I've failed to write on here for a perceived prolonged period of time now. Those unfortunate enough to regularly follow my Twitter feed will know that my feeling towards Spurs have touched the tip of alienation, but not the usual Spurs alienation. I don't feel bereaved at losing football matches. This is contained in the small print upon signing a life-long Spurs supporters contract. I feel more bereaved at the feeling of losing touch with the football club that I once felt was nestled so tightly within my heart.
Don't have me mistaken. My support for the club remains without doubt. Although I feel like the club have gone to lengths to push supporters to the point of the abyss. They want us to jump but we can't and never would. We were sold and continuously fed lies. The disappointment resembles that of a young child on holiday with their parents and picking up a football jersey on the street market before returning home and realising it's a fake. We were led down untouched paths that were born on false hope.
March had long been labelled as season-defining. March. Our relative 'achievements' last year look so much more glossy than they did last summer. They were suppose to be the platform we kicked on (again) and (finally) finished in the top 4. That bloody top 4. When did finishing outside of 1st bare any relevance?
We're mid-way through our season-defining month and have lost three games from three. We're set to face Benfica with our heads placed underneath the guillotine. The outcome is more likely to be a messy affair with viewer discretion strongly advised than it is to show a Spurs resolve. Our season has already set-up base in a care home and we can't expect much from it. It's clear we've lacked any real direction this year. We've cut a project in two at the first sign of trouble and forced ourselves into a retreat.
I struggled to take a positive from the Arsenal game. The players showed more heart than they had done in the past, but surely this is the minimum you'd expect to see on show against them. It's an effective metaphor settling for a bit of fight and desire in a NLD. It shows our fragile nature. Our legs failed to carry the weight of our own expectation. There's no leader in the side to pick up the pieces. There's no manager to galvanise. A sparkling light in a dark and unwelcoming prison cell of a season is Christian Eriksen. Our optimism falls with this one special player. A side built around him would be a blessing. But can we afford another rebuild? Can we afford to tear down the walls we'd invested in last summer and try again?
We've a manager at the helm that struggles to play against organised sides. He struggles to identify the key threats in an opponent and suffocate them. We play purely our own game on the ball, but this is half the job. We're vulnerable, nervous and lack the spark we were once associated with. I'd initially grown cautiously optimistic at times under Tim but it's looking more and more that the good few pockets of positive play we'd had in the second half of the season were produced from the quality of player we have at our disposal.
We've spurned the opportunity to extend our gap between ourselves and Liverpool. We've passed on investments we should've made. We've arguably been set-back a good few years. An investment in the trust and patience of one man to get us achieving above and beyond our expectations is certifiably required. But it needs to be the right man. We need a presence on the touchline. A respected leader. Someone with a tactical edge and winning mentality.
I'll throw my penny in the well and wish for the best. It's all we've got left.