Every Game is a Big Game

If Tottenham want to be considered a big club, they must start acting like one.

Every game Tottenham Hotspur play is a big game. That is the level they are at now. Every match they play will be scrutinised and analysed like never before. If you want to be a top club in England and Europe this is the price you pay, and Daniel Levy, Mauricio Pochettino and the players need to realise that quickly.

We can take a look at the rotating of players for Champions League fixtures later, but firstly let's go back to the summer and the recruitment and selling policy.

Pochettino has always stated that he ideally wants players with Premier League experience, however Spurs let two player's leave the club who have heaps of that experience Pochettino craves. Now Ryan Mason and Nacer Chadli are not world-beaters by any stretch of the imagination, and some will say that the club received a good price for the pair of them, but in this day and age of the Premier League being the land of milk and honey, the difference between receiving £5m extra here or there is irrelevant. What Spurs lost in the summer were two players Pochettino could trust to do a solid job for him week in week out when required.

In the squad Mason and Chadli were replaced by Georges-Kevin N'Koudou and Moussa Sissoko.  One player with zero Premier League experience, and one who has played in the Premier League but to no great success.  Now Sissoko is a player who was mocked by his own fans and other supporters whilst at Newcastle...but he did have a good Euro's.  However if Spurs were desperate for him then his asking price was always £30m, and they could have bought him straight after Euro 2016 to integrate him properly. But no, Spurs waited until deadline day and needed another player for the squad, after selling Mason and Chadli and Sissoko was signed for that £30m.  Is Sissoko better than Mason? Not in my opinion.

Now we move to Vincent Janssen who after two good seasons in Dutch football was signed to be Harry Kane's back up/alternative.  Janssen was a gamble at £18m. Surely now was the time to make a statement, back in the Champions League with money to burn after the TV deal. Spurs could offer Champions League football, the Premier League and all it's trappings and being based in London.  But no, Spurs again too busy caught up in this project missed their chance.  I won't be too harsh on Janssen, but he doesn't look ready at all to being for a club which is trying to win the league, which Spurs surely are trying to do.  Yes Janssen tries hard, and he looks like he's trying hard, but he looks a fish out of water. I fully expect him to be somewhere on loan this time next year.

Now the befuddlement of our Champions League campaign.  Firstly Wembley, yes it's lovely seeing 90,000 fans at a "home" game. But these weren't home matches, they were played at a neutral stadium.  Immediately our home advantage was tossed away, and over the years I've seen plenty of European nights at the Lane were we've intimidated and beaten better sides on paper...Porto 92 and Inter 2010 spring to mind immediately.  However the club in their wisdom saw the £ signs over what would actually benefit the footballing aspect of the club.  As Keith Burkinshaw once said "there used to be a football club over there".

With that home advantage eradicated the two home games played so far were on a level playing field. The first game against Monaco, the occasion got to the players and they were out-played by the better side.  Would that have happened at White Hart Lane...highly unlikely. The second match against Bayer Leverkusen in front of the highest attendance for an English club for a "home" game, Spurs were terrible.  Really bad. This is partly due to Spurs being too reliant on Harry Kane. Yes he's a great player, but he can't do it all on his own. Kane was unavailable, so Spurs had the inconsistent Son and the afore-mentioned Janssen.

Which led to a must-win game in Monaco to continue our Champions League game, now yes the game came in a tough run of fixtures.  However the league title cannot be lost nor won in November, but you can be knocked-out of the Champions League in November.  It was inexplicable that Spurs went into that game with only one of the best defence in the Premier League playing in it.  You do rest our best players in key games. As I said before at this level every game is a big game.  Spurs got their just desserts last night, Pochettino should have seen from the 1st meeting that Monaco were now mugs, and could not take liberties with his team selection.

The Champions League campaign has been a shambles from start to finish, from the giving away of "home" advantage to the poor recruitment in the summer, to the rotation policy during the competition.  If Spurs are going to treat the Champions League as an afterthought when they finally achieve to qualify, what is the point in qualifying at all?

Book Review - The Rise & Fall of the Miraculous Vespas by David F. Ross

This is the 2nd book in a trilogy from an author I first knew via @bythemins and for me it's even better than his The Last Day's of Disco.

Now I'm going to make you acutely aware that I'm neither Scottish nor was around going to gigs and disco-ing in the early 1980s.  In fact as a 7 year old when Boy George came on Top of the Pops singing "Karma Chameleon" I asked my parents if he was a man or a lady, I'm not sure they gave me an answer.

However David is such an excellent wordsmith and story-teller that I was transported into an era and place I have no knowledge of, I was there living it.  In fact as David likes to see me as some kind of Cockney barrow boy (I'm actually from Essex!) I thought I may struggle with the dialect in the book....people south of the border don't panic, it's easy to pick up and understand, even for us stupid southerners!

The title says it all.  I won't give too much away, but the Vespas get to the very top of the pop world and then drop away. Pretty much a rise and fall. Oh there you go. Spoiler.

Obviously David goes into more detail than that, and some of the character's despite having some peculiar habits are all very believable.

I cannot recommend this book highly enough, and cannot wait for the 3rd instalment.

David is such an excellent writer, that I'm prepared to let his awful choice of football team to support pass without comment.

Keep up the good work!

Concord Rangers - One Year On.

It pull's you in.  It's infectious.  What is that I hear you ask?  It's the Concord Rangers spirit and it can't be explained.  I've been following the Beachboys for a year now, and I bloody love them.  I didn't expect it to happen when I turned up a year ago wanting to interview people at the club. I thought 'well I'll have a nice day here, write a piece and bugger off" - that didn't happen.  I was made so welcome by everyone from the chairman down to the programme editor, I couldn't just walk away...so I didn't.

So one year what has changed?  Well the manager has left, half the team which played on that cold January afternoon has moved on...but do you know something Concord still find themselves roughly in the same league position.  So on one hand loads has changed, but on the other nothing has changed.  Concord are still holding their own and rubbing dirt in the faces of their so called "bigger rivals."

Concord always find themselves at the prey of these "bigger rivals" but the club will not be denied.  Two weeks ago their best defender this season Adam Bailey-Dennis was snapped up by Hemel Hempstead, 24 hours before a key match away to Bath City. Adam was a rock in that defence, that's why Hemel signed him. He was winning the player of the season award, well he was in my head. Now the initial reaction when you see that news filter through is "Oh for fuck's sake." It's human nature.   Let's think of a parallel, it's like Winston Reid joining Liverpool a day before West Ham play Everton away.  It's a kick in the teeth.  Most teams would crumble. Not Concord.  They only bloody won at Bath and they kept a clean sheet.  There it is again that spirit.  You can't buy it, it's just ingrained as soon as you walk through the door.

But what make's that spirit?  It's everyone involved.  Concord is one big family. You've got Jayne cooking up a variety of meals for the players and staff, (I won't mention the quality) then there is Tony and Brian at the gate always making everyone welcome come rain or shine. First impressions count and if you've got a miserable sod at the gate when you walk in well you might think about not coming back. That's just a few of them, but you've got unsung people doing loads of jobs not just on a matchday but during the week making things tick - Cliff, Toby, Jack Jnr, Chris...the list goes on and on.  Everyone is pulling in the right direction...how can we make the club enjoyable for everyone? Of course results matter on the football pitch, but Concord Rangers is much more than that 90 minutes on a Saturday afternoon.

There have been up's and down's along the way in the year I've followed the club. Danny Cowley who impressed me so much with his management style on my first day at the club has moved onto manage Braintree Town.  Danny won't stop at Braintree, he's going higher and it was great to share time with him, in what I'm sure he will look back fondly on when he's famous "as a great time at Concord". Tony Stokes who was always happy to chat after a game, and made me feel like I'd known him years.  It was a sad day when I interviewed him after he had confirmed his move to local rivals Canvey Island.  The club-house isn't the same without his little son Chase kicking a ball around.  But like life, non-league football moves on fast.

The love of Concord has always led to me sponsoring a player this season, and I like to think that there is no coincidence that Steve Cawley is having one of his best goal-scoring seasons due to me sponsoring his kit.  I can't wait to be thanked when he win's the golden boot in the league!

For a freelance writer like myself, a non-league club is a godsend.  I encourage any budding writers to knock on the door of their local team.  You'll be surprised how much they're willing to let you do.  In the last year, I've interviewed every player in the squad, in fact some of them a couple of times.  These players are dying to be interviewed (well I like to think so!) I've found out so much about them and their lives away from the football pitch.  Could I call them friends, I like to think so.
Now at home games I find myself in the press box doing match reports for the official club website, I'm living out my teenage dreams.  I'm very thankful to everyone at the club for making me so welcome.

#YAMC

We are Red, We are White, We are Danish Dynamite (FootballPink)

Please see my latest article

http://footballpink.net/2015/11/12/we-are-red-we-are-white-we-are-danish-dynamite/

Whatever Happened to Running Fast?

When was the last time? I bet you can't remember. You get to a certain age and you don't want to do it anymore, it's never as good as when you were younger. In fact at your age does anyone do it anyway. Didn't you love to run fast? I fucking loved it. I pelted it everywhere. From the age of six to sixteen...yes sixteen, I legged it all over the place. The early 80s in Essex were certainly different to nowadays. An eight year old could easily go to the local shop and buy groceries, without the fear of being nabbed by the local weirdo. Saying that in my area there was one strange guy. He was an old guy called Pinkie, well that wasn't his real name. He lived in a pink bungalow, which backed onto our local school playing fields.  The myth around the school was that he used to shag his dog in the back garden, however I spent hours on those playing fields waiting and not once did he.

When I was sent on these errands by my mum, I used to love the challenge, you see I had a digital watch with a stopwatch function. This I felt was cutting edge in 1983, I was part of a technological break through. I timed everything. From how long it took me to get dressed in the morning, which does take longer if you're looking at a watch all the time, and these trips to the shops. I'd put on my trainers, do my cagoule up tight, put the list in my back pocket, start the stopwatch and I was off. Pelting it through the streets with one goal in my mind, I must beat last week's time. The watch would not stop until I was in the shop, invariably I'd run directly into old Mrs Knight from number 76 or be told to stop running by the security guard who in my mind was at least 87. With my bags loaded, I'd start my stopwatch again and off I'd go. The return journey was always slower, and 99% of the time curtailed by a stitch. Now when you're 8years old...a stitch freaks the shit out of you. In fact do stitches still exist in adulthood? You watch football nowadays and the players run round for ninety minutes, and the commentators never say "Aguero looks to be suffering from a stitch" but then again I suppose they're not running around with a crusty loaf and a jar of Nutella in a Co-Op carrier bag.

As I moved into secondary school I was still legging it into school. Imagine that legging it to a school. I must have looked a right fanny. The stopwatch was no longer, not the last time that over-use of the wrist area would affect my life. However I wasn't as stringent with my timings as I moved into my teens, I was quite happy to record timings by minutes. It would take on average eight minutes to run to school, did any friends join me in this...don't be ridiculous. They thought I was to coin an 80s phrase a Joey Deacon. But I loved running fast. The buzz I got was electrifying.

Now my Dad was a man of very few words when I was growing up, but I remember him saying to me "Don't show any encouragement in athletics at school". I thought that's odd, my Dad was a good sportsman growing up. He'll tell you a tired anecdote about Peter Taylor (ex Spurs, Palace and England) if you're lucky to spend time with him. So it's summer term and it's the 100 metre trials at school, with my Dad's advice in my head conflicting my thoughts...the PE teacher Mr Lee said "on your marks...GO". On a side note, as soon as I left school, I played in the same local cricket team as Mr Lee and he went to me "you can call me Howard". I felt like a boss. So back to the race...everything my Dad said to me I took to heart and abided too. So I didn't run as fast as I could. You know what?  I still bloody won...all those years of running fast everywhere had paid off, but as I was to find out at a cost.

After school had finished the athletics team had training, now our athletics training was called "sick squad". There is no-way it goes on now, it would be fucking out-lawed. We did everything 100m, 200m, 400m, 800m, relays.  You were not allowed to stop until you felt, or was sick.  It was barbaric. I was doing a lot of sport at that time, and I ended up getting Osgood-Schlatter disease (google it!), all down to what I believe was mental athletics training.  So if you're reading this...fuck you Howard!

Into the early 90s now, and myself and my good friend Richard played a game called Kick Off 2 on the Atari ST.  What a game that was.  Anyways, we'd play it round each others houses until get this 11pm on Fridays and Saturdays. We really were the wild ones. Now it's 11pm at night you've left your mates house, what can I do? You got it I ran home.  Not just jogged, but bloody pelted it. Every other weekend, busting my guts out. But as I found out the rules had changed.  No-one had told me. You couldn't sprint on the streets as a 15 year old at 11pm night. Well that's what the police officer told me, when he pulled over and asked me what I was up to. "I'm just going home, I can normally do it in 4 minutes." The policeman didn't seem overly interested in the timings "Where have you been though son?" By this time, I was breathing pretty heavy, I suppose that's what you get when you try hanging around the cool girls, and they blow smoke on you. "I...I...I was playing Kick Off 2 round my mates house".  The police officer looked perplexed "But that doesn't explain why you were running fast."  Well I said "that's what I like doing". He said "Don't." Well you know what, I have not run fast in public since....so Mr Policeman if you're reading this...fuck you too!

What is stopping someone running really fast in the street?  Why should there be a cut off?  As I walked to the shops today, it crossed my mind, should I sprint into town today. A 40yr old man running in the streets, should not be seen as anything peculiar, maybe he is just trying to break a personal record.

The Death of the Yugoslavian National Football Team

Yugoslavia were edged out of the 1990 World Cup at the quarter final stage on penalties by an Argentinean side inspired by their goalkeeper Sergio Goychochea. Despite this loss the tournament as a whole was a source of great optimism for Yugoslavian football.

Just three years before Italia 90, the Yugoslav's with a team bereft of it's best players swept to glory in the U20 World Championships in Chile.  The Yugoslav Football Federation took the tournament lightly, and in fact informed future stars, Sinisa Mihajlovic, Vladimir Jugovic and Alen Boksic to stay at home as they would gain more experience playing in the National league.

As Yugoslavia cruised through the group stages, Red Star Belgrade decided that they could do with Robert Prosinecki for a UEFA Cup tie against Bruges.  The players protested to FIFA, and Joao Havelange, then the organisation's chairman intervened to keep Prosinecki in Chile.  He responded by curling in a last minute free kick winner against Brazil in the quarter final.  It was later voted the goal of the tournament.

Yugoslavia went on to beat East Germany in the semi final, and then West Germany in the final.  A side containing Robert Jarni, Igor Stimac, Robert Prosinecki, Zvonimir Boban, Davor Suker and Predrag Mijatovic had gained valuable tournament experience.  These young players were now thrust into qualification for the 1992 European Championships, and joined a squad of experienced established players such as Dragan Stojkovic, Dejan Savicevic, Srecko Katanec and Darko Pancev.

In the qualifying rounds Yugoslavia were impressive, winning seven of eight games, scoring 24 goals and finishing above eventual tournament winners Denmark in the process.
Darko Pancev scored 10 goals in qualifying, to cap a great year for him as he won the European Golden Boot and his club side Red Star won the 1991 European Cup. Yugoslavia looked well set to challenge the best nations in Europe for the 1992 European Championships.

The issue was despite the success on the pitch, Yugoslavia was a nation divided. Tensions had been rising ever since the death of Tito in 1980. Without the strength and ironwill of a dictator whom had successfully challenged Stalin in the past, there began an animosity between the varying ethnic groups within Yugoslavia.  Protests broke out in the Croatian region, and there were growing tensions between Serbs and Albanians which eventually led to a miners strike in Kosovo in 1989.
The consequences of these tensions did not go unfelt on the football pitch.  In what was meant to be a pre-tournament friendly ahead of Italia 90, a 2-0 home defeat to the Dutch was overshadowed by the disruptive acts of a largely Croat crowd, who booed throughout the singing of the Yugoslavian national anthem, taunted those Yugoslav players not of Croatian descent, and cheered on the Netherlands; many waved the Dutch flag due to it's similarity to the Croatian tricolour.

This was far from the only football related incident instigated by growing tensions within Yugoslavia, and indeed, then current international Zvonimir Boban missed the friendly with the Netherlands due a suspension earned for kicking a policeman during a Dinamo Zagreb - Red Star Belgrade match which had descended into a full blown riot.  Ultras from both sides antagonised each other to such an extent that security became unable to keep them apart and fighting boiled over onto the pitch.

By 1991 Yugoslavia was fragmenting.  Macedonia was able to peacefully declare independence from Yugoslavia, as too was Slovenia, however in Croatia what erupted was a bloody war that lasted until 1995.  Yugoslavia was falling apart both on and off the football pitch, as the nations of Croatia, Slovenia and Macedonia left the Yugoslav Football Federation, and so did the players. The riot at the Maksimir stadium had rang the death knolls for the Yugoslavian football league also, which was eventually dissolved in 1991-1992 season with the withdrawal of all Slovenian and Croatian teams; the Dinamo-Red Star match had made it obvious that already fierce competitive rivalries, aggravated by racial tensions, made for an untenable situation in the league.

A month before the 1992 Euro's in Sweden were set to commence, war erupted in Bosnia, between Republic of Bosnia and Herzegovina, the Croatian community in Bosnia and the Republika Srpska which was made up of Bosnian Serbs.  The war was to rage onto 1995.
Just ten days before the European Championships, the Yugoslavian national side was in tatters, the golden generation of players had been dismantled along with the confederation, and following United Nations sanctions, what was left of the side was banned from competing.

What if the war hadn't happened?  What if Yugoslavia could have put out a midfield as talented as Stojkovic, Prosinecki, Katanec and Boban?  Well Srecko Katanec was in no doubt.."we would have crushed the world." Perhaps, but instead they had to watch on as Denmark took their place and won the 1992 tournament.

PELE BROKE MY ARSE...and other childhood goals

As my 40th birthday looms ever nearer day by day, I often try to sit back and wonder where those forty years have disappeared to.  However I cannot sit back, as the footballer Pele broke my arse...let me explain.

As a young boy growing up on a council estate on what can only be described as the shittest island in the world...Canvey, I needed a release, I needed to look elsewhere for my dreams.  Those dreams were found invariably on the television.  What things attracted a naive ten year old, was it the cheeky grin of one of Bruce's dolly dealers on Play your Cards right, unlikely.  Maybe now if one of them smiled on the television, I'd think "cor she's a bit of alright"...but back then it was football goals, and the more spectacular the better.  I'd see a goal and I'd want to replicate it the next day at school or on a Sunday morning where I was the hot-shot for the local team.  If you wanted a goal scored, than I was the man.  Well 10 year old boy..but you understand the sentiment.

Back in 1984 I was a gangly git.  All skin and bones, my Grandad used to call me a Biafran.  No idea what he meant.  Looking back it's highly racist, but these were simpler times.  As I grew older my body shape moved round the African continent and I was being called an Ethiopian in my early teens, this was done to my face, or more hurtfully on my schoolbooks by some of the older kids.  Could the fuckers spell Ethiopian then, could they fuck.  I knew how to. I had the last laugh.  Anyway the gangly-ness...god I could head a ball.  Get that ball in the penalty area and I would head it.  I towered over kids my own age.  I was 1984's Peter Crouch.  Then I saw this goal, and I realised I didn't need to head the ball in the air.





What a fucking ridiculous header.  I lapped it up.  I thought I have to try this.  When the ball comes in the box, no defender is going to think someone is going to head that.  Too right they didn't.  It was a fortnight after seeing this goal, that the opportunity arose.  The ball was dribbled across the box and I flung myself at the ball head first...my head connected with the ball..my face connected with the mud which always smelt of shit on Canvey, but also a defender's boot connected with my face. I had a lump the size of Biafra on my head, but I didn't care.  I had scored a goal just like Andy Gray's. In my head I was a legend, to everyone else I was a prick who headed the ball one foot off the floor.

My heading was beyond renown, but I needed to add more to my game.  If the ball came into the penalty area then most of the opposition would think he's going to head it.  Well I needed another string to my bow, the last thing I wanted to be was predictable.  Whilst watching Sportsnight one morning before school.  Yes before school.  Taped on a betamax video player the size of a smartcar. I still remember the day my Dad brought that videoplayer home from work..I'm sure we had to open the back window to get it in the house.  Anyways, Mark Hughes scored this volley, well it's not a volley, I'm not sure how you describe it to this day.  Here it is.




Just imagine the other kid's faces when I pull that bad boy off on a Sunday morning. Off to the back garden I went to practice.  Now the problem with having a younger sister is they aren't much good for having proper games of football, but they are marginally ok for throwing the ball in the air so you can practice your volleys.  Try as hard as I could, I just could not pull of the "Hughes volley". Nevermind when the moment arises in a future match I'm sure I'll be fine I thought.  You know what happened, I never tried it.  That ball flew into the box plenty of times, but I just headed everything.  Not once did I leap sideways in the air and take off a-la Sparky.

As I grew older, the other kids started to catch up with my height.  There were now plenty of contenders to be the gangliest kid in the area.  In fact I don't think I was anymore.  I was an also ran. I was still deadly in the penalty box, but headers now were very much 50/50.  Around this time I was introduced to the film Escape to Victory.  What a movie.  Even now I could quite happily sit down and watch that, whilst ignoring the gaping plot holes in the movie.  When you get to the age of about 13/14 you're basically a berk, who will try anything to impress his mates.  As you look back you think why the fuck did I even try that, I could have done some real damage, but at the time you want to be the man.  Pele scored a bicycle kick in Escape to Victory after suffering a heart attack.  It was the stuff of legends.  Me and my mates fucking loved that goal.  So much so that we used to practice it on a concrete playground at lunchtimes.




You see when that music kicks in.  In the playground we would take turns in humming that music as one of us practiced doing that bicycle kick.  What a bunch of twats.  Have you ever landed on concrete on your lower back say five times in thirty minutes.  It hurts.  But we didn't think of the long-lasting damage it would do.  I vividly remember one of the group, pulling off that bicycle kick whilst eating a cream doughnut.  What a man.  Last I heard he was still living at home with his parents, but what a man.
I know what you're all wondering, did I manage the bicycle kick.  Of course I did but to, as I found out, irrepairable damage to my arse, or what the medical profession call the coccyx.  As I moved to my later teens, I found that anytime I bent over for a lengthy period of time...stop sniggering, my lower back just seized up.  "Aah this is just a twinge"  I thought it will soon pass.  Well it never did, and when you've spent a week in bed at the age of 20 with a bad back, you think fucking hell I've done well to get to nearly 40.

Around the age of 25, I was still playing Sunday football, but by now the back was causing constant gip with any physical activity, my goalscoring days were a thing of the past, and I was now an adequate (in my head) left back.  To everyone else I was hopeless.  I didn't enjoy playing, it was tiresome.  I was playing in a defence which generally was still pissed from the night before and in front of the worst goalkeeper I've ever seen in my life.  Sundays were a chore.

Then a goal happened which took me back to my childhood.  Last game of the season.  Last minute of a game his side needed to win to get into the Champions League...Rivaldo did this




I was a man inspired.  I thought there is no-way I can manage this in the opposition's penalty box, but surely I can pull out the bicycle kick when defending for old time's sake.  When you get a bit wiser, you can manufacture circumstances so they go in your favour.  So I did it.  The ball fell to me thirty yards from our own goal, which I was facing...I headed the ball up in the air, and then pulled off the Rivaldo bicycle kick, all the time humming the Pele music in my head.  I landed on my arse and got carried off, never to play football again.

So there you have it kids, don't try and replicate your heroes it all only ends up in pain and misery.