Throwing our hopes to the Wolves?

YOU could sense that unmistakable surge of hope when the fourth official held up the board indicating an additional five minutes of injury time on Saturday.

I’ve always been a firm believer in picking our strongest line-up, no matter the opposition, so that tired players can earn themselves a breather, once we’ve built up a cushion.

When our best players are thrown on at the death, to try and pull a result out of the bag, psychologically they end up dragging their feet at the final whistle.

Our pragmatic gaffer can’t compute such unscientific conjecture. Thus Wolves faced a weakened starting line-up and what must constitute the Premier League’s most pint-sized front line. Our interminably patient efforts to pick an intricate path to victory, floundered on the massed ranks of the visitor’s resolute defence.

Eduardo is badly in need of a confidence boost. At his goal-poaching best, the Croat striker would instinctively be caressing such sitters into the net. Doubtless the groans of 60,000 Gooners only adds to his anxiety.

As the clock ticked down towards the draw, Arsène was eventually forced to throw caution to the wind, turning to the last big guns left on the bench who’re still capable of making it out on to the pitch unaided by crutches.

Considering our growing reputation for last gasp goals, it’s beyond me how anyone could leave prematurely, with the game balanced on a 0-0 knife-edge.

Perhaps the Gunners have grown so accustomed to inflicting a sucker punch on flagging opposition that we seemed to be affronted by 10-man Wolves’ staunch resistance. As all our title fantasies ebbed away with every passing second, our efforts to break the deadlock became ever more frantic.

By contrast I can perhaps appreciate the Burnley fans heading for the exits, 0-4 down, after a positively humiliating 20 minutes.

And every passionate fan can empathise with the TV pictures of the knucklehead punching the concrete bulkhead on his way out.

Five minutes always feels like enough injury time to conjure up one last effort on goal, but it felt like Walcott had blown this chance and that the game was up when he scuffed his shot.

Whether caused by angst, or an increasing air of resignation, the more hushed our crowd became, the more psychotic my own exhortations.

Judging by their concerned glances, the kids in my vicinity were torn between events on the pitch and the prospect of a YouTube exclusive in the spontaneous combustion of the lunatic behind them.

I should’ve given up on the Gunners sooner and saved a lot of heartache. The moment I opened my gob to proclaim ‘we could be playing until midnight and still not score’, Bendtner finally broke the seal on the pressure-cooker of tension finding the back of the net. As the entire stadium erupted with an overwhelming expression of collective relief, I almost felt sorry for the woebegone Wanderers.

I’m bored of bemoaning our inability to begin games with the same intensity and tempo that we’re often forced to produce to secure a result in the last few minutes. This bad habit contributed to Barça catching us on the back-foot.

Meanwhile there’s nothing like a family funeral to put the “funny old game” into proper perspective.

I did my best to maintain a dignified air of respect, as my aunt shuffled off this mortal coil on Thursday.

But despite my best efforts to avoid my sister’s wrath by eulogising Barça instead of my mum’s sister, it wasn’t the heat from the crematorium warming my ear, but my uncle’s indecorous ballyhoo about building a stadium fit for footballing kings, but where we’re left counting on pensioners like Silvestre and Campbell, due to our all too prudent manager’s “make do and mend” mentality.