- Jun 5, 2004
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- #1
[banner by the hugely awesome chrissivad]
What do you mean you're actually gonna start writing for the site again, Stoof? You promised last time to do one for the home games you went to, and well, you gave up in February.
Yes. I know. But it's a new season, with new optimism and it would be just a downright shame if none of you got to read my musings.
So "ahoy hoy" and welcome to the new season. I'm now a Shelfside Season Ticketed Stoof, so there appears to be no excuse to not give you my view on all things home gamely.
You'll even get the bonus of seeing a picture of where I sit. Lucky things.
***
"What do you mean the Rail Replacement bus doesn't stop outside Seven Sisters?", I offer to the already fed-up bus driver who ignores me on his Tottenham Hale bound mission. Damn. So not only have I cockily thought I'd have time for a quick perusal in the Megastore with time to spare, I've now gone and put myself and Jimbo in mortal Tottenham Hale related danger. What a muppet.
"'Ere lads, you going to the game? D'ya wanna hop and show us where the ground is?", the thick Scouse accent questioned. *pace increases*, *stock response given* ["Err, no thanks, fancy a bit of a walk anyway"].
So thanks to the Victoria Line helpfully shutting itself down for the weekend and four buses later, I find myself ambling rather quickly at 3:40 on a gorgeously hazy Sunday from Tottenham Hale being accosted by all manner of away fans - with not a Spurs shirt in sight. What a way to start the new season.
Recovering from a night out in Infernos (Clapham's finest meat market), I ventured into 3 separate shops in search of a chilled Summer Fruits "Oasis". Did they have one? Did they b*gger. The Tottenham Food Court (TFC) was my saviour but something wasn't quite right. It felt eerily quiet. Despite it being just over 15 minutes to kick off, the streets were relatively empty for a Big Four game. "Everyone must be in the pub, mate", I said to an equally hungover Jimbo, and then walking past the Bell & Hare, my suspicions were confirmed. A sea of Spurs greeted us, and thank the Lord. Football was back.
***
In ground after successfully tearing out voucher. Good. No surprises in the team really, Crouch not given enough pre-season time and the littl'uns have been playing well (Defoe especially) so it makes sense. Jenas' "injury" keeps him out and Seba slots in on the left hand side of central defence with Disco Benny sporting the braided look rather than the fro. Sensible.
So after about fifteen minutes of sunning themselves, Spurs woke up and actually got the ball off Liverpool for what seemed the first time since May. The few long balls that got hit towards Keafoe [(copyright BBLG)] had not reaped much reward, as the team slowly realised we weren't playing with Jan Koller standing on the shoulders of Peter Crouch whilst also wearing a large hat. But we got the ball on deck eventually and worked Modric into the game and some neat interplay was witnessed by a hungry crowd, eager to be fed football.[ar]
"YOUR WIFE'S A W**RE, YOU SCOUSE ****" yelled the yiddo behind me @ Steven Gerrard. It was safe to say he'd been wanting to yell something in front of 22 uniformed men on an area of grass for a good while. And the relief in the air was palpable.
Soon enough we fashioned a chance. An overhit cross from the right, Modric waved his magic wand and then his right boot and somehow stopped a corner and fed Keane. The goal was dripping in anticipation, waiting to be violated. But Reina had other ideas and as Robbie dived in a little too straightly, Pepe was down and to his left and flapping the ball away. A gilt-edge chance some would say, and poor ol' Keano should have got his confidence booster.
We then had a frenetic 15 minutes following that chance. A couple of free-kicks, a Defoe header from a corner - obviously taking lessons from Ferdinand about how to hang in the air for longer than gravity allows - and a Keane one-on-one, from which a clever dink turned into another flap from Pepe, and a Keane blast over. Not his day in front of goal, although I can confirm he did put himself in for a couple of tackles and even jumped for headers (his build-up play needs no mention, as that's a given).
Oooh, I almost forgot the comedy moment of the half (aside from the refereeing): Skrtel and Carragher's slow motion jumping into each other trying to clear the same ball. Brilliant.
Palacios then put on his "Viera (c. 2000) hat", and took on the Liverpool defence and got cynically brought down. Huddlestone had already tested his range, and gave this one another go. Wall. Damn. It's come to Disco Benny (and we've seen that he can smash the living daylights of the poor pigskin, usually into Row Z). He DefoeShifts. AND IGNITES AN EXORCET INTO THE TOP LEFT HAND CORNER. That's how you finish a half.
What a goal.
The White Hart Lane faithful not in the queue for the bar or toilets danced a merry sunshine dance, and we had a deserved lead.
***
[al]
Some more good build up play saw Keane release Defoe down the left-hand channel (who's looking a bit bulkier) and he held off his defender interrogators and fed Big Wils who smashed the ball at a frightened looking goal. Pepe again tipped over and denied our complete midfielder his account opener in lilywhite.
From the resulting corner we ended up giving away a penalty. This was really the first time Liverpool threatened our goal aside from a Gerrard long shot that whistled wide in the first half. Oh, yeah, and one in the second that whistled equally wide. Johnson got mowed down by an onrushing Gomes and the banterous medley of "you're supposed to be in jail" remixed with "self defence you're having a laugh" was assaulted at Gerrard who stepped up to take a good penalty.
1-1. But the crowd feared not. We had been encouraged by what we'd seen and the cheers rang round, driving the Mighty Spurs on. Soon enough Modric was standing over a freekick in the glorious afternoon sunshine. He stepped up and curved a gorgeous delivery into the danger area. Bassong - who had been imperious under King Ledley's sage stewardship - rose over two Liverpool defenders and planted the ball high and away from the little Pepe and ran to offer himself as a sacrifice to the White Hart Lane Gods in the Shelf-Paxton corner to celebrate his debut goal.
The clock read 59 minutes. It seemed to say 59 minutes for about half an hour. It eventually moved to 60 minutes. By God did it all suddenly slow down. My nerves kicked in. I really didn't want us to let it slip. We'd been so good today and been tireless in midfield. Huddlestone filling in tremendously well. Not one poor performer on the day. Don't let it get snatched away. Not like this.
A nervy moment when Disco Benny nudged Voronin off the ball, but the referee (for all his non-sending off of Liverpool player failings) refused to grant a second penalty; which on balance, was probably fair enough. Some more raucous "handball" banter with Liverpool fans as they claimed in vain for yet another penalty. It was not to be. Three Metre Peter finished the game up top with Roman Pavlyuchenko; from two littl'uns to two big'uns. But our attacking play was done for the day aside from a couple of long range attempts.
We all just wanted the whistle. Pleaded for it. Wished for it. Needed it. And when we got it, you could actually taste the relief. Relief tastes minty, for those that want to know. A lot like Wrigley's Extra, Spearmint flavour. That may have been due to my chewing gum, but I didn't care. We'd finally got an opening day victory - a home game is rare enough for our first match - and we could all look forward to watching Match of the Day and listen to Redknapp moaning about 3 points from 1 game.
Strolling homeward in the sunshine and my hangover had dissipated. My football hangover that is. I'd got back on the pints of Spurs and God it felt good.
