Imagine the scene, a climber slips while scaling a lonely mountainside. The safety of a ledge above is tantalisingly beyond reach. He looks down. A mocking wind howls while the drop into the abyss below is dizzying. The fibres of his rope have started to unravel. One strand, then another. He scrambles for a foothold causing pebbles to break free, rattling into the cavernous void beneath. He grabs desperately at the solitary plant that clings to the cliff face. Momentary relief. A trickle of dirt rains down onto his face and into his eyes. Slowly the earth around it creaks, cracks, and finally crumbles. Weak, fibrous roots are exposed. Small rocks begin to tumble as a prelude to the plant breaking loose entirely. Spinning away in pursuit of the falling stones.
The rope snaps taut with a vicious jolt. His body swinging helplessly against the cliff face. The only sound now is the strain of his exhausted lifeline. The more he struggles, the weaker it becomes. The situation is wretched. “Hang on a minute” he thinks, “I’ve got a great idea!”
Tune in again after Tuesday evening to see if our hero can survive.
***
West Ham’s supposed run of four winnable games over the festive period is not quite going to plan, is it? Where some of us imagined a season turning haul of seven to nine points, there is only one with the final match left to play – the ultimate six-pointer against Nottingham Forest. In fact, from a West Ham perspective, the game could be seen as a forty pointer. Failure to win pretty much guaranteeing that mythical survival threshold will not be reached.
Last week I wrote an obituary for West Ham even though I’d hoped it was recklessly premature. But Saturday at Wolverhampton served to underline that a miraculous rising from the dead was unlikely. All vital signs appeared to be extinguished. Relegation looks close to certain and who knows how many years in the wilderness that will lead to under our current stewardship.
The Hammer’s demise is no overnight incident. A situation I had previously described as a slow-motion car crash. But which was described far more succinctly by a comment on a previous post as a club built on shaky foundations on a cliff that was being slowly eroded from beneath. No-one had bothered to plan for the long term and now it was about to fall into the sea. It is a story with multiple villains.
From Moyes’ negligent insistence on maintaining a small, slow and ageing squad. Through Loppy’s whack-a-mole summer transfer window and unfathomable tactics. To Potter’s purging of any characters from the squad and his belief that strikers were surplus to requirements in his soporific style of play. Each constrained and controlled in the background by the invisible hand of puppet master, Dr Evil from Theydon Bois.
To some degree, Nuno is an innocent victim of this calamity. His was an inherited squad and was brought on board without being allowed his own coaching staff. Yet after 15 games in charge, he has failed to satisfy the basic mandate of a head coach: to make the best of what he’s got and mould a team which approaches every game with energy, spirit and determination. To add insult to injury, bizarre team selections and overly cautious substitutions have frittered away precious points that were ready and waiting to be banked.
The game at Molineux should have been approached as if it were a cup final. With Forest already beaten in the early kick-off, a win would have reduced the deficit to one point ahead of Tuesday’s showdown. Up against a side without a win all season, what greater motivation could there have been to register a statement performance?
But it didn’t happen. From the first of several early misplaced passes from Bowen, a sense of effortless lethargy engulfed the team. No spark, no effort, no conviction. The resilience that had been seen in coming from behind in earlier games went completely missing. At no time did there appear to be a way back into the game once the first goal went in.
Leadership is clearly an issue at the club. Both in the dugout where Nuno looked a stunned and bewildered figure for much of the game; and on the pitch where team spirit was next to non-existent. Most of us know that Bowen only wears the armband through seniority, but leadership doesn’t have to start and end with the skipper. Everyone must have licence to stand up to inspire and motivate others either by words or deeds. It takes more than occasional high-fives whenever someone makes a last-minute tackle or interception. Unfortunately, the squad has been shorn of outspoken characters. There was a brief moment where we imagined leadership was a part of the big fee thrown at the Kilman transfer. Until it turned out these qualities were as flaky as his defending.
There have been too many ‘worst performances of the season’ to know whether Saturday truly represented a new all-time ‘low’. It was certainly a podium finish and a return to the team of strangers of early season where few came out with any credit – with the exception of Areola, who prevented the score from being even more embarrassing.
Summerville and Magassa had at least looked interested in the first half, but Summerville was again all sizzle and no sausage while Magassa was implicated in all three goals conceded. Fernandes looked confused and uninterested by his first half role and although he improved after the break, Wolves had already settled for their three-goal lead by then.
Scarles and Mayers both did OK. Both are in the early stages of their careers and hopefully there will be better times ahead for them. My main questionmark over our academy graduates is whether there is enough variety to their game. They are competent enough to receive the ball, control it and play a short onward pass the way they are facing. But does that cut it at the top level?
In truth, it is a deficiency that extends throughout the squad. Since the departure of Declan Rice, no-one has been capable of marauding forward with the ball at their feet. It adds unpredictability to attacks, creates space for others and commits defenders to rash challenges. A team which relies solely on passing is more easily countered by denying the space in front of them.
This brings me to a brief list of observed West Ham limitations when compared to more successful Premier League teams. Our main striker is always isolated with no-one close enough to feed from knockdowns or lay-offs. The front three themselves are too far apart and too few midfielders get into the penalty areas in support. The spaces between our banks of players are too great and too rigid – as if they are a table football team connected by metal rods. The backline drops too deep too quickly due to the absence of recovery pace – especially if Todibo is absent – allowing opponents to exploit the gaps that are left. Delivery from free-kicks, corners and throw-ins is poor. There is minimal threat from central defenders at set pieces who do attack the ball decisively enough in either box. Apart from that, everything is rosy.
I was one of the few who wasn’t too concerned by Nuno’s decision not to turn to Jesus (or Pablo Felipe) as the game progressed. Would it have made sense for a player who hadn’t trained and had just returned from injury to run around on his own for 15 minutes watching Tomas Soucek point at things?
I’m also not convinced that changing the manager again now will have any material effect on the season’s outcome. Having said that I am similarly unconvinced that Nuno would be the right man to bring us back up again. The right appointment in the summer – maybe Thomas Frank when he is sacked by Spurs – would be a more sensible way forward.
I wish I had enough belief left in the bank to expect the mother of all turnarounds tomorrow night. I know I shouldn’t venture into cynicism, but my big concern is the nature of Nuno’s deranged response to Saturday’s performance. I’m already imagining the groan that will be heard from space when Kilman and Soucek are announced in the starting eleven. COYI!
Under The Hammers 