Embarrassing. Three goals that were all birthed from Tottenham mistakes. If it isn't hard enough defending against their players on any given day, gifting them goals is the type of irony that laughs in your face then slaps your backside as you walk away with your head down, shaking, and asking yourself....why?
I was naive to ever believe that we could get something out of this game with Modric, Lennon and Defoe missing. Although for 42 minutes my original hope looked to be justified. Although the signs were there. Little tenacity and hunger to 'get in their faces'. We were containing them. Frustrating them. But that's not enough and too much of a risk. Which it proved to be the case when RvP beat King to make it one from a cross and then 11 seconds from the kick-off, a comedy of apologetic defending, allowed Sylar to dart through nothingness to make it two. All topped up (in the second half) by Gomes and King mixing it like a shit pub dj who's had too much booze to make it a despairing 3-0.
Arsenal don't have to perform above and beyond to beat us if we're going to pull our panties down and bend over for them. All lubed up, purring.
Fabregas about to rip the head off Tottenham...
Shame on them. Five stages of grief at the ready then.
So where did it go wrong? Apart from the on pitch suicide?
Tactically, although we needed a game plan (they pass the ball quicker, keep it better in possession and carry it around the pitch with intent and purpose) we don't have the outlet of Modric or Lennon, which left us with very little other than to attempt a quick break or a long ball up to Crouch. It was probably enough to keep us in the game until very late on. But the pre-half time collapse saw an end to that little dream. So whatever the strategy was, it wasn't enough. Playing pound-for-pound would have been equally suicidal (because of the missing player), but I'm not going to dwell on that excuse. We had players who could do a job. Or maybe that's where it actually went wrong. We 'thought' we had players who could do a job.
No pace. In mind and feet. No chance.
It wasn't enough to just go there and sit back and live dangerously. No blood and thunder. More like fluffy feathered pillows and a hot cup of coco.
Roll on next weekend. And if the Gods didn't think this was enough, shock horror, we've got United away in the cup.