A Game of One Half
Not quite the goal plundering masterpiece we’d set our hopes on- more like a few tawdry brushstrokes in the general direction of the canvas with aims to get the job done as swiftly and as casualty-free as possible. Yes, at times it was lacklustre; at others it was downright dreary. What’s crucial, however, is unlike the cowboys who did my mum’s porch last summer: we got the job done. And, at this buttock tightening stage of the season, we should count ourselves blessed that we managed that.
The fireworks can wait; points are what we’re after. And plenty of them.
Five League wins on the bounce, if you’d believe it. Portsmouth had a good go, but ultimately the gravity of their plight seemed to suck the life out of them and those associated. It’s all consuming. So much so that the travelling fans couldn’t even summon the energy to boo Harry Redknapp; where exactly they’d find grounds to jeer now, I’m not quite sure. Tax evasion? Pffft. Look who’s talking. Granted, they might still be raw about him leaving Fratton Park, but any mention of it this late in the day might just sound like pleas of a clingy ex-girlfriend. One who spends their time trying to figure out your password on Facebook or making effigies of you from toenails clippings and cat hair. You know the sort.
To give them credit, Grant’s men didn’t start like a team whose soul had been clawed out of them. Despite twanging a wayward ball into touch from the kick-off- to a chorus of groans and cheers- they opened with some purpose. Plenty of huffing and puffing, as well as some gun-ho stuff in the final third. Without suggesting they- at any point- had our number, they did at least have us creaking at the back. If only momentarily. Prior to Crouch nodding in the opener on thirty minutes, the game’s best chance fell at the feet of a man whose last successful escapades in front goal was half a decade ago. For Tottenham Hotspur, no less. Giddy with the sense of occasion, Michael Brown fluffed his lines with unerring proficiency. His reaction to the chance appeared to be performed by someone playing underwater. Such was his speed of movement, or lack thereof. If that wasn’t a sound byte for their campaign- then the body-count which piled up in the remainder of the game certainly was. (Actually, what might best sum up Pompey’s season is the image of a helicopter filled to the roof with bank notes, jettisoning into the sea in a ball of flames). Hreidarsson’s looked particularly nasty- apparently those in the vicinity could hear his Achilles go. It sounded like a gun-shot. Eesh.
At this point, though, the task was already a good’en. Kranjcar’s eighth of the season made damn sure of that; responding like a wasp as the ball pinballed its way into the six yard box. Bargain of any season, that one.
Kyle Walker looks like a good sort. There maybe still be a spot of dampness behind the ears, but he showed plenty of courage while bombarding into the opposition half; during our best spells, Walker could be found lurking somewhere with intent. Defensively suspect? Perhaps, but which full-back of that breed isn’t. Even Roberto Carlos had trouble remembering the finer points of his job description when the blood was rushing. He was too busy trying to score from the corner flag.
This particular mission complete, then. Spurs go trundling on, bulging with self-assurance going into the final string of games. Even the April death march doesn’t resonate with the same note of terror it may’ve done at the season’s start. And so it shouldn’t. The squad’s rebuilding- Defoe announced yesterday he’d be fit for the weekend- and those who’re filling in are doing mighty good turns. It’s all coming together nicely. And at just the right time.
*Deep breath*
Seven games to go.
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