gimlisbeard
Spurs through & through
- Aug 14, 2008
- 114
- 87
So, 36 hours later and the Carling Cup final reverberates around my brain like images of a lost love. But these images are not remorseful and the feelings they conjure not depressing. From moments after the final United penalty inevitably hit the net to signal an end to our back-to-back trophy dream, I have been wondering around the house raising my hands and chanting “We are Tottenham” as if we’d just won the league. Nothing seems to stem the surge of pride coursing through my veins. We are Tottenham. We stood toe-to-toe with a team that might well break all records for achievement this season, that might well be on its way to winning the Premier League title by anything from 10 to 20 points and we came very, very close to beating them.
Okay, you might argue that standing in the tunnel as their penalties were despatched with such alacrity were Rooney, Carrick, Berbatov, van der Sar – players that would undoubtedly grace any first 11 (although I struggle with Rooney and grace in the same sentence and Berbatov conjures emotions far removed from grace). But we were without Hutton, Palacios, Defoe and Keane and thanks to the debacle of last summer’s transfer dealings, any alternative up-front to the shambolic performance of Pavlyuchenko or the ever-trying (in so many ways) efforts of Bent. Whether it be through selection policy (on United’s part) or injury, cup rules and transfer incompetence (on our part), neither team had quite their strongest 11 on the field. If United had, would they have torn us apart as so many predicted? Not in my view. But if we had just had Defoe on the pitch to give our strikers some bite, or Palacios to tackle rather than run about harum scarum fashion like Zokora, the cup would have been ours.
But my point, and my reason for chanting “We are Tottenham” ad infinitum in the last day and a half, is that despite the defeat, the Glory is ours. The Tottenham of 2008-2009 frustrate, anger and disappoint in greater measure than most of their predecessors. We find ourselves scrabbling for Premier League survival against teams with less total skill than Modric on his own but more battle than our 11 on some given days. And yet we still rose from the ashes of our bitterly disappointing season to outpoint (if not outplay) the Champions who might well sweep the board this season. Now our players have to lift themselves once more and combine their skill with the will to scratch, claw and bite their way up the table to preserve our top-flight status. And this is where we all come into play.
Defeat on Sunday made me realise that I am more entangled in this club of ours than I ever thought and I knew that I was a passionate fan before. But it seems that Tottenham lies within the core of every hair on my head; it runs through my spine and every cell in my body. My love for this great club will endure all torment and disappointment that it throws at us and rejoice in every goal, point and game that it achieves. On Wednesday night when we face a crucial battle with inevitably emboldened opponents, I am going to shout my love to the heavens. I am going to raise the roof with cries of “We are Tottenham” in the hope that some of my pride, some of my desire will infect the men blessed with the opportunity of pulling on the lilywhite for real and drag them to three points.
This is not a time for faint hearts and it is not a time for booing those that perhaps failed in their duty on Sunday. When we pull on that lilywhite shirt and enter the hallowed ground, we become brothers, all prepared to fight for the glory that is ours for the taking. On Sunday, against the best team in Britain, we stood tall and we stood proud. We may have lost the battle, but the glory is ours.
I am Tottenham. Hear MY cry.
Okay, you might argue that standing in the tunnel as their penalties were despatched with such alacrity were Rooney, Carrick, Berbatov, van der Sar – players that would undoubtedly grace any first 11 (although I struggle with Rooney and grace in the same sentence and Berbatov conjures emotions far removed from grace). But we were without Hutton, Palacios, Defoe and Keane and thanks to the debacle of last summer’s transfer dealings, any alternative up-front to the shambolic performance of Pavlyuchenko or the ever-trying (in so many ways) efforts of Bent. Whether it be through selection policy (on United’s part) or injury, cup rules and transfer incompetence (on our part), neither team had quite their strongest 11 on the field. If United had, would they have torn us apart as so many predicted? Not in my view. But if we had just had Defoe on the pitch to give our strikers some bite, or Palacios to tackle rather than run about harum scarum fashion like Zokora, the cup would have been ours.
But my point, and my reason for chanting “We are Tottenham” ad infinitum in the last day and a half, is that despite the defeat, the Glory is ours. The Tottenham of 2008-2009 frustrate, anger and disappoint in greater measure than most of their predecessors. We find ourselves scrabbling for Premier League survival against teams with less total skill than Modric on his own but more battle than our 11 on some given days. And yet we still rose from the ashes of our bitterly disappointing season to outpoint (if not outplay) the Champions who might well sweep the board this season. Now our players have to lift themselves once more and combine their skill with the will to scratch, claw and bite their way up the table to preserve our top-flight status. And this is where we all come into play.
Defeat on Sunday made me realise that I am more entangled in this club of ours than I ever thought and I knew that I was a passionate fan before. But it seems that Tottenham lies within the core of every hair on my head; it runs through my spine and every cell in my body. My love for this great club will endure all torment and disappointment that it throws at us and rejoice in every goal, point and game that it achieves. On Wednesday night when we face a crucial battle with inevitably emboldened opponents, I am going to shout my love to the heavens. I am going to raise the roof with cries of “We are Tottenham” in the hope that some of my pride, some of my desire will infect the men blessed with the opportunity of pulling on the lilywhite for real and drag them to three points.
This is not a time for faint hearts and it is not a time for booing those that perhaps failed in their duty on Sunday. When we pull on that lilywhite shirt and enter the hallowed ground, we become brothers, all prepared to fight for the glory that is ours for the taking. On Sunday, against the best team in Britain, we stood tall and we stood proud. We may have lost the battle, but the glory is ours.
I am Tottenham. Hear MY cry.
