Friday, October 1, 2010

Twente Reasons We Love Spurs

photo by cottontimervia PhotoRee

Our friend Ed is back by popular demand, this time with a segment on Spurs' memorable night in the Champions League:

September 29 / White Hart Lane, London, England --

The pouring rain is absolutely washing away any bad memories Spurs have of their performance at West Ham on Saturday, an outing that mostly closely resembled a sagging left breast, and Spurs, right from the opening whistle, seem to be a team that’s just been defibrillated with a car battery and jumper cables.  Not enough absurd metaphors for you?  Well, Van Der Vaart clearly must be tired of hearing it from his wife, his dog, his kids, and his shift boss, because he's obviously kicking back at the blissful suburban madness we all endure as he shifts and swerves and bludgeons the staggered defense of Dutch Champions FC Twente.  Yes, that’s “Twente,” like the number, but with an annoying “e” at the end just to make it seem European and sophisticated and, I suspect, Dutch.

It’s my observation that no continental European team ever seems ready for one of England’s best overbites:  6’ 7” , 145 lb. striker Peter Crouch.  The British Flamingo may get close to zero calls in the EPL, but this is Champions League, and here he gets a PK for Spurs after a touch in the penalty area that some might label downright affectionate.  Up steps a simmering VDV, and wow, here’s Spurs’ first . . . . wait, the keeper blocked it?!!  What?!!!!  One might expect dismay or even despair, but now our boy is even more angrier-ey.  It appears that our favorite number 11 has just turned the dial on the amp past 10 and up to, well, 11.

Sadly for our heroes, a dominant first half goes unrewarded.  Despite many attempts, including an incendiary half volley by you know who (hint: sounds like “Pander-fart”), Spurs end up resembling our erstwhile blogger friend farlieonfootie trying to stuff a jumbo bologna sandwich (cheese, pickles, onion, mayo, splash of ketchup) into a tiny ziplock bag – however determined they may be it just isn’t going to happen.  But hey, that’s why there’s two halves, right?  I mean, other than the somewhat mathematical certainty that if there are halves there must be two of them.

Putting algorithm and formula aside, the second half starts with a bang, and our puckish and  hellishly belligerent Dutchman finally hammers one past the Twente keeper for Spurs' first goal.  It’s about midnight in my house but about now I’m dragging myself across what turns out to be a surprisingly abrasive and scratchy carpet screaming “Gola! Gola! Gola!” in my best Spanishy-Dutchy accent. 

Spurs score again, this time on another PK drawn by Gareth Bale.  You know Gareth Bale – he’s the one that makes a plucky little heart with his fingers for the fans when he scores.  Hey, it’s no sliding on the knees and smooching the camera lens, but I think he’s good enough to get away with it.

Twente (seriously, I so want to add a “y”) scores its own goal, fueled in part by their long haired man-child Ruiz.  I can’t speak for you, but I always hated playing against guys who looked like Ruiz, mostly because I knew they were better than me, and also because I just knew they would steal my girlfriend when the game was over.

But wait, did that just happen?!!!  Did our favorite white hot Dutchman just charge some Twente-something that’s leaping to keep a ball in bounds and Ronnie Lott him into next Tuesday?  Yes, that DID just happen.  And instead of just 15 yards, he gets his second yellow, read: “red”, and he’s out of the game.  I can't even imagine the paddling Headmaster Harry gave him after that tantrum.  But fortunately and somewhat surprisingly, despite the loss of the steaming Dutch teakettle, Spurs score twice more and close out the 4-1 victory. 
Those Spurs.  They may not be much on Saturdays.  Or even Sundays.  They may have a tough go of it against teams like Blackpool and Blackburn and Black-whatever.  They may not even be able to field a respectable team for the Carling Cup.  But hey -- after an over twente year drought from the Champions League, those Spurs seem to show up every Wednesday with sharp chicken toes and an attitude like Denis Farina after he finds out that they didn’t get the guy who wore the wire at that place that time.  Or something like that.

And that's farlieonfootie for October 1st.


  1. Oh when the Spurs, go marching in
    Oh when the Spurs, go marching in
    I wanna be in that number
    Oh when the Spurs go marching in

  2. The atmosphere at WHL - at least as it sounds/appears on tv - has been stupendous for the two CL games there. This almost more than anything is turning me into a Spurs fan. Much to the credit of Levy and Spurs' ownership, apparently the new venue is going to have the seats close to the field and rising straight up to maintain the intimacy and the raucous atmosphere. So that makes this morning's news that they have optioned to use the new Olympic Stadium even more disturbing as that place will apparently have all the ambiance of Joe Robbie/ProPlayer/Jimmy Buffet/Sunwhatever stadium in lovely Miramar. I maintain, however, that they have done this just to tweak WestHam who, for some unexplainable reason, really do seem to want to play there...