Tag Archives: Emmanuel Adebayor

Poor Pep clutches his pearls as Arteta considers poaching more players…

Okay, so it’s an unsourced report, but Football Insider claims that “it is now believed that Guardiola’s side will reject any potential further offers from Arsenal for players who would go straight into their team.” It has all of the outward appearances of being complete common sense dressed up as a scoop, but it does conjure up some delicious images of Guardiola furrowing his brow as he wonders who among his current squad see the playing time their former teammates are getting at Arsenal and might start to feel a bit restless at being accessories rather than actual players. Whatever Guardiola and others at Man City have or haven’t said, it would be more than a bit rich for either to whinge about Arsenal poaching their players.

This is, after all, the club that nicked Adebayor, Kolo Touré, Nasri, Clichy, and Sagna from us in recent years (although it must be admitted that Sagna was essentially encouraged to leave in order to get a chance at a trophy before he retired). If it’s Pep himself who’s got his knickers in a twist after condoning the sales of Jesus and Zinchenko and losing Arteta to boot, I’ll add a few more names to the list: Cesc Fabregas, Ale Hleb, Thierry Henry, Alex Song. Throw in a keeper and another defender, and you’d have a pretty good “poached from Arsenal by Man City and/or Pep” XI.

Now, there haven’t been any rumours of City players moving to Arsenal, but the transfer window is only eight weeks away. There’s all sorts of rumours that can come out between now and then. Instead, then, I suspect that Pep might be more worked up by another issue entirely: his protégé is doing better at Arsenal than he himself is at Man City—and doing so on a fraction of the amount Pep’s spent on his squad and without the stable of world-class players. Since his arrival at Man City, Pep has spent £1.1 billion on new players, reinforcing a squad that already boasted the likes of Kevin de Bruyne, David Silva, Vincent Kompany, Raheem Sterling, and Sergio Agüero, to name just a few. He currently has on his bench the likes of John Stones, Riyad Mahrez, and Jack Grealish, rotating others such Phil Foden in and out. Most of these lads would walk into the starting lineup of just about every club in the Prem, such is the depth Pep has at his disposal.

To add another layer, Pep’s tactics really only work when he has world-class players at every position. By contrast, Arteta is implementing similar tactics not only on the cheap but with young, largely unproven players, which begs certain uncomfortable questions about Pep. Do his tactics work because they’re good tactics or because he has such high-quality players to implement them? It’s probably a little of both, but it’s worth pointing out that Arteta’s tactics are working—so far, at least—because he’s training up young players to play those tactics. 

When Arteta came in, I worried that he would try to instill Pep’s tactics with players who were clearly not capable of playing to that level. Instead, Arteta has shown himself to be tactically flexible, adapting his tactics to the players he has available as well as to the opponent we have to face. It’s not for nothing that we beat Man City and then Chelsea to win the 2020 FA Cup despite having a squad that would make the Island of Misfit Toys suffer pangs of sympathy—nay, pity. Yes, there has been some heavy investment to rebuild this squad, but it’s only a fraction of what Pep has spent, and Arteta has basically replaced every member of the XI he inherited. 

It must get under Pep’s skin to see Arteta outclassing him with so few established world-class players. At the rate this young squad is developing, we won’t really need to poach anyone else from Man City (although I’m sure we each covet a few here and there…). Maybe what really has Pep  furrowing his brow is the hair. It’s gotta be the hair.

Hey, on a last note, if you’re still here, please let me know if the new ads are too much of a distraction. I’ve changed some settings but don’t want to put people off with too many ads. 

Adebayor eagerly plots his return to the Emirates…

SOUTH NORWOOD, LONDON—Alan Pardew’s lads had just finished a spirited training session, the kind all but guaranteed to ward off relegation. They had after all earned positive results of late, what with an away-draw with high-flying West Ham, victory at home over Norwich, and another draw against prolific Everton. As the players ambled off the pitch, all eyes were on one former Gunner, one who has long had a score to settle with his former club. Emmanuel Adebayor meandered on over to reminisce with another former Gunner about what once was and what might yet still come pass.

     “Mr. George! Oi, Georgie!” Adebayor trotted eagerly over to Marouane Chamakh.      The Moroccan, apparently lost in thought or having forgotten a nickname long-lost, continued trudging towards the locker room.
     “Mar-oo!” Adebayor’s call grew more insistent, and his pace intensified. “Chamie-san. There you are!” He bumped Chamakh rudely, and the man dropped a shin-guard. Visible irritation crossed his face as he bent down to retrieve it.
     “Cham-cham! I didn’t think you heard me at first, back there when I called you Mr. George, so I gave you a new nickname: Maroo! You like it, right, because it’s, like, your first name, but—hold on, see—it’s just part of your first name, so that’s what makes it a nickname!”
     Chamakh shrugged his shoulder and did his level-best to smile.
     “Come to think of it, mate, that’s what where the word ‘nickname’ come from, innit? Like, I nicked part of your name, right? There it is then: nickname!”
     Chamakh struggled to offer something noncomittal yet off-putting. He failed.
     “So, Maroo. Big game Sunday, eh? You been back to the Emirates? Eh?”
     Chamakh managed to raise an eyebrow. Just as he started to speak, Adebayor cut him off. Isn’t the first time he’s done that, Chamakh thought to himself.
     “Mate, you should of been there—”
     Should have, Chamakh thought.
    “—when I scored against them in that North London Derby! Mate, it was epic. Jermaine, he tried to score it on Shuhnezny, but that wanker could only paw it down into my path, right? So what did I do?”
     Chamakh waited expectantly.
     Adebayor shoved him. “Maroo! Ask me what did I do, right?”
     Chamakh shrugged. “What did you do.”
     “Lad, I slotted that ball home. Shuhshezny couldn’t do nothing, no way, no how. BOOM. Goal. 0-1 to Spurs, amiright? I’ma do it to ’em again. Just. Like. That.”
     Chamakh looked at his man. He squinted. He cocked his head to the right. Then, he checked himself in the mirror to ensure that his hair was still on-point. Done. “Ade?”
     “You should of seen them—”
     Have, for the love of Allah, Chamakh again thought.
     “—when I scored it! Game over!” Adebayor could barely contain his glee.
     “Ade?” Chamakh again ventured to interrupt.
     “I—eh? What is it, Maroo?”
     “I—first, don’t call me…no, never mind that, now. Didn’t you get sent off in that match?”
     “I—what? Sent off? I…well, I guess I…I…yes.”
     “So, didn’t Arsenal end up winning that match?’
     Adebayor paused at this point, as if lost in thought.
     “So, what you’re saying, Manu, is that you plan on scoring a goal to make it 0-1 just like you did in 2012.”
     “Spot on. Nailed it.”
     Chamakh regarded his teammate as one might a flea or a tick. “But…Arsenal will end up winning 5-2 because you’re going to get sent off.”
     “Right! That’s just—oh.” Adebayor, nonplussed, stared at his boots as if they would offer an answer. Chamakh, seeing his opening, walked away.

Adebayor tries to get Spurs up for the North London Derby…

WHITE HART LANE—There was a nervous tension in the clubroom as the lads changed after bravely fighting to a stirring comeback win over Championship side Nottingham Forest, showing a never-say-die attitude that saw them through after going down 0-1 but fighting back to win 3-1 in fine fashion. Spirits were high; after all, the win would bring the club closer to silverware than it had been in lo these many years. Still, there was apprehension in the air, thick enough to cut with a carving knife, and into the breach stepped a man among boys, one who had brave both sides of the tempest. A calm settled over the room as Emmanuel, a name almost messianic in meaning, strode forward and held forth.

     “Boys.”    
     With that, all heads turned to gaze upon the messenger.
     “Listen to me. I know of what I speak. I have scored goals in this derby, and—”
     “Darby.”
     “Wot?” Adebayor’s irritation was palpable.
     “Beg pardon, sir, but I’m pretty sure that it’s said like ‘darby’ rather than ‘derby’—if you don’t mind my saying so.”
     Adebayor glared. He scanned the room, letting all who gazed upon him know the depth of his fury. “Darby. Derby. Dorby. I don’t care. What I do care about is this: Arsenal sold me on. It’s time for revenge.” He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle in. His eyes again scoured the room, honing in on each player for a second or two, pregnant with meaning, before moving on.
    “Ade?”
    The man’s gaze, once locked in, could have melted titanium, such was his rage. “What. Is. It?” he hissed, through clenched teeth.
     “Um, it’s just that—how do I put this?—weren’t you kind of, um, I don’t know, playing out a contract, just a bit?”
     If looks could kill, Adebayor’s would be just a bit off-frame, but dangerous all the same. “I don’t know what you mean.”
     “Well, it’s not as if Arsenal sold you to an actual rival, now, did they?” The voice was just a bit shrill but persistent nonetheless.
     “What? What? Man City were every bit the club then that they are now! How dare you suggest that they’ve come up out of nowhere—or that their surge happened despite my departure? I chose to leave Man City. I chose Tottenham. What’s more, I’ve scored some epic goals in these clashes. I know what it takes to stay on the pitch, against all odds, and see it through to the bitter—”
     “Sir?” A tentative hand went up. Adebayor cocked his head to one side and shot his glare at the speaker.
     “Beg pardon, if I may, but haven’t you been sent off against Arsenal once or twice?”
     At this, Adebayor’s gaze turned to the horizon, or what counts for the horizon when one is indoors. “I do remember…something. Something unfortunate. Something that didn’t go…according to plan.” Again, his eyes turned to the distance as if searching for the words, seeking the explanation. “I…I…it was…” His voice broke, and his hand covered his eyes. For a few awkward moments, no one dared speak.
     Into this breach stepped Vertonghen. First, though, he had to signal to Lloris, who demurred and sat back down. It was then that Vertonghen spoke. “Listen, I think we all hear and understand the anguish that is Adebayor’s. I myself had a chance to join this Arsenal club, but I passed. I thought, maybe I can help this other club. It has not come to pass. If I understand this derby correctly, it is important, yes? Perhaps more than other matches?”
     There was a general murmur of assent. Even Adebayor, sulking on the periphery, joined in.
     Vertonghen continued. “Ade has tried to inspire us. He has played on both sides of this, this ‘darby?’ so I can only assume that he speaks the truth.”
     Again, a murmuration passed through the assembled.
     “Look, lads,” Vertonghen persisted, “we’re utter shite at home, aren’t we? But we’re not playing at home. We’ll have a chance to escape that, that abomination of a stadium and show the world what-for, won’t we?”
     His voice had risen to a crescendo, a strident, shrill crescendo, but it was met by little more than blank stares.
     “Maybe we can Besiktas next week,” he heard a voice mutter…

Oh, Emmanuel, you silly, silly man, you.

And so it begins. I’m surprised, actually, that we’ve had to wait this long. Maybe the Scum needed a little time to recover after losing to Benfica. At home. In the Europa League. Maybe they had to draw straws, which takes considerable time and effort to arrange. First, you have to find straws. Then, there’s the nicking of them. After all, when you’ve spent all of your money on a bunch of players, you have to find ways to save, and every little bit counts. So Manny slips into the McDonald’s or whatever, ready to grab a fistful and make a break for it only to find that they have one of those contraptions where you have to press down that little lever that doubles as a tray, and he’s manically pressing the lever and grabbing one straw at time, only it jams because of all of that manic lever-pressing, and he drops a straw (should he pick it up or is it faster to just grab the next one that comes out?) and now the barista or whoever is looking at him funny because, heck, they’re just straws, so “calm down, mate” he says and Manny looks around and try to look nonchalant only it’s too late because there are straws strewn across the floor and he’s holding a fistful of straws for no apparent reason. On top of that, when he gets back to White Hart Lane, he draws the shortest one even though he swore that he made it look like the tallest one to dupe that dope Soldado. So now, it’s up to Manny to say something stupid ahead of the NLD even after he’s the one who risked his neck to nick a few straws in the first place.

And what did Manny have to say?

Arsenal are a good team when they have the ball. When they don’t, they are not that good. When you put them under pressure, they can’t handle it. They don’t have a lot of physical presence. Apart from Flamini, I don’t see anyone who puts themselves into a proper battle. Rosicky is not that type of player, Cazorla is not the type of player who defends. Arteta is trying to do it, but that’s not his job. They don’t have anybody who can say, ‘if I have to kick, I will kick. If we have to fight, I will put myself at the front of it’. That’s how we have to play. Push them and force them to make errors. In some games, some players, including me—I have to include myself—we have lacked that personality. We have lacked that desire and things have gone wrong

Hm. Maybe too much desire…

Aside from the blinkingly obvious (what team is good when they don’t have the ball? Are there clubs that set this as a goal? “Alright, lads, if we’re going to win this, we’re really going to focus on not having the ball. In fact, don’t touch it at all. I have a good feeling that keeping our possession under 10% will be key”), there’s the down-right dumb—wherein he admits that he himself has lacked that personality and that desire.

So, which is it, Manny? Who lacks the presence and the determination going into Sunday? Is it Arsenal, who thrashed Everton last weekend and put a scare into the München monsters, or is it Tottenham, who shipped seven goals in two losses, one that all but slammed shut the door on your llast chance at silverware for the season? You’re full of brave talk, Manny, but not much sense.

I’m generally not a big fan of looking to trash-talk to get fired up for a match. If you need locker-room material to wind you up, especially for a North London Derby, there’s something wrong with you. However, Adebayor seems all too happy to fan the flames, not that I’d ever charge him with being intemperate. Goodness, no. As far as I know, Manny is a model of level-headedness. He would never come undone in an NLD. As one of the few to have played on both sides of the divide, I’m sure he possesses unique insight into the importance of staying calm and balanced, of avoiding the highs and lows of the emotional roller coaster.

Having said that, I do hope that Manny does his level-best to stay on the pitch. If nothing else, it would offer him a better vantage-point from which to witness the beat-down we’ll deliver. A win may not be enough to get us back atop the Prem–that trophy may just be out of reach no matter what we do–but winning three NLDs in one season, while taking a step closer to St. Totteringham’s Day at the same time, is a chance that doesn’t come along often. 
To make a long story short, it was thoughtful of Manny to offer us some fightin’ words, but I don’t think we need ’em. As to firing up his current ‘mates, well, it sounds a wee bit like rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic. Thanks all the same, Manny, and I don’t mean to be rude, but I dare say we’ll be making for rude visitors forgettin’ to wipe our feet, scorin’ on yer goalie, and generally Marin’ a mess of things. If we overstay our welcome a bit, what with the post-game celebrations and all, I’m sure you’ll understand, wontcha? Thanks in advance.
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