Postecoglou Poetry

Football provides us with an abundance of pleasurable soundscapes, but I think my favourite noise is formed when our away supporters celebrate a goal that’s been scored at the opposite end of the stadium.

At an opposing distance, it’s difficult to tell if the ball is cascading resplendently towards an empty net, or if, through a trick of perspective, the football will sail harmlessly wide. There is a second or two’s delay, and an anticipatory silence, until an isolated ripple at the back of the goal gives rise to an eruption of ecstasy.

Yes, this is really happening. Yes, James Maddison has scored again. And yes, Spurs are tearing apart Pep’s all-conquering City in their own back yard. They’ve dug a little hole, Deki’s stuck a flag in the ground, and Porro’s hanging off the halyard screaming at the top of his lungs like he’s just performed a last-ditch tackle. This is our territory, lads, and we’re not going anywhere.

Magnificent, wasn’t it? I know we’ve beaten them before, and it’s totally weird that we’ve become a bogey team for one of the greatest managers the world has ever seen. Nevertheless, this all felt different. It felt significant, because we did it our way. We did it Ange’s way.

I know what you’re going to say to me. You’re going to scream IPSWICH right into my stupid face, like you’re a deranged advocate of former Roman towns. You’ll show me a video on your phone that highlights Radu Dragusin trying to pass the ball out against a menacing Galatasaray side who were provoked into high-pressing lunacy.

Well, fine, that may be, but isn’t there something completely joyful about the way we try and go about things? I’ve always been a footballing romantic, and Ange’s alluring, belligerent style is surely seductive to even the most cold-hearted of Spurs supporters.

There’s a purity and innocence about the way we play, which doesn’t rely upon any tedious, Mourinho-esque shithousery. Rather than aspiring, like another north London club I know, to become the enfant terribles of the Premier League, we’re moulding into something altogether different, and more interesting. A breath of fresh air that needed to be blasted through White Hart Lane after a succession of murder-ball, anti-establishment, football terrorists.

I sometimes forget the last, dark days of Antonio Conte, as though the memories have been revoked from my mind in response to the trauma. It’s nevertheless worth briefly reflecting on how downright bad we were at playing football. We’d consigned to oblivion any semblance of a possession based game. We struggled to make the most basic passes. It was as though every semblance of technical ability, which had been hacked from our players, was lying on the pitch screaming for mercy, all in the name of becoming a more solid, pragmatic unit. It was desperate, hopeless dirge, occasionally punctuated by moments of brilliance from Kane or Son.

Now look at us. Passing moves flowing across the pitch, and players moving in poetical symmetry. At heart, I think this is what most football fans want. Don’t let social media fool you. It’s entertainment we look for. Winning isn’t everything.

Sure, there’s a fragility about us. But hasn’t there always been? Perhaps that’s written into the fabric of Tottenham. Doomed to be exciting, but undeniably flawed entertainers. Well. you know what? I’m cool with that.

Every club has an identity, and every manager has a philosophy. With big Ange, it feels like we’ve reached a degree of equilibrium. In fact, we’ve almost become a more Tottenhamy Tottenham.

The mellifluous gruffness with which Ange conducts his footballing orchestra isn’t for everyone, and I am well aware that he is a man with flaws, but to me, that makes him all the more admirable. I love that he defends the potential of our club, and that he doesn’t take any shit from an often patronising media who are always desperate for us to fail. I love that he’s wedded to a dangerous, ambitious style of play that forces our team to move the ball with such courage and ferocity. To be honest, he’s turning us into the team I’ve always hoped we could be.

There will be bumps in the road – of course there will – but I for one am willing to back this project to its inevitable conclusion, because days like Sunday? They don’t come around very often.