The deed is done. Tottenham's de facto skipper is off to Anfield after six stellar years at the Lane. It is a bitter day for us Spurs types. Guys like Berbatov are always on their way out, but Robbie Keane had become a club fixture, someone I truly believed would finish up in North London... the testimonial, the whole business. Silly boy I am. The feelings are hard, but I don't wish Keano any gruesome injury or disease. Failure, yes, but nothing like a degenerative knee condition or late onset asthma. And certainly not Jermaine Pennant.
For more on why I'm not angry please follow the jump.
You know Robbie, if you wanted a Liverpool tracksuit so frickin’ badly, I’m sure Mr. Levy would’ve gone out and fetched you one from the Adidas outlet. But there was more to it than that, I'd guess. Boyhood dreams— those lazy afternoons in the potato fields, with nothing but a picture of Kenny Dalglish and tin of Vaseline— and the £80,000 per week. The cash must have played at least a bit role in this loathesome affair? Kind of like Chris Cooper in "Adaptation." And lest we forget The Champions League Football, oh how you aging stars love the “the promise of Champions League football.”
As a Spurs fan, and UF’s singular pillar of Yiddo pride (though drawing strength from BerbaBent), I’m not gonna dooooo, what you all thiiiink I’m gonna do, which is, you know… FLIP OUT! No, I’m being quite clear-eyed, open-minded, and level-fucking-headed about this turn of events. Keano is gone, along with his hundred goals and all the boxing man bullshit. It’d be a waste to dwell on the purely sentimental, ya know, my personal shit— our near simultaneous arrival at White Hart Lane (He came over from Leeds in the summer of 2002. I had been there in heart and mind since the summer before.)
I liked Keane then, and did until a couple weeks ago, for a pretty childish reason. He scored goals. Yes, Gooners, this is something that some of us neanderthals still enjoy. In fact, I enjoyed Keane’s time at Spurs entirely because he scored goals. That is the point of the game after all. We all like a nice kick-around and some nifty footwork and passing, but in the end it’s about the goals. Ronaldo (fat and soon-to-be-fat), Beckham, Romario, Maradona, Pele, Chinaglia (forgive me), Best— all players with wide-ranging, breathtaking skill, but sharing a common thread. They put the ball in the net. This makes fans happy. Simple. Sentimental.
Keane’s a goal-poacher, as the saying goes, unfit to lick clean the boots of those guys listed above, but he can play a bit too. No wing force, as some Redheads would like to believe, but he’s got guile and some pace, enough at least to run Khalid Boularouz out of England. I expect he’ll be 60 percent the player Liverpool is expecting unless they get some support out wide. Robbie will be dreaming of Aaron Lennon after a couple months of Jermaine Pennant.
For the Juande and the Lads up the Lane, this is no shock and should not be treated as such. If Berbatov slithers off as expected, Spurs will be minus a vicious strike-force, but plus a fair sum of sterling. How that money gets spent will be the final chapter in this frustrating, but still unfinished course of events. The nattering nabobs on this blog promise me the cash will be splayed about with abandon. Panic spending (Pavlyuchenko!) More 5’7” wingers! It concerns me, no doubt. This team needs two strikers (to go with Bent, who will have his chance) another, bigger midfield player (Bentley, which should happen), and some defensive cover.
So as I told Lingering last night, with only the slightest bit of hyperbole, the Mona Lisa wasn’t shit until Da Vinci got around to those eyes and that smile. Hopefully Juande and Levy have some colors left on the board.
And a final note to you Scouser punks, as The Wolf might say: best not start sucking each other’s dicks quite yet, gentleman. There’s only ooooone Jermaine Pennant— and after that, not much else.