Harris Sportsthoughts

Thoughts about Sport

The Tottenham Hotspur Class of 2007

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Here’s a thought that warmed me through the chillsome nights recently.

That in some marketing suite of a far-flung corner of White Hart Lane there was a reunion bash this week.

Jermain and Robbie stand by a trestle table helping themselves to the cornucopia of treats upon it: paper plates with cocktail sausages, Hula-Hoops and, as befits the auspice of such an occasion, a platter of Iceland lemongrass chicken goujons.

There is nobody else in the room.

Robbie is tapping his foot to the sounds wafting from the cassette tape deck. It’s the greatest hits of Chas ‘n’ Dave. Jermain nods his head gently in time. He is on crutches.

“So what about this weather we’ve been having recently?” Robbie says, chowing on a slice of quiche lorraine.

“Hmm” replies Jermain thoughtfully, “cold”.

“Hmm” says Robbie. He prods at an onion bhaji. Jermain retrieves his mobile from a pocket to check for an imaginary text. He returns it to his pocket.

“The Hula-Hoops are good here” Robbie offers helpfully.

“I’m more of a Wotsit man actually” says Jermain.

A lull.

“So what have you been up to recently?” Robbie asks.

“Not much” Jermain shrugs, casting a look down towards the shattered metatarsal. “What about you?”

“I’ve just come back from six months up on Merseyside.” Robbie is wistful, “but it didn’t really work out for me there.”

The tape has come to the end. Robbie moves to the stereo and changes it over. The next song is Rabbit.

“Great tune” remarks Robbie. Jermain keeps his counsel.

“So” says Robbie, elongating the word to fill the conversational void. “Here we are. The Dream Team back together again”.

Jermain looks up, his reticence punctured. “Is Dimitar coming then?”

“I don’t know. Is he?” Robbie replies expectantly.

“I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to him since he left.”

“Oh.”

Jermain examines his phone again. Robbie sups his Fosters and looks around the suite at the pictures of various players from Spurs yesteryear. His gaze rests on a photo of Dimitar. He smiles sadly.

The door opens. Both men look around, the collective hope abounding.

It’s Pascal.

Oh.

He shuffles across the room.

“Hello” says Jermain.

“Hello dere” says Robbie.

“Bonjour” says Pascal. He sheepishly reaches across to help himself to a Hula-Hoop. “C’est bon” he adds, impressed by the quality of the potato snack.

Robbie nods in concord.

“Est Dimitar ici?”

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Written by harrisharrison

February 8, 2009 at 2:34 pm

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