Thomas Frank Sacked: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. The Stats

So it’s “Toodle-oo” to the latest poor sap, and a pretty unemotional one at that. AANP is of a breed popularised in early twentieth century fiction, when male protagonists kept a stiff upper lip no matter how cherished the fallen ally; so when a bean as deeply unpopular as T. Frank Esq. permanently exits the cast list, there are slim chances of me shedding a tear or casting a longing look in his direction. The sentiment at AANP Towers is more along the lines of bundling the fellow out the door as quickly as possible, in case any of the relevant parties change their mind.

Sometimes when assembling around the table to pore over the details there’s all manner of controversy through which to wade, as opinions differ and disagreements flare up like nobody’s business. This is not one of those times. While some might offer a consoling slap on the shoulder of T.F. as he wanders off down the High Road, I’ve yet to meet a lilywhite of sound mind who actually advocated for the chap to stick around.

As it happens, I rather admire Frank as a member of the species. A decent egg, he struck me as. Cut him open and I suspect you’d find solid moral fibre, and a nib just bursting to help his neighbour and adopt any passing stray kittens.  

All well and good, but alas, when it came to managing the good ship Hotspur, unfortunately he stank the place out.

Starting with the stats, I actually haven’t bothered to share any with you, because it’s all a bit of a slam-dunk really, what? Week after week we were treated to some new and appalling set of numbers, which ultimately translated into the same message, that under this chap’s watch we were a living, breathing disaster with eleven pairs of legs.

Whether it was losing to sides formally diagnosed as allergic to victory, or racking up so few shots per game that we were actually registering negative numbers, there was seemingly not a depth Frank was unable to plumb while pulling the strings.  

2. The Style

Had the football been coruscating, I’m not sure it would have saved the manager, given that the focus for the business end of the season had become avoidance of relegation.

And as we all noticed, the football was most decidedly not coruscating. Crumbs, it was arguably the polar opposite of coruscating. It was dank and dreary, and utterly devoid of the merest sliver of excitement. Frank-era Tottenham has been where entertainment has gone to die, slowly and wretchedly, against the backdrop of 60,000 irate hecklers.

As I’ve remarked before, I would probably have settled for a brief period of dull sobriety, if it had at least meant that the foundations were being secured. Being a trusting sort, I just rather assumed at the outset that Frank would prioritise the defence first, so I was willing to stifle a yawn or two in return for the gradual flow of clean sheets.

To his credit, Frank kept the first half of the bargain, and sucked the very soul out of our attack, absolutely destroying any semblance of creativity and cohesion going forward. The entirety of his attacking blueprint seemed to be go wide and cross – often forgetting to nudge anyone forward into the area to give the whole thing a bit of oomph. And to repeat, I just supposed that this was a temporary measure while countless leaks at the back were fixed.

Nine or so months down the line, and our lot remain as clueless as ever on how to stop opponents. Taking last night as a neat example, when in possession there was a genuine bewilderment amongst those in lilywhite as to how to transfer the thing simply over the halfway line, dash it; married to a complete inability to stop Newcastle waltzing to within shooting distance whenever the urge gripped them.

I paused at various points to focus on individuals as Newcastle knocked the ball this way and that, and was struck by how diligently our midfielders occupied certain spots on the pitch – space, if you will – but showed scant concern for actually tracking players or trying to win the ball. Bissouma and Sarr seemed obsessed with simply holding their positions, and if Newcastle sliced through them and into the area, they showed a marked reluctance to shimmy over and douse the flames. The mind boggled all over the place at that, but I suppose they had the orders of the manager ringing in their ears for that one.

So over the course of two thirds of a season, and goodness knows how many training sessions, Frank seemed not to make any obvious improvements to our defence; while, as mentioned, the attack seemed to have been deprioritised.  It has left me scratching the old loaf, and sometimes clutching at it in despair, as to what the dickens he has spent his time doing.

3. Combinations

Cast your minds back maybe fifteen or twenty years, and you might recall Messrs Lennon and Corluka forming an unlikely but oddly effective combo on the right. Week after week, Lennon would rev up and sprint, his little legs going like the clappers, while Corluka would thread a shrewd pass inside the opponent for his chum to run onto. Despite being wheeled out every game, the other lot would never really cotton onto the mechanics at play, and the routine repeatedly worked.

But drinking in the Frank vintage, I’m not sure we ever witnessed any sort of on-pitch combination or understanding of this ilk. Every matchday the players who trotted out for the set-to were familiar enough, but once the whistle tooted they resembled a bunch of complete strangers, who’d never previously met, let alone formed understandings and nifty on-pitch sequences.

All of which had me beseeching, what on earth did Frank spend all his time doing? If not mastering the arts of defence, or attack, or combination play? Was it simply set-pieces and throw-ins, and nothing else? Frank seemed not to realise that what worked at Brentford did not cut the mustard up in N17.

So it’s with one heck of a sigh of relief that I slam the door behind the chap. Admittedly, injuries were an absolute curse upon the poor oaf; but until to the bitter end he still had gifted enough personnel on whom to call.

So fare thee well, Thomas Frank – or don’t, there aren’t too many damns given here at AANP Towers –  and bring on the next chump. Let’s just hope that as a minimum he can somehow fashion the requisite ten points or so needed to let us limp into next season.