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April 2002 24.4.02 Arsenal 2 West Ham (and Ipswich) 0
Arsenal 2 Tottenham 1 I’ve thought about this a lot over the years and I’ve come the conclusion that the difference between Arsenal supporters and their Tottenham counterparts is this; Spurs fans always expect to win something and Arsenal fans, cynics, realists, pessimists, call them what you will, expect nothing more than a bit of commitment, a lot of fight and a bit of pride. One of the problems for some Arsenal supporters this season has been the up and down ‘character’ of the side. In the domestic league and cups, particularly in the last month, they have looked awesome, whilst, all too often in Europe they have been, well, ropy. But with the return of a semblance of a defence, the shape of the team has gone from flaccid to rock hard, and the spirit and pride that is some much a part of being an Arsenal supporter has come flooding back. We’ve spent most of the season in a state of confusion, each performance makes us veer from castigating the team to praising it to the skies. The truth, lies somewhere in the middle. Players, who a month ago, we detested, are now fully sung heroes. Spurs supporters, as sung by the Clock End, may have, ‘got their Tottenham’ back, but it looks like we have might got our Gunners back also. (Before we get all mushy, the Juventus game was still a bloody disgrace.) There were many wonderful cameo performances today: Henry’s running, Ljungberg’s anticipation, Edu’s broadening vision (and he tackles back well) Lauren’s all round game (OK we’ve changed our mind about him) Wiltord’s strength and movement (though not that oil tanker turning circle he still seems fond of- and we still think he cost a lot of money) Seaman’s enduring ability, Tony and Sol’s budding double act and beyond everything the wonderful advertisement for football as supernal poetry as practised by Dennis Bergkamp. It’s truly a pleasure to watch a player move into that exhalted pantheon; Pele, Maradona, Zidane, Perry Groves. But let’s not get too carried away, this was after all, only Tottenham. An old, miserable looking side, the screwed up faces of Sherwood, Sherringham and Poyet, they looked like old performing animals that had been at Gerry Cottle’s circus for most of their useful lives. You just knew that once their legs packed up, probably on the hour, that they would resort to kicking, tripping, moaning and that most famous of Spurs attributes; outright cheating. This was a horrible, nervous game for most of the Gooners. Having been given a distant glimpse of a glint of silverware, we knew that sooner or later someone was going to snatch it away. But not this ragged mob, surely. The Clock End singing, ‘are you Tottenham in disguise?’ was one of the highlights of the afternoon. Spurs legitimate tactic was closing the Arsenal down and not letting settle at all on the ball. Their illegitimate tactic was to hamstring Vieira. Sherringham, Sherwood and Poyet went into the book (them three again) with only a bit of Bergkamp petulance as a reply yellow. Despite Arsenal’s overwhelming possession there was very little that was clear cut. Bergkamp floated a couple and Freddy had a neat one go wide and another saved. It was when Bergkamp unravelled the Spurs defence with a pass of aching precision that Freddy was able to run onto it and slide the ball on, just taking the merest deflection off Keller’s studs. The ball, quite happy to be bobbling around in the spring sunshine took an aeon to wander across the goal then just skip inside the post. You wouldn’t believe the noise when that one went in. They’ve heard that one in the Stretford End. With the important goal tucked away and Spurs looking as threatening as Tony Blair does when he does his ‘hard look’ we could concentrate of the really important issues of the day; namely playground violence and the settling of old scores. In lieu of Teddy Sherringham actually dying in agony on the pitch, I’ll settle for him just being wound up. After his extraordinary interview in Friday’s newspapers where he basically exhorted his team mates to ‘win the game for Fergie’ (bet that motivated them) any kind of personal disaster or setback visited upon the sour one would have been very welcome. And when it came it was brilliant. You won’t this one on the telly or read about in the papers, but in the last minutes of the game Teddy and Sol both went for a 50-50 ball. Sol’s head was low and Sherringham’s foot was high. Teddy went for the head, spiteful non-human that he is and Sol, mild mannered soul, just rounded on him. Sixteen stone of a man pushed too far. And in the common parlance of the playground, Sherringham absolutely shit himself. A defining moment when the bully is shown to be nothing more than a mouth on a stick. If I live to be ninety, that’ll be up there with my favourite football memories that don’t actually involve football. (That and the StJohn’s Ambulance people tipping an injured Perry Groves off a stretcher. Whew. Two Perry mentions in one week.) The match bubbled away nicely until eight minutes from time when Poyet ran down a nothing ball, lost it, got involved with a encroaching Seaman, went down theatrically, got up pointed to the penalty and much to everyone’s dismay gave himself a penalty. One of the great things about live, real, being there football is that you see things that no TV, no sozzled journo ever sees. Unfortunately, a couple of weeks ago I was feet away from Pires’s leap and resultant knee jar. I saw the knee bend, wobble and lock all in one moment. I looked at a mate and we both mouthed ‘ligament’ at the same time. So you must trust me when I tell you that I saw the ‘penalty’ incident form an angle where there were no cameras and no reporters. I can tell you, THERE WAS NO PHYSICAL CONTACT. Seaman didn’t touch him. Bruce Willis may look like he’s decking people left right and centre, but he doesn’t. It’s a trick. Just like the penalty. Seaman jumped, Poyet jumped (and into the direction of Seaman) but there was daylight between them. The referee, a pantomime official of the worse kind did nothing. I was waiting for him to send Poyet off. Poyet held his head like a histrionic muppet, waggled his finger at the penalty spot and the referee as if emerging from a deep kip, unbelievably gave it. Sherringham is no fool (truly evil people aren’t) and his delivery from the spot was brilliant. Seaman guessed right but his fingers were just short. Five minutes to go. I’d almost forgotten what it’s like to feel physically sick at a game of football. Arsenal were like demons. Driving the ball forward with a intensity that was frightening. It was difficult to see what was going on in the North Bank penalty area but their was a shot, a lunge and then just a huge pile of bodies just in front of the Tottenham goal. I had bitten my nails almost to the elbow when the referee pointed to the penalty spot. Oh great, another penalty kick to decorate the sky with. Henry was receiving treatment, Edu was off, so who was going to take it? Lauren wouldn’t have been my choice, but he has a sensible head and I think I’ve seen him take a few for the Cameroons. His short run up was unsettling, but as his boot scuffed the ball and it left his foot no faster than a jogging tortoise, I thought, ‘Fuck it, there goes the season.’ I was just about to collapse into a Lauren hating heap when Kasey Keller (notably less hirsute than his Leicester days) slowly moved out of the way to let the ball in. And that, for me was the best bit of this season. The talismanic 2-1 score against the old enemy. The scenes at the end were just like when you win the league. Who knows? Perhaps it was a dress rehearsal. Man of the Match: Dennis Bergkamp.
Arsenal 2 West Ham (and Ipswich) 0 As a testament to our monumental laziness, how about two match reports in one? In truth there was much in common with these two games. Both had resolute visitors who defended and broke well. Both featured teams that at least looked like they were trying. Both had appalling stinky first half performances by the men in red and both were pant fillingly tense. Half time at the West Ham game was a glum affair. Kanoute already had one kicked off the line by Ashley Cole (a quick phone call home confirmed what we all knew; the ball was well over the line. Lucky us. There goes the ‘Get out of Jail Free’ card). And Arsenal, generally, looked a bit sorry. Henry, in particular, had wiped out most of the good work of the season by reverting to his former profession of circus juggler. I asked a mate who he would bring on to make a difference. He looked at me miserably and said, "Fucking Manchester United." Point taken. As with the Ipswich game the second half was a lot better. The crowd got loud and the Arsenal pressed in an intelligent, almost ‘English’ way; patient but with just a hint of barely controlled panic. It was gripping stuff. The clock at the Clock End appeared to be motoring toward the ninety. West Ham were solid and yet mobile and Arsenal were reduced to threading camels through the eyes of needles. Bergkamp went on a lovely run surrounded by claret and blue, slid a perfect ball forward that Ljungberg toe poked. It was definitely going wide but somehow crept in by the post. I’ve never had a throat explode before. It’s an interesting sensation. I’ve seen the bloke who was the Incredible Hulk do it with shirt sleeves, but to have ones own body parts do is a somewhat unsettling sensation. Highbury was rocking to the new Freddy song ("I LOVE YOU FREDDY COS YOU’VE GOT RED HAIR…etc) and the amount of noise was just making people smile. We weren’t really aware what was going on the pitch but Kanu was suddenly in a great position just to the side of the goal. And he always misses those ones. But somehow, lanky, spidery and uncoordinated, he flipped the ball up and waggled it in the direction of James. Goal. And that’s the last thing I remember for the next five minutes as the bloke in front of me, celebrating like a big flapping loony, caught me dead centre in the nuts with a meaty fist. Oh, the pain. After knuckling about eight gallons of tears from the eyes, the mists cleared and the old belisha’s had stopped throbbing, the game was nearly done. There was a definite atmosphere of delirium around Highbury. Three games to go and only need to win two. The luxury of going to Old Trafford and being able to lose 14-0. Unbelievable. Sometimes it’s just great to be a gooner. Man of the Match: (West Ham/Ipswich) Freddy
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