A global Tottenham Hotspur podcast and viewpoint, by the fans for the fans.
by Aaron Wolfe
Here’s what I know about Tottenham Hotspur Football Club today: Absolutely nothing.
Nothing. Not a goddam thing.
Here’s what you know: Maybe a tiny bit more, maybe less, I don’t know. But I’ll tell you this, whatever you think, you’re probably wrong. And if you’re right, congrats, you just stumbled into a lucky opinion.
On Monday I got out of the Seven Sisters Station for the first time in my life, walked confidently in the wrong direction for about five minutes and then finally righted myself and headed off up the High Road towards Mecca (and Javad, who had my ticket). Which basically sums up my first experience at the lane.
Not that it was bad, or that we didn’t win, or that I was, in any way conceivable, disappointed. But because I am now and forever completely lost when it comes to Tottenham Hotspur Football Club.
Everything I knew, I can no longer believe. And, by the way, everything you think you know, I’d suggest forgetting it.
Here’s what I thought: “You can see the game better at the ground.” Maybe. If you’re a genius with eagle-eyed vision that hasn’t had a pint in about fifteen years. From where I sat, the emotions, the beer, the sheer wonder of it all made the whole thing feel like a fever dream — the kind where all you see is a series of images and then suddenly you’re sweating and it’s over and you think “my god, did that just happen? Did Dembélé just fight his way from the corner and then slot home for the second time in as many games?”
Which leads me to: “Television allows you to see the intricacies of the game. The multiple angles providing a subtlety and access unparalleled.” Nope. Television doesn’t tell you one desperately important thing: how fast the game is played. I can’t stress this enough. If you’ve ever said in frustration “oh what was he thinking!” you know nothing about football. There is no thinking. There is no TIME to think! The game is played so fast that I was out of breath just watching it.
“You have to go to the lane over and over again so you can see the truth about our players. Season ticket holders truly understand the team.” Nope. For the entire game a lovely gentleman sitting behind me moaned about Lamela’s every touch. I watched the highlights. Lamela and Walker were excellent. Lamela was strong. He was creative. But, honestly, I didn’t see it. Neither did the pleasant gentleman in row 11.
“Fresh eyes sees things that the jaded miss.” Not a chance. The amount I missed because I was thinking about how freaking amazing it was that I was at the Lane would fit in a book that the fat man from row 11 probably wouldn’t ever read because he’d be too busy moaning about how Lamela never “DOES ANYTHING WITH THE BALL!”
I have nothing smart to say about anything after this game. Except one thing:
We won and we don’t seem to want to lose. We won and Harry Kane scored. We won and Dembélé scored. We won and Alli scored. We won and Alderweirald patrolled our half with a tireless menace that made me wonder if we ever had a defender before him. We won and Danny Rose was flipped into the air like a rag doll and I literally wondered if he was dead while the fat man in row 11 moaned about Lamela. We won and I sang songs and jumped up and down. We won and we laughed as the Villa fans sang “You’re nothing special we lose every week.” We won and Eriksen doesn’t have legs so much as he has these weird appendages that allow him to do things that seem physically impossible.
We won, and I believed the fat man in row 11 more than my own eyes. I thought Lamela was a bit shit. That he didn’t do quite enough. Until he did. We won, and when they pulled one back I honestly thought that we were going to end the game 2-2. And if ANYONE had offered me a million pounds and said, “okay 60 minutes have gone we need to make a substitution, what do you think?” I would have stared at them as though they were asking me the best way to fly to mars.
Here’s what else I know:
I drank a Kronenberg beforehand and now I feel compelled to only drink Kronenberg on match day. “That’s so Spursy” should mean being strong in defense, clinical in front of goal, and passionate in the stands.
And, most importantly, I know that this game is not just about glory. It is about family. It’s about getting on the tube at King’s Cross and seeing a young father with his two children who are all wearing Spurs tops and me thinking “I’m not alone! I’m not the only one. This is happening now, to me and to so many others! And we’re all in it together!”
And, on Thursday I get to do it all over again. COYS
About the author:
Aaron Wolfe is a screenwriter, storyteller, film editor, occasional podcaster, and proud dad from Boston