You couldn’t write a more cliché-riddled script.
Boy gets Champions League. Boy loses Champions League.
An old timer, told his best days are long behind him, steps back into the ring.
The good guys, who we all know and love, gallop into battle, leaving the women and children behind.
Ten games into the season, Tottenham Hotspur find themselves in the middle of a scenario so hackneyed we could very well be dubbed the new FC Hollywood.
After a rough summer and an even rougher start to the season, Spurs dug deep, reaching through the cracks that were beginning to show and past the self-doubt that was undoubtedly bubbling to the surface. There, underneath fear of disappointment and jealousy of rivals’ contracts, they found resiliency that many—perhaps even they themselves—had begun to question they had.
In Act II, Spurs looked a completely different team. The clouds opened, and we found ourselves amazingly unbeaten in eight straight, including winning streaks of four and three. Confidence was high. Goals were easy to come by. Fans expected to win every game, and with good reason. Tottenham Hotspur looked unstoppable.
But Act II had to end sometime. Just as things are looking their best—as Spurs fans are wishing we had a game every day, as Tottenham’s goal for the season is being revised on a weekly basis—disaster strikes. Our fearless leader—who commanded our respect, admiration, and fealty—collapsed in a scene that might not have been cinema gold, but set the stage for one hell of a Third Act.
After an intermission, of course.
An intermission in which we lose another talisman. Of course.
This is not Tottenham’s year, it will be said. Luck was not on our side. Just like lasagna, sometimes seasons just go bad. Nobody will blame us for rolling over, and finishing 6th.
But with Tottenham Hotspur, it’s on with the show.
Under stopgap management, Spurs won one for the Wheeler. It wasn’t pretty, but it was a win. And while we await concrete news about the timetables for Redknapp’s and VDV’s returns, we must ask the question.
Is this our year for glory? Do we have enough resilience left, after all that we’ve seen, to keep pushing forth? Will fans be singing the praises of the 11 lads in ’11 in the new YOUR NAME HERE stadium? Will our bench fill in the gaps on another improbable, historic run?
After it’s over—after the fat lady has sung—will our hit show take us across European First Class by way of Milan and Madrid, or will we have to hitchhike through Kazan and Krakόw?
The script is too cliché’ for us not to succeed.
Besides, that’ll set everything up for a nice sequel. By then, we might have some Hollywood magic of our own.
By Cliff S
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