Spurs 2 - Man City 1
We’d been jumping into each others arms and high fiving like nobodies business all year but Saturday was the first time I exchanged more than, ‘alright mate’ and, ’see you next week ‘ to two of the guys who sit in front of me. There’s normally a bunch of four of them but today it was just the one who looks like Penfold from Danger Mouse, who I call ‘Penfold’ and the one who looks like ‘my old mate George’ from my doped up university days.
The pre game conversation’s all the same at the moment and in fact it has been ever since we’ve been clutching on to this last Champions League spot. Pinch me.
‘Got to win today’ says My Old Mate George. Penfold bobs up and down and smoke his fag. He’s not cold. Far from it. In fact the sun’s shining and it’s warm. It’s the first warm game of the season but I’m still wearing my winter duffel coat. I’m too hot but there’s simply no choice. The last time I wore a different coat to White Hart Lane we lost. I’m not bringing that luck down again. Not now. We need a win. The team knows it, I know it and Penfold knows it. He’s not bobbing because he’s cold. He’s excited and he’s apprehensive and so am I.
Excited because Man City are shit. Apprehensive because Stuart Pearce is pissed off with his team and if Psycho told me to jump I’d put my jeans on back to front and pretend I was Kriss Kross. Wouldn’t you? So question of the day was, were the team of Tottenham Hotspurs more afraid of losing all they’ve worked so hard for than Manchester City were of the wrath of their manager? The whistle blew and we were about to find out.
Now, why do I always look forward to games against Man City? It’s certainly not their ridiculous and frankly camp sounding renditions of Blue Moon and definitely not for then pleasure of watching the porky but annoyingly effective Richard Dunne. So what is it? I looked to my left and remembered why. For standing between the sticks at the Park Lane end of White Hart Lane, home of the Tottenham hardcore, stood the most ridiculed player in the English Premiership today. The wonderfully entertaining David James.
There is something clearly very wrong with David James and something wrong with the clubs that field him. For those of you who don’t know and I can’t imagine there are many such people reading this but just in case there are, David James is a very good goalkeeper. He’s a very good goalkeeper for about 80 or if your lucky 85 minutes of a football game. Now, unfortunately for him and Manchester City, a football game lasts at least 90 minutes and in that spare 5 or 10 minutes when Mr. James’ mind goes God knows where he is prone, no almost guaranteed to perform some of the most hideous keeping errors to be seen in the game. His nickname, if you do not know, is ‘Calamity James’.
So imagine please the slow broad grin from ear to ear that dawned my face as David ‘Calamity’ James stepped up to protect that Man City goal line. He must get shit from the fans everywhere he goes, except the City of Manchester Stadium, you’d hope. But round our manor he gets it worse.
You see, once again in my absolute certainty that I am teaching many of you to suck eggs, David James has long been, much to our entire nation’s embarrassment the No.1 Keeper of choice for the England Football team. Thankfully, in the last year or two he has been usurped by Tottenham Hotspur’s very own Paul Robinson, known to all that love him and there are many, as Robbo.
Robbo. Just saying his name makes me smile. This is not the time to wax lyrical about the true England’s No.1 but suffice to say that this is a position he truly deserves. We love Robbo. We love him with all our heart but there is one part of the crowd that loves him more than the rest of us; more than his wife, more than his kid and probably more than his very own mum. Have you guessed it yet? The Park Lane crowd. The very fans that were standing not 2 metres from David James. The very six thousand fans that were standing not 2 metres from David James.
So, no sooner had the whistle blown the hardcore of the Park Lane and the rest of White Hart Lane for that matter began to taunt the shivering Man City keeper with, ‘England’s No.4, England’s, England’s No.4.’ This, much to everyone’s amusement, apart from one of course, so developed into ‘England’s No.23, England’s, England’s No.23.’ The meter may have been lost but the joke was not and very soon the crowds taunting was to pay off.
From the start we seemed to control the game. Manchester City tried hard to press us in the midfield but without the presence of Joey Barton, they just seemed a little light weight for the job. They pushed as best they could but Tainio was playing a fantastic game in that midfield battler role and Michael Carrick was afforded all the time he needed again and again to pick out those passes in the way that he can. There was no Andy Cole to help the Blues chase down our defenders. Ledley and his line sauntered the ball about with far too much ease and surprise surprise the chances started to flow.
Lee made some good headway down his left hand side and it wasn’t long before the gorilla like form of Danny Mills, hunched over, back to goal with knuckles dragging as he loped was an all to familiar site for the fans who’d traveled from the North West. Free kicks were conceded time and time again and a shout from behind me had us all in stitches as Mills complained to the equally bald referee, Dermot Gallagher. ‘Go on Danny,’ came the shout, ‘you sort it out with your old man.’
The Man City chances were very few and very far between and very far from goal for that matter and it was Michael Carrick who first put either keeper under any stress. We had a free kick 30 yards out about level with where I sit and right in front of goal. One of those kicks good for anyone who fancies themselves with a dead ball, which was a good point. Who was going to take it? JJ had scored some crackers from there for us this season but it looked like Carrick was hovering with intent.
It was then that I witnessed one of those things that you really have to be close to to appreciate properly. Mido went right up to Michael Carrick and pointed over to the corner of the box in an all to obvious manner. The rouse was on and even though I could spot it, the Man City defence apparently could not. Mido pressed back to the place where he had pointed, pulling two defenders with him and away from the direct firing line between Carrick and the goal. Trap set. Bang. How do they hit it so hard? The ball flew straight, rising as it went towards the top left corner of the City goal but James got a hand to it and stopped the sure fire net buster. Nice work David James. Not so bad after all…
…or was he? For a couple of minutes later David James went on a journey to a magical land; a place secret only to he and the pixies and somewhere far, far away from a football game at White Hart Lane, where the ball had been passed back to him under the immediate pressure of the greased lightening Aaron Lennon.
So, little Lennon comes charging down the pitch and David James, dreaming his little dreamy dream, decides he’ll dink the ball round Lennon, making a fool of Aaron and affording himself some more time a space. The only problem was the dink became a donk and it wasn’t Lennon that was made to look the fool. James’ touch went straight to Mido, rewarding him with only a defender or two to stop him and an open goal, as well as the ball.
I like Mido. He’s solved a big problem for us. Stick it on his head and he’s a genius. Put it at his feet and that’s a different story. He’s ok with his feet but he seems to think he’s as good with them as he is with his head. Wrong. He wanted the goal, he wanted the glory. He tried to do all the work himself, got squeezed to a tight angle and ignored the easier but only a little to be fair, pass to the waiting twinkle toes of Robbie Keane. Mido was tackled, Keano was furious and James’ humiliation only partial as he scrambled safely back to his goal line. A Calamity wasted.
The fan’s and naturally myself included had a field day. We teased, we mocked, we ribbed and ribbed.
‘Dodgy Keeper, Dodgy Keeper,’ ‘Hit the target, hit the target, hit the target and we’ll score, hit the target and we’ll score,’ and possibly the most 80’s chant of all, the old ‘Wooooooooooooooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh Bulllllllshitttt ahhhhhhhhhh!’ every time he took a goal kick.
As a matter of fact, I’ve never worked out if it was ‘Bullshitter’ ‘Bullshit ahhhh’ or ‘You’re shit ah.’ Please drop me a line if you know.
As much fun as this was, it seems to me that this was just what the poor goalie needed because for the rest of the game he produced save after stunning save and truly kept Man City in it, if ever they were at all. We had strike after strike; a lob from Keane, a volley from Keane, a curling free kick from Jenas and it was only shot from a rebounded (saved by James of course) from the unlikely Paul Stalteri that eventually ended up in the back of the net to the beautiful, beautiful cheers of N17.
Two minutes to half time and we were jumping about with fists in the air. It could have been 4 or 5 nil by now but one was fine by us. We were on our way to those 3 points.
‘Who scored, daddy?’ came a small and unfamiliar voice from behind me. ‘Ello, ‘ello, a first timer? Ahhh, that takes me back to Tottenham Hotspur vs. Wolverhampton Wanderers 1983; a rubbish game but my first and formative. ‘Who scored, daddy?’
‘Paul Stalteri,’ was the reply.
‘Who’s he?’ good question I thought.
Mr.Gallagher blew for half time and it was off to meet my mate Charlie (a Yiddo through and through) and my salt beef bagel.
It was a pleasant half time chat if a little nervy. We congratulated each other on good half, talked of the various saves of David James and even had time to discuss the finer things outside the game, such as our 5-a-side football the following week and the possibility of purchasing an Away season ticket next season and all the while Steve Perryman echoed through the impossible P.A. and the wheezing gamblers clutched their slips and rued the false start on the Grand National. What did we care? We were a goal up and playing well and that was all that mattered.
Back to our seats for the second half and the pace was right up to scratch. City were digging deeper but still to no avail. Our chances kept coming and we only had to 4 minutes before we were another goal up. A half cleared corner from Carrick found the ball on its way out to the waiting Teemu Tainio (not sure I’ve ever met two fans who says his name the same) and after all and sundry, myself included, had been waiting for the shot, the Finn lifted the ball over the last defender back to the corner kick taker. In a run identical to his only other goal earlier this season against his boyhood foes, Sunderland, Michael Carrick fired home from a tight angle too close for even the agile David James to react in time. Cheers, hugs, relief. We were on top of the game with a two goal cushion, we were playing well and those points were ours.
‘Yid Army, Yid Army!’ echoed around the stadium as Carrick jogged back to the centre circle. The whole stadium that is except the small voice behind me.
‘What are they saying, daddy?’
‘Yid Army,’ came the nervy reply.
‘Why are they saying that?’
‘It’s Tottenham’s nickname.’
‘Why, what does it mean?’
‘Go on mate,’ I thought, ‘get out of that one.’
He did. He didn’t answer.
I was so engrossed in this little exchange and we were all so confident of the win that no one was really paying attention when Man City were awarded a throw in just in front of me. I hardly noticed as Sylvain Distin threw the ball long and I barely batted an eyelid as it sailed in to the six yard box. So it came as a bit of a strange hush when that ball, that really should have been dealt with, was shinned home by Georgios Samaras. Hushed that is except for the Man City fans, who it seemed had showed up after all. They broke into that God awful ‘Blue Moon’ and we put our hands together for the next 40 minutes, knuckles turning whiter and fingernails burying deeper into the skin.
Not three minutes later and I was on my feet punching the air once again. My stresses had been saved. Jermain Jenas made an excellent brake down the right. He’s one of those players I love to watch; a true athlete, makes it all look so easy. He found Robbie Keane with a low pass after a pacey striding run, which Keano banged into the net without a problem. We jumped we shouted but…wait a minute why does Ledley have his hands on his head? Where’s Keano’s cartwheels? Offside! No bloody way! I was absolutely no where near that but I could have told you right then that the pass was good. Replays later showed that the lino was dead on but…but…well…shit.
So down we sat, hands back together, huddling tight and once again hanging on to a delicate one goal lead. Tits.
But we still controlled the game and fairly comfortably too. City tried harder and harder. Vassell came deep to win the ball that his midfield seemed unable to do on his behalf. He worked hard all game but every move he made just made us look better and better. The super sonic striker sped after a ball over the top, neck and neck with Ledley King and Ledley out paced him.
He charged in to rob Carrick of possession not 2 metre form where I sit. The local gang and stood up pointed and stared into my Michael Carrick’s eyes as we screamed ‘Man on!’ A glance over his shoulder and Vassell had been turned. I love sitting at the front. You really make the difference.
Porky Richard Dunne was doing all he could. He went one on one with his countryman Keano and fared pretty well but he couldn’t stop nifty little slippers taking the ball passed him.
I lost count of the saves David James had to make. Even Baby Face Tony Gardener got in on the act. If it was effort and commitment Stuart Pearce had wanted it was being doled out by his team for all to see but the simple fact of the matter was that we outclassed them.
Now, it’s all well and good to say this now but if you’d asked me how I felt at the time I was dieing inside. We’ve seen way to many late late horror shows this season and a one goal lead is never enough. We needed these three points and I couldn’t bare the thought of watching them go down the drain; not today. It was first thing on a Saturday morning; not a weekend ruiner, please? My heart raced. The clock slowed. Someone had broken the damn thing. Each minute it told seemed to count for three. Chances came at both ends and more than once I felt the grip on my heart. Time stands still. You wait helplessly for the keeper to dive, the net to bulge, not knowing the path of each shot. Substitutions are made. Fresh legs are tried. You know how cruel the script can be. But not today.
The whistle blew. Today was our day once more. We deserved the win. We deserved the points and we put that pressure back onto our North London rivals.
I walked back to my car with a spring in my step and smile on my face, swealtering under the heat of my toasty duffel coat. If it keeps us winning, I’ll keep on wearing it.
Father Son
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