The Big Boys: Tottenham Hotspur

“Purgatory’s kind of like the in-betweeny one. You weren’t really shit, but you weren’t all that great either. Like Tottenham.”
~In Bruges

Last fall seems so long ago.

Tottenham had nabbed a spot in the Top Four following the void left by Liverpool’s collapse. The deadline day signing of Rafael van der Vaart from archetypal trophy winners Real Madrid gave them a sense of edge and menace to start off the new season. They stormed into the Champions League, winning their group ahead of the tournament’s incumbent victors. Gareth Bale’s hat trick against Inter at the San Siro was one of the most electrifying moments of on field achievement in recent memory. There was blood in the water, everyone could smell. Pundits remarked on the excitement of it all, animated tributes were made in their honor, and all around one could hear the faint whispers and half-hearted jokes–maybe they could go all the way.

It would have been something for the history books, and the movie theaters. Even the level-headed admitted that English football might be entering a new era, in which Tottenham, the scrappy urban underdog, took up Liverpool’s place among the Big Boys on a permanent basis, as the “team of the people” with the glorious past faded into the cruel obscurity of memory, a lost relic left behind, preserved in formaldehyde by a dwindling cult of the fanatical and the insane.

This was not to be. Progression to the quarterfinals past a limp and somber AC Milan brought them face to face with the Granddaddy of All Big Boys, Real Madrid. Jose Mourinho’s men tore Spurs to shreds, with former domestic derby enemy Emmanuel Adebayor leading the humiliation. Like a slap to the face, it reminded everyone that Maicon was no longer the world’s greatest right back, that Rafa Benitez’s Inter had been in shambles and his woeful tenure there terminated after a mere six months, that Kaka’s departure and Pirlo’s decline had left Milan in a painful transition period lacking a creative central midfielder. In short, that Spurs’ achievements on Europe’s biggest stage were a fluke, a convenient failure of the opposition to meet their usual standards.

Domestically Tottenham saw their supposed gold new dawn turn cold and harsh. As Britain’s colonial imperialist history caught up to it in the form of oil-rich Middle Eastern sheikh-owned Manchester City, Tottenham were left out of the Top Four as in years past, with their wunderkind Gareth Bale struggling to find fitness and form. And Liverpool, reinvigorated by the return of Anfield hero Kenny Dalglish to the manager’s chair, made matters worse for the North London outfit, almost keeping them out of European competition altogether.

The summer was similarly cruel to Tottenham Hotspur. Their creative midfielder Luka Modric, formerly underrated, now overrated, but unquestionably an integral part of their previous Top Four finish, nearly left for Chelsea and only remained thanks to the obstinate, stingy tenacity of chairman Daniel Levy. Manager Harry Redknapp failed to make much of a splash in the transfer market, going home two hours early on deadline day. His only significant moves were the loan of their former tormentor Emmanuel Adebayor from Manchester City, the club that took their Champions League spot, and the signing of Scott Parker from the relegated West Ham. Spurs were scrambling for scraps, as in lean times past.

Nonetheless Tottenham have begun their season strongly. The quality of Modric’s play seems not much affected by the summer’s transfer drama. Bale is showing hints of his old unplayable self. Scott Parker has been a stalwart and steadying presence in midfield. Adebayor is forming a productive partnership with the back-in-form Jermain Defoe. As if on cue, a new Top Four regular is in the midst of implosion. This time it’s derby rivals Arsenal in disarray, and Spurs look to once again ride the vacuum into Wednesday night football money.

The more things change, the more they stay the same. Tottenham will toil on as before, struggling to tread water above the line that separates the Big Boys from the small fries. Same as it ever was, same it as ever was, same as it ever was, same as it ever was. No revelation, no transcendence. No epiphany.

But even after admitting this, there is no catharsis; my punishment continues to elude me, and I gain no deeper knowledge of myself. No new knowledge can be extracted from my telling. This confession has meant nothing.

Check out the rest of the Big Boys here.