Tottenham Prepare For Their Finest Hour

The observant amongst you will have noticed that I have not paid this blog much attention of late. The old excuses flow easily off the tongue; work's hectic, people to see, places to go, but the truth is, my silence comes from the dreadful, all consuming fear that has plagued me for weeks. The fear that comes with every hard fought point, the fear of the giggling, euphoric maniac jumping up and down inside me with every passing game, the fear of daring to believe that maybe, just maybe, this is it. Last night, as the strains of "Que sera sera" echoed around the Lane, I gave up. The beast within cannot be contained by good sense, experience or civility any longer. I will admit it, I believe!

The Tottenham I watched tonight were superb. Not because of the result nor all the cute passes; the incisive cross field balls and delicate flicks. Instead it was the Tottenham team that started the second half that gave me an incredible and irrepressible feeling of hope. We began the game looking lacklustre and clueless. The passing was slapdash, there was no passion, no desire, no drive to win. The midfield was wide open allowing Fulham onto us and they fully deserved their lead at the break. Modric was guilty of missing tackless and being caught out of position leaving Palacios looking shaky and the defence exposed. The natives were growing restless, howling with rage at every bottled header and shirked second ball. As the whistle blew for the end of the first half, the chorus of whistles and boos drowned out the applause of the visitors.

Old Tottenham would have left the field heads bowed. They would have whinged they were being unfairly treated by the fans and would have played the next 45 as though they had been hard done by. Indeed, the charicature of 'Arry so many of you are so keen to drive out of the Lane with your pitchforks would have sat tight, stubborn in the knowledge Crouchie would 'do a job'. Well douse your torches and put down your scythes my heathen peasant comrades. 'Arry risked the wrath of Niko and BAE by throwing on Thudd and Bentley after half time. When Charlie hobbled off to join our injury ward (now being managed by the natural disaster branch of the Red Cross) 'Arry threw on Pav. This was just the kind of gamble that exposes managers to extreme criticism when they backfire. Decisions like that take guts and for all our wonderful ability, it is guts and graft that wins trophies.

I won't bore you with individual player reviews as I'm sure you were all with me in the stands or screaming "Yido Yido" at your TV screens. However I will throw out two quick synopses. Firstly, the 'Zamora for England' lobby can sit down at the back along with the Bent fan club. Fair play, the guy slotted in a great instinctive finish but Bassong had him in his pocket for the rest of the game. Throughout the second half Zamora was out jumped and out muscled by our Cameroonian youngster. Such was the effectiveness of Bassong's defending that the usually placid Zamora ended up lashing out in sheer frustration and getting himself (and inexplicably our man) booked. Then there was Eidur, the 'striker who doesn't score goals'. Two in less than two games says differently. Yet even more impressive was his linking of the midfield and, in the second half, his distribution in the hole behind the two front men. He looks in exceptional shape, brushing off tackles and holding up play without breaking a sweat. Before the ball even reaches him he seems to know where the next pass is going, kind of like an Icelandic version of X-men's Dr Charles Xavier. On top of this, the guy is a veteran of the domestic and European competitions, something that shows in the intelligence of every run and pass. Come the end of the season, the Iceman's cool head may have a huge influence both on and off the field.

Every week seems to be another blow for our boys in Lillywhite. Woody, King, Lennon, Modric, Huddlestone, Defoe; the spine of our team, have all spent long periods on the sidelines. Yet when a man drops, another steps proudly into his place in a style matched only by communis...sorry 'The People's Republic of' China. I can't be the only one wondering whether this Lennon bloke was actually any good in the first place. Down to the 'bare bones', playing in dreadful conditions on rubbish pitches with players in unfamilar positions and still the steam train rumbles on.

The big three as well as the clash with City will be huge for this club, but I finally feel ready to scrap with the big boys. Rather than going a goal down, curling up into foetal position and letting the kicks rain in, this Tottenham are straight back up, spitting blood in their opponents face and screaming "F*cking come on then!!". As ever, the support last night was literally unbelievable and when Eidur scored even the Paxton was rocking. I left with my hands trembling, my voice hoarse and a bigger headache than John Terry's publicist. I'm not saying we'll get top 4 this year, I'm not even over-confident about the FA cup. However after all the years of hurt, I finally feel we are laying the foundations of a club we can all be proud of.

InArryWeTrust