dramatic stretch to suggest that this was his finest afternoon in central midfield in our colours. Now the caveat here is sizeable, for there is barely any competition in the field. Gray’s previous excursions in central midfield, at least in our colours, have been fairly calamitous, the sort of rot from which rabbits in headlights could learn a few things.

On Saturday, however, he seemed vastly more at ease. He offered positional discipline, if you don’t mind a spot of technical jargon, holding his positionally centrally and at the base of midfield and popping up to offer a spot of disagreement whenever Burnley looked to push forward, as well as providing an option for whichever of our lot were in possession. The second coming of Dave Mackay he might not quite have been, but he played his part.

And further forward, seemingly with a bit of licence to go haring off in whichever direction he happened to be facing, was Bergvall. The curious young egg seemed to have adopted that mindset that if the ball was in play he might as well tear off after it, followed by the sub-heading that if he then happened to get hold of the thing he would simply continue scuttling about, bringing the ball with him.

Within 20 seconds of kick-off he had popped up in the 6-yard box to force a save from the Burnley goalkeeper, and one imagines that the Burnley mob in general would have been sick of the sight of him by the time the credits rolled.

For my part, having soaked in an hour and a half of the midfield three racing around like small children on a diet of fizzy drinks and sweets, I rather fancied a quiet sit-down in a darkened room, with just a bourbon for company. Simply watching the young people was tiring enough for me. Marvellous work though.

An honourable mention too for young Spence. At 25 he is a few years the senior of the midfield three, but I’ll bung him into the same bracket, primarily on the grounds that he too was a bundle of energy throughout.

Technically, I suppose as this was a 4-2-3-1 sort of setup, one might have labelled Spence as an orthodox right-back, but he seemed to treat any such suggestion with a care-free shrug, and simply cracked right on with that business of scooting off into the opposition penalty area whenever the situation demanded, looking every inch a wing-back.

2. Richarlison

I’m not quite sure at what point isolated statistical occurrences become a trend, but it’s now two pretty dashing Richarlison performances in a row, and the regulars are starting to whisper excitedly.

After peddling some rousing fare in midweek against the other champions of Europe, Richarlison’s newest trick on Saturday was to dispense with any attempts to control the ball, and instead simply leather the thing first time. It was a stroke of genius. Seasoned Richarlison-watchers will be well aware that while hardly lacking willing, he can occasionally be stymied in his performances when it comes to some of the operational basics – such as being able to control the football.

However, at the weekend, he hit upon the idea of skipping from step 1 to step 3, as it were, and dispensing with the troublesome middle part. When Kudus crossed invitingly, any suggestions of trapping the precious cargo were dismissed from Richarlison’s mind. Instead, in a sequence that seemed to sit with him far more comfortably, he took to contorting his limbs at all manner of acrobatic angles, and thumping the ball into whichever corner of the net took his fancy.

It was a trick I remember him unveiling with similar aplomb at the last World Cup, since which occasion I have pretty regularly chuntered along the lines that he never produces such fare in lilywhite.

Well that particular wait is over. That second goal was a humdinger, attracting admiring noises from the gathered masses each time it was replayed on the stadium screens.

Frankly, after a pair of goals of that quality, Richarlison could have spent the rest of the afternoon quietly leaning against a nearby pillar watching everyone else work up a sweat, and he’d still have been feted from all corners. As it happened, he trotted out another pretty impressive all-round display, doing all the necessary running and shielding and buffeting one would hope for from a fine, upstanding centre-forward.

All of which does make one return to the original question with a pensive stroke of the chin – are these two isolated statistical occurrences, or have we stumbled upon a better, stronger, faster version of Richarlison?

3. Kudus

However, for all the merry chatter about the bright young things, and the reborn striker at the apex, it was Kudus once again who came across as the headline act.

The fellow’s sheer strength continues to make one goggle a bit, and will take some getting used to. Indeed, my Spurs-supporting chum Ian let pass from his lips the name Mousa Dembele when remarking upon Kudus’ brawn, and one takes the point, for the former was similarly possessed of a robust frame off which opponents simply bounced.

As well as which, young Master K. has all the party tricks to attract the wide-eyed admirers, coming replete with stepovers, feints, close control and whatnot. The moment in the second half when he controlled the ball with his left foot tucked behind his right standing leg certainly attracted the sorts of gasps and applause that would not have been out of place a magic show, but it was the neat shoulder-dip and burst from a standing start, to create Richarlison’s second, which earned him the decisive AANP stamp of approval. Trickery is all well and good for a social media post, but ultimately we’ll need Kudus to create and score goals. The chap seems fully to understand the remit.  

As an aside, the potential prospect of both Kudus and Eze in the same line-up would prompt a smacking of the lips, but AANP has learned to frame these transfer rumours with caution, ever since the days of Rivaldo. For now I’m simply grateful that Kudus is a fully paid-up member of the gang.

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Spurs match reports

PSG 2-2 Spurs: Six Tottenham Talking Points

1. Formation

Trophy-winners though we might these days be, AANP was still steeped to the gills in the old, familiar dread before kick-off, and I’m not sure the teamsheet did much to soothe the frayed nerves.

Our newest Glorious Leader had unveiled what appeared on first glance to be a goalkeeper and eight defensive sorts for this one, and while one tries of course to be reasonable about these things, I must confess to reacting with a widening of the eyes, a murmured “What the dickens..?” and a few wildly quizzical looks.

More fool AANP. Fast forward 90 or so minutes and the 3-5-2 turned out to be a tactical masterpiece. “Balance” was the word I heard bandied on the telly-box, and while those commentary sorts can spout all manner of gibberish when they’ve got a mic thrust in front of them, on this occasion the chappie in question had stumbled upon the mot juste.

With a back-three in situ, one never really felt that our lot were outnumbered and straining every sinew to put out fires at the back. Gone was that sense of desperate last-ditch life-saving, and the frantic haphazard retreats that had become a bit of a hallmark in recent years.  

With this 3-5-2, we were, defensively a different beast. Which is to say that we were a beast with a few more bodies at the back. If, say, a Danso were turned and outpaced, a Romero could be relied upon to appear stage left and uproot a tree or two in clearing the danger. Should Doue or whomever start unfurling stepovers on the right, the reassuring sight of at least two in lilywhite would materialise to suffocate him.

PSG had it in them to one-touch our lot to death – and in such circumstances one accepts with a gracious shrug that that’s the way of things – but our lot were not be found wanting for numbers at the back, and this in itself was rather reassuring.

And in fact, much the same could be said of the midfield, where a triumvirate was deployed to similarly successful effect. Now Paulinha, ironically enough for a laddie who appears to AANP to be precisely what the doctor ordered, appears pretty desperately undercooked at present. Not his fault, he having barely laced a boot over the last 12 months by all accounts, and to repeat, I see him in time metamorphosing into an absolute pitbull in front of our defence.

Last night, however, the chap did appear to wheeze and puff his way through things somewhat. But lo, once again the use of a three-man construction came to our rescue, for that midfield also featured Messrs Sarr and Bentancur, both of whom came across as specimens at their absolute physical peak. (As an aside, it warmed the heart to observe Bentancur strutting about with fitness levels off the charts, following the near constant stream of batterings and bruises he’s collected over the past two years).

The presence of Sarr and Bentancur, essentially doing all the running so that Paulinha didn’t have to, meant that in midfield as in defence, we rarely looked outnumbered, and frequently showed sufficient appetite to snaffle possession from PSG and dance off over halfway.

Of course, any 3-5-2 lives and dies on the quality of its wing-backs, and here we really are blessed. One can only imagine the disbelieving glee with which Porro would have rubbed his eyes in the changing room beforehand when informed of his role. After two years of inverting and drifting infield, he didn’t need asking twice to bomb up the flank, and within about 30 seconds of kick-off could be spotted patrolling the corner of the PSG area with a glint in his eye.

Both he and Spence out on the other side gave fair indication of having not only received the memo, but taken to heart its contents, adopting the principles of top-notch wing-backery as their mantra for 90 minutes. The pair managed to tick boxes in both directions – and it was little surprise that when they (along with everyone else) ran out of steam in the final 20 or so, and they stopped advancing up the pitch, segueing from wing-backs to deep full-backs, our strategy rather fell apart at the seams.

So the 3-5-2 received a big fat tick at AANP Towers. I’m not sure that the same level of caution will be required for the next meeting with Tamworth – or even Burnley at home – but for a first innings of the season, against probably the best team in the world, and with a side shorn of its key attacking pipkins, 3-5-2 turned out to be just the ticket.

2. Richarlison

In rattling through the roll of honour of those who made the 3-5-2 work it is only right that I add to the Hall of Fame young Richarlison. For someone long established in the AANP rankings as the least technically gifted Brazilian to have kicked a ball, he delivered one heck of a tap-dance.

Drinking in this performance with some astonishment, I was reminded of a chappie I knew at the old almer mater, who one term returned after the summer hols with a new blonde haircut, a complete change in attire and announcing himself to the fairer sex as “Surfy”. In short, the curious fish had for some reason reinvented himself, and so it seemed with Richarlison last night.

Gone was the moody wretch possessed of two left feet and half-hearted chasing of lost causes, to be replaced sharpness of touch and a stirring line in winning possession on or around halfway.

One of the fellow’s first touches of the ball was a first-time effort from a good 20 yards out, by which this absolute interloper seemed to be saying “Forget what you thought you knew, for I am now Richarlison, doer of the impossible (or at least attempter of the improbable”).

With Kudus happy to buzz around alongside him, it all made for a most useful apex to the 3-5-2.

I suppose the question now is whether the transformation can last. That self-styled ‘Surfy’ chap from university binned the new image after a few weeks, so one treats these episodes with some caution; and moreover, if Solanke is fully fit – and the indications are he’s on course for it – then a pretty clear hierarchy emerges.

So call me a cynic, but given that last night’s shindig will have been watched by a near global audience with little better to do, I’m inclined to suggest that this is the optimum time to slap a hefty price-tag on R9 and shove him into the arms of the highest bidder.

3. Kudus

AANP is not one of that breed who spends his leisure hours studying footage of West Ham United, and as such I couldn’t have told you too much about Mohammed Kudus beyond his Fantasy League stats before he pitched up at N17. But by golly, if last night taught me anything it was that here was a fellow who knew how to make a first impression.

Specifically, that first impression seemed to consist of displaying the strength of about a dozen oxen. Of course, it is a prerequisite for the modern-day footballer to display a physique like one of those sculpted marble statues of the Greek gods, but even allowing for that I would not have cast the eye upon Kudus and immediately placed him as a 12-round heavyweight.

And yet, in glorious technicolour last night we were treated to the sight of a PSG sort clambering all over Kudus and pretty much bouncing off him, then to be joined by a second PSG sort, and sometimes even a third – but with their combined mights having minimal impact upon the chap.

Given his nomination for Strongest Man Alive one would have understood if, upon then emerging from the ruck with the ball at his feet, Kudus then displayed the touch of a malcoordinated donkey – but it turns out that on top of everything else he also skips about the place like a lissom cage footballer, turning his opposing full-backs inside out and painting pretty patterns with his feet.

I suppose if one were to be hyper-critical one might suggest that he could put in a few more hours in the back garden working on his weaker foot, but that’s one for another day. It’s unsurprising that in just about every pre-season game so far the primary tactic has been “Give It To Kudus” because in just about any circumstance he can not only shield the ball to afford everyone else a puff of the cheeks, but he’ll also then embark on one of those mazy ones and create a spot of mischief.

4. Sarr

With Kudus deployed yesterday in a role that was nominally supporting striker, but often morphed into right winger, young Sarr was accordingly re-jigged into a slightly more traditional midfield role. In case you missed the last few weeks, he has spent much of pre-season operating behind the front man, in the ‘Number 10’ role. Not one I’d have pencilled him in for, I must admit, but our new Head Honcho seems to think that his run-and-chase routine has value up the top of the pitch, so one sees the logic.

Anyway, back to last night, and Sarr’s remit had decidedly less glitz and glamour. “Mop up the loose ends”, was about the gist of it. And frankly, if he had reacted to this instruction with a darkening of the brow and a moody stare, one would have had a degree of sympathy. Chasing shadows against a team that has dished out a 5-0 tonking in the Champions League final of all games, is hardly the stuff of dreams.

Sarr, however, responded to the call like an absolute champion. If there were a loose ball to be seen just about anywhere inside our own half, he was onto it with the alacrity of one of those sizeable wild cats in the nature programmes leaping onto its prey.

It made sense, as he’s always been one of those beans so energetic that one feels rather exhausted just watching him, but his presence added a most welcome layer of security at the back as well as in midfield. Sarr regularly hurtled across the penalty area to stick out a well-timed limb if PSG threatened to find a yard of space, and by the time he was withdrawn I was pretty clear in my mind that there stood the game’s outstanding performer.

5. Spence

On the topic of outstanding performers, however, an honourable mention to young Spence. It remains most perplexing to me that this chap, ordained by nature as right-footed, should so regularly appear vastly more accomplished as a left-back than as right-back, but nature does occasionally throw up these quirks I suppose.

And last night, Spence rather hammered home the point that left wing-back is the life for him. Going forward he was a nuisance, providing an attacking outlet all the way into the PSG area, and as such doing a fair bit to nullify the threat of Hakimi.

Had this impressive front-foot display been to the detriment of his defending we might well have exchanged knowing looks and clicked the tongue a bit – but as it happened, he covered all of his defensive duties in watchful manner throughout.

It was rather a shame that the PSG equaliser emanated from a cross from his side, because for most of the game Spence had his defensive area under lock and key. Udogie will presumably consider himself the first choice in the role, but Spence comes across as a chap who clearly knows his onions.

6. Defeat

Having feared a hammering (particularly in the wake of the Bayern debacle) I was most pleasantly surprised at the general to-ing and fro-ing on offer last night. PSG were seemingly not at the peak of their powers, but our lot did not seem inclined to pause and debate this, and instead just got on with matters. A dashed good fist they made of things too.

However, while no points were lost, all manner of positives were snaffled and the consensus was that we deserved a little better, I reserved the right to head for the exits with a spot of chuntering on my lips.

The bone of contention was that our lot need to find ways to win shiny pots. We did it in Bilbao, and I was pretty miffed that we failed to do it last night. The whole attitude of puffing out the chest and saying we were jolly good sports is not enough. It grates. Our lot should not be content with making it to finals, and from 2-0 up after 85 minutes we ought to have seen the thing through. There was a trophy of sorts on offer, and a cracking opportunity to turn that sort of thing into a habit.