Bale, Taxis and Two-Fiddy’s Up

Mr__Awesome_by_Known_Prime_by_treehousesociety

Where on earth do you start? The week of this blogsworth’s 250th transmission into the nether regions of internetland and it’s hard to think of a better time it could arrive. Being a Tottenham fan is, well, good at the moment. Really good. Eurovision winners thoroughly shellacked off the park, topping a group we were told we’d be lucky not to finish bottom of, the same number of goals as Real Madrid and United combined in our inaugural season in the competition. As far as testing the water in the Champions League goes, our beloved Hotspur have taken a running jump off the highest diving board and bombed straight into the deep end. A deliriously exciting performance on Tuesday evening; one already verified by scientists, academics- or just anyone blessed with the gift of sight- as mega super awesome. One which has the whole of this lonely planet peering in and wondering what all the fuss is about. One which epitomises everything right about this team and its imperious desire to entertain the pants of us. Fearless, adventurous. Attack, attack and more attack.

That boy Bale has been at it again. Every newspaper in the land has had its back-pages festooned with the sight of the Welsh wingstress in full gallop. And always just behind; bent double, hands on knees, wheezing, looking like he’d had the misfortune of trying to flag down a bus with Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock at the wheel, Maicon. As much as the Brazilian full-back is never stopping a fifteen ton hunk of metal doing eighty in a built-up area, he was never stopping Gareth Bale. The occasional swipe of a leg was all he had to offer; that and the odd imploring look toward the bench, as if to say, what the heck am I to do? Taxi. Bus. Private helicopter. Maicon would’ve happily taken any of them to get him the Jiminy Cricket out of there.

On the surface, Bale’s greatest means of attack looks like a glorified version of the hoof and run- push it past the man, motor into the space left behind- but it’s much more than that. He finds the best route and thunders along it, invariably posting a dynamite ball at the journey’s end. It’s the decisions he makes as a winger that renders him so effective. When to knock it early, when to cut inside, when to cross it. When to hold it up and wait for others to join in. He nearly always makes the right choice. Which, in this case, was hurtling toward the cavernous gaps Inter had left between their backline and goalkeeper. When asked after the game what he’ll do in the likelihood of teams doubling (or even trebling) up on him in the future, his answer was thus:

I’ve got to think of other ways to get past them. I’m going to have to keep learning in training and in games and try things and hopefully improve as a player which will allow me to continue to thrive.”

The sky’s the limit for this kid. Unless, of course, he outruns that, too.

Elsewhere, Modric was back to his charming best. His teaming-up with Van der Vaart for the first goal was the type of stuff our mind’s eye had been daydreaming about since the Dutchman’s arrival. Clever movement, quick feet, killer pass. Tidy finish. I don’t want to heap too much pressure on the success of this partnership, but if it’s half as good as I’m hoping, it could, I don’t know, be better than Jesus or something.

For everything that was on the money at the business end of things, there was equally good work going on further down the ranks. Carlo Cudicini, for the most part, provided a solid pair of mitts throughout. I do like our Italian stopper. Despite being on the peripherals for much of his time here, he looked thrilled to be a part of such an occasion. Bear-hugs, smiles at the end. Some fine saves during, too. At the back Kaboul was immense, BAE, unflustered and utterly fabulous. Huddlestone offered guile and industry in the centre of midfield; never looking a touch out of place amongst the beau monde of Sneijder, Muntari and the like. He never looked lost. Always made himself an option. Always looked entirely comfortable at this level. Same goes for ‘Arry Redknapp- as his willingness to take the game to the European Champions from the get-go will testify. He’s a f*cking football manager, don’t you know. And quite one at that, too, it would appear.

BlanchflowerSmith **Click the shirts for some reet good clobber**

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