Derby hopes upset by ‘unscripted’ Spurs

WITH the sun splitting the trees for our penultimate matchday stroll around to our Home of Football on Saturday, it seemed as if the stage was set for a marvellous Derby day swansong.

Sadly Carrick, Davids, Keane and the rest of their Spurs counterparts hadn’t read the script!

Obviously, the fact that we only had half a team out couldn’t have helped. Thus, there was much consternation over Arsène’s decision to leave Henry, Fabregas and Eboué on the bench. In truth, Wenger was in a no-win situation, doing his best to balance the physical demands of two incredibly intense games over the course of four days, on an already over-stretched squad.

What I couldn’t fathom was why Dennis Bergkamp was missing, assuming he’s the one player who won’t be making the trip to El Madrigal. Personally, I would’ve preferred if Le Prof hadn’t monkeyed with a defence that’s performed so well in recent weeks. Additionally, young Manny Eboué adds so much fizz going forward, whereas without him we appeared to lack any width whatsoever.

Still, it should be no surprise that our performance looked a little leg weary, by comparison to a side that’s set some sort of record for playing the least number of games in a season.

It was strange to see a usually urbane Arsène Wenger throwing such a wobbler. This was only headline news because it was SO out of character. No one would’ve batted an eyelid if it’d been Neil Warnock berating his opposite number. But by making himself the brunt of a cacophony of ‘pot calling the kettle black’ badinage, le gaffer hardly covered himself in glory. The fact that he usually takes all such slings and arrows of footie’s outrageous fortunes in his phlegmatic stride, would suggest that Arsène’s outrage was an indication of the mounting pressure, felt over the stg£50 million financial consequences of a fourth-place qualification for a much-coveted Champions League berth next term.

Yet with ten minutes left on the clock on Saturday, it wasn’t so much the significant implications for the club’s coffers that were foremost in Gooner minds. It was the absolutely unbearable thought that our most hated local foes were about to leave us with such a horrific second-to-last Highbury memory.

Whether or not Spurs were guilty of unsporting behaviour by not putting the ball into touch is a moot point. In the cold light of day, I can’t be 100% certain we wouldn’t have done likewise. But without a Tottenham win on our turf since the old king died, it was our inability to contemplate the prospect of our rivals raining on our “Final Salute” parade that inspired such an incandescent response. There was even a disturbance amongst the sedentary suits in the director’s box, where stewards had to be deployed to save some over-excited, upper class infiltrators from being lynched.

To be perfectly honest, I grow ever more disgruntled about the increasing prevalence of time wasting, play-acting in the modern game. In fact I’ve often cursed this unwritten sporting convention, when our opponents have attempted to take all the heat out of a game, just as we’ve been building up a head of steam, by rolling around on the floor and forcing us to put the ball into touch. Consequently, I wonder whether the game would benefit if it became part of the referees remit. If there’s no obligation on the opposition and therefore no guarantee of the game being stopped, perhaps players would be discouraged from playing possum.

In this instance, I was more annoyed at our lot for committing such a cardinal sin. It must be at least 30 years since I was left standing on a pitch like a statuesque schmock, waiting for the ref to blow up. Even now I can still hear the coach hollering from the touchline at his lazy left-back to “play to the whistle”.

The Spurs’ argument that they weren’t aware of any need to put the ball out might be a little more convincing if Carrick hadn’t hesitated out on the wing. But as the opposition continued to advance, much like the car crash that seems to occur in slow-motion, it was as if everyone in an Arsenal shirt stopped to wait for an intervention, divine or otherwise.

I don’t know if it was the shock of this unscripted catastrophe, but in the past I would’ve expected Arsenal fans to raise the roof in our efforts to inspire the required response. Whereas on Saturday, aside from the jubilant section of Spurs fans, a depressing silence descended on the rest of the stadium, until our saviour stepped out of the dugout. Never mind the three points required for fourth place, at that stage all any of us cared about was that our last Highbury derby day shouldn’t end on such a depressing note.

Minute by minute the tension mounted, to a point where my desperation was so acute that when Thierry finally found the back of the net there followed such a euphoric rush of blood to my head that I thought I might faint. And there’s no abeyance to the assault on Gooner fingernails, as no sooner had we breathed a huge sigh of relief at having avoided this disaster, than came the news of Senderos’ knee injury, to stoke the stress levels over just about the most important match in The Arsenal’s illustrious history.

However, you won’t catch me complaining if our entire season comes down to a ‘winner takes all’ climax in Paris, with the additional prize of denying Spurs their first ever taste of Champions League footie. We’d probably be doing the poor loves a favour, by saving them from embarrassing themselves!