Sunday, 6 March 2011
It's the Wooluves! It's the Wooluves!
Look up a bit. No, not there. How do I know what's behind your computer? Jesus.
I mean there, the line just below the main blog title. Today pretty much encapsulates that and that just about encapsulates today.
Sometimes Spurs lift the spirits and make your weekend like almost nothing else can. Other times they crush your soul and ruin your week like almost nothing else can.
This is dreadfully shallow, obviously. There are far more important things in life than football, of course there are. I just don't really give a fuck about most of them.
Instead I rely on Spurs. 'Rely' and 'Spurs', two words that really don't sit comfortably in the same sentence. Apart from, 'You can normally rely on Spurs to fuck things up one way or another'. They both seem right at home there.
So this weekend was always going to be largely defined by what happened up at Wolves on Sunday afternoon. And goodness what a lot happened up at Wolves on Sunday afternoon.
Their opening goal was always coming. After about 10 minutes we seemed to decide that we were playing okay, but lacked any real zip or bite, and that what would really shake us from our torpor would be conceding a goal. Yep, we'll get going once we're one down. It's a plan we turn to time and time again.
(After riding his horse home by a short head, Lester Piggott was once asked when he knew he was going to win. The interviewer meant at which point in the close race did he feel certain of victory. Piggott replied: "Last Tuesday". Same answer for their first goal.)
We had to give them a few opportunities though, they're not great, after all. But we kept plugging away and eventually we managed to get Kevin Doyle on the end of a cross and steer well enough clear of his rather tame header to allow it to reach the back of our net. Which meant we could finally start properly.
And then suddenly, after 12 months of shitty shitty, it was bang bang and Defoe was back. Hitting them as hard and true as we always knew he could.
We could, of course, have pushed on from there and won comfortably. But where's the fun in that? Where's the Spurs in that? Instead, we started to defend like children - handicapped, malnourished children, who had never met each other.
2-2. And Hutton lucky to be on the pitch. (Although I'm not sure any team should ever be considered 'lucky' to have Hutton on the pitch).
Second half, Pav, 2-3. Awesome analysis, I know, cheers.
From then on, I think we all knew they were going to score, it was just a question of whether or not we could get a fourth. That was the only way we were going to win.
And we nearly did. There seemed to be about a dozen situations where the right ball at the right time would have created a clear cut opportunity. Two or three times, indeed, we did just that. Bale battled his way through, and then was ushered through by two charmingly polite defenders a little later. But he could neither finish, nor find the exact right ball.
The best chance fell to Defoe (courtesy of Sandro, who's looking better and better, but still needs a decent haircut) and if he'd completed his hat trick to clinch the win then life and the league table would look pretty good right now. But he hit the post, our hearts sank and our fate was sealed.
I honestly think that if we'd thrown Bale and Lennon both on with half an hour to go - and played them on their 'natural' wings, they'd have run riot and we'd have won.
I never understand it when we play them on the wrong sides. I presume it's a deliberate ploy, not just Harry forgetting his left and right, but what good does it do?
They're supposed to be able to cut in onto their stronger foot and threaten the goal, is that right? But when have you ever seen Bale play better on the right than the left? And Lennon play better on the left than the right?
So the match ended in disappointment and the weekend was ruined. Yes it was.
Twitter threw up a few noble comments about how it was a great match to be part of, tremendous advert for the game, probably a fair result, blah blah fucking blah. I admire these attitudes, I genuinely do, but I could never feel them.
Fuck Wolves, fuck fair and fuck being part of a great game. That makes me a bad person. But fuck being a good person as well.
This is getting dangerously close to the timeless 'winning ugly' argument, close to the very nature of the team we support and why we support them. But, right now, fuck that as well. I just wanted three points.
We won't finish fourth now. We have to go to Eastlands and Stamford Bridge.
Meanwhile, Liverpool can now see a great big target on our back. We have to go to Anfield as well.
Right, bring on Milan.