Moonshine
Tottenham Hotspur football club. We are no longer a vintage wine, tasty and of a particular refined quality. We are moonshine, aided by high-proof distilled spirit, a mixology of kicks and headaches and a very hard taste to swallow. The hangover is brutal. You want to forget the details of the mess made and instead focus on the dizzying high produced, thanks to the potency of its illicit consumption.
You can get drunk on wine or moonshine, but you’d rather the more cultured glass than the bottle made mostly from spuds. The contrast is stark, much like the performances against Manchester City in the league and Southampton in the cup.
Firstly, the City game.
I know some time has passed since the victory, so I won’t break it down minute-by-minute as we’ve all pretty much digested the stats and performance. To be honest, the way we won the game in terms of input and output far out weighs the necessity to over analyse how City ‘played us off the park’ in terms of possession and chances. We also played Liverpool off the park in a game out in Madrid not that long ago but the only relevant statistic was the amount of times the ball crossed the goal-line for one of them ‘goal’ things. It’s not very Spurs to think like this, but this season is a write-off for practically everyone (aside from the teams doing well and in contention for Europe, thanks to everyone else failing to get their sh*t together).
We rode our luck. But we also stepped up and took the chances we had in front of goal, unlike the wasteful visitors and their esteemed coach. No doubt Pep looking back in anger on this one. The Illuminati strike again.
This isn’t something I’m all that fussed about. The details. What I took from this game, what I thoroughly enjoyed was that spark, that re-connection the club (gaffer - players - supporters) experienced in the high drama. We needed to dig deep and baptise the stadium with a proper GTFI moment(s) to pull everything together. Be it momentarily. We needed a win like this and the team delivered.
The penalty save from Hugo, the controversy over the follow up to the ball between Lloris and Sterling. The sending off. Steve Bergwijn’s debut goal, a brilliant chest and volley finish. Mourinho and his number two rushing the official near the technical area, screaming for a second yellow for Sterling (because it wasn’t a pen so logically, arguably it should be a dive). There was so many passages of play that encapsulated the desire that become a defining trait in the peak Poch seasons (along side the neat, physical and swarming counter attacking football).
Of course, we don’t have much of the later at the moment. It’s still fragmented. It remains the seasons main story arc; we’re gonna need more players and we’re going to need one or two to regain their full fitness too.
This was in no way a Jose masterclass (as a few have penned). A proper Mourinho is to stifle and contain the opposition, with supreme discipline and organisation. The City win was a far more reckless display but I’ll take it every single time. I’m happy to sacrifice some of the culture for some of this chaos. If only because it helps to rebuild confidence and belief as we continue to fix things, slowly.
Then came Southampton in the FA Cup and what could only be described as an ugly, often brain numbing dumbed down showcase of all the details your brain is yelling at you to worry about. We got outplayed for a good hour of this game. There was no life or soul to our methods. We pushed forward with intention, lucidity in movement only for it to be ended with sleep paralysis. The invention and certifiable product was not evident, whilst Soton always looked more likely to win.
Le Celso not involved illustrated just how much we need him and how little we have in being able to replace him. He was again, superb against City. Not having Harry Kane up top remains a problem that we can’t just live with. We have to find a way to forgot about how we traditionally play and adapt accordingly so that we’re not running into an abyss every time we think there’s a counter on.
Jan Vertonghen, contemplating the universe after being subbed was eerie and emotional. Everyone’s initial reaction was that this was a man realising he’s done at the very top level. Legs gone. In the post-match, we were reminded just how much he cares. That Jan was disappointed, with himself and the team. I like to believe this version and that redemption is a challenge he can conquer. Yet, his slow reactions and lack of pace-changing is…well, it’s sad to see. I guess all those years of high intensity Poch training has finally caught up with him.
I think you can mark him down as one of the players that needs to truly be 100% match fit to find his comfort zone and own it. Ndombele is the other obvious one. What a talent this man possesses and yet seems to be completely shot in the lungs.
We somehow managed to win the game though. Jose making changes that had a huge influence on the games tempo shift. That and going 2-1 down woke us up. Jan and others showing tremendous emotion in celebrating the comeback. Our players on the pitch finally nailing the levels required to brush the mighty Southampton aside. Dele and Gedson, both pivotal to the more incisive application in attack.
For all the ill-fated decision making from Lucas and Son, the late late show sees us with another home tie (Norwich) and that fantasy of making it towards a final we haven’t tasted since 1991. Which was most definitely a vintage year.
Our football is still reliant on individual moments of skill and physicality. Sometimes the very fundamentals are lacking (when to press, when not to, who is picking up opposition players etc). When the opposing side is drilled and carrying out their managers instructions to the letter, whilst our lot look a little dazed and confused, it’s disconcerting. Yes, that’s the sound of your brain yelling at you again.
Alas, I’m back to the conclusion that ends most blogs these-days; You can’t build if you don’t have enough bricks. You can’t re-build until you’ve removed the damp and mould.
Forget vintage and pass me that bottle of spud juice…