Our Fig Tree

No matter what happens this season, one thing is certain. For this group of players, it’s the end of an era. Eriksen, Jan, Toby and Rose will soon no longer wear lilywhite. Walker, Trippier and Dembele are already long gone. We are going to have to front up and process the last five years, whether we like it or not.

It’s tempting on such an occasion – in fact, it’s borderline seductive – to look back and see a steady stream of missed opportunities. What might have been, ay? It’s a typically human response. The author Sylvia Plath saw such introspection as a fig tree that displayed an infinite array of possibilities. ‘From the tip of every branch,’ she wrote, ‘like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked.’

What if we hadn’t lost our heads in that title race with Leicester City? What if Son hadn’t played left-wing back in that FA Cup semi-final? What if we’d turned away draws against Sunderland, West Brom and Bournemouth into wins during the 2016-17 season? What if Sissoko hadn’t stuck out his f*****g arm and pointed towards God knows whom in the first minute of a Champions League Final?

Argh, sorry Moussa, it wasn’t really your fault. I’m just upset, mate.

We’re all still upset. Devastated, in fact. That was meant to be the moment. The culminating point of five years hard labour. I told everybody that I wasn’t expecting anything, but deep down I awaited everything. I saw in my mind’s eye a celebration; tears, beer and a week-long party down the High Road. We all did.

I feel like in some ways that final defeat has hung over me like a storm cloud. It appears whenever football becomes a topic of conversation, ready to cast a shadow over any discussion of trophies or Kane or Pochettino.

Will that be this team’s legacy, then? Glorious failure? Some would argue, with justification, that this period will always be tinged with regret, and bemoan an unfulfilled potential.

Personally? I think that’s just b******s.

When I tell my children and grandchildren about Poch’s Tottenham 1.0, the best Spurs side I’ve seen in my lifetime, I don’t think I’ll look back all misty-eyed and reflect upon damaging defeats. I think I’ll tell them how, like Plath’s fig tree, we grew. We grew into a steely, well-oiled, winning machine. I’ll explain how we cast out the bad apples and introduced young, hungry, dynamic footballers into the starting eleven. I’ll tell them how Danny and Kyle would fly up the flanks, about Dele’s headers against Chelsea, Lamela one-two-three and Kane’s curler against Woolwich.

Perhaps more than anything, I’ll speak about those floodlit European nights. The time we assaulted Real Madrid at Wembley and announced ourselves to the world. That battling performance away at Dortmund. The evening at the Etihad, when we almost clawed defeat from the jaws of victory, and the only time I’ve ever celebrated an offside decision like a goal.

Eventually I’ll move onto Ajax, and I won’t even know where to begin. How incredibly lucky and privileged we all are to have experienced a moment like that. When all hope was lost there was a header won, a deft flick, a pinpoint finish and pandemonium. Red and white shirts on the floor, a black-suited gaucho on the pitch and carnage in the stands. Just imagine if we’d turned up in the final…

No. I mustn’t. See how easy it is to fall into the trap? We could all drive ourselves mad with that kind of reasoning.

Football is a perpetual cycle, and it won’t be long until we have another moment in the sun. We might even spend so long there we get a lovely tan. Who knows? Things are currently difficult, and it does feel like the curtain might be coming down on a period that promised so much but delivered no tangible marker of success. Does that mean we should all disregard the many occasions that brought us such unadulterated joy?

Of course not. It is for those moments that I watch football.