Beef Bagel

It’s a family BBQ today. The first day of the season. How could they? After months of arm twisting, weeks of nagging and a couple of days straight on the thumb screws, I tapped out and agreed. I’ll come home. I’ll help out. I’ll chat to them all. Uncle Joe with his black cab and out of date assorted nuts.

‘I can’t believe I picked them up so cheap!’ I can. They’re stale.

Cousin Kate with comfortable sailing shoes and pastel shirt safely tucked into blue jeans with elasticated waist. Shirt done all the way up. No flesh on show. Thankfully.

My Great Aunt Sylvia, electrified eye shadow to match the clashing fluorescent frock; mouth like a cat’s bum, a walking defiance of both physics and The Reaper. ‘You’re so thin,’ like it’s a bad thing.

‘It’s the strict regiment of cocaine, auntie.’

‘What?’

‘I said, would you like some more champagne, auntie?’

Yeah, I’ll come home but there’s two conditions. One, I’m in charge of the drinks and two, 5 o’clock - 7.30, I’m down the pub. Terms are agreed. The contract is signed; my pact with the Devil.

5 o’clock comes and not too soon as I sneak passed two cars arriving together, arms clamouring from windows, mouthes like angry hatchlings. I make good my escape. The Bagel is free and I work my way to the town centre through short cuts half dusty in my mind. New teenagers in old fashions light up where my old butts still lie. They hush as I draw closer, exchanging furtive glances. I smile as I walk by them, feeling wizened and smug.

5.10pm kick off’s close. First game of the season. Bolton away is no pic-nic of a fixture but I’m confident we can do it. They’ll push set piece after set piece, muscling and boring us out of the game but we’re too good for them this year. No losses in pre-season, only one draw and football so liquid you could drink it. Big Face Sam is in trouble this year. My pace quickens as think of him sweat.

I get to the door of the one pub I’m sure’ll be showing the game, Mr.Q’s. It’s a typical all sports pub. The carpet is sticky with last night’s beer or is it the Friday before’s? Carling in plastics, bar staff on the edge, deep fried everything but screens galore. I get myself a drink a size up the options.

There’s seats by the big screen but the picture quality is dubious. There’s plasmas dotted about but I can’t get near. After all, what’s the point in watching if you can’t see the close control? It’s looking tough but then I see it. It’s something beautiful, something I’ve never see before, a pearl amongst these swine. There’s two booth tables over in the corner and each one has it’s own tv screen embedded in the wood work. It’s perfect I can watch my own private game. There’s no sound but Sky commentary’s useless and as for the words of bitter scot George Graham, well we all know who’s style of football he’s going to prefer.

The game begins and I’m in the zone. The clamour and the cunts fade softly away and my body glows gently like an addict with his smack. It’s the first time I’ve seen this new look Spurs. I’m liking the away kit; a nice sky blue but not too close to Man City and no yellow in sight. Both teams look to settle and I’m pleased by the positive approach our club from the south. We’ll show these northern monkeys what for.

With Lee on the right, it’s my first chance to get a look at Benoit Assou-Ekotto. He’s looking fast and tough for his size as he shoulders El Hadji Diouf off the ball. It takes a sharp shoulder at the that and I wonder how many times he’ll get away with this as I remember the rejuvenated spitter and the skill and pace he’s got but I don’t care who he plays for. He should’ve been kicked out of the Premiership a long time ago.

Zokora’s in the middle and I quickly see his class. ‘He can pass the ball like Carrick,’ I think as he slides one through for the front pair. He brings the ball from deep and takes on the first bank of midfielders. He invites their challenges, opens up the field and finds the pass. Yes, I can see how he’s going to work.

We’re just beginning to look good on the ball when Bolton get their first set piece of the day. It’s cleared by Dawson for another; safety first as usual but it doesn’t look comfy back there without Ledley. Michael Dawson’s marshaling the defence around but you wonder the job he can do without last season’s partner. Before the corner is kicked again Ivan Campo shakes Dawson by the hand. What was that for? An apology? Gamesmanship? Was he trying to halt his instructions for the team? Was this momentary lapse enough to cause confusion?

The ball comes in again from Gary Speed. I wish he’d just give up. He’s good, damn it and with him and Nolan on the pitch, it makes them strong. Once more we look weak in the air and Kevin Davies, absolute who that he is but fucking consistent, free in the air, plants the ball firmly in the net with no chance for any keeper. Where was the man on the post? Where was his marker?

A groan goes round the pub. I’m in a good place but behind I hear the chuckle of single man. Must be fucking Gooner. The replay shows Calum Davenport to be the culprit but not helped any as he’s pulled away from his man and down to the ground by Bolton’s new signing, Meite. Cheating fucks and a goal to the better. It shouldn’t have stood but the truth of it is that Davenport should’ve been faster off the start all the same. Foul play or otherwise, he’s got to be doing better than that.

I’m calm. There’s no panic. Were I at the Lane, we’d be shouting, ‘Come on you Spurs, come on you Spurs!’ as Robbo picked out the ball and we rallied our troops in the knowledge that we’re still the better side. The game recommences but Bolton are cheered and where we may have taken control, they begin to attack with vigour and within 4 minutes our hearts sink again.

After an initial attempt to play through are lines, as if the likes of Bolton could with their style of football, the play is broken up by a touch from Jenas as he intercepts the ball. The goal is a cracker. There is no doubt. The touch finds it’s way to the onrushing Ivan Campo. He leathered it and from just over 40 yards, passed a small mob of players, drifting just out of reach of the wrong footed Robbo and into the side netting. It’s a beauty but all I can see when I look at that goal is a lazy touch from our attacking midfielder and keeper, who should have done a little better. 2-0 and a mountain to climb at a difficult ground.

But all the same, ‘4 minutes,’ I think, ‘it only took them 4 minutes to do that to us and we look much more dangerous on the break. We’ve got goals in us and nearly 80 minutes to do it.’ The rest of the first half comes and goes and no goal appears. Bolton, further buoyed by their second goal, dig in deep and defend with the strength and numbers the way they do so well at home.

Berbatov and Defoe look good together with the only meaningful shot of the first half coming from some slightly fumbled interplay between the two. Berbatov looks good but not as good as you want as a friend of mine said. The problem is we want Shevchencko and we can’t have him or his type. Not yet.

The one real problem with the side remains the left wing. With Davids tucking in on the left to do the job, we may have a little solidity but there is a gaping whole for all to see when we attack. When defenders block our play on the right, there’s Lennon there to scoop it up and roll onto the next move. When the ball comes out the other side there’s no wide man waiting and we lose possession and momentum. Without this pressure, you let the other team off the hook too easily and we have to wait for our next break. This has got to be fixed. We simply end up wasting too much good build up and on top of this Davids is not looking good.

He seems to hold the ball to long, get caught in possession and stop and hope the referee will see it his way. Some of the time he did but the ref was being generous and there were a few too many occasions of lucky escape. I was beginning to think he was passed it and a bit of a waste of space but our dreaded Dutchman proved me wrong in the second half.

I go up to the bar for a half time refresher and come back to my table at the same time as I see a man and a woman eyeing up my spot. I slide in behind them to get back first. The two of them sit down opposite and I look up to meet my new tablemates.

‘I’m sitting here,’ I say.

The woman is silent and slightly embarrassed. The man moves up slowly from his larger and light. His hair is long like mine used to be when I was half his age. It didn’t look good on me then. It looks far worse on him now. Streaks of grey show up the unwashed grease that shines in his matted locks. His faded, loose knit pull over matches the state of his face. He’s tired, drunk and I can see his sinew move his mouth to form each word.

‘These are public seats, mate.’

His yellowing eyeballs stay fixed on me as his head lolls lightly about. It’s not the first time he’s used this line. He’s wirey and rat faced with pickled folds in his skin adding ten years this drunkard of a life. He doesn’t look hard but you never really know.

‘No,’ I reply, ‘this is a public house. The seats belong to the landlord and they’re private. You should ask before you sit at someone else’s table.’

He mumbles something as he reaches for his rolling tobacco. I can’t hear it. I don’t want to.

The second half begins and I blank out my guests. The half starts badly with a defensive error leading to a missed chance for Bolton. We can’t play this way. We’re badly missing Ledley.

‘What’s with the blue strip,’ asks this low life across the table,’what do you think’s going on then?’ He’s actually trying to be my friend. I ignore him; eyes on the screen. Even if I wasn’t concentrating on the game, I wouldn’t want to know him.

Chances are few and far between. The best on offer is a vaguely free header just too far out for Berbatov, a blocked shot from Lennon and two off target free kicks from Jenas both of which are right in his range. You can see him telling someone to fuck off after the second, his frustration matching the fans’.

Didier Zokora comes off the pitch and I thought he’d been playing well but it was time for Martin Jol to try a little 4-3-3 with Robbie Keane behind the front two and Davids moving to a more central role. Keano looks dangerous from the off and Davids shows us what he can do in his natural position. He mops up play and controls possession in the midfield but it makes no difference. For all the possession we still can’t find the net.

I try hard to block the conversation from across the table that leaks into my ears.

‘I really don’t know what to do about ‘im,’ she was saying, ‘but I know you’ll take care of me, won’t you. I mean after last night and everythin’, you’ll make sure we can sort it out with the three of us. I trust you. You’re a good man.’

‘Well, I like to think so,’ he says back. This is not a good man.

Five minutes left on the clock and the low life gets up.

‘You not leavin’ are you?’ she says.

‘Nah,’ he replies, ‘just going to the toilet.’

The minutes count down and I’m resigned but I can’t leave, not till it’s over. I want to see it through.

‘Is that Tottenham in white?’ she asks.

I feel sorry and look up at her for the first time. I feel even more sorry. A mess is the only way to describe her. From the loose arrangement of her hair, somewhere between a bun, a ponytail and another style I don’t recognise, to her stained vest, smeared lipstick and puffy half made eyes.

‘No,’ I answer, ‘Tottenham are in blue.’

My eyes stay on her a second or two and I only look round as the whistle blows and the players swap shirts. I’ve had more than enough of this place. I grab my coat and head for the toilet myself. Our man is nowhere in site. As I empty my bladder before I go, I stand amidst the conversation of some local Tottenham fans. They talk impatient nonsense about the team and players that just aren’t good enough. They don’t know shit. They don’t understand. They don’t want to. They just want results. Who can blame them?

The plain and simple truth of it was Bolton were just too good on the day. We dominated possession and played far more attractive football, from which I gain much heart but it doesn’t matter a jot when the other team defend as well as they did and in so many numbers. They looked bigger than us and they looked stronger than us. We never stood a chance in the air and they were always dangerous in that brutish, battling way. They may have got the points and well deserved but who’d be a Bolton fan and have that crap to look forward to every week?

I’m happy to leave the pub and glad to reach the warmth of the BBQ now in full swing. The booze is flowing, the meat is sizzling, everybody’s happy and after a few beers, so am I.

Nice barbie. Cheers dad.

The Bagel.

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This entry was posted on Sunday, August 20th, 2006 at 3:26 pm and is filed under Match Reports. 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.