Beef Bagel

It’s being widely reported that what JR did at half time was to switch the play to 3-5-2 but I’m not so sure. Under MJ all was clear. One could predict the big guy’s tactical switches before the fourth official flashed up his boards, in fact before MJ thought of them himself. If we needed a goal, the Little Yiddo would come on after 60 or 70 minutes. If we didn’t need a goal, the same move would still be made in order to give Jermain a run out and just enough reason to sign a new contract, Insha Allah. If we really needed a goal Darren Bent would usually come on as a third striker with Steeeeeeeve coming off from the middle and if we were protecting a one goal lead, we’d bring on a defender for a forward and concede from a set piece. You could set your watch by it, brush your teeth with it, put it in your lunchbox and take it to school. Not so with Juande and what he does with his subs is as fascinating as it is unfathomable.

Genius it was. An absolute moment of sheer joy. When Oog and I stumbled across a new Tottenham local to replace our sadly mauled previous pre-and-post-game regular. How could it have gone unnoticed for so many seasons? An excellent blend of Yiddos and locals, friendly bar staff, a good choice on tap, original features, navy blue and white colour scheme, not one vista devoid of a Tottenham flag or crest and “MacNamara’s Band” playing as we walked in through the doors; the Victoria is dead, long live the British Queen.

Met by Jimmy No Beard (nee Reykjavik), we wandered our way to the Lane, cold, bubbly liquid sloshing about inside us from a hurredly necked pint on an all ready cold winter’s night, perhaps not expecting an easy game but not the match we met either.

I was shaking No Name’s hand as the first goal went in. I couldn’t quite believe it as I saw the visitors in their foreign black strip job back with smiles to the centre circle for the kick off that I’d missed the first time around. I didn’t see it, No Name didn’t see it, George didn’t see it, the Laughing Mum didn’t see it and what with the lack of Jumbotron action on Uefa Cup nights, we weren’t going to get another look at it. I turned around to my left to check what Big and Little Man made of it (Omar’s usually absent for cup games) but instead I was met by 11 identically dressed youths, each wearing a green and black waterproof sponsored by “O’Donovan” and a cheeky grin.

“Let me guess,” I say, “you’re here together.”

The grins broaden.

“So, who are you,” I ask the braced-toothed, spotty ginger behind me.

“Whitewebbs Eagles,” he bubbles through his train-tracks.

“Who?” I ask again, trying not to make it sound like a football insult, and after the third time the scrawny lad points to the back print on his jacket. My question semi-answered I gt back to the game in case I miss any more action. I just wanted to make sure they weren’t some Spurs Youth side.

The Danish supporters were in full song, waving their flags and jumping about in unison - why don’t English supporters do that? They’d packed out their allocation and then some on the bottom tear with a smattering up on the next level. They looked like fans who were enjoying a good season. I pictured victorious away days around all the different grounds in Denmark; a confidence amongst the faithful as high as that of their team. All half they were at it as we sat there in relative silence, save the odd brief chorus, no match for the passion of our guests.

The Aalborg side looked strong and together, if uninspiring and unglamorous, and they played their game to the letter. They closed down last season’s razor sharp striking combo, too dulled this season to slice a defence playing at its best. With just half a touch given to get it right in attack, we were going to half to rely on our midfield to produce and with the Danes playing five in the middle that was always going to be tough.

The disparity in confidence was as clear as the difference in ability was not. The Aalborg players seemed to run, tackle and pass with a ferocity just a shade ahead of ours and it took some time for us to begin to turn the tables. Their number 15, Siyabonga Nomvethe (go pronounce that one), was the man to look out for. The South African international could cause our players problems in one-to-one skill and it was a pleasure to see him subbed near the start of the second half.

But what headway we made was dashed in the second half when seemed to be taken apart defensively by a simple move and the billowing net at the Paxton end confirmed our fears that the tap in had reached its target. The Aalborg fans whooped and jumped again and the faces and thoughts around me turned a familiar dour flavour. With mumblings of blame at first Robbo and then Dawson, no one was quite clear how it had happened but what we did know was that we were losing 2-0 at home to the Group G whipping boys and we were staring up the kind of mountain that was getting steeper by the second.

We pushed, we rallied and yes, we sang, “Come on you Spurs, Com on you Spurs,” but despite our prayers for something to take into the dressing, no goal was forthcoming. There’s nothing quite like the shame of losing on a cold night to gleeful foreign opposition who’ve actually got it together enough to sing, “You’re shit and you know you are,” in your very own language. Full respect Aalborg.

But here’s were it gets fun. We were expecting some Ramos changes but not the minute the game kicked off again. With JJ and Oriental Racial Stereotype replaced by the Man Mountain and Sergei Bent we were all scratching out heads trying to figure out what was going on and perhaps that’s exactly what Ramos aims to do - confuse the hell out of the opposition and hats off to the man, it worked. Withing one minute we saw Dimitar the Great slide in and the ball trickle into the Aalborg goal. It was our turn to celebrate and it was gloved high-fives and manly hugs between myself and the lads in front. But the mystery was far from over.

I start doing the maths in my head. Ok, so he’s taken off an attacking midfielder for a striker and a full back for a player that can play anywhere in the middle except keeper and striker. Bloody hell this hard. So instead I used my eyes. The back four, so normally neat and moving as one still looked vaguely like a back four but with Safety First sitting behind them.

“Is he playing Dawson as a sweeper?” said No Name as he turned about with the definition of incredulity written on his face. “I think he bloody is you know.” And there he was, the least cultured player in the club running about like he was in the Dutch national side. Now, I don’t think anyone’s used a sweeper system since the 80s which makes us not only incredibly retro but also a bit of a novelty in my eyes. I can’t say I’ve ever really seen one in action knowing what it was and I’m not convinced that that was the plan anyway but I don’t buy this 3-5-2 crap that’s being pushed about at the moment either.

Sergei was furthest forward with Robbie and Dimitar both seemingly playing in the hole - big hole it seems. Steve was behind them in the centre of midfield with support from Tom Huddlestone and Didier Zee, officially in a back four but given license to move as far forward as they liked under the protection of Dawson the sweeper. Likewise BALE!BALE!BALE! and Bonders could maraud their ways up the wing if they chose as well. That was our take on it. Damn it where are the salt cellars when you need them?

However it happened, it happened and happened quickly. Aalborg didn’t know what’d hit them and their presence at the Park Lane end of the pitch disappeared until the last minutes with the death rattle of a team on their way out of a cup. By the time our second goal went in we were back on song with the classic, “2-0 and you fucked it up” to the tune of Go West, of course.

In 20 minutes of the second half we smashed and grabbed everything we’d wanted from a side simply baffled into submission. Sure we should have really killed the game off and I can recall a good four opportunities to do so but that’ll come with time. Right now it’s good to be winning again and under the guidance of manager who seems to know exactly what he’s doing, even if no one else does.

Back in the British Queen Oog and The Bagel drank our way down the cold wet queue of fans waiting outside WHL station and beyond. As usual one beer became two and the comfort of our victory allowed us the time to leave football behind and discuss life, the universe and whole bunch of subjects I’m sure Oog would rather I didn’t mention. You can read his blog for that material.

The Bagel.

This entry was posted on Friday, November 30th, 2007 at 2:30 pm and is filed under Bagel News. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.